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UJ  ' 


SALEM: 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


BY  D.  R.  CASTLETON. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
I874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PREFACE. 


[HE  requirements  of  literary  con 
ventionality  seern  to  demand  a 
preface  as  a  necessary  adjunct  of 
a  book — we  had  nearly  written  a  necessary 
evil ;  and  as  the  beaten  path  is  acknowl 
edged  to  be  the  safest,  we  yield  in  cheerful 
acquiescence — although  to  call  that  a  preface 
which  is  usually  written  after  the  book  is 
completed,  would  seem  to  unassisted  reason 
very  like  a  misnomer. 

In  giving  the  accompanying  pages  to  the 
public,  we  would  only  say  that  it  has  seemed 
well  to  us  that  the  widespread  and  terrible 
delusion,  which  so  nearly  made  shipwreck 
of  our  infant  colony  at  the  close  of  the  sev- 

299 


iv  PREFACE. 


enteenth  century,  should  not  be  suffered  to 
sink  into  oblivion.  We  know,  indeed,  that 
the  more  practiced  hand  of  an  able  and  faith 
ful  historian  has 'already  put  it  upon  record 
in  a  masterly  way,  and  in  so  doing  has  made 
a  rich  and  valuable  contribution  to  our 
national  literature.  But  these  books,  though 
deeply  interesting,  are  too  valuable  and  too 
weighty  to  be  found  in  free  circulation 
among  general  readers ;  and  we  have  been 
surprised  to  find  how  very  vague  and  incor 
rect  was  the  knowledge  of  this  subject  in 
many  cultivated  persons  who  were  well-in 
formed  on  other  matters  of  history. 

We  have  endeavored  with  careful  hand 
to  retouch  the  rapidly  fading  picture — to 
call  up  again  to  view  the  scenes  and  actors 
of  those  terrible  times ;  and  if  in  so  doing 
we  have  ventured  "  to  twine  round  history's 
legends  dim  the  glowing  roses  of  romance," 
it  was  only  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  pict 
ure,  and  to  enable  us  to  give  a  clearer  idea 


PREFACE. 


of  the  persons  who  composed  the  little  com 
munity  as  it  then  existed — their  habits,  and 
modes  of  life  and  thought. 

In  all  that  is  purely  historical  we  claim  to 
be  strictly  authentic :  such  portions  being 
either  copies  from  the  court  records,  or  care 
fully  compiled  from  the  most  reliable  histo 
rians.  Our  own  feet  have  trodden  the  pre 
cincts  of"  Salern  Village,"  of"  Gallow's  Hill," 
and  "  Prison  Lane ;"  in  our  own  hands  we 
have  held  the  veritable  "  witch-pins ;"  our 
own  eyes  have  searched  the  records,  and 
read  one  of  the  original  death-warrants  still 
in  preservation — and  therefore  we  claim  to 
know  something  of  that  of  which  we  have 
written. 

It  is  a  matter  of  regret  to  us  that  in  a  tale 
so  peculiarly  New  England  in  its  character 
we  could  not  venture  to  introduce  "  the  live 
Yankee." 

The  quaint  phraseology  is  easily  hit  off, 
and  the  strange  mixture  of  shrewd  intelli- 


vj  PREFACE. 

gence  and  original  comicality  would  have 
served  to  give  a  perhaps  needed  sparkle  to 
our  pages ;  but  historical  exigences,  to  which 
we  felt  bound  to  adhere,  forbade  the  tempt 
ing  anachronism. 

The  Yankee  is  an  amalgam  which  had 
not  then  issued  from  the  crucible  of  the 
ages ;  the  strange  ubiquitous  creature,  ever 
upon  his  feet,  ever  ready  with,  hand  and 
speech,  had  not  then  asserted  himself;  and 
we  had  no  warrant  for  chipping  the  egg-shell 
of  Time,  in  which  he  was  then  fussily  in 
choating.  ' 

In  conclusion,  we  will  say,  in  the  borrowed 
words  of  an  apocryphal  writer,  "  If  I  have 
done  well,  and  as  is  fitting  the  story,  it  is 
that  which  I  desired ;  but  if  slenderly  and 
meanly,  it  is  that  which  I  could  attain  unto." 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOMESICKNESS. 

"Hame ! — hame ! — hame  ! 

Oh !  it's  hame,  hame,  I  fam  wad  be ; 
Hame — hame — hame — 
In  my  ain  countrie !" 

T  was  midwinter  in  New  England,  the 
very  commencement  of  the  year  1679 
—a  year  made  ever  memorable  to 
the  little  colony  settled  along  the 
shores  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay,  as  one  of 
the  coldest,  hardest,  and  most  disastrous 
which  the  new  dwellers  on  that  rugged 
and  inhospitable  coast  had  yet  encountered. 
Storm  and  shipwreck  had  walked  in  devas 
tation  upon  the  angry  and  tumultuous  wa 
ters,  and  cold,  famine,  and  sickness  had  deso 
lated  the  land,  and  threatened  to  depopulate 
its  shores.  Many  of  the  older  settlers  trem 
bled  for  the  success  of  their  costly  experi 
ment,  fearing  the  land  was  too  sterile  and 


SALEM. 


inhospitable  ever  to  give  them  a  permanent 
home ;  and  many  among  the  more  newly 
arrived  would  gladly  have  returned  to  the 
shores  they  had  reluctantly  parted  from,  had 
not  the  wild  and  stormy  main  rolled  as  an 
impassable  barrier  between  them  and  the 
sadly  lamented  homes  they  had  deserted. 

It  was  in  the  height  of  one  of  those  long, 
fierce,  pitiless  northeastern  storms  of  mingled 
rain,  snow,  sleet,  cold,  and  tempest,  which 
even  now  smite  with  such  bitter  force  upon 
our  bleak  New  England  shores,  sweeping  the 
shrieking  seamen  down  to  their  unknown 
graves,  wrecking  the  hopes  of  our  "  merchant 
princes,"  and  making  even  the  listening 
landsmen  shudder  in  their  sheltered  homes 
—  clouds  and  darkness  brooded  over  the 
face  of  the  seething  deep,  whose  fierce  bil 
lows  broke  on  the  wide -resounding  shore 
with  a  reverberation  like  thunder.  The  day 
had  been  cheerless  enough,  unvisited  by  a 
single  gleam  of  sunshine,  and  now,  as  night 
began  to  close  in  over  the  sodden  landscape, 
the  tempest  seemed  to  gather  more  force,  and 
grow  hour  by  hour  more  dreary  and  awful. 

In  a  chamber  of  a  small  house,  in  the  then 


HOMESICKNESS. 


newly  settled  town  of  Salem,  two  persons,  a 
woman  and  a  little  child,  sat  alone,  and  list 
ened  in  awe  to  the  fierce  blasts  of  wind, 
which,  rushing  in  from  the  angry  sea,  rocked 
their  dwelling  to  its  very  foundations. 

They  were  new-comers,  and  had  been  pas 
sengers  in  the  latest  vessel  which  came  over 
in  the  preceding  autumn.  They  were  evi 
dently  Scottish  by  birth — the  woman,  who 
might  have  been  about  fifty -five  years  of 
age,  was  still  an  erect  and  handsome  wom 
an,  though  something  of  the  sternness  of 
purpose  which  marked  the  old  Scotch  Cov 
enanters  might  possibly  have  been  traced  in 
her  regular  but  strongly  marked  features. 
She  held  upon  her  lap  a  struggling  child  of 
six  or  seven  years  of  age — a  beautiful  girl, 
in  whose  fair  face,  though  now  distorted  by 
passionate  weeping,  might  be  read  much 
of  the  beauty  as  well  as  the  strong  self- 
will  which  marked  the  face  of  the  grand 
mother. 

"Whist,  Allie ;  whist,  my  bonnie  bairn! 

weel  ye  ? — dinna  ye  greet  sae  sair,"  said  the 

woman  tenderly,  folding  the  sobbing  child 

to  her  bosom.     "  Hush  !  hush  !  my  ain  pre- 

A  2 


I0  SALEM. 


cious  pet ;  dinna  ye  sab  an'  greet  sae,  my  ain 
Allie's  wee  Allie — whist,  noo,  whist !" 

"  Hame  !  hame  !  — I  will  gae  hame  !" 
sobbed  the  child  passionately.  "  I  maun 
gae  hame ;  I  will  gae  hame ;  I  winna  bide 
here.  Let  me  gang  hame,  grannie." 

"  Whist !  whist !  noo,  Allie,  my  ain  son- 
sie  bairn,  ye  are  na'  wiselike  tae  talk  in 
that  fashion,  for  weel  ye  ken  ye  kinna  gae 
hame." 

"  But  I  will — I  will  /"  shouted  the  imperi 
ous  child.  "  I  will  gae  hame — I  loill,  I  will; 
an'  wha'  shall  stay  me  ?  Let  me  gang,  gran 


nie." 


"  Stop,  stop !  my  ain  little  lass ;  my  bon- 
nie  wee  birdie !  stop,  an'  hear  'till  me ;  ye 
are  at  hame — this  is  yer  hame,  Allie;  ye 
ha'  nae  ither ;  quit  greetin'  noo,  my  sonsie 
bairn,  an'  listen  tae  me." 

"  I  winna  listen — nor  I  winna  stop  grefct- 
in'  till  ye  tak'  me  hame ;  hame !  grannie, 
tak'  me  hame  /" 

"  Silly  bairnie ;  an'  do  ye  na'  ken  this  is 
yer  hame  ?" 

"  Na',  na' — it's  ncC  my  hame ;  I  winna  bide 
here;  I  will  gae  hame  to  my  ain  bonny 


HOMESICKNESS.  T  r 


Scotland ;  tins  is  nae  hame — it  is  jist  an  aw- 
fu'  gruesom'  kintra  !  I  hate  it — I  liate  it ! 
I  winna  bide  here — it  niaks  me  sair  sick; 
look  there,  an'  see  if  it  is  na'  awfu'  2"  and  as 
she  spoke  she  put  her  little,  strong  arm 
round  her  grandmother's  neck,  and  forcibly 
turned  her  head  to  the  window  to.  which 
she  pointed. 

The  view  from  the  window,  thus  indicated 
by  the  impatient  little  hand,  was  certainly 
lugubrious  enough  to  warrant  the  child's 
distaste.  The  house  in  \vhich  the  two 
speakers  were  sitting  was  the  very  last  one 
in  the  row  \vhich  then  constituted  the  strag 
gling,  narrow,  crooked  little  Main  (now  Es 
sex)  Street  of  the  small,  irregular,  and  un 
pretending  little  town  of  Salem,  and  stood, 
consequently,  nearest  to  the  water ;  and  the 
view  from  the  window  to  which  the  childish 
hand  so  impetuously  pointed  consisted  of  a 
plain  of  discolored  but  untrodden  snow, 
stretching  from  the  house  down  to  the  very 
shore,  where,  piled  up  in  wild  and  chaotic 
confusion,  were  huge  black  rocks,  coated  on 
one  side  with  gathered  snow  and  sleet,  and 
mingled  with  them  massive  cakes  of  shat- 


12  SALEM. 


tered  and  jagged  ice,  which,  broken  up  by 
the  combined  force  of  wind  and  waves,  had 
been  driven  in  and  heaped  up  in  ghastly 
desolation  upon  the  shore.  Beyond  these 
was  a  dull  margin  of  ice,  and,  still  beyond, 
sullen  and  fierce  rolled  the  black  waters,  oc 
casionally  iridescent,  with  a  pale,  blue,  phos 
phoric  light,  and  then  settling  down  again 
in  inky  blackness. 

On  either  hand  the  prospect  was  bounded 
by  the  dark  masses  of  the  forest  fir-trees, 
which  crept  down  almost  to  the  very  water's 
edge,  and  over  all  hung  like  a  sable  covering 
the  dull,  gray,  leaden  clouds,  rayless  and 
gloomy— only  changing  when  some  fiercer 
burst  of  wind  tore  them  asunder,  and  tossed 
them  into  wilder  forms  of  gloom  and  portent. 

"Luik!  luik !"  exclaimed  the  shivering 
child,  turning  away  in  nervous  terror  as  she 
spoke.  "It's  gruesom' — it's  awfu' !  I  said 
sae ;  it's  a  wicked  Ian',  an'  a  hatefu' ;  I  win- 
na  bide  here." 

"  Whist !  Allie,  darlin' !  barken  ye  to  me, 
my  bonnie  queen,  my  ain  precious  wee  bir 
die  !"  said  the  woman,  soothingly ;  and  as 
she  spoke  she  rose,  and,  going  to  the  win- 


HOMESICKNESS. 


dow,  drew  the  curtain  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  the  night  and  the  tempest.  "  Harken  to 
me,  my  dawtit  dearie ;  wha'  do  ye  ken  o'  the 
Ian'  ?  ye  hae  jist  kim,  ye  ken  nocht  aboot  it ; 
it  ha'  been  a'  winter  yet ;  wait  till  ye  see 
the  simmer." 

"There  is  nae  simmer  here,"  said  the 
child  ;  "  there  canna  be  —  the  simmer  wad 
na'  kim  here;  there  are  nae  bonnie  birdies 
here  to  sit  an'  sing  in  the  trees,  as  they  do 
at  hame,  an'  nae  pretty  rowanberries  for 
them  to  eat,  gin  they  wa';  an'  the  trees— 
they  are  na'  like  our  ain  trees — they  hae  nae 
leaves,  they  are  black,  an'  stiff,  an'  awfu' ;  I 
hate  to  luik  at  them;  an'  aye  whiles  they 
groan  an'  skreigh  like  they  were  in  pain. 
Oh,  grannie  !  dear  grannie  !  tak'  me  hame 
to  my  ain  dear  Scotland.  I  maun,  I  will  gae 
back  to  the  bonnie  Hillside  Farm !" 

"  An'  wha'  wad  ye  do,  gin  ye  wa7  there, 
Allie?  It  wad  be  winter  there  too;  dinna 
ye  mind  that,  my  sonsie  lassie  ?  hae  ye  forgot 
that  there  is  winter  there  too  2" 

"  Na' !  na' !  not  winter  like  this  ane — it 
wa'  niver  sic  a  winter  thar  as  this  ane;  it 
wad  na'  be  too  cauld  to  sit  on  th'  auld  kirk 


SALEM. 


steps,  an'  sing  wi'  th'  lave  o'  them — I  hae  nae 
maties  here,  ye  ken.  I  want  auld  Sawnie  to 
lap  ine  up  in  his  plaidie,  an7  pit  me  on  his 
shoulder,  an'  awa'  to  the  sheep  walks  wi' 
me ;  an'  tak'  me  to  the  tap  o'  Ben  Rimmon, 
an'  let  me  gather  the  bonnie  purple  heather. 
I  want  auld  Tibbie  to  tak'  me  by  the  han', 
an'  I  gae  wi'  her  to  the  byre,  an'  see  her 
milk  the  coos,  an'  pick  up  the  dook's  eggs, 
an'  see  wha'  the  auld  big  goosie  is  sitting 
ahint  the  mow — oh  !  I  maun  gae,  I  will  gae." 

"  Harken  ye  to  this,  my  dawtit  lass :  Saw 
nie  an'  auld  Tib  are  na'  at  the  Hillside 
Farm  the  noo ;  they  hae  gaen  awa' — ye  wad 
na'  fin'  them  there  noo." 

"An'  wha'  for  nae?  whar  shuld  they  be 
gaen?" 

"  Dinna  ye  mind  Sawnie  ha'  gaen  tae  be 
shepherd  to  Scott  o"  the  Burn  side ;  an'  Tib 
bie  ha'  gaen  to  keep  housie  for  her  brither  ? 
They  wad  be  baith  awa'." 

"  Weel-a-weel !"  said  Alice,  a  little  startled 
at  this  intelligence ;  "  but  they  wad  baith 
win  bock  agin,  grandmither,  gin  we  were 
there — they  wad." 

na',  Alice,"  said  the  grandmother, 


HOMESICKNESS. 


sadly,  for  the  child's  persistence  had  roused 
her  own  regrets;  "they  wad  na'  kim  bock 
agin — we  sail  see  them  nae  mair." 

"  Weel,  \ve  could  gae  to  the  Hillside 
Farm,  ony  way ;  I  want  to  rin  doon  the  bra', 
an'  crass  the  brig  abune  the  little  burn,  an' 
pu'  the  gowans — I  kin  do  tha'." 

"  Na',  na',  Alice,  my  bonnie  bairn.  Ye  for 
get  I  hae  sold  the  Hillside  Farm ;  ye  canna 
gae  bock  there — it  is  our  hanie  nae  mair." 

"  Buy  it  bock  agin,  grannie — buy  it  bock 
agin ;  I  maun,  I  will  gae  bock." 

"  Na',  my  Alice !  I  canna  buy  it  bock ;  it 
wa'  for  yer  sak',  dearie,  that  I  left  it,  an' 
crossed  the  wide  stormy  waters,  to  fin'  a 
safe  name  for  ye;  an'  noo  ye  maun  bide 
here !" 

"  Oh !  I  winna ;  I  winna — I  wrill  gae  name !" 

"  Haith  !  Alice ;  dinna  say  that  agin ;  ye 
are  as  fou'  as  a  goshawk;  ye  mind  nocht  I 
say  till  ye;  I  thought  ye  were  mair  sinsi- 
ble  an'  wiselike.  Heck,  sirs  !  an'  kinna  ye 
mind  hoo  sick  ye  wa'  in  the  big  ship,  an' 
we  comin'  here ;  an'  hoo  ye  used  to  greet, 
and  skirl  out  that  the  ship  wa'  gaen  doon— 
doon — an'  ye  wad  sure  be  droon'd  ;  an'  ye 


SALEM. 


fritting  an'  fritting  a'  the  way?  an'  wad  ye 
like  to  thry  it  agin,  think  ye  ?" 

"  'Deed,  thin,  an'  I  wad;  thry  me,  grannie ! 
thry  me ;  on'y  tak'  ship  an'  thry  me ;  I  win- 
na  greet — I  winna  frit — I  will  be  patient— 
I  will  be  good ;  on'y  tak'  me  hame  to  my 
ain  bonnie  Scotland." 

"  But,  Alice,  think  ye ;  there  is  niver  a 
way  ye  kin  gang ;  dinna  ye  ken-  the  last 
ship  ha'  sailed?  there'll  be  nae  mair  until 
the  spring." 

"  Then  throw  me  into  the  water,  grannie, 
and  let  my  bodie  float  hame  to  Scotland." 

"  Whist !  Allie ;  my  sonsie  dochter  !  I  aye 
thought  ye  wa'  mair  cannie  an'  douce ;  ye 
are.  jist  fou',  Allie ;  dinna  ye  think  the  fish 
wad  ate  you;  dinna  ye  mind  hoo  yer  wad 
cry  out  in  yer  sleep,  and  say  ye  harkit  the 
big  fishes  rubbin'  their  heads  agin  the  ship's 
sides,  an'  wad  pray  me  na'  to  let  them  bite 
ye?" 

"  Yes !  yes !  I  mind  it  a' ;  but  I  wad  na' 
care  noo;  they  might  swallow  me  if  they 
wad,  like  as  they  did  the  auld  prophet  mon, 
if  aiblins  they  wad  bring  me  to  my  ain  dear 
land,  and  pit  me  out  there.  Oh !  I'm  sair 


HOMESICKNESS,  1 7 


sick  at  heart,  an'  I'll  dee  here,  grandnrither, 
gin  ye  dinna  tak'  me  hame." 

"  Oh !  wae  is  me  !  wae  is  me  !"  cried  the 
wearied  and  discouraged  woman,  whose  own 
heart  was  homesick  in  longings  for  her  na 
tive  land,  to  which  she  was  bound  by  many 
ties  far  stronger  than  any  little  Alice  knew. 
"  Wae's  me,  wae's  me  !  what  iver  will  I  do  ? 
I  hae  nabodie  in  aw'  the  wide  world  but 
this  ane ;  my  ain  bonuie  dochter,  that  luved 
me  true,  is  in  her  cauld  grave,  an7  the  mools 
abune  her  head ;  an'  her  little  wee  Allie,  my 
ain  bonnie  wee  Allie,  that  I  hae  carried  in 
my  bosom  sin'  the  day  her  puir  mither  deed 
—she  dinna  care  for  me  noo.  Oh !  wae's 
the  day ! — I  hae  nathing  left  to  luve." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  do  care  for  ye,  grannie !  an' 
I  do  luve  ye,"  said  the  child,  turning  im 
patiently  away  from  her  as  she  spoke. 
"  But  I  want  to  gae  hame — I  maun  gae 
hame — I  will  gae  hame  !" 

"  Gae,  then,"  said  the  grandmother,  her 
own  impatient  spirit  fairly  overtasked  by 
the  obstinate  persistency  of  the  child.  "  Gae 
yer  ways  then — I  hae  dune  wi'  ye."  And,  as 
she  spoke,  she  removed  the  child  from  her 


1 8  SALEM. 


knees,  and,  setting  her  down  upon  her  feet 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  she  turned  away 
from  her.  "  Gae  ye,  then — do  as  ye  choose; 
gae  where  ye  loike,  an'  leave  me  my  lane ;  I 
kin  but  dee;  mak'  yer  way  hame  to  Scot 
land,  if  ye  will — and  whin  they  ask  for  the 
auld  grandmither  that  fed  ye  an'  bred  ye, 
ye  kin  tell  them  ye  lef  her  her  lane  to  dee. 
Tell  them  her  on'y  ain  child,  her  bonnie 
Alice,  wa'  dead ;  an'  her  on'y  gran'child,  her 
Alice's  wee  Allie,  rinned  awa'  fra'  her.  Oh, 
haith !  dinna  ye  greet  for  me — somebodie 
will  lay  me  in  the  grave,  an'  in  heaven 
abune  I'll  maybe  happen  fin'  my  ain  true 
Alice ;  guid-bye  to  ye — ye  Tdn  gae" 

Had  the  old  woman  calculated  nicely  the 
effect  of  her  words  (which  she  certainly  did 
not,  for  she  was  scarcely  less  impulsive  and 
passionate  than  the  child  herself),  she  could 
not  have  chosen  any  more  effectual  for  her 
purpose.  The  stubborn  and  self-willed 
spirit,  that  could  not  be  subdued  by  opposi 
tion,  or  reached  by  reason  or  argument,  was 
conquered  by  affection,  and  yielded  to  a 
quick  burst  of  repentant  love  and  feeling. 

"  Oh !  I  winna  gae  an'  leave  ye ;  I  win- 


HOMESICKNESS. 


na! — I  winna! — I  do  luve  ye — I  do  care 
for  ye  —  an'  I  will  stay  wi'  ye,  grannie !" 
she  sobbed  out  in  broken  words,  striving 
to  regain  her  place  upon  her  grandmother's 
lap. 

But  the  woman  saw  her  advantage,  and 

with  true  Scottish  shrewdness  she  hastened 

to  improve  it.    "  Na' !  na' !"  she  said,  coldly 

—putting  aside  the  little  clinging  arms  that 

tried  to  clasp  her  neck,  although  she  felt  her 

whole  soul  melting  in  tenderness  within  her 

— "  na',  na' !  dinna  heed  me ;  dinna  tak'  tent 

o'  me;  gae  ye  yer  ain  gate,  an'  leave  me  to 

mine — I'll  do  weel  enou' ;  gae  yer  ways — an' 

fareweel." 

"  Na',  na' !  dinna  say  '  fareweel ;'  see,  I  am 
na'  gangin';  I  loinna  gae;  I  am  yer  ain  wee 
lassie — tak'  me  in  yer  lap  agin — kiss  me  an' 
luve  me,  as  ye  used  to  do;  an'  ca'  me  yer 
ain  dear  Alice's  wee  Allie,  an'  I  will  be  bid- 
able,  an'  do  jist  wha'  ye  tell  me — I  will,  I 
will.  There,  noo,  there  !"  she  said,  as  she 
effected  her  lodgment  within  the  fondly  wel 
coming  arms  that  tenderly  embraced  her, 
and  hid  her  little  tear-stained  cheek  upon 
the  faithful  bosom  that  had  pillowed  her  in- 


20  SALEM. 


fancy.  "  Noo  say,  '  God  bless  my  darlin' !' 
an'  kiss  me,  an'  sing  me  to  sleep,  an'  I'll  luve 
ye  foriver,  an'  niver  leave  ye." 

Gladly  did  the  loving  arms  close  round 
the  little  repentant  one,  and  long  after  the 
little  quivering  bosom  had  ceased  to  sob 
and  sigh,  the  grandmother  sat  rocking  her 
to  and  fro,  sadly  listening  to  the  voices  of 
the  stormy  night,  and  crooning  over  a  low, 
sweet  lullaby  —  the  burden  of  which  was 
still,  "  Oh  !  my  ain  precious  ane  !  my  ain 
bairn's  bairnie  !  my  darlin' ;  my  ain  Alice's 
wee  Allie !" 

Long  into  the  night  she  sat  thus;  and 
sadder  longing  for  her  forsaken  home  than 
little  Allie  ever  knew  came  thronging  thick 
about  her;  alone  in  a  strange,  wild  land — 
the  little  creature,  sobbing  in  its  sleep  upon 
her  breast,  her  only  tie  to  earth.  But  she 
was  a  woman  of  resolute  spirit — she  would 
not  look  back  repiningly;  and  she  set  her 
face  as  a  flint  to  meet  and  bear  the  destiny 
which  her  own  action  had  drawn  upon  her 
self. 


CHAPTER  II. 


CHILDHOOD. 

With  hand  and  fancy  active  ever — 

Devising,  doing,  striving  still; 
Defeated  oft— despairing  never, 

Upspringiug  strong  in  hope  and  will." 

UT  time  rolled  on  in  its  resistless 
course;  the  night,  the  storm,  and 
the  winter  had  passed  gradually 
away ;  and  little  Alice,  whose  im 
pressible  temperament  was  like  an  air-harp, 
which  lends  a  responsive  vibration  to  every 
varying  breeze  that  may  sweep  across  it— 
now  swelling  out  gayly  and  cheerily  as  a 
marriage  -  bell,  now  sinking  to  the  minor 
chords  of  wailing  and  sadness — had  passed 
from  gloom  to  gladness.  As  in  the  storm 
and  darkness  she  had  been  nervously  de 
pressed  and  miserable,  so  in  due  proportion 
did  her  elastic  and  buoyant  young  spirit 
rise  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  brighter  days 


22  SALEM. 


and  milder  airs;  perhaps  all  the  more  joy 
ously  for  the  very  gloom  which  had  pre 
ceded  them. 

The  spring,  with  its  abundant  promise  of 
buds  and  blossoms,  its  halcyon  skies  and 
fragrant  breezes,  seemed  mirrored  in  her 
clear,  sweet  blue  eyes;  and  summer  itself — 
the  glorious  summer  of  our  New  England 
climate — with  its  compensating  beauty,  its 
myriad-hued  blossoms,  its  gayly-plumaged 
and  sweet-songed  birds,  drove  her  nearly 
wild  with  excitement  and  admiration.  She 
fairly  reveled  in  the  universal  beauty  all 
around  her :  the  clear,  pure  air ;  the  fresh, 
tremulous  beauty  of  the  tender  morning 
light,  that  flushed  the  eastern  skies  at  new 
born  day ;  the  glorious  sunsets,  which  barred 
the  west  with  floods  of  crimson  and  gold, 
had  for  her  ardent  and  poetic  nature  an  ex 
hilaration  she  had  never  known  before. 

There  was  now  no  longer  any  talk  of  re 
turning  to  Scotland;  the  heather  and  the 
go  wans  of  her  native  hills,  once  so  fondly 
remembered,  had  shrunk  in  comparison  with 
the  wide-flung  blossoms  of  our  woods  and 
wilds;  her  heart  was  weaned  from  her  early 


CHILDHOOD.  23 


home — even  the  beloved  "Hillside  Farm" 
was  forgotten;  she  dropped  the  Scottish 
dialect  which  her  grandmother  still  retained, 
and  the  little  Highland  lassie  was  fast 
changing  into  a  fair  New  England  maiden. 
She  lived  a  simple,  happy,  healthful,  wood 
land  life;  out  upon  the  hills  or  by  the 
ocean's  shore,  or  deep  in  the  dim  forest 
glades,  making  free  acquaintance  with  benefi 
cent  nature,  and  gaining  health  and  strength 
and  beauty  from  the  invigorating  breezes. 

One  day  she  fairly  startled  her  grand 
mother  as  she  darted  in  at  the  open  door, 
like  some  bright-winged  tropical  bird ;  her 
long,  fair  hair  twined  with  the  pale  purple 
flowers  of  the  wild  aster,  and  her  neck  and 
arms  encircled  with  chains  of  bright  crimson 
berries,  whose  coral  hue  set  off  their  dazzling 
whiteness. 

"  Luke  at  me  ! — hike  at  me,  grannie  !  am  I 
not  bonnie  T  she  said,  as  she  danced  in  her 
childish  glee  and  pretty  vanity  before  the 
eyes  of  her  grandmother.  "  Am  I  not  your 
sonsie  Allie  now  \  say,  luke  at  me !" 

"  Oh,  my  bairn !  my  bairn !"  cried  the 
grandmother,  shuddering  as  she  looked  at 


24  SALEM. 


her.  "Pu'  them  aff — pu'  them  aff!  the 
pawky  flowers.  I  dinna  loike  to  see  ye  sae, 
my  child!  Oh!  pu'  them  aff—  pu'  them  aff, 
I  say." 

"No,  no!"  said  little  Alice,  decidedly ;  "I 
loike  them— they  are  pretty.  Why  dinna 
ye  loike  them  ?" 

"  Oh !"  sighed  the  poor  woman,  "  ye  luke 
sae  loike  yer  puir  mither,  it  breaks  my 
heart ;  oh !  do  go  an'  tak'  them  aff."  And 
she  turned  sadly  away. 

"Luke  loike  my  mither!  and  why  not? 
why  would'nt  I  luke  loike  her  ?  Tell  me,"  she 
said,  persistently  following  her  grandmother 
with  glances  of  mingled  curiosity  and  an 
ger.  "Why  do  you  talk  that  way  for?  Ye 
call  my  mither  yer  dear  Alice— yer  ain  dear 
child;  I  thought  ye  luved  my  mither— I 
thought  you  wanted  me  to  be  loike  her." 

"  An'*  so  she  wa' — an'  sae  I  did— an'  sae  I 
do,"  cried  the  grandmother,  catching  the 
child  in  her  arms  in  a  passionate  embrace. 
"  But  ye  kin  na'  onderstan',  Allie  darling ! 
ye  are  too  young;  but  ye  do  ken  this — ye 
ken  yer  mither  is  deed,  an'  when  ye  kim  in, 
lukin'  sae  loike  her,  ye  took  me  too  sudden, 


CHILDHOOD. 


25 


an'  gave  me  a  turn  loike — as  if  it  wa'  her 
varry  sel'.  All !  ye  dinna  ken,  an'  lang 
may  it  be  before  ye  do,  wha'  the  heart's 
sorrow  is  for  them  it  ha'  luved  an'  lost;  an' 
now,  my  bairnie,  rin  awa'  an'  play,  an'  dinna 
think  I  meant  to  speak  cross  to  ye,  my  on'y 
treasure." 

And  little  Alice  went  back  to  her  birds 
and  her  flowers  without  another  word,  but 
with  a  vague  impression  upon  her  mind  that 
there  was  something  about  the  memory  of 
her  mother  that  she  was  not  permitted  to 
know  and  must  not  question.  But  youth  is 
sanguine,  and  the  cloud,  if  unforgotten,  did 
not  cast  a  heavy  shadow.  And  so  Alice  grew 
up  among  all  the  kindly  influences  of  nature; 
her  young  life  as  pure  and  sweet,  and  nearly 
as  uncultivated,  as  the  wild  flowers  she  loved. 

Of  education,  in  its  popular  sense  (as  un 
derstood  to  mean  book  learning),  she  had 
very  little,  and  of  accomplishments  she  knew 
nothing.  Her  grandmother  was  a  fairly 
educated  woman,  for  the  times  she  lived 
in;  she  could  read  and  write  and  keep  her 
simple  accounts,  and  that  was  all  that  was 
then  judged  important  for  a  woman  to 
B 


26  SALEM. 


know;  and  this  limited  amount  of  knowl 
edge  she  had  taught  to  her  grandchild,  who 
was  a  quick  and  retentive  pupil ;  and  though 
she  went  to  school  occasionally  when  oppor 
tunity  offered,  there  was  little  to  be  gained 
there,  and  possibly  neither  Alice  nor  her 
grandmother  dreamed  there  was  more  for 
them  to  know. 

The  girl  was  contented — she  had  no  am 
bitious  imaginings,  she  knew  no  lot  more 
favored  than  her  own;  she  had  few  ac 
quaintances — her  position  did  not  admit  of 
it — but  she  had  one  friend,  her  constant 
companion  and  welcome  attendant  in  all 
her  wanderings :  this  was  Pashernet,  a  young 
Indian  lad  some  years  older  than  herself. 

Pashemet  belonged  to  the  tribe  of  the 
Naumkeags,  once  a  powerful  and  prosperous 
race,  whose  hunting-grounds  had  included 
the  site  of  the  present  town.  He  was  the 
son  of  one  of  the  Sagamores,  or  chiefs,  who 
had  embraced  Christianity,  and  had  always 
maintained  friendly  relations  with  the  white 
settlers.  No  two  beings  could  have  been 
imagined  less  alike  than  the  calm,  grave, 
self-contained  Indian  lad,  and  the  quick,  im- 


CHILDHOOD. 


pulsive,  demonstrative  daughter  of  the  white 
race ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  this  contrast  (or, 
possibly,  in  consequence  of  it),  a  warm  and 
tender  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
them,  and  drew  them  strongly  together. 

Pashemet  was  six  or  seven  years  older 
than  Alice,  and  while  she  looked  up  to  him 
in  loving  confidence  and  warm  admiration, 
he  watched  over  her  steps  with  the  tender 
affection  of  an  elder  brother  and  the  careful 
guardianship  of  a  loving  father. 

He  taught  to  his  delighted  listener  much 
of  the  fanciful  lore  of  his  own  people;  his 
memory  was  rich  in  legends  of  the  rocks  and 
the  hills ;  every  brook  had  its  story,  every 
forest  its  memories ;  and  in  return  Alice  im- 
•parted  to  him  the  limited  education  she  had 
received  from  her  grandmother.  He  taught 
her  to  use  the  Indian  bow  with  an  almost 
unerring  aim,  to  feather  the  arrows,  to 
weave  the  nets,  to  climb  the  hills,  to  walk 
on  snow-shoes.  He  procured  her  a  light  In 
dian  canoe,  and  taught  her  to  guide  it  over 
the  water  with  a  skill  and  dexterity  scarcely 
less  than  his  own.  He  led  her  to  the  haunts 
of  the  fairest  flowers  and  the  earliest  fruits. 


2  8  SALEM. 


Seated  side  by  side  on  some  breezy  hill,  or 
rocking  on  the  calm  blue  waters,  he  told 
her  long  legends  of  the  past  history  of  his 
once  widespread  but  now  rapidly  diminish 
ing  people.  He  rowed  with  her  over  to 
Castle  Hill,  and  told  her  of  his  grandfather 
Nanepashemet,  whose  fort  was  on  that  hill, 
and  who  was  killed  there,  on  his  own  rocky 
eminence,  by  the  cowardly  and  treacherous 
Tarrentines.  And  when  the  boy's  savage 
and  but  half-restrained  nature  kindled  at 
the  remembrance,  and  the  wild  desire  for 
vengeance  seemed  breathing  in  his  swelling 
veins  and  trembling  on  his  eager  lips,  Alice 
would  lay  her  little,  gentle  white  hand  soft 
ly  upon  his  tawny  one,  and  tell  him  of  the 
love  of  the  great  "Good  Father,"  and  of- 
the  happy  hunting-grounds  reserved  for  the 
meek  and  forgiving ;  or,  seated  side  by  side 
in  some  quiet  spot,  she  would  teach  him  to 
read  it  for  himself. 

"  Listen !  daughter  of  the  pale  faces,"  he 
said  to  her  one  day,  as  they  stood  together 
upon  the  ^pebbly  margin  of  a  clear,  blue 
pond,  whose  quiet  waters  were  starred  all 
over  with  the  pure  and  fragrant  blossoms 


CHILDHOOD. 


of  the  white  water-lily — "  Listen  !  Pashemet 
has  no  sister,  and  his  mother  has  gone  long 
ago  to  the  Spirit  Land.  Pashemet  is  alone 
in  his  wigwam — he  has  no  mother,  no  sister." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Alice,  answering  him 
in  his  own  strain — "  I,  too,  am  the  last  of  my 
people.  I  have  no  father,  no  brother — I,  too, 
am  alone.  But  see,"  she  said  kindly, "  I  will 
be  your  sister,  and  I  will  choose  you  for  my 
brother."  Stooping  to  the  cool  water  which 
rippled  at  her  feet,  she  dipped  her  hand  in 
it,  and  laid  it  on  the  dusky  brow  of  the 
youth  beside  her.  "  Oh,  Pashemet !  my 
brother,  I  baptize  you  '  the  Fir-tree.' r 

Calm,  grave,  and  unsmiling,  the  Indian 
boy  imitated  her  graceful  action,  and  as  he 
sprinkled  the  bright  drops  over  her  long, 
flowing,  chestnut  curls,  he  murmured  grave 
ly — "  Oh,  Alice !  my  sister,  pure  and  beau 
tiful  !  I  baptize  thee  <  the  Water-lily.' " 

Laughingly  Alice's  flower-like  head  bent 
beneath  the  mimic  shower,  but  from  that 
moment,  as  if  by  tacit  consent,  they  always 
recognized  the  assumed  bond,  and  addressed 
each  other  by  these  endearing  or  fanciful 
names. 


3o  SALEM. 


But  we  are  lingering  too  long  over  these 
trivial  incidents  of  our  heroine's  childhood, 
and  we  must  ask  the  indulgence  of  our  read 
ers  to  skip  over  a  period  of  a  dozen  years. 
A  period,  indeed,  of  much  importance  in  the 
advancement  of  the  little  colony,  which  had, 
of  course,  gained  much  in  numbers  in  that 
time,  partly  by  natural  increase,  and  still 
more  by  new  and  important  arrivals.  Much 
had,  of  course,  been  accomplished  in  a  dozen 
years  to  improve  the  little  settlement;  the 
town  was  better  organized  and  better  gov 
erned;  new  streets  had  been  laid  out;  new 
buildings,  and  of  a  better  class,  had  been 
erected;  new  sources  of  industry  opened; 
and  a  new  impetus  given  to  education,  com 
merce,  and  agriculture. 

But — as  for  the  dramatis  persons  of  our 
story — Mrs.  Campbell  (Alice's  grandmother) 
was  little  changed;  she  was  still  a  hale, 
handsome,  and  resolute,  though  now  an  el 
derly  woman.  But  she  did  not  show  her 
years,  if  she  felt  them ;  she  had  reached  that 
stand-point  in  life  where  nature  seems  to 
pause  and  rest  herself  awhile;  the  growth 
and  progress  of  her  Spring  had  long  passed 


CHILDHOOD.  3  r 


by,  but  the  withering  desolation  of  her  Win 
ter  had  not  yet  begun :  for  her,  it  was  per 
haps  the  mellow  Indian  summer  of  life,  se 
rene  and  beautiful;  the  busy  labors  of  life 
gone  by,  its  burden  not  yet  assumed. 

But  Alice  had  changed  far  more;  hers 
was  still  the  season  of  growth  and  develop 
ment.  The  rich  promise  of  her  childhood 
was  more  than  fulfilled ;  the  Water-lily  had 
bloomed  out  in  all  its  pure,  perfected  beau 
ty.  She  was  gloriously  fair,  but  with 
cheeks  and  lips  vermeil  with  the  fresh  hues 
of  health.  A  figure  full  and  free  as  Hebe, 
yet  with  the  light  grace  of  the  wild  gazelle ; 
with  long,  dancing,  chestnut  curls,  just  touch 
ed  with  gold  when  the  light  wind  tossed 
them  into  the  sun's  golden  rays;  and  clear 
blue  eyes,  in  which  youth,  health,  and  sum 
mer  held  innocent  merriment.  As  gay  and 
guileless  as  a  child,  yet  as  gentle  and  loving 
as  a  woman — she  was  the  idol  of  her  grand 
mother,  with  whom  she  still  lived  in  the 
humble  home  in  which  we  first  found  her. 

But  Pashemet,  her  adopted  brother,  had 
gone ;  his  people  had  removed  farther  to 
the  West,  and  the  young  warrior,  who  was 


32  SALEM. 


one  day  to  succeed  his  father  as  Sagamore, 
had  of  course  gone  with  them.  And  though 
Alice  remembered  him  with  tender  interest, 
and  had  once  or  twice  received  kindly  mes 
sages  or  simple  tokens  of  remembrance  from 
him,  brought  to  her  by  some  wandering  In 
dian  of  his  tribe,  who  had  come  back,  per 
haps,  only  to  look  upon  the  graves  of  his 
people,  she  had  not  seen  him  for  more  than 
six  years. 


CHAPTER  III. 

NURSE'S  FARM. 

'Twas  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days; 
Now  .here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  discover — 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes — for  she  brightened  all  over." 

(HE  exquisite  beauty  of  one  of 
the  long  Spring  twilights  of  New 
England  was  slowly  fading ;  the 
glowing  west  was  still  a  sea  of 
dazzling  light  and  brilliancy ;  but  the  amber 
and  gold  which  had  flushed  the  pure  blue  of 
the  western  sky  was  gradually  turning  to  pur 
ple  and  crimson,  and  streaming  up  in  long 
penciled  rays  to  the  zenith,  when  Goodwife 
Campbell  sat  at  the  front  window  of  her 
quiet  home,  silent,  and  thoughtfully  knitting. 
But  though  her  active  and  experienced 
hands  were  thus  busy,  her  mind  and  eyes  were 
not  given  to  the  monotonous  work  which, 
B  2 


34 


SALEM. 


still  turning  and  lengthening,  grew  under 
her  restless  fingers ;  mind  and  eyes  were  not 
requisite  to  the  familiar  and  mechanical  task, 
else  would  the  stocking  she  was  skillfully 
fashioning  have  been  an  utter  failure  ;  for 
her  whole  attention  was  given  to  the  view 
up  the  street  which  her  window  commanded. 

The  little  room  in  which  she  sat,  although 
in  every  way  comfortable,  according  to  the 
very  limited  requirement  of  the  times,  was 
very  simple  in  its  appointments,  and  would 
have  looked  meagre  even  to  bareness  to 
modern  eyes;  but  it  was  neatness  itself, 
and  surely  that  is  in  itself  a  beauty.  The 
bare,  whitewashed  walls  were  spotless  in 
their  purity ;  no  carpet  covered  the  unpaint- 
ed  floor,  but  it  had  been  scrubbed  white  as 
snow,  had  been  carefully  sanded,  and  the 
sand  freshly  "  streaked,"  or  brushed  into 
wavy  lines  and  curves  of  beauty. 

The  graceful  streaking  of  a  sanded  floor 
in  this  fashion  was  an  accomplishment  upon 
which  thrifty  housewives  greatly  prided 
themselves  in  those  days,  and  taught  its 
mysteries  as  an  important  branch  of  woman 
ly  education  to  their  young  daughters.  The 


NURSE'S  FARM. 


practice  was  marked  by  certain  rules,  the 
sand  being  at  first  dropped  about  the  newly 
washed  floor  in  small  conical  heaps  of  uni 
form  size  and  at  regular  distances  —  this  was 
expected  to  last  for  a  certain  number  of 
days  ;  then,  when  busy,  passing  feet  had 
trampled  and  scattered  it,  it  was  to  be  care 
fully  streaked,  or  swept  in  wavy  parallel 
lines  ;  and  when  these  had  in  their  turn  been 
obliterated,  a  third  fashion  of  brushing  it 
across  in  checker-  work  was  admissible  :  this 
was  expected  to  close  the  weekly  wear,  and 
bring  it  round  to  scrubbing-day  again. 

The  white  half-curtains  which  shaded  the 
spotlessly  clean  but  coarse,  knobby  glass 
windows,  hung  white,  fresh,  and  untumbled 
in  their  crisp  starchiness  ;  but,  besides  its 
crowning  grace  of  neatness,  the  little  room 
was  beautified  by  slight  but  decided  marks 
of  delicate  womanly  taste  and  refinement. 
Round  the  tall,  narrow  looking-glass,  on  the 
surface  edge  of  which  an  ornamental  bor 
der  had  been  cut  in  the  manufacture  of  the 
glass  itself,  a  skillful  hand  had  fastened  a 
thick  wreath  of  shining,  dark-green  leaves, 
which,  wholly  concealing  the  quaint  black 


3  6  SALEM. 


frame,  made  the  little  mirror  look  like  a 
cool,  quiet  lake,  smiling  out  amid  the  green 
woods. 

On  the  many -twisted -legged  little  table 
under  the  glass  stood  a  large  flat  dish  of 
water,  its  whole  surface  covered  with  the 
sweet  pink  buds  and  graceful  leaves  of  the 
May-flower  —  first  herald  of  the  spring  — 
sending  out  the  perfume  of  its  breath  to  fill 
the  room ;  and  over  the  wide  mantel-piece 
stood  small,  high  glasses  of  dark-green  leaves 
and  scarlet  berries,  arranged  with  the  ar 
tistic  taste  which  speaks  a  loving  hand ; 
while  in  a  rude,  clumsy -made  cage  in  the 
side  window  hung  a  tame  robin,  piping  his 
farewell  to  the  day,  and  coquettishly  pick 
ing  at  the  fresh  chickweed  that  ornamented 
his  cage.  But  the  little  presiding  deity  of 
the  place — she  whose  innocent  taste  had  so 
impressed  itself  upon  these  minor  arrange 
ments  —  was  not  present ;  and  it  was  in 
search  of  her  that  the  grandmother's  loving 
eyes  were  so  often  turned  to  the  window. 

"  Haint  she  kirn  yet  ?  Wall !  •  I  'clare  I 
niver  see  notting  to  beat  dat  are !"  said  old 
Winny,  the  colored  woman,  who  was  the 


NURSE'S  FARM. 


only  help  employed  in  this  primitive  little 
household.  Two  or  three  times  already  had 
she  been  in  on  the  errand  of  inquiry,  and 
returned  without  satisfaction.  "  I  'clare  to 
yer  now,  I  tink  she  orter  be  in  ;  I  duuno  ! 
but  I  tink  it  haint  nowuz  safe  for  her  to  be 
out,  its  got  so  late,  and  sich  a  young  ting 
as  she  is." 

"  Ye  may  gang  doon  to  the  gate,  Winny, 
an'  glint  up  the  street  ava',  an'  see  if  she's 
na'  kimmin'  doon  the  toun." 

Winny  obeyed  ;  she  went  to  the  gate, 
shaded  her  eyes  from  the  dazzling  western 
brightness,  stood  at  least  five  minutes  gaz 
ing  persistently  up  the  straggling  and  ir 
regular  street,  and  then  returning,  she  an 
nounced  gravely,  "  She's  not  comin'.  I  didn't 
see  a  bit  of  her  —  not  one  bit  !" 

"  Weel,  weel  !"  said  her  mistress,  smiling  ; 
"  I'm  gey  glad  o'  that,  Winny  ;  I  wad  na1 
wish  my  bairnie  to  kim  hame  in  bits,  ony 
way." 

The  astute  Winny  meditated  for  a  min 
ute  or  two  in  silence  over  this  seemingly 
strange  answer,  and  then  a  loud  cachinnation 
told  that  the  point  of  her  mistress's  wit  had 


SALEM. 


reached  her  comprehension.  "  But  would 
it  not  be  more  respectabler  like,  if  I  was  to 
run  up  the  street  and  meet  her,  and  fotch 
her  home — say  ?' 

"Na',  na'!"  said  the  grandmother,  smil 
ing  ;  "  I  dinna  think  ye  ha'  need  to  do  that. 
She'll  win  hame  her  lane  afore  the  neet  fa's, 
I'm  thinkin'." 

"  Well,  if  yer  say  so,  I  s'pose  she  will. 
Of  course  yer  knows  best ;"  and  Winny  re 
turned  to  the  kitchen. 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  "  dragged  its 
slow  length  along,"  and  just  as  the  grand 
mother,  beginning  to  grow  really  anxious, 
had  risen  to  lay  aside  her  knitting,  in  order, 
probably,  to  give  herself  up  more  fully  to 
the  indulgence  of  her  nameless  fears,  the 
tramp  of  a  horse's  feet  at  the  gate,  and  a 
low,  sweet  burst  of  ringing,  girlish  laughter, 
dispelled  them  altogether,  and  she  reached 
the  door  just  in  time  to  see  her  darling  care 
fully  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  an  honest- 
looking  young  man,  who,  with  a  gay  "  Good 
night  to  you,"  rode  laughingly  away. 

"  Weel-a-weel !  Allie,"  she  said,  meeting 
her  at  the  door  ;  "  ye  hae  bin  lang  awa', 


NURSE'S  FARM. 


dearie.  An'  wha's  keepin'  ye  sae  late,  my 
bonnie  lassie  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  a  good  ways,  grandmoth 
er,  dear.  Just  let  me  get  my  things  off, 
and  Til  tell  you  all." 

"  But  where  awa'  hae  ye  bin,  lassie  ?  Tell 
me?" 

"I  have  been  up  to  Nurse's  Farm,  gran 


nie." 


"Nurse's  Farm?  Wha' !  na'  up  to  the 
village,  lassie  ?  Sure,  ye  dinna  mean  that  ?" 

"  I  do,  then  ;  I  mean  just  that,  grannie." 

"  My  certies  !  An'  wha'  for  did  ye  na' 
tell  me,  Allie  ?  I  hae  been  sair  fashed  aboot 
ye.  An'  why  wa'  na'  ye  tellin'  me  gin  ye 
wa'  goin'  there  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  it  myself,  grandmother ; 
but  I  sent  you  word  though.  Did  not  little 
Mary  English  come  in  and  tell  you  where 
I  was  ?" 

"  Mver  a  whit.  I  hae  na'  seen  Mary  En 
glish  the  day." 

"  The  careless  little  gipsy  !  And  she 
promised  me  so  fair,  too  !  Well,  never  mind ; 
I  am  sorry  if  you  fretted,  though ;"  and,  as 
she  spoke,  the  girl  threw  her  soft  arms 


SALEM. 


round  the  old  woman's  neck,  and  pressed 
her  sweet,  rosy  lips  to  the  withered  cheek. 
"  I  am  not  worth  half  the  trouble  you  take 
about  me,  grandmother ;  but  you  see  I  am 
all  safe,  and  I  have  had  such  a  pleasant 
time." 

"  Weel-a-weel  !  an'  ye  maun  tell  me  a' 
aboot  it,  my  lassie." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  will ;  but,  grannie,  have 
you  not  had  your  supper  yet  ?" 

"Nae  'deed;  I  wa'  waitin'  for  ye.  Ye 
hae  na'  had  yours,  hae  you  ?' 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  I  had  mine — oh,  two  hours 
ago.  I'm  so  sorry  you  waited.  Sit  down 
now  and  take  yours,  and  I'll  sit  here,  close 
by  you,  and  tell  you  all  I've  heard  and 
seen.  You  see,  I  meant  to  go  up  only  as  far 
as  '  Salem  Corner ;'  but  it  was  so  pleasant, 
I  kept  on  just  for  a  walk ;  when  who  should 
come  up  behind  me 'but  Rebecca  Preston  and 
Mary  Tarbell,  Landlord  Nurse's  two  mar 
ried  daughters,  and  with  them  their  young 
est  sister,  Sarah  Nurse.  Well,  I  knew  them 
all,  and  Sarah  Nurse  I  used  to  go  to  school 
with ;  and  so  we  walked  along  talking  to 
gether,  and  when  I  would  have  turned  back 


NURSE'S  FARM.  4I 

they  would  not  hear  of  it :  I  must  go  home 
with  them,  and  stay  to  supper,  and  see 
their  mother.  And  when  I  said  I  could 
not  walk  back  in  the  evening,  Mary  Tarbell 
said  her  husband  was  coming  over,  and 
would  bring  me  on  a  pillion.  You  know, 
grannie,  I  don't  get  a  ride  very  often,  and 
I  did  want  to  go  with  them ;  but  I  said, 
i  No ;  I  couldn't  leave  you  alone.  Not  know 
ing  where  I  was,  you  might  be  anxious.' 
And  just  then  John  English  came  down  the 
road,  with  his  little  Mary  on  behind  him ; 
and  they  stopped  them,  and  Mary  said  she 
was  coming  straight  home,  and  she  would 
run  over  and  tell  you  where  I  was,  and  so 
I  felt  easy  about  that ;  but  I  shall  give  her 
a  bit  of  a  scolding  for  forgetting  it.  And, 
grandmother,  it  was  lovely  over-  there,  and 
they  were  all  so  pleasant !" 

"  An'  how  wa'  Goody  Nurse  ?"  inquired 
the  listener. 

"  Well,  she  said  she  was  pretty  bad  with 
the  rheumatism,  but  she  was  as  bright  and 
cheery  as  a  bird.  She  asked  how  you  was, 
and  if  you  had  your  rheumatism  now ;  and 
I  told  her  you  did  last  winter,  but  you  was 


42  SALEM. 


a  great  deal  better  now.  '  I'm  glad  to  hear 
it,'  says  she ;  '  but  your  grandmother  is  only 
a  child  to  me.  Why,  I'm  threescore  and 
ten,  and  five  over,'  says  she.  Only  think, 
grannie ;  did  you  think  she  was  as  much  as 
that?" 

"  An'  did  ye  bide  till  the  supper,  Allie  V 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  there  was  a  tableful. 
There  was  Landlord  Nurse  and  Goody,  and 
two  of  their  sons ;  and  there  was  Thomas 
Preston  and  Rebecca,  and  Mary  and  John 
Tarbell,  and  Elizabeth  Russel  and  her  hus 
band,  and  Sarah  Nurse  and  her  bachelor 
from  Marblehead,  and  I.  Only  think,  what 
a  family — thirteen  of  us  to  sit  down  to  sup 
per!" 

"  Thirteen  !  Oh,  my  bairnie  !  tha's  an  un 
canny  number  —  I  dread  tha's  an  unlucky 
thing.  We  wad  say  at  hame  one  of  the 
number  wad  be  deed  afore  anither  year.  I 
dinna  like  the  thirteen." 

"  Oh !  well,  grannie,  I  guess  I  did  not 
count  them  right ;  and,  besides,  there  were 
ever  so  many  of  the  little  grandchildren  run 
ning  in  and  out  all  the  time.  I  guess  that 
won't  hurt  us;  and  we  were  as  gay  as  larks." 


NURSE'S  FARM.  43 

"  An'  tell  me,  wha'  had  ye  for  the  supper, 
lassie  ?  It  rnaun  tak'  a  deal  to  feed  sae 
inony." 

"  My  goodness !  you'd  think  so.  There 
was  every  thing :  fried  bacon  and  eggs,  and 
cold  boiled  beef,  and  baked  beans,  and  minced 
salt  fish,  and  roasted  potatoes,  and  pickles, 
and  hot  Indian  bread,  and  white  bread,  and 
cake,  and  pies,  and  preserved  barberries, 
and  honey,  and  milk,  and  cider.  Oh  !  and, 
by  the  way,  that  makes  me  think — Goody 
Nurse  asked  me  how  your  barberries  kept 
this  year,  and  I  told  her  they  did  not  keep 
well  at  all,  for  I  eat  them  all  up  before  New- 
year  ;  and  then  she  laughed,  and  told  me 
to  tell  you  she  had  more  on  hand  than  she 
could  use  till  they  come  round  again,  and 
that  she  would  send  you  a  crock  of  them 
the  first  chance  she  could  find." 

"  Weel !  an',  indeed,  that's  varry  good  uy 
her.  I'll  be  beholden  to  her  for  that  same. 
She  is  varry  kind." 

"Yes,  indeed,  she  is;  she  is  just  as  kind 
as  she  can  be.  Oh,  they  live  so  pleasantly, 
grandmother ;  they  have  every  thing  on  that 
great  farm,  that  heart  can  desire ;  and  they 


44  SALEM. 


are  just  like  one  great  family.  Old  Land 
lord  Nurse — lie  seemed  just  like  one  of  the 
old  patriarchs  when  he  stood  up  to  bless 
the  table,  with  his  long,  white  hair  floating 
over  his  shoulders — dear  old  man  ! 

"But, grandmother, I  have  got  some  queer 
news  to  tell  you.  Don't  you  remember 
what  we  heard  about  those  children  and 
girls  at  Mr.  Parris's  house — how  they  had 
meetings  there  to  try  tricks  and  charms,  and 
practice  all  sorts  of  black  arts  ?  Don't  you 
remember  hearing  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  Allie ;  I  mind  it.  An'  I  thought  it 
wa'  unco'  strange  doings  —  at  the  Manse, 
too!" 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Well,  they  have  gone  on 
worse  and  worse — they  behave  awfully  now. 
The  people  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it 
—some  say  they  are  crazy,  and  some  think 
they  make  it  up.  Oh  !  and  they  have  (or 
pretend  to  have,  I  don't  know  which  it  is) 
terrible  fits  ;  and  they  will  scream  and  rave, 
and  foam  at  the  mouth,  and  bleed  at  the 
nose,  and  drop  down  to  the  floor  as  if  they 
were  dead,  and  be  cold  and  stiif ;  and  they'll 
declare  they  see  and  hear  things  that  no 


NURSE'S  FARM. 


one  else  can  hear  or  see,  and,  oh  !  I  can't 
tell  you  what  they  don't  do.  The  neighbors 
are  called  in ;  but  no  one  can  do  any  thing 
with  them.  They  call  them  'the  afflicted 
children.' 

"  Well,  we  were  talking  of  it  at  the  ta 
ble.  '  Afflicted  children  !  indeed  ! — afflicted 
fiddlesticks,  I  say,'  quoth  Goody  Nurse ;  1 1 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it ;  I  believe  it's  all 
shamming.  If  either  of  my  little  maids  had 
trained  on  so  at  their  age,  I  guess  I  would 
have  afflicted  them  with  the  end  of  my 
broomstick.  I  would  have  whipped  it  out 
of  them,  I  know.  They  have  been  left  to  go 
with  them  pagan  slaves,'  she  says, '  till  their 
heads  are  half  cracked ;  and  Parson  Parris, 
he  just  allows  and  encourages  it.  If  he'd 
box  their  ears  for  them,  all  round,  three 
times  a  day,  I  guess  it  would  cure  them,' 
says  she. 

"Then  Thomas  Preston  spoke  up,  and 
he  says :  1 1  think,  Goody,  you  are  too  hard 
on  the  children.  Maybe,  if  you  had  seen 
them,  you  would  feel  differently.  I  have, 
and  it  is  just  awful  to  behold  their  fits ;  and 
I  believe  every  word  of  it.' 


46  SALEM. 


"  '  Well,  I  don't,  son  Thomas  ;'  says  Goody, 
'and  that  is  where  you  and  I  differ.  If 
they  are  sick,  I  pity  them,  with  all  my  heart, 
I'm  sure ;  for  nobody  knows  better  than  I 
do  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to  have  fits. 
I  had  them  once  when  one  of  my  children 
was  born.  But  that  is  no  excuse  for  letting 
them  disturb  the  whole  meeting-house.  If 
they  can't  behave,  let  them  stay  ^at  home,  I 
say.  I  believe  that  Mr.  Parris  is  at  the  bot 
tom  of  it  all ;  I  don't  think  much  of  him, 
and  I  never  did.' 

"'Tut!  tut!  Goody,'  said  Landlord  Nurse. 
'Bridle  in  that  unruly  little  member  of  thine; 
it  is  no  use  talking  of  these  things,  and 
it  is  not  well  to  talk  against  your  minister.' 

"  '  He  aint  my  minister,'  says  she,  again ; 
'  he  never  was,  and  never  will  be,  and  I'm 
glad  of  it.  I  belong  to  the  Old  Church, 
and  I  never  separated  from  it,  as  you  know ; 
and  I  only  go  to  the  village  church  when 
I  can't  go  to  town.  I  never  did  like  Mr. 
Parris,  even  when  you,  father,  and  the  old 
committee  first  gave  him  a  call ;  and  I'm 
sure,  son  Tarbell,  when  you  and  the  young 
men  took  the  matter  into  your  own  hands, 


NURSE'S  FARM. 


and  gave  l^m  a  second  call,  I  always  thought 
you  had  better  have  left  it  where  it  was,  in 
the  hands  of  your  elders.  I  don't  like  the 
man.  I  won't  say  he's  a  bad  man,  but  I 
don't  say  he's  a  good  one  ;  and  I,  for  one, 
won't  go  to  meeting  again  while  those  sau 
cy,  impudent  girls  are  allowed  to  interrupt 
the  worship  of  the  Lord.  If  it  is  not  silly,  it 
is  wicked  ;  and  if  it  is  not  wicked,  it  is  silly ; 
and,  any  way,  I  won't  go  to  hear  it,  I  know.' 

"  Oh,  grandmother,  I  could  not  but  laugh 
to  hear  how  she  did  run  on ;  but  Elizabeth, 
who  sat  next  to  me,  pulled  my  sleeve,  and 
whispered  me,  1 1  do  wish  mother  would 
not  talk  so ;  I  feel  sure  she  will  get  into 
trouble  if  she  does.' 

"  l  How  so  ?'  says  I. 

" '  Why,'  she  says,  '  this  is  no  time  to  be 
making  enemies ;  and  somebody  may  repeat 
what  she  says.' 

"  l  Well,'  said  I, l  there's  nobody  here  but 
your  own  family — and  me.' 

"  i  Oh  !  I  did  not  mean,  the  present  com 
pany,'  says  she,  laughing ;  '  but  it  is  just  so 
always.  Mother  is  a  dear,  good  woman  as 
ever  lived — she  would  not  hurt  a  fly ;  but 


48  SALEM. 


she  is  very  outspoken,  and  there  is. always  an 
ill  bird  in  the  air  to  catch  up  such  thought 
less  words  and  make  the  worst  of  them ; 
and  mother  is  too  free — I  wish  she  was  not.' 

"  But,  grannie,  the  girls  have  got  so  bold, 
it  seems  they  don't  mind  any  body ;  and 
last  Sabbath-day,  it  seems,  they  spoke  right 
out  in  meeting." 

"  Spoke  in  meetin'  ?  What,  them  chil 
dren  spoke  in  prayer  an'  exhortation  ? 
Gude  save  us ;  did  I  ever  !" 

"  No,  no,  grannie ;  far  worse  than  that. 
Prayer  ?  —  no,  indeed  !  Mr.  Law^son  was 
to  preach  that  day,  and  Abigail  Williams 
spoke  right  out  in  meeting,  and  spoke  im 
pudently  to  him.  Before  he  had  time  to  be 
gin,  she  cried  out,  i  Come  !  stand  up,  and 
name  your  text ;'  and  when  he  had  given 
it,  *  That's  a  long  text,'  cries  she.  And  then, 
while  he  was  preaching,  another  cries  out, 
'  Come  !  there's  enough  of  that,'  and  more 
like  that.  Was  it  not  shameful  ?  And 
they  said  Ann  Putnam  was  so  rude  that 
the  people  next  her  in  the  seatings  had  to 
hold  her  down  by  main  force.  Goody  Nurse 
said  it  was  shameful  that  Mr.  Parris  did  not 


NUXSE'S  FARM.  49 

interfere  and  stop  them,  and  I  think  so.  too. 
But,  as  she  said,  if  the  minister  allowed  it, 
who  could  venture  to  do  any  thing  to  stop 
them  ? 

"  So  then  they  sent  for  Dr.  Griggs  (his 
niece,  Elizabeth  Hubbard,  is  one  of  them), 
and  he  could  not  make  out  what  ailed 
them  ;  and  he  said  he  thought  they  must 
be  bewitched  ! 

"And  Mr.  Parris  has  had  a  meeting  of 
all  the  neighboring  ministers  at  his  own 

o  o 

house ;  and  they  talked  to  the  children,  and 
prayed  over  them ;  but  they  did  not  get 
any  satisfaction.  And  now  they  all  say  the 
children  are  bewitched.  Goody  Nurse  says 
she  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  and  that  Mr. 
Parris  ought  to  have  stopped  it  at  once,  in 
the  first  of  it,  as  he  might  easily  have  done. 
She  said  he  was  not  her  minister,  and  she 
was  glad  he  was  not ;  but  if  he  had  been, 
she  would  not  go,  to  have  such  a  shameful 
disturbance. 

"  And  now,  grannie,  they  all  believe  the 

children   are  bewitched  ;   and  every  one  is 

asking,  '  Who   can  it  be  ?      Who   are  the 

witches  that  make  all  this  trouble  ?'     And 

C 


SALEM. 


nobody  knows.      Why,  is  it  not  an  awful 
thing  ?     Grandmother,  do  you  believe  it  ?" 

«  Whist,  Allie,  I  canna  tell ;  the  De'il  is 
fu'  of  a'  subtlety." 

"  But  are  there  really  any  witches  now, 
grannie  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken,  lassie.  I  mind  me  at  name, 
I  used  to  hear  tell  o'  fairies  an'  kelpies  an' 
warlocks  ;  an'  wha'  for  nae  witches  ?  Gude 
be  betune  us  an'  harm  !  Dinna  talk  of  sic' 
things,  my  bairn  ;  it's  nae  good  to  be  nam 
ing  them.  Gude  be  aroun'  us  this  night  an' 
foriver!  Get  ye  out  the  Bible,  my  lassie, 
an'  read  us  the  prayers." 

"  Not  yet,  grandmother  ;  it's  early  yet." 
"Niver  ye  mind  if  it  is,  Allie.  Yer 
tongue  ha'  rin  on  sae  fast  syne  ye  come  in 
that  my  old  head  is  fairly*  upset,  and  I'd 
fain  gae  to  my  bed ;  an'  I'm  sure  ye  maun 
be  weel  tired  with  yer  lang  walk  yersel'. 
Sae  bring  the  guid  book,  an'  ca'  in  Winny." 
And  Allie  brought  out  the  big  Bible, 
summoned  old  Winny,  and  reverently  read 
the  service  for  the  day,  the  prayers,  a  hymn, 
and  a  chapter  from  the  New  Testament; 
and  so  closed  the,  to  her,  eventful  day. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM. 

'Men  spake  in  whispers — each  one  feared  to  meet  another's  eye; 
As  iron  seemed  the  sterile  earth,  as  brass  the  sullen  sky. 
But  patience  had  her  perfect  work,  abundant  faith  was  given ; 
Oh !   who  shall  say  the  scourge  of  earth  doth  not  bear  fruit 
for  heaven?" 

S  the  occurrences  at  Salem  village, 
of  which  mention  has  been  made 
in   a   previous   chapter,   and  of 
which    Alice    Campbell,  on   her 
return    from    Nurse's    Farm,   had    brought 

7  o 

the  first  tidings  to  her  grandmother,  were 
destined  to  assume  an  importance  far  more 
than  commensurate  with  their  apparently 
trivial  beginning ;  and  as  "  the  little  cloud 
scarcely  bigger  than  a  man's  hand "  was 
afterward  to  spread  and  deepen,  until  its 
baneful  influence  overwhelmed  for  a  time 
the  powers  of  truth,  reason,  and  justice,  and 
the  whole  land  sat  trembling  in  the  horror 


2  2  SALEM. 


of  great  darkness,  it  becomes  necessary  to 
tlie  course  of  our  narrative  that  we  should 
turn  back  and  learn  what  the  pages  of  his 
tory  and  the  voices  of  tradition  have  pre 
served  of  the  commencement  of  the  strange 
and  terrible  delusion  which,  under  the  name 
of  the  "  Salem  Witchcraft,"  has  made  itself 
known  and  recognized  over  more  than  half 
the  world. 

Salem  village,  subsequently  known  as 
Danvers,  where  the  first  outbreak  of  this 
fearful  scourge  had  its  rise,  was  not  in  those 
early  days  a  distinct  and  independent  town : 
it  was  then  the  suburbs,  the  outgrowth,  and 
the  more  rural  portion  of  the  town  of  Salem. 

It  had  been  the  sagacious  policy  of  the 
infant  colony,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  issue 
grants  of  large  tracts  of  land  to  influential 
men,  of  independent  means,  enterprising  spir 
it,  and  liberal  views — such  men  as  Winthrop, 
Dudley,  Browne,  Endicott,  Bishop,  Ingersoll, 
and  others;  men  who  had  the  power,  as 
well  as  the  will,  to  lay  out  roads,  subdue 
the  forest,  clear  the  ground,  and  by  introduc 
ing  the  desirable  arts  of  husbandry,  call  out 
the  productive  power  of  the  soil. 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM.  53 

Afterward,  when  these  large  tracts  of  land 
were  broken  up  and  subdivided,  either 
among  the  heirs  of  the  original  grantees,  or 
sold  in  portions  to  other  smaller  landown 
ers,  the  people  of  "  Salem  village,"  or  "  Salem. 
Farms,"  as  it  was  often  termed,  continued  to 
retain  and  support  the  character  of  intelli 
gence,  stability,  and  enterprise  which  had 
been  acquired  from  the  influence  of  these 
early  founders  and  leading  minds. 

In  the  course  of  progressive  years,  as  their 
population  naturally  and  widely  increased, 
they  formed  a  new  parish,  being  a  branch 
of  the  mother  church  at  Salem ;  but  their 
ministerial  or  parochial  affairs  do  not  appear 
to  have  been  happy. 

Their  first  preacher,  the  Rev.  James  Bay- 
ley,  came  to  the  village  church  in  the  year 
1671 ;  but  his  call  was  not  a  unanimous 
one,  and  much  bitter  disaffection  and  rancor 
ous  discussion  followed  it,  until  Mr.  Bayley, 
despairing  of  ever  conciliating  the  affections 
of  his  contentious  flock,  left  them,  and,  with 
drawing  from  the  ministry,  studied  the  pro 
fession  of  medicine. 

His    successor    in   the    church,  the   Rev. 


54  SALEM. 


George  Burroughs,  entered  upon  his  duties 
in  1680;  but  he  found  the  parish  in  a  most 
unsettled  and  irritable  state  of  feeling.  The 
personal  friends  of  Mr.  Bayley — for  he  had 
many  strong  partisans — concentrated  all  their 
bitterness  and  hostility  upon  the  head  of  his 
innocent  successor;  added  to  this  were  the 
troubled  pecuniary  relations  between  him 
and  his  parish,  which  were  never  clearly  ad 
justed,  and,  in  sheer  despair  of  ever  obtaining 
an  impartial  and  fair  settlement  with  his  de 
moralized  people,  he,  too,  resigned  his  situa 
tion  and  left  the  village. 

The  Rev.  Deodat  Lawson  was  the  next  in 
cumbent.  He  commenced  his  ministry  in 
1684 — how  long  he  held  it  is  uncertain;  but 
he,  too,  finding  it  impossible  to  evoke  any 
harmony  out  of  the  discord  in  the  parish,  re 
linquished  the  situation  and  removed  back 
to  Boston,  being  afterward  settled  at  Scitu- 
ate,  New  England. 

The  next  minister  (and  this  brings  us  to 
the  period  of  the  witchcraft  delusion)  was 
the  Rev.  Samuel  Parris.  Possibly  warned 
by  the  fate  of  his  three  predecessors,  he  was 
very  strict  and  exacting  in  making  his  terms 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM.  55 

of  settlement.  His  first  call,  made  by  the 
committee  of  the  church  in  November,  1688, 
he  held  in  suspense,  failing  to  respond  to  it 
for  some  months;  until  the  young  men  of 
the  parish,  feeling  that  their  elders  were 
making  no  advance,  took  the  matter  into 
their  own  hands,  and  gave  him  a  second  call 
in  April,  1689 ;  and  he  commenced  his  duties 
as  their  preacher  from  that  time,  although 
not  regularly  ordained  until  the  close  of  the 
year. 

Whether  owing  to  the  unauthorized  inter 
ference  of  the  young  men,  which  settled  him 
thus  prematurely,  or  by  some  intentional 
and  overreaching  misconception  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Parris,  there  sprung  up  a  constant 
and  imbittered  discussion  as  to  the  terms  of 
his  settlement — he  maintaining  himself  to  be 
entitled  by  the  terms  of  his  agreement  to 
the  parsonage  house  and  the  glebe  lands; 
which  the  other  party  maintained  to  be  their 
inalienable  church  property,  which  they  had 
neither  the  intention  nor  the  power  to  con 
vey  away. 

This  sharp  mercantile  spirit,  which  he 
constantly  betrayed  in  his  perpetual  "hig- 


5  6  SALEM. 


gling"  about  the  terms  of  his  salary,  and 
the  harsh  and  exasperating  manner  in  which 
he  upon  all  occasions  magnified  his  office, 
checking  and  restraining  the  usual  powers 
of  his  deacons  and  elders,  had  rendered  him 
thoroughly  repugnant  to  all  the  preconceived 
ideas  and  feelings  of  the  sensible  and  inde 
pendent  farmers  of  Salem  village;  and  he, 
on  his  part,  seems  to  have  entertained  no 
pleasant  or  friendly  feelings  toward  his 
people. 

It  was  under  these  peculiarly  irritating 
feelings  and  circumstances,  when  ill-temper 
and  acrimonious  discontent  and  discussion 
prevailed  on  all  sides,  that  the  first  swell  of 
the  great  tidal-wave  became  perceptible, 
which  afterward  beat  down  the  barriers 
of  common  -  sense,  and  engulfed  so  many 
happy  homes  in  fatal  and  irremediable  woe. 

During  the  winter  of  1691  and  '92,  a  par 
ty  of  young  girls,  about  a  dozen  in  number, 
were  in  the  habit  of  meeting  together  at 
Mr.  Parris's  house ;  their  names,  as  they  have 
come  down  to  us,  are : 

Elizabeth  Parris,  aged  9 — the  daughter  of 
the  minister. 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM.  57 

Abigail  Williams,  aged  11 — a  niece  of  Mr. 
Parris,  and  residing  in  his  family. 

Ann  Putnam,  aged  12 — daughter  of  Thom 
as  Putnam,  the  parish  clerk. 

Mary  Walcott,  aged  17 — daughter  of  Dea 
con  Jonathan  Walcott. 

Mercy   Lewis,  aged   17 — servant    in    the 
family  of  John  Putnam,  constable. 

Elizabeth  Hubbard,  aged  17 — niece  of 
Mrs.  Dr.  Griggs,  and  living  in  her  family. 

Elizabeth  Booth,  aged  18. 

Susannah  Sheldon,  aged  18. 

Mary  Warren,  aged  20 — servant  in  the 
family  of  John  Proctor. 

Sarah  Churchill,  aged  20  —  servant  to 
George  Jacobs,  Senior. 

Three  young  married  women — Mrs.  Ann 
Putnam,  mother  of  the  above-named  girl,  a 
Mrs.  Pope,  and  Mrs.  Bibber ;  to  these  must 
be  added  the  names  of  John  Indian  and 
Tituba,  his  wife,  slaves  in  the  family  of  Mr. 
Parris,  and  brought  by  him  from  the  Spanish 
West  Indies,  where  he  had  been  engaged  in 
trade  before  entering  the  ministry. 

For  what  definite   and  avowed  purpose 
these  meetings  at  the  house  of  the  pastor 
C  2 


SALEM. 


had  originally  been  intended,  we  have  no  in 
formation  ;  but  their  ultimate  purpose  seems 
to  have  been  to  practice  sleight  of  hand,  leger 
demain,  fortune-telling,  sorcery,  magic,  pal 
mistry,  necromancy,  ventriloquism,  or  what 
ever  in  more  modern  times  is  classed  under 
the  general  name  of  Spiritualism. 

During  the  course  of  the  winter,  they  had 
become  very  skillful  and  expert  in  these 
unholy  arts.  They  could  throw  themselves^ 
into  strange  and  unnatural  attitudes ;  use 
strange  exclamations,  contortions,  and  gri 
maces ;  utter  incoherent  and  unintelligible 
speech.  They  would  be  seized  with  fearful 
spasms  or  fits,  and  drop  as  if  lifeless  to  the 
ground  ;  or,  writhing  as  if  in  agony  of  in 
sufferable  tortures,  utter  loud  screams  and 
fearful  shrieks,  foaming  at  the  mouth  or  bleed- 
ing  from  the  nose. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  act 
ors  in  these  terrible  scenes  were  for  the 
most  part  young  girls,  at  the  most  nervous 
and  impressible  period  of  life— a  period  when 
a  too  rapid  growth,  over -study,  over -exer 
tion,  or  various  other  predisposing  causes, 
are  often  productive  of  hysteria,  hypochon- 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM.  59 

dria,  and  nervous  debility,  which,  if  not  met 
and  counteracted  by  judicious  care,  has  oft 
en  tended  to  insanity,  and 

"  The  delicate  chain 
Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  cleared  again." 

Let  it  be  remembered,  too,  that  these  mis 
guided  young  persons  had  been  engaged 
for  long  months  in  studies  of  the  most  wild 
and  exciting  nature,  unlawful  and  unholy, 
and  in  the  practice  of  all  forbidden  arts- 
studies  and  practices  under  the  unhallowed 
influences  of  which  the  strongest  and  most 
stolid  of  maturer  minds  might  well  have 
been  expected  to  break  down ;  that  they 
had  been  in  daily  and  hourly  communication 
with  John  Indian  and  Tituba,  the  two  Span 
ish  West  Indian  slaves  —  creatures  of  the 
lowest  type,  coarse,  sensual,  and  ignorant— 
who  had  been  their  companions,  teachers, 
and  leaders,  indoctrinating  them  in  all  the 
pagan  lore,  hideous  superstitions,  and  revolt 
ing  ceremonials  of  their  own  idolatrous  faith, 
and  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  their  weak 
reason  tottered  and  reeled  in  the  fearful  tri 
al  ?  If  they  were  not  mad  would  be  the 
greater  wonder. 


60  SALEM. 


But  these  things  could  not  be  enacted  in 
a  little  quiet  village  and  not  be  known  ;  nor 
was  it  intended  they  should  be.  And,  at 
tention  being  called  to  their  strange  condi 
tion  and  unaccountable  behavior,  the  whole 
wondering  neighborhood  was  filled  with 
consternation  and  pity  at  the  unwonted  pro 
ceedings  ;  from  house  to  house  the  strange 

o     /  o 

tidings  spread  with  wonderful  rapidity,  and 
gaining  doubtless  at  every  repetition ;  and 
no  attempt  at  concealment  being  made,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  rather  an  ostentatious  dis 
play  of  the  affair,  crowds  flocked  together 
from  every  quarter  to  see  and  listen  and 
wonder  in  horror  and  amazement. 

No  explanation  of  the  mystery  was  given, 
and,  excited  by  the  attention  they  received 
and  the  wonder  they  attracted,  the  children, 
emulating  each  other  in  their  strange  ac 
complishments,  grew  worse  and  worse,  until 
the  whole  community  became  excited  and 
aroused  to  a  most  intense  degree.  Every 
thing  else  was  forgotten  or  set  aside,  and 
there  was  no  other  topic  of  thought  or  con 
versation  ;  and  finding  themselves  the  objects 
of  universal  attention,  "  the  observed  of  all 


THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  STORM.     61 

observers,"  the  girls  were  roused  by  ambi 
tion  to  new  manifestations  of  the  extraor 
dinary  power  they  were  influenced  by,  and 
outdid  all  they  had  done  before. 

At  last,  as  no  change  for  the  better  oc 
curred,  Dr.  Grigg,  the  village  physician,  was 
sent  for.  He  was  the  uncle  by  marriage  of 
one  of  the  girls,  and  possibly  not  quite  an 
impartial  judge  in  the  matter,  and  after  an 
examination  —  or  we  might  better  say  an 
exhibition  on  the  part  of  the  girls — he  de 
clared  his  medical  skill  at  fault,  and  pro 
nounced  his  grave  and  deliberate  opinion 
that  the  children  were  bewitched. 

This  was  not  an  uncommon  conclusion  in 
those  days ;  for  a  superstitious  belief  in  de- 
monology  was  a  commonly  received  thing, 
and  any  symptoms  not  common,  or  not  re 
ferable  to  commonly  understood  natural 
causes,  were  usually  attributed  to  the  influ 
ence  of  "  an  evil  eye."  Finding  (possibly 
to  their  own  surprise)  that  their  magical 
pretensions  were  thus  gravely  indorsed  and 
upheld  by  medical  science,  "the  afflicted  chil 
dren,"  as  they  were  now  termed,  grew  more 
bold  and  proceeded  to  greater  lengths— oft- 


62  SALEM. 


en  disturbing  the  exercises  of  prayer -meet 
ings  and  the  services  of  the  sanctuary. 

On  one  Sabbath-day,  when  Mr.  Lawson 
was  to  preach,  before  he  had  time  to  com 
mence,  one  of  the  girls,  Abigail  Williams, 
the  niece  of  Mr.  Parris,  rudely  called  out  to 
him, "  Come,  stand  up,  and  name  your  text ;" 
and  when  he  had  given  it,  she  insolently 
replied,  "  That  is  a  long  text."  And  during 
the  sermon,  another  of  them  impudently  call 
ed  out, "  Come,  there  is  enough  of  that."  And 
again,  as  the  no  doubt  .disconcerted  speak 
er  referred  to  the  point  of  doctrine  he  had 
been  endeavoring  to  expound,  the  same  in 
solent  voice  called  out  to  him,  "I  did  not 
know  you  had  any  doctrine;  if  you  did,  I 
have  forgotten  it."  While  yet  another  be 
came  so  riotous  and  noisy  that  the  persons 
near  her  in  the  "  seatings,"  as  they  were 
termed,  had  to  hold  her  down  to  prevent 
the  services  being  wholly  broken  up. 

As  the  girls  were  regarded  with  mingled 
pity  ancl  consternation,  as  being  the  help 
less  victims  of  some  terrible  and  supernat 
ural  power,  they  were  not  punished  or  rep 
rimanded  ;  and  as  they  were  some  of  them 


THE   GATHERING   OF   THE  STORM.  63 

members  of  the  minister's  own  family,  and 
lie  did  not  seem  to  dare  to  check  or  blame 
them,  it  was  of  course  to  be  understood  that 
he  countenanced  and  believed  in  the  strange 
influence  under  which  they  professed  to  be 
suffering,  and  of  course  his  belief  governed 
that  of  many  of  his  congregation. 

But  all  were  not  SQ  compliant  of  faith. 
Several  members  of  the  Nurse  family  and 
others  openly  manifested  their  strong  disap 
probation  of  such  desecration  of  the  Lord's 
house  and  the  Lord's  day,  and  declared  their 
intention  of  absenting  themselves  from  at 
tendance  on  the  Sabbath  services  while  such 
a  state  of  things  was  allowed ;  and  it  was 
afterward  noticed  that  whosoever  did  this 
was  sure  to  be  marked  out  as  an  object  of 
revenge. 

In  the  mean  time  fasts  and  prayer-meet 
ings  were  resorted  to  in  private  families  for 
the  restoration  of  the  afflicted  ones  and  the 
subjugation  of  the  power  of  the  Evil  Spirit, 
who,  as  the  great  enemy  of  souls,  was  be- 
lieved  to  have  come  amon^  them.  All  this 

o 

heightened  and  helped  on  the  terrible  pop 
ular  excitement,  and  Mr.  Parris  convened  an 


64  SALEM. 


assemblage  of  all  the  neighboring  ministers 
to  meet  at  his  own  house,  and  devote  the 
day  to  solemn  supplication  to  the  Divine 
Power  to  rescue  them  from  the  power  of 
Satan. 

This  reverend  body  of  the  clergy  came, 
saw  the  children,  questioned  them,  and  wit 
nessed  their  unaccountable  behavior,  and, 
struck  dumb  with  astonishment  at  what 
they  heard  and  saw,  declared  their  belief 
that  it  must  be  and  was  the  power  of  the 
Evil  One. 

This  clerical  opinion  was  at  once  made 
known,  and,  as  it  coincided  with  the  medical 
opinion  of  Dr.  Grigg,  it  was  considered  con 
clusive.  No  doubt  could  withstand  such  an 
irresistible  array  of  talent,  and  horror  and 
dire  fanaticism  ruled  the  hour.  Society  was 
broken  up,  business  was  suspended,  men 
looked  at  each  other  in  unspoken  suspicion, 
and  excited  crowds  gathered  to  witness  the 
awful  workings  of  the  devil,  or  bear  the  ex 
aggerated  tidings  from  house  to  house. 

Up  to  this  time  it  is  possible — nay,  even 
more,  it  seems  probable — that  the  miserable 
authors  of  this  terrible  excitement  had -had 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM.  65 

no  clearly  defined  intention  or  even  percep 
tion  of  the  awful  sin  to  the  commission  of 
which  their  deeds  were  rapidly  leading 
them ;  they  had  begun  in  sport,  or  at  best 
without  consideration — in  a  spirit,  it  might 
be,  of  unholy  curiosity  and  merry  malice ; 
possibly  the  widespread  notoriety  they  had 
attracted  would,  at  the  first,  have  more  than 
satisfied  their  ambition.  It  is  doubtful  to 
what  extent  they  had  learned  to  believe  in 
their  own  pretensions;  but  they  had  gone 
too  far  to  retrace  their  steps,  even  if  they 
had  wished  to  do  so;  the  feverish  excite 
ment  around  them  carried  them  along  with 
it ;  they  had  "  sowed  the  whirlwind,  and 
they  must  reap  the  storm."  If  they  had 
any  misgivings,  any  doubts  of  their  own 
demoniac  power,  the  full,  free  faith  in  it  ex 
pressed  by  all  around  them  may  have  con 
firmed  their  own  wavering  belief,  called  out 
into  force  their  unholy  ambition,  and  over 
whelmed  every  better  and  more  human  feel 


ing. 


Up  to  this  time  they  had  accused  no  one 
as  the  author  of  their  sufferings;  but  it 
was  the  common  and  universally  received 


66  SALEM. 


doctrine  or  belief  that  the  devil  could  not 
act  upon  mortals,  or  in  mortal  affairs,  by  his 
own  immediate  and  direct  power,  but  only 
through  the  agency  of  human  beings  who 
were  in  confederacy  with  him ;  and  now  the 
question  naturally  arose  on  all  sides,  "  Who 
are  the  devil's  agents  in  this  work?  who  is 
it  thus  afflicting  these  children  ?  There  must 
be  some  one  among  us  who  is  thus  acting— 
and  who  is  it  ?" 

No  one  could  tell.  Men  looked  around 
them  with  hungry  eyes,  eager  to  trace  the 
devil's  agents ;  and  the  question  was  pressed 
home  upon  the  girls  by  every  one,  "  If  you 
are  thus  tormented — if  you  are  pricked  with 
pins,  and  pinched,  and  beaten,  and  choked, 
and  strangled — tell  us  who  it  is  that  does  it ; 
surely  you  must  know — tell  us,  then,  who  it 
is  that  has  thus  bewitched  you." 

Thus  importuned  on  every  hand,  they 
could  no  longer  withstand  the  pressure; 
their  power  was  at  stake,  and  their  sinful 
ambition  forbade  them  to  recant. 

Timidly  at  first  they  breathed  out  their 
terrible  accusations;  unconscious  it  may  be 
'then  of  the  death-dealing  nature  of  their 


THE    GATHERING   OF   THE  STORM.  67 

words,  they  named  three  persons  —  Sarah 
Good,  Sarah  Osburn,  and  the  slave  woman 
Tituba — as  the  persons  who  thus  afflicted 
them. 

The  children  were  inimitable  actors ;  they 
were  well  trained,  and  had  studied  their 
parts  carefully ;  their  acting  was  perfect,  but 
it  would  seem  there  must  have  been  a  mas 
ter-mind  acting  as  prompter  and  stage-man 
ager;  had  there  been  no  other  evidence  of 
this  concealed,  maturer  mind,  the  wonderful 
sagacity  with  which  they  selected  these  first 
victims  must  have  forced  the  conviction 
upon  us. 

Sarah  Good  was  an  object  of  prejudice  in 
the  village ;  her  husband  had  deserted  her ; 
she  was  a  poor,  forlorn,  destitute  creature  of 
ill-repute,  without  any  regular  home,  begging 
her  way  from  door  to  door ;  one  for  whom 
no  one  cared,  and  whom  no  one  would  regret. 
Sarah  Osburn  was  a  poor,  sick  creature; 
she,  too,  was  unhappy  in  her  domestic  rela 
tions  ;  care  and  grief  had  worn  her ;  she  was 
bedridden,  and  depressed  in  mind,  if  not  act 
ually  distracted ;  she,  too,  was  an  easy  vic 
tim.  The  third,  Tituba,  was  the  master- 


68  SALEM. 


stroke  of  the  policy — as  her  having  been  one 
of  their  own  number  would  disarm  suspicion, 
while  it  could  be  so  arranged  at  the  exami 
nation  as  to  confirm  their  power. 

Warrants  were  immediately  made  out  and 
issued  against  the  persons  thus  named,  for 
by  this  time  a  conviction  of  the  reality  of 
the  sufferings  of  the  girls,  and  that  they  were 
the  result  of  witchcraft,  was  nearly  universal 
among  the  people. 

Great  pains  were  taken  to  give  notoriety 
and  scenic  effect  to  these  first  examinations ; 
possibly  it  was  thought  that  by  taking  up 
the  matter  with  a  high  hand  they  should 
strike  terror  to  the  Evil  One  and  his  confed 
erates,  and  stamp  out  the  power  of  Satan  at 
once  and  forever. 

A  special  court  was  therefore  at  once  con 
vened  to  meet  and  hold  its  first  session  at 
Salem  village  on  the  first  of  March,  for  the 
trial  of  the  persons  thus  accused  of  this 
strange  and  monstrous  crime ;  and  in  the 
mean  time  the  unhappy  prisoners  were 
lodged  in  jail,  loaded  with  fetters  and  chains 
(it  being  the  commonly  received  opinion 
that  mere  mortal  hemp  had  not  sufficient 


THE    GATHERING   OF  THE  STORM. 


69 


power  to  bind  a  witch),  there  to  abide  "  in 
durance  vile"  the  sitting  of  the  court  which 
was  to  investigate  the  strange  charges 
brought  against  them,  and  to  decide  the 
question  of  their  guilt  or  innocence. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IDOL   WORSHIP. 

"As  the  Greegree  holds  his  Fetish  from  the  white  man's  gaze 
apart." 

•T  was  just  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  and 
oppressive  day,  when  the  heavily 
lowering  clouds,  the  deep,  low  mut 
tering  of  the  distant  thunder,  and 
the  sharp,  but  infrequent  flashes  of  lightning, 
told  of  the  gathering  tempest  which  was 
slowly  rolling  up  the  darkening  heavens, 
that  a  man,  issuing  from  the  back  door  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.'Parris's  house,  made  his  way 
silently  and  under  cover  of  the  deepening 
twilight  through  the  straggling  street  of 
Salem  village. 

This  man  was  "  Indian  John,"  as  he  was 
usually  called,  a  domestic  slave  in  the  serv 
ice  of  Mr.  Parris,  then  minister  of  the  little 
church  gathered  at  the  village. 

We  have  said  that  the  man  was  a  slave, 


IDOL   WORSHIP. 


but  he  was  not  an  African  slave;  he  was 
supposed  to  be  from  one  of  the  Spanish 
West  India  Islands,  or  the  adjacent  main 
lands  of  Central  or  South  America ;  he  and 
his  wife  Tituba  having  been  brought  to  the 
colony  by  Mr.  Parris,  who  had  been  engaged 
in  commercial  traffic  in  Barbadoes  before  he 
entered  the  ministry  and  became  pastor  of 
the  village  church. 

The  early  church  records  show  that  Mr. 
Parris  was  not  a  universally  popular  in 
cumbent  of  the  office  which  he  held ;  the 
mercenary  and  haggling  bargain  he  had 
driven  with  the  church  committee,  in  regard 
to  the  terms  of  his  salary,  represents  him  to 
us  as  having  more  of  the  spirit  of  the  sharp 
and  overreaching  trader  than  the  urbane 
gentleman  or  zealous  Christian ;  but  at  pres 
ent  we  have  little  to  do  with  the  character 
of  the  master — it  is  with  the  movements  of 
the  slave  that  we  are  now  concerned. 

We  have  already  stated  that  John  and 
Tituba  were  not  Africans,  and  the  difference 
which  marked  them  from  the  few  African 
slaves  then  in  the  colony  was  much  to  the 
disadvantage  of  the  Spaniards.  The  real 


72  SALEM. 


African  is  usually  gentle  in  temperament, 
and  even  in  his  lowest  type  of  development 
has  almost  always  an  honest  face;  there  is 
no  look  of  concealment  or  hidden  purpose  in 
the  large,  confiding,  open  eye — open  almost 
too  far  for  comeliness,  but  still  reassuring  in 
its  absence  of  all  latent  treachery.  The 
dusky  face  of  the  African  bears  usually  one 
of  two  several  expressions — either  a  patient 
look  of  infinite  and  hopeless  sadness,  or  a 
frank,  reckless  lightheartedness,  breaking  out 
into  thoughtless  jollity. 

The  faces  of  the  two  West  Indian  slaves 
were  full  as  dusky,  but  far  more  repellent ; 
traces  of  their  fierce  Spanish  blood  and 
temperament  lurked  in  their  long,  narrow, 
vicious,  half-shut  eyes,  which  flashed  their 
keen,  malignant  glances  from  beneath  the 
heavy  hanging  eyelids ;  the  swarthy  lower 
ing  brow  was  narrow  and  retreating,  and 
the  whole  lower  portion  of  the  face  was  sen 
suous  in  the  extreme,  the  coarse,  heavy,  pow 
erful  jaws  having  the  ferocity  of  the  beast 
of  prey,  united  to  the  low  cunning  of  the 
monkey. 

Having  passed   down   the   street  to  the 


IDOL   WORSHIP. 


73 


very  extremity  of  the  village,  ostentatiously 
speaking  to  several  persons  on  his  way,  as  if 
to  enable  him  to  prove  an  alibi  if  his  fut 
ure  course  should  be  traced,  John  suddenly 
turned  aside,  and,  doubling  on  his  track  like 
a  hunted  hare,  he  made  his  escape  by  tortu 
ous  windings  from  the  village,  and  proceeded 
at  a  rapid  sort  of  dog-trot  to  the  woods, 
where  the  unbroken  forest  stretched  its 
primeval  shade  nearest  to  the  infant  settle 
ment. 

Hurrying  along  beneath  the  starless,  lead 
en  skies,  with  the  unerring  instinct  of  a 
brute  nature,  he  made  his  way  over  hill 
and  dale,  over  bushes,  rocks,  briars,  and 
quaking  morass,  until,  having  entered  the 
intricacies  of  the  forest,  he  reached  a  lonely 
spot,  where  a  spur  of  the  low,  wooded  hills 
lay  between  him  and  the  little  settlement  he 
had  just  quitted. 

Here  he  paused  for  a  moment,  and  took  a 
rapid  but  keen  survey  of  the  place.  Appar 
ently  he  was  right — his  memory  or  his  in 
stinct  had  not  been  at  fault ;  he  measured 
the  space  with  earnest  gaze,  then  silently, 
in  the  dim  light,  he  walked  up  to  a  small 
D 


74 


SALEM. 


group  of  trees,  and  passed  his  hand  up  the 
smooth  trunks,  one  by  one,  as  high  as  his 
hand  could  reach — one — two — three  he  has 
felt,  and  passed  them  by ;  at  the  fourth  he 
halted — ah  !  he  has  found  it — his  hand  had 
encountered  the  "  blaze,"  or  notch,  cut  in 
the  bark  of  the  tree ;  this  was  the  place  he 
sought. 

Hastily  scraping  away  the  fallen  leaves 
and  dead  branches  of  a  former  year  from  the 
roots  of  the  tree,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
small  spaddle,  or  trowel,  and  commenced  to 
dig  an  oblong  cavity  about  the  shape  and 
size  of  an  infant's  grave.  Evidently  the 
ground  had  been  dug  before,  for  it  offered 
little  resistance  to  his  efforts ;  but  still  the 
labor  was  sufficiently  exhaustive,  ^combined 
with  the  close,  sultry  breathlessness  of  the 
night,  to  bring  large  drops  of  perspiration 
from  his  dusky  brow.  But  the  heavy  beads 
of  moisture  dropped  unheeded  to  the  ground ; 
he  never  for  them  remitted  his  absorbing 
labor. 

A  slight  rustle  of  the  brushwood,  and 
beneath  the  black  shadow  of  the  trees  a 
stealthy  step  is  furtively  approaching;  but 


IDOL    WORSHIP. 


it  does  not  startle  him  —  lie  was  expecting  it. 
It  was  Tituba,  his  wife,  who  like  himself 
had  been  baffling  observation  to  join  him  at 
the  rendezvous.  They  looked  at  each  other, 
but  no  word  passed  between  them.  On  her 
dark  face  was  expressed  inquiry  ;  on  his,  as 
he  looked  down  at  his  work,  she  read  the 
answer. 

Then  Tituba  began  busily  gathering  to 
gether  small  dry  twigs  of  wood,  bits  of  bark, 
and  fir  cones,  and  built  them  up,  placing 
them  in  order  as  for  a  small  fire,  rejecting 
all  larger  wood  as  unsuitable  for  her  pur 
pose;  and  when  this  was  done,  she  came  to 
her  husband's  side,  squatting  down,  like  a 
hideous  toad,  by  the  brink  of  the  hole  which 
he  was  digging  —  sitting  upon  her  haunches, 
with  her  knees  drawn  up,  her  elbows  rest 
ing  upon  them,  and  her  spread  hands  sup 
porting  her  heavy  jaws  on  either  side.  So 
she  sat,  motionless  but  intent,  her  snaky  eyes 
never  moving  from  the  spot,  until  John,  hav 
ing  reached  the  object  of  his  search,  lifted 
out  something  wrapped  up  in  coarse  for 
eign  mats. 

Removing  the  coverings,  he  brought  to 


76 


SALEM. 


view  a  hideous  wooden  figure — an  idol,  prob 
ably — bearing  a  mocking  and  frightful  re 
semblance  to  a  human  being.  This  figure 
was  about  two  feet  high,  of  ghastly  ugliness, 
and  coarsely  bedaubed  with  red  and  blue 
paint. 

Freeing  the  figure  from  its  mats,  John 
proceeded  to  set  it  up  before  the  face  of  the 
rock,  and  behind  the  little  bonfire  w^hich 
Tituba  had  heaped  up ;  and  then,  rubbing 
some  bits  of  dry  wood  rapidly  together,  he 
procured  a  fire,  and  lighted  a  blaze.  Join 
ing  their  hands  together  to  form  a  ring,  the 
two  next  danced  silently  round  the  slowly 
igniting  fire,  with  mad  leaps  and  strange, 
savage  contortions  of  limb  and  features,  un 
til  the  whole  mass  was  in  a  blaze,  and  the 
red  flames  threatened  to  consume  them.  Then 
they  unclasped  their  hands,  and  Tituba  drew 
forth  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  some  gums, 
herbs,  and  spices  of  pungent,  acrid  odor, 
and  flung  them  onto  the  fire,  and,  making  a 
rude  sort  of  besom  of  broken  green  branch 
es,  she  fanned  the  rising  smoke  and  curling 
flames  into  the  grinning  face  of  the  idol ; 
while  John  took  from  his  bosom  a  small 


IDOL   WORSHIP. 


77 


new-born  pup,  and,  coolly  severing  the  head 
of  the  blind  and  unresisting  little  victim, 
held  the  body  above  the  flames,  and  let  the 
blood  drip  over  the  hissing  embers.  Next 
the  woman  (forgive  me,  oh !  ye  of  the  softer 
sex)  drew  from  the  folds  of  her  dress  some 
rough  wooden  puppets,  or  effigies,  bearing  as 
much  resemblance  to  human  beings  as  do  our 
modern  clothes-pins ;  one  by  one  she  held 
them  up  silently  before  her  husband's  face, 
who  regarded  them  gravely,  and  nodded  to 
each  one  in  succession,  as  if  he  had  recognized 
or  named  it,  andr  as  he  did  so,  she  thrust 
them  one  by  one  into  the  circling  flames. 

By  this  time  it  was  nearly  dark ;  a  low, 
sobbing  wind  began  to  sweep  among  the 
branches,  and  the  first  great  heavy  drops  of 
the  approaching  thunder-shower  fell  at  dis 
tant  intervals. 

Then  they  both  simultaneously  threw  them 
selves  upon  their  knees,  resting  their  fore 
heads  upon  the  ground,  while  their  hands 
were  clasped,  and  extended  upon  the  earth 
far  beyond  their  heads — much  as  in  pictures 
of  the  Syrian  deserts  we  see  pilgrims  pros 
trating  themselves  before  the  terrible  siroc- 


SALEM. 


co  ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  they  broke 
silence  by  giving  utterance  to  a  wild,  low  in 
cantation. 

It  \vas  a  rude  sort  of  rhythmical  recita 
tive,  of  alternate  parts — first  one  and  then 
the  .other,  rising  upon  their  knees  and  sit 
ting  back  upon  their  heels,  with  brawny 
arms  held  out  to  the  frowning  heavens,  would 
utter  their  fiendish  jargon  in  some  strange 
pagan  tongue,  to  which  the  deep  bass  of  the 
prolonged  and  rolling  thunder  lent  a  fearful 
accompaniment ;  and  still,  at  the  close  of 
every  thunder-peal,  the  demon-like  perform 
ers  answered  it  with  fierce  peals  of  mocking, 
idiot  laughter. 

But  at  length  the  unhallowed  fiame  has 
burned  itself  out,  and  the  devil  worship  is 
ended.  John  Indian  enveloped  the  image  in 
its  mats,  and  laid  it  back  into  its  grave ; 
and,  while  he  covered  it  up  again  with  earth, 
Tituba  stamped  out  the  remaining  embers 
and  scattered  them.  With  infinite  care,  the 
two  performers  in  these  awful  rites  gathered 
up  twigs  and  branches  and  scattered  them 
about,  so  as  to  conceal  all  traces  of  their 
presence,  and  then  together  they  began  their 
homeward  way. 


IDOL   WORSHIP.  79 


By  this  time  the  storm  was  down  upon 
them  in  all  its  awful  fury :  great  trees  creak 
ed  and  groaned  beneath  the  biting  blasts  of 
the  wind  ;  huge  branches,  torn  off,  obstruct 
ed  their  way ;  hail  and  rain  smote  their  un 
covered  heads  and  wet  their  shivering  bod 
ies  to  the  skin ;  the  rattling  thunder  leaped 
from  hill  to  hill,  and  sheets  of  blue,  fiery  light 
ning  blazed  around  them ;  but  they  never 
wavered,  never  swerved  from  their  direct  way. 

Plunging  on  in  the  same  blind  instinct 
which  enables  the  dull  ox  to  find  his  own 
er's  crib,  or  the  ravenous  beast  of  prey  to 
reach  its  lair,  they  made  their  unseen  way 
to  the  village ;  and  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Parris  returned  from  the  pray 
er-meeting  which  he  had  convened  for  the 
benefit  of  "  the  afflicted  children,"  John  was 
ready  at  his  post  to  take  his  master's  horse, 
and  Tituba  opened  the  door  for  him  as  usual. 

Whether  the  demon  rites  of  the  avowed 
Pagan  or  the  prayers  of  the  professing  Chris 
tian  were  more  acceptable  to  the  dread 
powers  to  which  they  were  severally  ad 
dressed  is  a  question  which  Time  may  in 
deed  ask,  but  which  Eternity  alone  can  an 
swer. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

"A  place  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I  claim ; 

To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 
The  sound  of  my  name. 

"As  the  young  bride  remembers  her  mother, 

Whom  she  loves,  though  she  never  may  see; 
As  the  sister  remembers  her  brother — 
So,  dear  one !  remember  thou  me." 

fine  spring  day,  shortly  after 
Alice's  visit  to  Nurse's  Farm,  she 
had  wandered  in  the  early  after 
noon  down  to  the  sea-shore,  and 
stood  awhile  idly  looking  out  over  the 
quiet  water.  Alice,  who  still  retained  all 
the  impulsiveness  of  her  childish  days,  and 
was  still,  as  then,  influenced  by  every  atmos 
pheric  change,  and  sensitively  affected  by 
every  modification  of  the  many  phases  of 
Nature  (with  whom  she  lived  in  terms  of 
the  closest  intimacy),  grew  buoyant  with 
delight  at  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  day,  and 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  81 

drew  in  with  every  breath  of  the  pure,  sweet 
air  a  positive  enjoyment  from  the  very  sense 
of  life,  youth,  and  health. 

There  was  not  breeze  enough  to  ruffle  the 
surface  of  the  sea ;  and  the  calm  water  lay, 
softly  pulsating  at  her  feet,  so  still  and  clear 
that  the  intense  lapis-lazuli  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  its  soft  garniture  of  fleecy  white  clouds, 
was  repeated  upon  its  unbroken  surface  as 
clearly  as  in  a  mirror. 

As  Alice  stood  and  gazed,  her  spirits  ris 
ing  within  her  at  the  profuse  beauty  show 
ered  all  around  her,  she  experienced  that 
almost  universal  desire  for  rapid  motion 
which  is  oftenest  expressed  in  the  common 
words  "  wanted  to  fly ;"  but  as  that  kind  of 
locomotion  was  then,  as  now,  out  of  the 
question,  her  next  thought  was  naturally  of 
her  little  boat,  which  was  moored  close  by. 

In  a  moment,  without  pause  or  reflection, 
she  had  embarked  and  rowed  gayly  from 
the  shore. 

Those  who  love  the  water  are  accustomed 

to  speak  in  ardent  terms  of  the  thrilling  en- 

jqyment  they  find  in  being  upon  it;-  it  may 

be  in  the  exultant  sense  of  superiority  that 

D2 


82  SALEM. 


they  are  thus  enabled  to  ride  and  rule 
triumphant  over  an  element  so  limitless, 
and  of  a  power  so  immeasurably  vast;  for 
the  love  of  dominion  is  a  deep-seated  prin 
ciple  in  human  nature.  But,  whatever  the 
cause,  Alice  enjoyed  her  trip  exceedingly ; 
her  spirits  rose  with  the  accustomed  exer 
cise,  from  which  she  had  been  debarred  all 
the  winter ;  and  as  she  plied  her  oars  vig 
orously  and  skillfully,  bursts  of  glad  girlish 
laughter,  and  snatches  of  sweet  old  songs 
—ballads  learned  far  away  in  the  Scottish 
home  of  "her  infancy— floated  after  her. 

She  had  meant  but  to  take  a  short  pull, 
just  to  practice  her  arms ;  but  the  beauty  of 
the  day  tempted  her  on  farther  and  farther, 
and  she  scarcely  paused  until  she  had 
reached  the  shore  of  Marblehead.  She  did 
not  land  there,  but  turning  toward  home, 
rowed  a  little  way,  and  then,  resigning 
her  oars,  she  reclined  lazily  in  the  boat,  suf 
fering  it  to  drift  slowly  homeward  on  the 
incoming  tide;  while  she  lay  building  cas 
tles  in  the  air,  such  as  youth  and  idleness 
are  wont  to  make  pleasure-houses  of.  * 

But  at  last  a  gleam  of  western  brightness 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  83 

recalled  her  to  the  fact  that  the  day  was 
spending ;  and  she  suddenly  remembered 
that  her  grandmother  might  be  uneasy  at 
her  prolonged  and  unexplained  absence,  and, 
resuming  her  oars,  she  rowed  steadily  and 
rapidly  back  to  shore. 

As  Alice  rounded  the  little  headland  of 
Salem  Neck,  she  noticed  a  small  canoe,  rowed 
by  two  persons,  which  was  hovering  afar 
off  on  the  outer  verge  of  the  harbor,  and 
apparently  making  for  the  same  point  as 
herself. 

The  little  skiff  was  yet  too  far  distant  for 
even  Alice's  bright  eyes  to  discern  who  were 
its  occupants;  nor  did  she  give  the  matter 
more  than  a  passing  thought,  for  boats  and 
canoes  were  then  the  more  common  mode  of 
transportation  —  almost  every  householder 
owned  one,  and  her  own  little  craft  had  al 
ready  been  hailed  by  half  a  dozen  of  her 
towns-people  in  the  course  of  her  afternoon's 
trip.  So,  wholly  occupied  with  her  own 
busy  thoughts  and  pleasant  fancies,  she 
rowed  on,  making  her  way  straight  to  the 
little  landing-place,  wholly  unobservant  that 
the  other  boat,  propelled  by  its  two  rowers, 


84  SALEM. 


had  gained  rapidly  upon  her,  and  was  just 
in  her  wake. 

Springing  lightly  on  shore,  Alice  proceed 
ed  to  fasten  her  little  bark  at  its  usual  moor- 
ing-place,  heedless  of  the  approach  of  the 
stranger,  until,  as  she  turned  round,  she 
suddenly  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
stalwart  Indian  warrior,  decked  out  in  all 
the  imposing  pomp  of  his  feathers,  arms, 
and  war-paint. 

For  one  moment  Alice  was  startled,  and 
doubtless  most  modern  young  ladies  would 
have  shrieked  or  fainted  at  such  an  appalling 
encounter — but  Alice  did  neither.  She  was 
aware  of  no  enmities,  and  consequently  felt 
no  fear,  and  she  had  grown  up  in  friendly 
acquaintance  with  many  of  the  better  and 
most  civilized  of  their  Indian  neighbors ;  so, 
although  the  color  did  indeed  deepen  on  her 
transparent  cheek,  it  was  less  from  fear  than 
surprise  and  maiden  modesty  at  finding  her 
self  thus  suddenly  confronted  by  a  young 
stranger  of  the  other  sex  ;  but,  before  she 
had  time  to  analyze  her  own  feelings,  the 
young  warrior  had  spoken. 

"Are    the    memories    of  the    pale    faces 


f       THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP,  85 

indeed  so  short,"  he  said,  in  grave,  low 
tones,  which,  though  sad,  awakened  in  Alice 
dim,  pleasant  memories  of  the  past,  "that 
the  sister  does  not  remember  the  brother? 
that  the  Water-lily  has  forgotten  the  Fir- 
tree?" 

"  Oh  !  Pashemet,  Pashemet !  my  brother ! 
welcome,  welcome !"  cried  Alice,  impulsive 
ly.  "  Forget  ?  Oh,  no  !  never,  never  !"  and 
springing  forward  with  extended  hands,  she 
placed  them  both  in  the  hands  of  the  young 
warrior,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with 
the  sweet,  frank,  confiding  smile  of  her  child 
hood.  "  I  am  so  glad  !  Oh,  my  brother !  I 
have  looked  for  you  so  long — I  have  so 
longed  to  see  you." 

"  That  is  well— that  is  good  !"  said  the 
young  warrior,  gravely,  though  a  flush  of 
gratified  feeling  rose  up  even  to  his  dark 
brow.  "  The  words  of  the  young  pale  face 
are  good ;  I,  too,  have  wished*  to  look  upon 
my  sweet  Water-lily  again.  Listen  to  me, 
my  sister — the  people  of  my  tribe  hold  their 
council-fire  not  far  from  this,  and  I  was  bid 
den  to  it.  I  came — but  I  have  come  more 
than  twenty  miles  out  of  my  way  to  look 


86  SALEM. 


once  more  upon  the  face  of  my  little  sister; 
and  see — I  have  brought  something  to  show 
her." 

Turning,  even  while  he  spoke,  toward  the 
little  boat,  which  was  rocking  on  the  water's 
brim,  Pashemet  uttered  a  low,  sweet  cry,  re 
sembling  the  note  of  the  wood-pigeon,  and 
in  quick  obedience  to  his  summons,  from 
among  the  gaudy  blankets  and  glossy  furs, 
which  were  heaped  in  gay  confusion  in  one 
end  of  the  boat,  arose  a  dusky  but  beautiful 
young  Indian  woman.  Tall,  straight,  and 
supple  as  a  young  forest  tree,  she  leaped 
lightly  on  shore,  and  stepping  with  the  free 
grace  of  a  gazelle  to  his  side,  she  glided  with 
quiet  motion  just  before  him,  resting  her 
slight  form  against  his  shoulder,  and,  fold 
ing  her  arms,  stood  in  an  attitude  of  shy  yet 
proud  repose ;  her  great,  eloquent  black 
eyes,  bright  as  diamonds,  stealing  quick  fur 
tive  glances  of  curiosity  and  admiration 
from  beneath  their  drooping,  long-lashed 
lids  at  the  fair  young  daughter  of  the  pale 
faces. 

"  Behold,  my  sister !"  Pashemet  said,  in  a 
voice  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  as  he  took 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  87 

the  little  dusky  hand  of  his  bride  in  his, 
and  held  it  out  to  Alice.  "This  is  the 
Silver  Fawn;  she  dwells  in  your  brother's 

wigwam ;  she  makes  his  nets ;  she  trims  his 

~          >  ' 

arrows ;  she  weaves  his  wampum ;  she  is  his 
sunshine.  Will  not  my  sister  give  her  a 
welcome  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  indeed !"  said  Alice,  cordially. 
"  She  is  my  brother's  wife — she  is  my  sister, 
then.  I  will  love  her;"  and,  taking  the  of 
fered  hand  kindly  in  hers,  she  bent  forward, 
and  pressed  a  warm,  sisterly  kiss  upon  the 
smooth,  round  cheek  of  the  dark  but  beau 
tiful  stranger. 

"  Good !"  said  the  young  husband,  lacon 
ically.  "  The  words  of  my  sister  are  pleas 
ant.  See !" — and  as  he  spo'ke  he  took  their 
united  hands  in  both  of  his  own — "  See,  my 
sister  !  we  are  three,  and  yet  we  are  but  one." 

Then,  as  the  two  graceful  heads  bent  be 
fore  him,  Pashemet  took  a  small  strand  of 
Alice's  golden  curls,  and  a  strand  of  his 
wife's  long,  raven-black  locks,  and  with 
quick,  dexterous  fingers  braided  them  to 
gether,  and  severing  the  united  braid  with 
his  hunting-knife,  he  held  it  up  to  Alice, 


88  SALEM. 


saying,  "Behold,  my  token  !"  and  hid  it  in 
the  folds  of  his  blanket.  "  Yet  listen  again, 
my  sister,"  he  said.  "The  Great  Spirit 
has  smiled  in  love  upon  my  little  Water-lily, 
and  it  has  blossomed  very  fair ;  but  my  sister 
has  neither  father  nor  brother  to  take  care  of 
her;  but  see,  Pashemet  is  a  boy  no  longer- 
he  is  a  man ;"  he  drew  himself  up  proudly 
as  he  spoke.  "My  father  is  dead.  Pashe 
met  is  a  warrior  and  a  Sagamore  now;  his 
arm  is  strong;  his  arrows  are  swift;  his 
young  men  are  braves — they  do  his  bid 
ding.  Take  this,  then,"  and  he  slipped  a 
small  chain  of  wampum  from  the  wrist  of 
the  Silver  Fawn,  and  held  it  out  to  Alice. 
"  If  my  sister  should  ever  need  the  aid  of 
Pashemet,  let  her  send  him  this  by  a  sure 
hand — by  the  hand  of  a  Naumkeag — and 
the  heart  and  the  arm  of  her  brother  shall 
not  fail  her.  And  now,  farewell !" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  not  farewell.  Pashemet,  do 
not  go  yet — do  not  leave  me  yet,  my  broth 
er.  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you.  Come 
up  to  the  house  with  me — do  not  go  yet. 
Stay,  oh,  stay !" 

"  Farewell !"    repeated   the   Indian,  in   a 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


89 


sweet  but  inflexible  tone.  "  I  can  not  stay. 
The  day  is  fading  fast ;  soon  night  will  be 
upon  the  waters.  We  have  far  to  row,  and 
the  Silver  Fawn  is  with  me.  Farewell !" 
and,  catching  his  young  bride  in  his  strong 
arms,  he  sprang  into  the  little  canoe  with 
out  apparent  effort,  and  with  one  vigorous 
push  sent  it  whirling  from  the  shore;  and 
while  Alice  stood,  holding  the  little  wampum 
chain  in  her  hands,  feeling  that  that  was 
the  only  proof  that  the  whole  visit  was  not 
a  day-dream,  the  little  boat  had  passed 
round  the  headland,  and  was  already  lost  to 
her  sight. 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  Alice  came  into 
her  grandmother's  presence,  bright  and 
glowing,  and  flushed  with  health,  exercise, 
and  excitement. 

"Why,  Alice!  my  bairn,"  said  the  grand 
mother,  glancing  up  with  ill-concealed  admi 
ration  at  the  sweet,  blooming  young  face 
that  bent  caressingly  over  her.  "Ye  hae 
been  lang  awa',  my  bonnie  lassie.  I  mis 
trust  ye  are  gettin'  to  be  jist  a  ne'er-do-weel 
gad-about.  I  hae  missed  ye  sadly ;  an' 
where  hae  ye  been  the  noo  ?" 


SALEM. 


"  Guess,  grannie,  guess.  I  will  give  you 
three  chances.  See  if  you  can  guess." 

"  Na',  na',  Allie,  my  lass,  I  kin  na'  guess  ; 
I  am  na'  guid  at  the  guessin'.  Sure  ye  wad 
na7  hae  been  to  Nurse's  Farm  agin  sa  sune— 
wad  ye  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  grandmother!  Of  course  I 
would  not  go  so  soon ;  but  I  have  been 
quite  as  far,  I  think.  Ah !  you  will  never 
guess;  I  shall  have  to  tell  you.  I  have 
been  out  on  the  water." 

"  My  darlin',  an'  is  that  sae  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  have.  I  went  down  to 
the  shore  just  for  a  walk,  and  the  water 
looked  so  calm  and  blue,  and  our  boat  was 
so  nice  (you  know  Winny  cleaned  it  out  for 
me  last  week),  that  I  felt  as  if  I  must  have 
a  little  row.  You  know  I  have  not  been 
out  all  winter  in  her,  and  I  meant  only  to 
take  a  little  pull,  just  to  limber  my  arms  a 
little;  but  the  boat  was  so  trim  and  nice, 
the  day  was  so  fine  and  still,  and  the  water 
was  so  calm,  I  went  on  and  rowed  across  to 
Marbleheacl." 

"To  Marblehead?  My  certies,  that  wa' 
a  lang  pull  for  the  first  ane,  I'm  thinkin'. 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


Are  ye  na'  tired,  an'  did  ye  gae  ashore  at 
Marblehead  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  I  only  wanted  the  exercise, 
and  I  got  it.  My  arms  ache — I  arn  so  out 
of  practice  of  late.  It  is  full  time  I  began 
again ;"  and  as  she  spoke  Alice  pushed  up 
her  loose  sleeves,  and  laughingly  rubbed  her 
firm,  round,  white  arms. 

"  But,  grandmother,  dear,  I  have  a  great 
adventure  to  tell  you.  I  have  seen  Pashe- 
met !  only  think  !" 

"  Seen  Pashemet  ?  Lord  save  us  !  Is  the 
lassie  wad  or  fou  ?  An7  where  wad  ye  hae 
seen  him  ?" 

Then  Alice  told  her  little  story  of  the 
visit,  adding,  laughingly,  "And,  oh,  grand 
mother,  grandmother!  only  think  —  he  is 
married  !  Pashemet  is  married." 

"  Weel,  an'  why  should  na'  he  be  ?"  And 
the  matron  glanced  anxiously  in  her  dar 
ling's  face,  as  if  she  half  feared  to  read  a 
disappointment  there.  "  He  wa'  a  braw 
chiel  an'  a  bonnie  laddie;  an'  I'm  gey  glad 
to  hear't,  giv  he  ha'  gotten  a  guid,  sinsible 
lassie  for  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  beauty !"  said  Alice,  warm- 


SALEM. 


ly;  "and  he  seemed  so  fond  of  her;  and 
was  it  not  kind  in  him  to  bring  her  here  for 
me  to  see  her  ?  Oh  !  my  dear  old  friend  ; 
Pashemet,  my  brother.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  he 
has  got  somebody  to  love  him  !"  And  the 
clear,  smiling,  truthful  blue  eyes,  looking 
full  into  her  own,  satisfied  the  grandmother 
that  her  unowned  fear  was  misplaced. 

"Allie,"  she  said,  laughing,  "an'  do  ye 
mind  the  day  an'  ye  wa'  but  an  idle  wean, 
an'  he  fished  ye  up  out  o'  the  water,  an' 
brought  ye  hame  to  me  on  his  bock  ?" 

"  Do  I  remember  it  ?  To  be  sure  I  do.  I 
should  be  ungrateful  indeed  if  I  could  ever 
forget  it.  It  was  all  my  own  carelessness 
too.  I  remember  it  as  well  as  if  it  were  but 
yesterday  it  happened.  I  reached  too  far 
over  the  boat  to  get  a  water-lily  I  wanted ; 
and  I  not  only  went  over  myself,  but  I  up 
set  the  boat.  I  shall  never  forget  how  I 
went  down,  down,  down — it  seemed  as  if  I 
should  never  reach  the  bottom ;  and  then  I 
saw  Pashemet  coming  down  after  me,  like  a 
great  fish-hawk ;  and  he  picked  me  up,  and 
swam  ashore  with  me.  I  was  thoroughly 
frightened  for  once  in  my  life ;  and  then  the 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  93 

question  was  how  I  should  get  home,  for 
my  clothes  were  so  wet  I  could  not  move  in 
them ;  and  at  last  the  great,  strong,  kind 
fellow  set  me  on  his  shoulder,  and  marched 
home  with  me,  as  if  I  had  been  only  a  wild 
turkey.  Oh  !  I'll  never  forget  that." 

"  An'  I'll  never  forgit  the  droll  figure  ye 
made,  the  twa  o'  ye,  all  drouket  an'  drip- 
pin',  an'  the  varry  life  half  scart  out  of  ye  ! 
An'  he  scart  half  to  death  aboot  ye." 

"  Well !  he  saved  my  life  —  dear,  kind, 
brave  old  Pashemet !  I'll  never  forget  it 
while  that  life  remains." 

"  An'  noo,  Alice,  hear  to  me  :  I  hae  had  a 
visitor  too,  a'  my  lane,"  said  Mistress  Camp 
bell. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Have  you,  indeed  ? 
And  who  was  it  ? — John  English's  wife  ? 

"  Na',  na'  !  not  a  bit  o'  it ;  mine  wa'  a 
young  mon,  too.  Ye  kinna  hae  them  a'  tq 
yersel' — it  wa'  jist  Thomas  Preston  fra'  the 
Farm.  He  came  to  bring  the  pot  o'  barber 
ries  that  Goody  Nurse  promised  ye  she'd 
send  ;  an'  a  big  pot  it  is.  She's  a  free  han' 
at  the  givin',  I'm  thinkin'.  An'  he  brought 
ye  some  flowers  that  his  wife  sint  ye — them 


94  SALEM. 


yellow  daffy- do wn-dillies  ye  wa'  speakin' 
aboot.  I  jist  pu'  them  in  a  beaker  of  water 
out  yander,  till  ye  could  settle  them ;  I  am 
nae  hand  at  it,  ye  ken." 

"  How  kind  they  are.  I  never  saw  such 
people ;  they  remember  every  thing,  and 
seem  to  love  to  give." 

"  I'd  think  sae  indeed  !  an'  there's  mair 
yet.  Goody  Nurse  sint  her  luve  to  ye,  an' 
bid  him  say  ye  wa'  pleased  wi'  her  fowl ; 
an'  she'd  a  rooster  an'  three  hins  for  ye,  if 
ye  could  manage  to  fix  a  place  to  keep  them 
in  ;  an'  I  said  I  wa'  thinkin'  ye  could." 

"  My  goodness  !  find  a  place  for  them  ?  I 
guess  I  will,  if  they  have  to  roost  in  my  own 
chamber.  I  guess  Winny  and  I  can  fix  up 
a  coop  for  them  somewhere — and  won't  it 
be  splendid  ?  Oh  !  such  dear  little,  fluffy, 
yellow  chicks  as  she  had.  Why,  there's  no 
end  to  the  pleasure  I'll  have  in  them.  Dear, 
kind,  generous  old  Goody  !  Is  she  not  just 
as  good  and  kind  as  she  can  be  ?" 

"  Whist !  Alice,  whist !  or  I'll  be  gettin' 
half  jealous  o'  her  mysel'." 

"You  have  no  need  to  be,"  said  the  girl, 
fondly  kissing  her.  "  But  I  do  think  she  is 
too  kind  to  me." 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


95 


"  She  is  unco'  ginerous,  surely ;  an7  sae  I 
telled  Goodman  Preston  mysel'.  '  She  ha'  a 
free  han'  at  the  givin7,7  quo'  I.  '  'Deed  ha' 
she,7  says  he.  i  I  dinna  think,'  he  says,  '  the 
Lord  ever  made  a  better  or  kinder  woman 
than  Mother  Nurse.  An'  as  to  givin',  he 
says, '  Why,  we  say  at  hame  she'd  give  awa7 
the  varry  ears  fra7  her  head,  gin  they  wad 
kirn  off,  an7  any  bodie  wanted  them.' ' 

"  I  almost  think  she  would,"  said  Alice, 
laughing.  "  But  is  he  not  pleasant  ?  I  am 
sorry  I  missed  him." 

"Varry  pleasant — an  unco' nice  young  mon. 
I  wanted  him  to  bide  here  till  ye  kim  hame, 
but  he  said  he  could  na'.  He  had  business 
in  the  toon,  he  said,  an7  he  must  awa7.  But 
he  sat  an  hour  or  so,  I  think,  an7  he  telled 
me  mair  about  the  terrible  doin7s  at  the  vil 
lage.  Hey,  sirs  !  but  it7s  jist  awfu7 !" 

"  What  did  he  tell  you  about  it,  grand 
mother  ?  Do  tell  me  what  he  said.77 

"  Oh  !  Lord  save  us  !  he  says  it's  dread- 
fa'.  He  ha'  been  to  see  the  childer,  an'  he 
says  that  he  believes  in  them,  though  most 
of  the  family  o'er  at  the  Farm  doubt  them. 
But  he  says  they  hae  na7  been  to  see  them, 


96 


SALEM. 


an'  they  kinna  be  judge.  He  says  they 
wi'  fa'  to  the  floor,  as  if  they  were  deed, 
jist ;  an'  then  they  wi'  hae  sich  awfu'  fits. 
They  wi'  foam  an'  bleed  at  the  mou',  and 
they  wi'  be  a'  knotted  up,  as  it  were ;  an' 
whiles  their  han's  are  clenched  sae  tight,  nae 
ane  kin  open  them ;  an'  other  whiles  they 
are  open,  an'  stretched  out  sae  stiff  nabodie 
kin  bend  them  ;  an'  he  says  it's  jist  grue- 
som'  an'  awfu'  to  hear  how  they'll  groan  an' 
scriech.  An'  sometime  they'll  be  struck  wi1 
blindness  a'  o'  a  sudden,  an'  grope  aboot, 
an'  their  eyes  wide  open  too.  An'  again 
they'll  cry  out  they  are  tormentit ;  that  some 
ane  is  stabbin'  them  wi'  pins,  or  bitin',  or 
pinchin',  or  chockin'  them ;  an'  they'll  gasp 
for  breath,  maybe,  an'  turn  black  in  the  face, 
an'  ye'd  say  they  wa'  deeing  jist.  Oh  ! 
Lord's  sake  !  it  wa'  jist  dreadfu'  to  hear  him 
tellin'  it,  let  alone  seein'  it.  An'  the  folks 
say  they  maun  be  bewitched." 

"  And  do  you  believe  they  are,  grannie  ?" 
"  Gude  sake  !  an'  how  should  I  ken  ?     I 
hae  na'  seen  them,  na  mair  than  yersel'." 

"  But,  if  they  are  bewitched,  grannie,  who 
do  tliey  think  it  is  that  bewitches  them  ?" 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  97 

"  Ah !  tha'  is  what  every  bodie  is  spierin' 
at  them,  to  tell  who  it  is." 

"  But  surely  they  must  know  ;  if  any  one 
pinches  them,  or  sticks  pins  into  thep,  they 
must  know  who  does  it." 

"  True  for  ye,  Alice  !  an'  I  put  it  to  him 
mysel'  that  way;  an'  he  said  there  were  twa 
persons  who  were  suspectit ;  twa  who  they 
hae  named — an'  who  do  ye  think  is  ane  o' 
them  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  can  not  guess.  Nobody  we 
know,  of  course." 

"  'Deed  thin,  an'  it  is  too.  Alice,  do  you 
mind  Sarah  Good  2" 

"  Sarah  Good  ?  No,  I  think  not.  I  do 
not  remember  ever  to  have  heard  of  her." 

"  Yes,  ye  do  ;  certies  !  Dinna  ye  mind 
the  puir  creature  tha'  kim  beggin'  wi'  her 
child,  an'  ye  gave  her  yer  fustian  gown  an' 
petticoat,  an'  I  gave  her  my  old  shawl  an' 
my  black  cardinal.  Ye  mind  her,  Alice, 
surely  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  !      I  remember  the  woman 

and  the  child ;  but  I  had  forgotten  the  name. 

But,  grandmother,  she  can  not  be  a  witch, 

I'm  sure ;  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it — not 

E 


98 


SALEM. 


a  single  word.  A  poor,  sick,  miserable  creat- 
ure — a  <  ne'er-do-weel/  as  you  may  call  her,  I 
dare  say  she  might  be  — a  poor,  half-crazy, 
homeless  beggar ;  but  I  guess  she  was  noth 
ing  worse.  And  what  power  can  that  poor 
creature  have?  If  she  had  any,  I  think  she 
would  have  used  it  to  clothe  herself  and  that 
poor,  half-starved  child.  Should  not  you  ?" 

« I  dinna  ken.     He  said  the  gals  charged 
it  upon  her,  ony  way." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.      But  who  was  the 
other  ?     You  said  there  were  two." 

"  I  guess  ye  dinna  ken  o'  the  ither.     It  is 

ane  Sarah  Osburn.     I  hae  heard  tell  o'  her : 

she  wa'  the  Widow  Prince,  a  woman  o'  some 

substance  here  once,  an'  she  married  her  ain 

farmer  mon.    He  wa'  a  Redemptions,  I  think 

they  ca'  them.     He  an'  her  sons  had  trouble 

atween  them,  an'   he  left  her,  an'    she  ha' 

been  half  dementit   ever   sin'.      I  thought 

sure  an'  certain  she  wa'  deed  long  ago ;  I 

dinna  hear  o'  her  this  mony  a  day ;  an'  noo 

it  turns  up  she  is  charged  wi'  bein'  a  witch. 

The  gals  cry  out  on  her,  an'  say  she  is  the 

ane  that  torments  them.     I  dinna  see  how 

it  can  be*—  a  puir,  feckless  old  bodie ;  what 

power  ha'  she  ?" 


7WE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


"  But  did  Goodman  Preston  believe  it  ?" 

"  Weel  !  he  did  na'  jist  say  ;  he  thinks  the 
sufferings  of  the  gals  is  real  ;  but  he  did  na' 
let  out  his  min'  aboot  the  ithers." 

"And  what  are  they  going  to  do  about  it, 
grandmother  ?" 

"  There's  a  deal  to  be  done  aboot  it.  He 
said  the  folks  is  goin'  to  get  out  warrants,- 
an'  hae  the  twa  arrested  for  bein'  witches  ; 
an'  there's  to  be  a  court  held  at  the  village 
—  a  '  special  court,'  I  think  he  ca'd  it  (what 
soever  that  may  be,  I  dinna  ken)  —  an'  he 
says  they  wi'  be  tried  for  their  lives  for  it." 

"  And  what  will  be  done  to  them  if  they 
are  found  guilty  ?" 

"  Gude  sake  !  I  dinna  ken  ;  an'  I  did  na' 
ask  him.  He  says  the  folks  at  the  village 
are  all  up  in  arms  like  aboot  it.  They  say 
the  devil  ha'  broken  out  upon  them,  an'  the 
people  are  half  beside  themselves  wi'  the  ter 
ror  —  runnin'  hither  an'  yon,  an'  crowds  coin- 
in'  to  see  the  gals'  terrible  actions  ;  an'  iv- 
ery  bodie  talkin'  an'  spierin'  aboot  it,  an' 
spreadin'  it  fra'  house  to  house.  But,  he 
says,  happen  the  court  kin  get  to  the  bot 
tom  o'  it  ;  an'  he  hopes  it  will,  an'  he  prays 


SALEM. 


they  may  know,  an'  be  able  to  put  an  end 
to  it ;  for  there's  nae  doin'  ony  business,  iv- 
ery  bodie  is  so  cast  up  about  it.  Is  na'  it 
awfu'  ?" 

"  But  I  wonder  if  sensible  people  there  be 
lieve  in  it  ?  Did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  did,  then.  He  said  Nathaniel  Inger- 
soll,  Mr.  Parris,  an'  Joseph  Hutchinson,  an' 
Edward  an'  Thomas  Putnam,  they  all  be 
lieved  in  it.  Oh  !  wae  is  me  !  wae  is  me  ! 
'Deed,  but  I  think  it's  jist  awfu' !  awfu' !" 

"And  you  believe  it  too,  then  —  do  yon, 
grandmother  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  to  believe,  lassie  !  I 
kinna  say  I  do  believe  in  it,  an'  yet,  as  folks 
say,  '  Where  there's  sae  much  smoke,  there 
maun  be  some  fire.' ' 

"  I  know.  But  then,  these  two  poor  old 
creatures  —  what  power  can  they  possibly 
have  ?  Grandmother,  I  don't  think  I  believe 
one  word  of  it." 

"  Weel-a-weel !  I  kinna  say.  But  there, 
lassie,  rin  awa'  noo ;  an'  dinna  fash  ony  mair 
aboot  it,  for  it  makes  me  sick  wi'  fear." 

"  But  stay  a  moment,  grannie,  and  tell  me 
just  this  one  thing :  If  the  devil  hath  such 


THE  PLEDGE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  IOi 

power,  hath  not  the  Lord  our  God  the  great 
er  power  ?" 

"  True  for  ye,  lassie  !  Ye  are  right ;  I  be 
lieve  that ;  an7  sure  we  inaun  put  our  trust 
in  Him.  But  dinna  talk  mair  aboot  it  noo, 
for  it  makes  me  sair  sick  at  heart ;  an'  I  wad 
fain  try  to  forget  it." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   FIRST  EXAMINATIONS. 

"Oh!  what  were  we, 
If  the  All  Merciful  should  mete  to  us 
With  the  same  rigorous  measure  wherewithal 
Sinner  to  sinner  metes?    But  God  beholds 
The  secrets  of  the  heart— therefore  His  name 
Is— Merciful." 

S  this  does  not  purport  to  be % defi 
nitely  a  work  upon  Witchcraft, 
it  is  not  our  intention  to  weary 
the  patience  or  harrow  up  the 
feelings  of  the  reader  unnecessarily  by  por 
traying  the  painful  details  of  the  several  tri 
als,  except  in  so  far  as  they  have  a  connection 
with  or  a  bearing  upon  the  several  person 
ages  of  our  story. 

The  terrible  episode  of  poor  Giles  Corey 
we  have  therefore  intentionally  omitted — his 
brave  "contumacy"  as  it  was  then  called— 
the  constancy  with  which  he  maintained  his 
pertinacious  silence,  steadfastly  refusing  to 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS.  103 


plead,  that  he  might  thus  preserve  to  his  un 
fortunate  family  the  little  patrimony  which 
he  well  knew  his  attainder  as  a  wizard  would 
surely  confiscate  —  his  indomitable  fortitude 
under  his  terrible  sufferings,  and  his  heroic 
death,  are  »!1  too  painful  and  revolting  in  their 
details  for  admission  into  such  a  work  as 
this.  If  such  information  is  desired,  it  is 
matter  of  history,  and  may  easily  be  obtained 
from  reliable  sources. 

But  we  have  thought  that  by  presenting 
a  few  passages,  taken  from  the  records  of  the 
preliminary  examination  of  the  persons  first 
accused,  and  brought  up  for  trial,  the  reader 
would  gain  a  clearer  realization  of  the  unfair 
ness  of  the  whole  proceedings ;  and  see  how, 
owing  to  the  inflamed  state  of  the  popular 
mind,  and  the  preconceived  prejudices  of  all 
classes  of  people,  clearly  including  judges  and 
jurors,  against  the  accused,  the  unhappy  pris 
oners  were,  in  fact,  already  judged  and  con 
demned  even  before  they  were  brought  to 
trial. 

Great  pains  had  been  taken  to  give  pub 
licity  and  eclat  to  the  coming  event:  the 
session  of  the  court  was  made  the  universal 


104 


SALEM. 


subject  of  thought  and  conversation ;  "the 
news  was  industriously  spread  far  and  wide ; 
and  persons  from  all  directions  flocked  to 
gether  to  witness  and  share  in  the  unfamil 
iar  and  exciting  scenes. 

The  strange  nature  of  the"  whole  proceed 
ings — the  monstrous  and  supernatural  crime 
which  was  to  be  the  object  of  inquiry  and 
judgment  —  had  roused  the  people  to  the 
wildest  curiosity,  and  this  curiosity  was 
heightened  and  intensified  by  the  universal 
terror. 

There  was  a  solemn  romance,  a  fascination 
about  this  great  and  unfamiliar  crime,  which 
lesser  and  more  common  offenses,  such  as  ar 
son  and  petty  larceny,  could  not  boast ;  and 
then  crime  of  all  kinds  was  less  common  than 
now. 

We,  who  live  in  an  age  when  the  public 
journals  collect  and  daily  serve  up  to  us  all 
the  crimes  of  all  the  world  (a  very  doubt 
ful  good,  certainly!) — we,  to  whom  murder 
and  suicide  seem  almost  the  common  road 
out  of  life  —  to  whom  fatal  accidents  and 
wholesale  manslaughter  are  such  constantly 
recurring  trivialities  that  a  whole  page  of 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINA  TIONS. 


them  does  not  destroy  our  appetite  for  break 
fast  —  can  perhaps  form  no  adequate  idea  of 
the  mingled  awe  and  curiosity  with  which 
our  unsophisticated  predecessors  looked  for 
ward  to  this  great  event. 

The  quiet  village  was  therefore  thronged 
with  eager  strangers,  in  addition  to  its  own 
excited  population,  when,  in  the  morning  of 
the  first  of  March,  1692,  the  two  leading  and 
most  distinguished  magistrates  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  Justices  John  Hathorne  and  Jona 
than  Corwin  —  who  are  described  as  "men  of 
note  and  influence,  whose  fathers  had  been 
among  the  first  founders  of  the  settlement, 
and  who  were  assistants,  that  is,  members 
of  the  highest  legislative  and  judicial  body  in 
the  colony,  combining  the  functions  of  a 
senate  with  those  of  a  court  of  last  resort, 
with  most  comprehensive  jurisdiction  "  —  en 
tered  the  village.  There  is  no  doubt  that  these 
distinguished  men  magnified  their  office  — 
no  doubt  it  was  their  purpose  and  intention 
so  to  do;  their  object  undoubtedly  was  to 
make  the  prestige  of  their  authority  felt  and 
recognized  as  a  terror  to  evil-doers  ;  and  we 
may  imagine  the  mighty  stir  and  excitement 
E  2 


Io6  SALEM. 


their  arrival  was  calculated  to  produce  in  the 
primitive  little  community  as  they  rode  into 
the  village  with  great  pomp  and  ceremony, 
adorned  with  all  the  imposing  regalia  of  their 
high  office,  and  followed  by  the  long  train  of, 
their  subordinates  and  satellites — aids,  mar 
shals,  and  constables — in  full  force. 

Dismounting,  they  at  once  proceeded,  with 
such  slow  haste  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
called  for— with  grave  severity  of  counte 
nance,  and  ominous  dignity  of  step  and  ac 
tion,  availing  themselves  of  all  the  awe-in 
spiring  forms  of  the  law,  then  even  more 
cumbersome  in  its  ceremonial  observances 
than  now— to  the  meeting-house,  which  was 
already  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity  by  a 
dense  and  excited  multitude,  who  were  filled 
at  once  with  mingled  horror  of  the  accused, 
pity  for  the  accusers,  awe  of  the  judges,  and 
curiosity  to  behold  the  strange  and  intensely 
interesting  proceedings  of  the  court. 

Here  arrangements  had  already  been  made 
to  render  the  meeting-house  suitable  for  the 
great  occasion  to  which  it  was  now  to  be 
put ;  a  raised  platform  or  staging  had  been 
erected,  on  which  to  place  the  prisoners  in 


THE  FIRS T  EXAMTNA  TIONS.  i  o  7 

full  view,  but  removed  from  contact  with  the 
spectators;  a  separate  place  had  been  set 
apart  for  the  accusers,  and  seats  had  been 
placed  for  the  magistrates  in  front  of  the 
pulpit,  and  facing  the  people.  After  the 
magistrates  had  with  much  ceremony  been 
ushered  in  and  taken  their  appointed  seats, 
the  formal  announcement  was  made  that  the 
court  was  now  open,  and  ready  to  com 
mence  the  examinations  at  once. 

After  prayer  had  been  offered  by  one  of 
the  attending  ministers,  the  constable  pro 
duced  the  body  of  Mrs.  Sarah  Good,  and 
placed  her  upon  the  stand. 

If  the  case  had  not  been  such  a  solemn 
one,  involving  life  or  death,  there  must  have 
been  something  almost  laughably  absurd  in 
the  palpable  disproportion  between  the  piti 
ful  prisoner,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  array 
of  learning,  law,  and  evidence  gathered 
against  her  upon  the  other. 

She  was  a  small,  weak,  miserable  creature; 
a  poor,  helpless,  friendless  woman  —  worn 
down  by  a  life  of  want  and  misery ;  a  home 
less  vagrant,  without  character  or  subsist 
ence ;  one  for  whom  no  one  cared,  whose 


I08  SALEM. 


perennial  pauperism  had  outworn  the  pa 
tience  of  nearly  all  her  benefactors,  and  whose 
name,  if  not  positively  evil,  was  not  respect 
able  —  an  abject  thing  to  be  pitied,  not  per 
secuted. 

We  shall  endeavor  to  give  her  examination 
according  to  the  minutes  which  have  been 
preserved ;  but  let  it  be  remembered  that  this 
examination  was  in  the  form  of  questions 
put  to  her  by  Justice  Hathorne,  evidently  ex 
pressive  of  his  belief  in  her  guilt,  and  in  the 
truth  of  the  evidence  brought  by  "  the  afflict 
ed  girls  "  against  her ;  that  no  friend  or  coun 
sel  was  allowed  her;  that  she  was  very  ig 
norant,  wholly  unused  to  such  a  cross-exam 
ination  as  she  was  subjected  to,  totally  un 
aware  of  the  danger  of  being  entrapped  in 
her  unguarded  answers,  or  that  what  she 
might  say  in  her  wild,  random  replies  was 
liable  to  be  misunderstood  or  misrepresented. 

Justice  Hathorne  commenced  the  exami 
nation  as  follows: 

"  Sarah  Good,  what  evil  spirit  have  you 
familiarity  with  ?" 

To  which  the  prisoner  responded, "  None !" 

"  Have  you  made  no  contracts  with  the 
devil  ?" 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINA  TIONS.  1 09 

"  No  !  I  have  not ;  I  never  did." 
"Why  do  you  hurt  these  children?" 
"  I  do  not  hurt  them ;  I  scorn  it." 
"  Who  do  you  employ,  then,  to  do  it  ?" 
"  I  employ  nobody." 
"  What  creature  do  you  employ  then  ?" 
"  No  creature ;  but  I  am  falsely  accused." 
"Why  did  you  go  away  muttering  from 
Mr.  Parris  his  door  2" 

"  I  did  not  mutter ;  but  I  thanked  him  for 
what  he  gave  my  child." 

"  Have  you  made  no  contract  with  the 
devil?" 

"No!  I  have  not." 

Then  Justice  Hathorne  requested  the  af 
flicted  children  all  to  look  at  her,  and  see  if 
this  was  the  one  that  hurt  them ;  and  they 
all  did  look,  and  said  she  was  one  of  them 
that  did  hurt  them. 

Then  the  children  were  all  tormented, 
and  Hathorne  recommenced : 

"  Sarah  Good,  do  you  not  see  now  what 
you  have  done  ?  Why  do  you  not  tell  the 
truth?  Why  do  you  thus  torment  these 
poor  children  ?"  « 

"  I  do  not  torment  them." 


IIO  SALEM. 


"  Who  do  you  employ,  then  ?" 

"  I  employ  nobody ;  I  scorn  it." 

"  How  came  they  thus  tormented,  then  ?" 

"What  do  I  know?     You  bring  others 
here,  and  now  you  charge  me  with  it." 

"  Why,  who  was  it,  then  ?" 

"  It  might  be  some  one  you  brought  into 
the  meeting-house  with  you." 

"We  brought  you  into  the  meeting-house." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  brought  in  two  more." 

"Who  was  it,  then,  that  tormented  the 
children  T 

"  It  might  be  Osburn." 

"  What  is  it  you  say  when  you  go  mutter 
ing  away  from  people's  houses?" 

"  If  I  must  tell,  I  will  tell." 

"  Do  tell  us,  then.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  If  I  must  tell,  I  will— it  is  the  command 
ments.     I  may  say  them,  I  hope." 

"  What  commandment  is  it  ?" 

"If  I  must  tell  you,  I  will  tell — it  is  a 
psalm." 

"  What  psalm  is  it  ?" 

After  a  long  while  she  muttered  part  of 
a  psalm. 

"  Who  do  you  serve  ?" 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS. 


"  I  serve  God." 

"What  God  do  you  serve?" 

"  The  God  that  made  heaven  and  earth." 

As  there  was  little  to  be  gained  by  fur 
ther  examination  of  this  prisoner,  the  consta 
ble  was  ordered  to  remove  her,  and  Sarah 
Osburn  was  brought  in  and  placed  upon 
the  stand. 

This  poor  creature  was,  if  any  thing,  more 
pitiable  than  the  other.  She  had  been  a 
woman  of  respectable  character,  and  of  some 
standing  in  the  community.  Her  first  hus 
band  had  died,  leaving  her  a  comfortable 
fortune,  and  two  or  more  sons.  She  after 
ward  married  Osburn,  who  was  much  be 
neath  her  in  social  position.  He  had  squan 
dered  her  money,  quarreled  with  her  chil 
dren,  and  deserted  her  ;  and  she  was  sick  in 
body  and  almost  imbecile  in  mind. 

Her  examination  was  as  follows  : 

"What  evil  spirit  have  you  familiarity 
with  F 

"  Not  any." 

"  Have  you  made  no  contract  with  the 
devil  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  never  saw  the  devil  in  my  life." 


112  SALEM. 


"  Why  do  you  hurt  these  children  ?" 

"  I  do  not  hurt  them." 

"  Who  do  you  employ,  then,  to  hurt  them?" 

"  I  employ  nobody." 

"  What  familiarity  have  you  with  Sarah 
Good  ?" 

"None.  I  have  not  seen  her  for  these 
two  years." 

"  Where  did  you  see  her  then  ?" 

"  One  day,  going  to  town." 

"  What  communication  had  you  with 
her?" 

"  I  had  only,  '  How  do  you  do  ?'  or  so.  I 
do  riot  know  her  by  name." 

"  What  did  you  call  her  then  ?" 

Osburn  made  a  stand  at  that,  but  at  last 
she  said  she  called  her  "  Sarah." 

"  Sarah  Good  saith  it  was  you  that  hurt 
the  children." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  the  devil  goes  about 
in  my  likeness  to  do  any  hurt." 

The  foregoing  shows  the  unfairness  of  the 
course  taken  by  the  court,  and  the  evident 
intention  to  confuse  the  prisoners,  and  en 
deavor  to  entangle  them  into  a  contradiction 
in  their  answers. 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS. 


Sarah  Good  had  not  intended  to  accuse 
Goody  Osburn.  She  had  only  been  led  by 
the  questions  put  to  her  to  allow  that  Os 
burn  might  be  guilty.  The  whole  amount 
of  what  she  had  intended  to  say  seems  clear 
ly  this,  that  if  the  sufferings  of  the  children, 
of  the  reality  of  which  she  did  not  seem  to 
entertain  a  doubt,  were  caused  by  either 
Osburn  or  herself,  it  must  be  by  Osburn, 
as  she  was  conscious  of  her  own  entire  inno 
cence  of  it;  and  this,  w^hich  was  uttered 
only  in  self-defense,  was  cruelly  perverted 
by  the  court  into  a  positive  accusation 
against  her  fellow-prisoner. 

But  to  return  to  Sarah  Osburn.  Mr.  Ha- 
thorne  now  desired  all  the  children  to  stand 
up  and  look  upon  the  prisoner,  and  see  if 
they  did  not  know  her  —  which  they  did; 
and  every  one  of  them  said  she  was  one  of 
them  that  did  afflict  them. 

Three  witnesses  declared  she  had  said 
that  morning,  "  She  was  more  like  "to  be  be 
witched  than  that  she  was  a  witch  ;"  and  Mr. 
Hathorne  asked  her  what  made  her  say  so. 

She  answered  him  she  was  frighted  one 
time  in  her  sleep,  and  either  saw,  or  dreamed 


SALEM. 


she  saw,  a  thing  like  an  Indian,  all  black, 
which  did  pinch  her  in  her  neck,  and  pulled 
her  by  the  back  of  her  head  to  the  door  of 
the  house. 

"  And  did  you  never  see  any  thing  else  ?" 
asked  the  examiner. 

To  which  she  replied,  "  No." 

(Here  it  was  said  by  some  one  in  the 
meeting-house  that  she  had  said  she  would 
never  believe  that  lying  spirit  any  more.) 

"What  lying  spirit  is  this?  Hath  the 
devil  ever  deceived  you,  and  been  false  to 
you  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  the  devil.  I  never  did 
see  him." 

"  What  lying  spirit  was  it,  then  ?" 

"  It  was  a  voice  that  I  thought  I  heard." 

"  And  what  did  it  propound  to  you  ?" 

"That  I  should  go  no  more  to  meeting. 
But  I  said  I  would  go,  and  I  did  go  next 
Sabbath-day." 

"  And  were  you  never  tempted  any  fur 
ther?" 

"No." 

"  Why  did  you  yield  thus  far  to  the  devil 
as  never  to  go  to  meeting  since  ?" 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS. 


"  Alas !  I  have  been  sick,  and  not  able  to 


go." 


Here  the  examination  of  this  prisoner,  for 
the  time,  was  ended,  and  she  was  removed. 
Certainly  there  seems  to  have  been  nothing 
elicited  by  this  pointless  questioning  which 
could  criminate  the  poor  creature ;  and 
when  we  take  into  consideration  the  weak 
ness  of  body  and  mind  under  which  she 
was  avowedly  laboring,  being  half  bed-rid 
den,  and  crazy,  as  her  answers  plainly  show, 
she  not  being  able  to  distinguish  whether 
things  she  thought  she  saw  and  heard  were 
dreams  or  realities,  it  would  seem  as  if  it 
must  have  been  evident  to  any  fair  and  im 
partial  mind  that,  though  her  reason  was 
clouded,  her  nature  was  essentially  innocent 
and  truthful. 

The  next  one  brought  upon  the  stand 
was  Tituba,  the  Indian  slave-woman.  As 
we  have  already  said,  this  would  seem  to 
have  been  a  stroke  of  policy.  The  fact  of 
her  having  been  one  of  their  own  number 
being  calculated  to  disarm  suspicion,  while 
it  is  evident  she  had  been  in  full  council 
with  the  accusers,  was  under  their  control, 


SALEM. 


and  was  well  instructed  as  to  all  that  she 
was  to  say  and  do. 

To  this  end  she  begins,  like  the  other 
two,  by  declaring  her  entire  innocence,  at 
which  the  children  appear  to  be  greatly  tor 
mented  ;  but  as  she  begins  to  confess,  the 
children  grow  quiet,  and  she  herself  be 
comes  afflicted  before  the  eyes  of  the  magis 
trates  and  the  awe-stricken  crowd,  who 
looked  on  in  blind  belief  and  shuddering 
horror. 

The  object  of  all  this  was  undoubtedly  to 
show  that  the  moment  she  confessed  her  sin, 
and  repented  of  it,  she  had  broken  loose 
from  her  compact  with  the  devil,  and  her 
power  to  afflict  others  had  ceased  at  once; 
and  the  devil  was  wreaking  his  vengeance 
upon  her  through  some  other  of  his  many 
confederates. 

By  her  confession  and  repentance,  she  had 
passed  from  the  condition  of  an  afflicter,  and 
had  herself  become  one  of  the  afflicted  ones, 
and  an  accuser,  naming  Sarah  Good,  Sarah 
Osburn,  and  others  as  afflicting  and  torment 
ing  herself  and  the  children. 

Her  whole   story  is  full  of  absurd  and 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINA  TIONS.  z  j  7 

monstrous  fancies  of  devils,  etc.,  and  we  will 
give  some  portions  of  her  examination,  as  it 
serves  to  show  the  character  of  the  woman, 
her  intimate  knowledge  of  all  the  children 
had  said  and  done,  and  also  showing  by  her 
own  wild  and  unnatural  images  the  impure 
source  from  which  the  pagan  lore  of  the  chil 
dren  was  derived.  The  examination  com 
menced  exactly  like  the  two  others  : 

"  Tituba,  what  evil  spirit  have  you  famil 
iarity  with  ?" 

And,   like    the     others,    she     answered, 
"None." 

"Why  do  you  hurt  these  children  ?" 

"  I  do  not  hurt  them." 

"  Who  is  it,  then,  that  does  ?" 

"  The  devil,  for  aught  I  know." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil  ?" 

"  The  devil  came  to  me,  and  bid  me  serve 
him." 

"  Who  have  you  seen  ?" 

"Four  women    sometimes  hurt  the  chil 
dren." 

"  And  who  were  they  ?" 

"  Goody  Osburn  and  Sarah  Good.    I  don't 
know  who  the  others  were.      Sarah  Good 


Ii8  SALEM. 


and  Osburn  would  have  me  hurt  the  chil 
dren,  but  I  would  not." 

"  When  did  you  see  them  ?" 

"  Last  night,  at  Boston." 

"  What  did  they  say  to  you  ?" 

"  They  said, <  Hurt  the  children.'  " 

"  And  did  you  hurt  them  ?" 

"No.  There  is  four  women  and  one  man 
—they  hurt  the  children,  and  they  lay  it  all 
upon  me.  They  tell  me  if  I  will  not  hurt 
the  children,  they  will  hurt  me." 

"  But  did  you  not  hurt  them  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  will  hurt  them  no  more." 

"  Are  you  sorry  that  you  did  hurt  them  2" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  why,  then,  do  you  hurt  them  ?" 

"  They  say, '  Hurt  the  children,  or  we  will 
do  worse  to  you.' ' 

"  What  have  you  seen  ?" 

"  A  man  come  to  me,  and  say, '  Serve  me.' " 

"  What  service  2" 

"Hurt  the  children.  Last  night  there 
was  an  appearance  that  said, '  Kill  the  chil 
dren.'  And  if  I  would  not  go  on  hurting 
the  children,  they  would  do  worse  to  me." 

"  What  is  this  appearance  you  see  ?" 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS.  119 

"  Sometimes  it  is  like  a  hog,  and  some 
times  like  a  great  dog." 

"  What  did  it  say  to  you  ?" 

"  The  black  dog  said,  '  Serve  me.'  But  I 
said, '  I  am  afraid.'  He  said  if  I  did  not,  he 
would  do  worse  to  me." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  it  ?" 

" '  I  will  serve  you  no  longer.'  Then  he 
said  he  would  hurt  me." 

"  What  else  have  you  seen  ?" 

"  Two  cats  —  a  red  cat  and  a  black 
cat." 

"  And  what  did  they  say  to  you  ?" 

"  They  said, '  Serve  me.'  " 

"  When  did  you  see  them  ?" 

"  Last  night.  And  they  said, '  Serve  me.' 
But  I  said  I  would  not." 

"  What  service  2" 

"  Hurt  the  children." 

"  Did  you  not  pinch  Elizabeth  Hubbard 
this  morning  ?" 

"The  man  brought  her  to  me,  and  made 
me  pinch  her." 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  Thomas  Putnam's 
last  night,  and  hurt  his  child  ?" 

"They  pull  and  haul  me,  and  make  me  go." 


120  SALEM. 


"  How  did  you  go  ?" 

"  We  ride  upon  sticks,  and  are  there  pres 
ently." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  your  master  ?" 

"  I  was  afraid.  They  said  they  would  cut 
off  my  head  if  I  told." 

"  Did  you  go  through  the  trees,  or  over 
them  ?" 

"  We  see  nothing  ;  but  are  there  pres 
ently." 

She  also  describes  "  a  thing  with  a  head 
like  a  woman,  with  two  legs  and  wings ;" 
and  another  "  all  hairy,  but  with  only  two 
legs,  and  going  upright  like  a  man." 

But  it  is  needless  to  continue  these  ex 
tracts  any  further.  It  seems  strange,  indeed, 
to  iis  that  at  this  senseless  babble — which 
really  appears  too  ridiculous  to  take  pains  to 
transcribe — grown  men,  of  fair  average  com 
mon-sense  and  education,  could  ever  have 
winced  and  shivered,  and  turned  pale  in 
shuddering  horror  as  they  listened ;  and  yet 
it  undoubtedly  was  so,  for  puerile  and  mon 
strous  as  it  appears  to  us,  it  seems  to  have 
been  fully  conclusive  to  the  mind  of  the 
learned  court,  for  the  prisoners  were  all  three 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS.  I2i 

committed  to  jail  to  await  further  examina 
tions. 

These  followed  upon  the  second,  third,  fifth, 
and  seventh  of  the  month,  when  they  were 
sent  to  Boston  jail,  where  Sarah  Osburn  died 
in  the  following  May.  The  child  of  Sarah 
Good,  a  little  girl  of  five  years  of  age,  who 
had  also  been  accused,  died  while  in  confine 
ment. 

As  to  the  other  two — Sarah  Good  and  Ti- 
tuba — as  they  will  have  no  further  connec 
tion  with  our  story,  we  shall  not  return  to 
them,  and  it  may  be  as  well  to  finish  their 
histories  here. 

At  one  of  the  subsequent  examinations  of 
Sarah  Good,  one  of  the  afflicted  girls  cried 
out  that  the  prisoner,  Good, had  just  stabbed 
her,  and  had  broken  the  knife  in  so  doing,  in 
corroboration  of  which  statement  she  pro 
duced  a  piece  of  a  broken  knife-blade.  Upon 
which  a  young  man  then  present  produced 
the  rest  of  the  knife,  which  the  court  then 
examined,  and  declared  to  be  the  same.  He 
then  affirmed  that  he  had  broken  the  knife 
the  day  before,  and  had  thrown  away  the 
piece,  the  accusing  girl  being  present  at  the 
F 


122  SALEM. 


time.  Upon  which  clear  proof  of  her  mali 
cious  mendacity,  the  court  merely  bade  the 
sinful  and  falsified  witness  "  to  tell  them  no 
more  lies;"  and  after  this  plain  exposure  of 
her  guilt,  she  was  still  used  as  a  witness 
against  the  unhappy  prisoners. 

It  has  also  been  recorded  that  at  the  exe 
cution  of  this  Sarah  Grood,Mr.Noyes,the  Sa 
lem  minister — whose  zeal  certainly  outran 
his  discretion — followed  the  wretched  wom 
an  even  to  the  gallows,  vehemently  urg 
ing  her  to  confess,  and  calling  out  to  her, 
"  You  are  a  witch,  and  you  know  you  are  a 
witch."  But  "  the  trodden  worm  will  turn  at 
last,"  and,  conscious  of  her  own  innocence 
of  the  dreadful  crime,  and  maddened  to  des 
peration  by  his  false  and  cruel  accusations 
at  such  a  moment,  standing  upon  the  very 
verge  of  that  world  where  there  is  no  re 
spect  of  persons,  the  miserable  creature  cried 
out  in  frenzy  from  the  steps  of  the  ladder, 
"  You  are  a  liar  !  I  am  no  more  of  a  witch 
than  you  are  a  wizard;  and,  as  you  take  away 
my  innocent  life,  may  God  give  you  blood 
to  drink !" 

When,  nearly  twenty-four  years  after,  Mr. 


THE  FIRST  EXAMINATIONS. 


Noyes  died  of  sudden  and  violent  internal 
hemorrhage,  bleeding  profusely  at  the  mouth, 
what  wonder  if  it  were  long  a  commonly 
received  tradition  that  the  frantic  words  of 
the  wronged  and  dying  woman  were  thus 
fearfully  verified  ? 

The  only  record  we  find  remaining  of  Ti- 
tuba,  the  Indian  woman,  is  that  she  after 
ward  testified  that  her  master  did  beat  and 
otherwise  abuse  her,  to  make  her  confess,  and 
accuse  the  others  ;  and  that  wrhat  she  had 
said  in  confessing  and  accusing  others  was  in 
consequence  of  such  usage  from  him  ;  that 
he  refused  to  pay  her  prison  fees,  and  take 
her  out  of  jail,  unless  she  would  stand  to 
what  she  had  said;  and  that  consequently 
she  remained  in  jail,  until  she  was  finally 
"  sold  for  her  fees." 

If  this  is  true,  and  there  seems  no  reason 
to  doubt  it,  it  bears  a  fearful  testimony 
against  Mr.  Parris,  her  master,  as  having  been 
the  unseen  but  moving  powrer  of  this  great 
tragedy. 

The  fearful  delusion  had  now  reached 
its  height  ;  its  lamentable  effects  were  wide 
spread,  and  the  whole  country  felt  its  hor- 


I24  SALEM. 


rors.  All  business  was  interrupted  or  set 
aside,  farm  labors  were  neglected,  cultivation 
was  forgotten.  "It  seemed,"  said  the  histo 
rian,  "  to  strike  an  entire  summer  out  of  the 
year." 

All  contemplated  improvements  were  giv 
en  up  ;  farms  and  homesteads  were  sold 
out  or  abandoned  ;  and  the  terrified  people, 
shocked  at  what  had  taken  place,  and  still 
more  in  terror  of  what  was  yet  to  come — 
dreading  where  the  bolt  might  strike  next 
-hastened  to  quit  the  doomed  neighbor 
hood. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ARCHITECTURAL   DESIGNS. 

"  The  earth  no  longer  can  afford 

Its  old-time  feuds  and  quarrels  — 
Hence  !  with  the  warrior's  dented  sword, 

The  victor's  blood-stained  laurels  ! 
The  world  has  had  enough  of  war, 

Of  bloodshed  and  of  clamor  ; 
Honor  to  him  who  guides  the  saw, 

To  him  who  wields  the  hammer." 


,  almost  ineffably  great,  was 
the  delight  of  old  Winny  when 
she  first  heard  of  the  expected 
arrival  of  the  feathered  inmates. 
But  if  her  delight  could  not  find  adequate 
expression,  neither  could  it  be  wholly  re 
pressed. 

"  Wai,  now,  dat  are  is  nice,"  she  said,  com 
placently.  "  Dat  are  is  sum'pen  like  a  pres 
ent.  Dat  seems  like  as  if  we  wuz  folks  _ 
it  makes  a  place  look  so  much  more  respect- 
abler-like  to  see  dem  sort  o'  critters  round. 
I  will  say  for't,  hens  are  mighty  'spectable 


126  SALEM. 


animals — 'specially  the  roosters.  An'  den 
de  eggs — why,  goodness  a  massy  !  I  tink  eggs 
is  allers  the  first  fruits  ob  de  season,  I  real 
ly  do.  I  dun'no,"  she  added,  looking  down 
reflectively,  rubbing  her  arms  alternately,  and 
thoughtfully  scraping  up  the  sand  where 
she  stood  with  the  broad  side  of  her  old, 
square-toed  shoe — "  I  dun'no  :  a  pig  may  be 
a  more  sociabler  bird  in  his  feelin's — I  won't 
say  dat  he  isn't.  But  den,  yer  see,  he  isn't 
so  talkative -like,  an'  he  isn't  sich  an  easy 
boarder — he  wrants  a  deal  more  food,  an'  a 
deal  more  waitin'  'on,  he  does ;  an'  he's  a 
deal  meaner-like  too.  A  hen,  now,  she's  kind 
er  honest  an'  industr'us,  an'  free-hearted  an' 
gen'rous — she  pays  her  board  as  she  goes 
along — an'  egg  mostly  allers  ebery  day,  an' 
nowr  an'  den,  if  she  haz  a  chance,  a  brood  of 
chickens.  Wai,  dat  are  is  right ;  she  couldn't 
do  no  better.  But  a  pig — oh  !  he's  a  mighty 
fine  genimen  to  be  waited  'on,  an'  he  takes 
his  ease  like  a  gemmen,  but  he  neber  pays 
a  cent  on  his  board-bill  as  long  as  he  libs 
—no,  not  till  he  dies ;  an'  he  wouldn't  then 
if  he  could  help  hisself — not  he,  indeed! 
If  he  could  have  his  will  drawed  up  by  a 


ARCHITECTURAL   DESIGNS.  127 

—  jj 

lawyer,  I  don't  beliebe  he'd  leabe  yer  as  much 
as  a  sassinger  or  a  hasslet ! — a  mean  thing 
— ha !  I  'spize  him  !  But,  Alice,  where  will 
yer  keep  yer  critters  ?" 

"  I  don't  just  know,  Winny.  That  is  what 
I  came  out  to  ask  you  about.  Don't  you 
think  we  could  contrive  to  make  a  hen-coop 
out  of  the  farther  end  of  the  wood-shed  ?  I 
mean  if  it  were  parted  off.  You  don't  make 
much  use  of  that  end  of  it,  do  you  1" 

"  Not  a  bit  ob  use.  I  on'y  keeps  my  soap- 
barr'l  an'  my  ashes  ober  there ;  I  kin  fotch 
my  soap  ober  this  side  jest  as  well  as  not, 
an'  my  ashes.  Folks  talks  'boiit  not  wan  tin' 
to  hab  their  ashes  'sturbed  ;  law  for  me,  I 
don't  mind  it  a  mite.  'Sturb  'um  as  much  as 
yer  like." 

"  Well,  then,  if  we  could  get  it  parted  off, 
wouldn't  it  make  a  nice  hen-coop  ?" 

"  I  should  say  it  would  be  splenderous !" 

"  But,  Winny,  do  you  think  grandmother 
will  be  willing  ?" 

"I  guess  she  won't  be  'ginst  nuffin'  you 
want — she  don't  use  to."  :/ 

"  That  is  true  enough,  Winny.  She  is 
very  indulgent.  The  next  thing  is,  how  can 
we  do  it  ?" 


I28  SALEM. 


"•Wai,  we  must  get  boards,  an'  nail  'urn 
up.  Dar  aint  no  udder  way,  as  I  knows  on." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  know  that.  .  But  who  shall 
we  get  to  do  it  ?" 

Winny  reflected  a  moment.  "  I  dun'no  ; 
lem  me  see.  Don't  yer  tink  ole  Drosky  kin 
do  it  ?" 

"  Drosky  !  I  don't  know.  Who  is  Dros 
ky,  Winny  ?" 

"  Why,  my  ole  dad." 

"  Your  dad  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? — your 
father,  Winny  ?    Why,  I  never  knew  you  had 
•  a  father." 

"  Yer  didn't  now  ?  Dat's  queer.  Why, 
I's  had  him  eber  an'  eber  so  long.  I  had 
him  when  I  warn't  higher  dan  dat  stool.  Oh  ! 
longer ;  I's  had  him  eber  since  I  kin  remem 
ber.  I  ruther  tink  I  had  him  afore  I  war 
born.  Lordy  !  I  guess  I's  allers  had  him." 

"  Oh  !  I  dare  say.  Only  it  seems  strange 
I  never  heard  of  him  before." 

"  Wai !  really,  it  does  now.  He  aint  nuf- 
fin'  to  boast  ob — Drosky  aint.  But  I  neber 
made  no  secret  ob  'im.  I  aint  'shamed  ob  it ; 
'coz  it's  my  misfortin',  it  aint  my  fault.  I 
didn't  buy  'im,  nor  beg  'im,  nor  steal  'im  ; 


ARCHITECTURAL   DESIGNS.  I29 

fact,  I  don't  know  jest  how  I  did  get  'im; 
I  neber  went  a  step  out  ob  my  way  to  pick 
'im  up.  The  Lord  he  sent  him  to  me,  I 
s'pose ;  an'  I'm  sure  I  wish  he  hadn't  tort 
on't — I  neber  asked  for  no  farders.  I  neber 
wanted  none ;  an'  I's  sure  sartin  I'd  be  bet 
ter  off  widout  'im." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,Winny,"  said  the 
laughing  Alice.  "But,  Winny,  what  is  he  ?" 

"  What  is  he  ?  My  farder  ?  Why,  an  ole 
nigger,  ob  course.  What  else  did  yer  tink 
he  wuz  ?  Look  at  me — do  I  look  as  though 
I  'longed  to  white  folks  2" 

"  No,  no ;  you  did  not  understand  me,  Win 
ny.  I  meant  what  does  he  do  for  a  living  ?' 

"  Bress  us  an'  sabe  us !  he  don't  do  no  lib- 
in'.  I  haz  to  do  de  libin'  for  'im ;  an'  it's  an 
awful  sight  o'  libin'  he  takes  too,  I  kin  tell 
yer.  Why,  bress  yer  soul !  dat  are  ole  nig 
ger,  he'd  eat  a  whole  cabbidge  an'  a  peck  ob 
'taters  in  a  day,  ebery  day  ob  his  black  life, 
an'  more  too,  if  I'd  let  'im.  He  aint  got  no 


conscience." 


"  But  where  does  he  live,  Winny  ?" 
"  Oh  !   I's  got  a  bunk  for  'im  out  in  de 
paster,  an'  he  libs  dar." 
F  2 


S A  LEAL 


"  But  why  did  I  never  chance  to  see  him 
before  ?  Why  does  he  never  come  here  ?" 

"  Coz  I  won't  let  'im.  Sez  I  to  'im, i  Dros- 
ky,  yer  ole  sinner,  look  a  here  !  if  eber  yer 
come  a  niggerin'  roun'  de  house  whar  I  libs, 
I'll  sot  de  tidy-man  at  yer,  I  will.'  Oh  !  I 
tell  yer,  I  haz  to  make  'im  mind — he'd  be 
awful  imperdent  if  I  didn't.  But  I  keeps 
'im  down ;  he's  awful  feared  o'  me.  If  I  jest 
clap  hands  and  cry,  'Tidy-man !  tidy-man  ! 
hist-st-st !'  he'll  run  like  rats." 

"  But,Winny,  do  you  think  he  could  build 
our  hen-coop  ?" 

"  I  'clare  I  dun'no  why  not.  If  a  nigger 
can't  build  a  hen-coop  nor  a  pig-sty,  what  on 
arth  kin  he  do  ?  You  go  an'  ask  leabe  ob 
yer  granny,  an'  if  she  says  so,  I'll  go  an'  get 
ole  dad,  an'  we'll  see  what  he  kin  do." 

Permission  to  build  being  readily  obtained 
from  Mrs.  Campbell,  Winny  went  out,  and 
soon  returned  followed  by  her  venerable 
parent;  and  of  all  the  strange  objects  ever 
beheld  in  the  shape  of  a  man,  old  Drosky, 
take  him  all  in  all,  was  the  most  strange  and 
singular. 

He  was  evidently  immensely  old,  and  was 


ARCHITECTURAL   DESIGNS. 


not  more  than  four  and  a  half  feet  high,  and 
stooping  at  that.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
originally  been  a  man  of  large  frame,  and, 
possibly,  of  proportionate  height  ;  but  in  the 
long  course  of  his  very  protracted  existence, 
every  part  of  him  that  could  shrink  had 
shriveled  up  like  a  mummy,  while  the  bony 
portions  of  his  frame  —  his  head,  hands,  feet, 
and  joints  —  still  retained  their  normal  size, 
and  looked,  of  course,  unnaturally  out  of 
proportion. 

The  effect  of  the  disproportionate  size  of 
his  head  was  absurdly  increased  by  an  im 
mense  quantity  of  snow-white  wool,  which 
was  pulled  out  at  each  side,  till  his  head  was 
as  big  as  a  peck  measure.  Beneath  this 
snowy  apex,  his  great  black  face,  with  its 
rolling,  blinking  eyes,  was  wonderfully  ef 
fective.  His  body  had  been  so  bent  by  the 
weight  of  many  years  that  it  was  nearly  at 
right  angles  with  his  attenuated  lower  limbs, 
and  yet  his  motions  had  all  the  sinewy  spry- 
ness  of  a  cat. 

His  dress  was  clean  and  whole  —  no,  not 
whole,  for  its  entirety  consisted  of  patches 
of  nearly  every  shade  of  black,  blue,  green, 


I32 


SALEM. 


and  brown,  skillfully  applied  by  Winny's  fru 
gal  and  industrious  hands.  If  the  too  cov 
etous  sons  of  Jacob  had  been  gifted,  like 
their  world-renowned  brother,  with  prophet 
ic  dreams  and  visions,  and,  looking  down  the 
long  roll  of  centuries,  could  have  beheld  old 
Drosky's  many-hued  garment,  possibly  the 
"  coat  of  many  colors  "  which  their  too  par 
tial  old  father  gave  to  his  favored  darling 
would  never  have  tempted  them  to  envy, 
hate,  and  fratricide ;  the  exodus  into  Egypt 
might  never  have  taken  place;  and  the  world 
would  have  lost  one  of  the  sweetest  and 
most  pathetic  of  its  Bible  stories. 

"  Make  yer  manners,  nigger  !  What  yer 
tinkin'  'bout  ?"  said  Winny,  authoritatively ; 
and  at  once  the  old  man  began  scraping  his 
foot  upon  the  ground,  and  butting  with  his 
woolly  head  like  some  vicious  old  ram,  though 
evidently  with  more  friendly  intentions. 

"  Why,  what  a  wonderfully  old  man ! 
Why,  Winny,  how  old  is  he  ?"  said  Alice, 
not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"Oh,  lors!  I  dun'no.  Old  ?  — he's  old 
enuff  for  any  ting,  I  guess.  How  old  be 
yer,  nigger — do  yer  know  ?" 


ARCHITECTURAL   DESIGNS. 


133 


"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !"  tittered  the  old  man ; 
"  te-hee  !  te-hee  !  I  dun'no,  Wiuny,  gal.      I 
'spect  I's  older  dan  you  be ;  but  I  dun'no— 
te-hee !  te-hee !" 

"  Wai,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  yer  wuz,"  said 
Winny,  quietly  regarding  him. 

"  And  have  you  got  a  mother  too,  Win 
ny  ?"  inquired  Alice. 

"  A  mudder  ? — no,  I  guess  not.  I  neber 
heerd  o'  none.  Say,  ole  nigger  !"  turning 
to  her  father,  "  we  aint  got  no  mudder,  hab 
we?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  No,  no,  Winny,  gal," 
tittered  the  old  man.  "  No  mudder  !  no  mud 
der  !  no,  no  ! — te-hee  !  te-hee  !" 

"  I  tort  not,"  said  Winny,  turning  to  Alice. 
"  Yer  see  we  two  haz  been  pardners  a  many 
years,  an'  I  guess  dar  aint  no  mudder  in  de 
biz'ness ;  I  neber  see  none  roun7.  Yer  didn't 
neber  hab  no  mudders,  did  ye,  Drosky  ?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  Neber  a  mudder,  gal — 
never ;  te-hee  !  te-hee  !" 

"  Is  he  so  very  deaf,  Winny  ?"  asked  Alice, 
finding  that  Winny  raised  her  voice  almost 
to  a  scream  whenever  she  addressed  her  fa 
ther. 


'34 


SALEM. 


"  Deaf  ?—  he  ?  No,  nor  blind  nuther.  I 
wish  he  wuz ;  at  his  time  o'  life  it  wild  be  a 
sight  more  respectabler-like  if  he  wuz  one 
or  t'other  o'  'um.  He  ought  to  be  'shamed 
o'  hisself,  not  to  have  no  infarmities,  an'  he 
so  awful  ole.  It  'pears  as  if  the  Lord  had 
clean  forgot  the  ole  fellow — don't  it  now  ? 
An'  'tween  you  an'  I,  Alice,  I  rather  'spect 
he  haz." 

"  Oh,  Winny,  don't  talk  so,"  said  Alice ; 
her  own  tender,  filial  feelings  toward  her 
only  relative,  her  grandmother,  making  Win- 
ny's  unfilial  disrespect  to  her  aged  parent 
seem  shocking  to  her — "  Oh  !  don't  talk  so ; 
you  would  be  so  sorry  if  he  were  to  die." 

"  Die  !  Who  die  ?  He  ?— dad  ?  Cotch 
'im  at  it ;  I'd  like  to  see  'im  do  it.  Not  he ! 
He  aint  a  goin'  to  die,  I  know.  He  don't 
want  to,  an'  he  dun'no  how  to,  if  he  did. 
He  neber  died  in  all  his  life,  an'  I  guess  he 
aint  a  goin'  to  larn  now.  He's  too  old  to 
larn  nuffin'.  He'll  neber  die ;  he  wouldn't 
know  how  to  begin." 

"  But,  Winny,"  said  Alice,  returning  to  the 
main  point  in  question,  "  do  you  think  he 
can  do  what  we  want  ?" 


ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGNS.  135 


"  I  don't  see  why  he  can't ;  for  the  mas- 
sy's  soul's  sake,  why  not  ?  But  I'll  ax  him. 
Here,  you  ole  rogue  ob  a  sinner,"  she  said,  ad 
dressing  her  parent,  "  you  kin  build  a  hen 
coop — you,  can't  yer  ?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  No,  Winny,  gal— no  !" 
tittered  the  cracked  old  voice  ;  "  I  can't 
make  no  hen-coop — te-hee  !" 

"Yer  can't?  An'  why  not  can't  yer? 
Yes,  yer  can,  too.  Why  can't  yer  ?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  Winny,  gal,  aint  got  no 
boards — can't  make  hen-coop  widout  boards 
—te-hee !  te-hee !" 

"  Lordy  !  yer  ole  fool !  we  wnz  'spectin' 
to  fin'  yer  de  boards — course  we  wuz.  Did 
yer  tink  we  'spected  yer  to  make  it  out  ob 
yer  own  ole  skin  ?  An'  if  yer  had  de  boards, 
nigger,  kin  yer  build  it  den  ?  Come,  now, 
be  smart — kin  yer  make  it  den,  say  ?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  No,  Winny,  gal ! — no, 
no !" 

"  Why  not  ?    Yes,  yer  could.     Why  not  ?" 

"  'Coz  it  takes  nails,  Winny — nails,  gal ! 
Te-hee!  te-hee!" 

"  Yer  darned  ole  fool !  An'  if  yer  had 
boards  an'  nails  —  whatever  else  wud  yer 
want  ?" 


136  SALEM. 


"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  Winny,  ole  gal,  ham 
mer  an'  saw — hammer  an7  saw — te-hee  !  te 
hee  !" 

"  Lord  sake,  yes  !  Yer'd  want  hammer 
an'  saw — ob  course  yer  wud  ;  but  if  yer  had 
dem,  kin  yer  do  it  ?" 

"  Te-hee  !  te-hee  !  Winny,  yes — yes,  I  kin, 
I  kin.  I'll  make  hen-coop  fas'  enuff." 

"  Werry  well,  den  ;  I'll  fin'  yer  all  dem 
tings.  Take  off  yer  jacket,  ole  man,  an'  'rouse 
dat  are  ole  barr'l  ob  soap  ober  dis  way,  an' 
put  it  here.  Do  yer  see,  nigger?— put  it 
here." 

Certainly  the  old  man's  strength  had  not 
diminished  with  his  size.  He  moved  the 
barrel  with  the  greatest  apparent  ease,  and 
placed  it  according  to  orders,  and  then  shov 
eled  away  the  ashes  from  the  proposed  site 
of  the  new  partition ;  and  by  the  time  these 
two  jobs  were  completed,  Winny  had  mus 
tered  the  necessary  boards,  nails,  hammer,  and 
saw.  It  was  amusing  to  Alice  to  see  the 
professional  earnestness  of  the  old  man,  as 
he  bent  the  saw  in  his  withered  hands  to 
test  its  temper,  and  tried  its  teeth  upon  his 
own  broad  thumb ;  and,  there  being  no  fault 


ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGNS. 


to  be  found  in  this  important  auxiliary,  he 
was  satisfied,  and  the  work  was  begun  in 
earnest. 

A  fair  division  of  labor  is  one  of  the  use 
ful  discoveries  of  modern  times  ;  but  if  our 
friends  had  never  heard  of  it  as  a  principle, 
they  certainly  availed  themselves  of  it  as  a 
fact.  First,  Alice,  as  the  owner,  founder,  and 
projector,  pondered  and  considered  and  de 
cided  what  she  wished  to  have  done.  She 
represented  the  theoretic  element.  Next,  the 
more  experienced  matron,  Mrs.  Campbell, 
took  her  grandchild's  crude  imaginings  into 
wise  consideration,  and  decided  how  it  was 
to  be  done.  She  was  clearly  the  practical 
member.  Next  came  Winny,  who  held  the 
highest  executive  power  ;  she  took  her  direc 
tions  from  her  mistress,  measured  and  marked 
and  adjusted  the  boards  in  their  places,  and 
showed  her  father  how  to  do  it.  And  last 
of  all  came  in  old  Drosky,  the  mechanical 
power,  who  did  the  hammering  and  sawing 
—or,  as  Winuy  pithily  phrased  it,  "  she  druv 
old  dad,  an'  dad  druv  the  nails." 

At  all  events,  they  worked  well  together, 
and  made  a  very  harmonious  quartette,  and 


138  SALEM. 


the  work  went  gayly  on.  It  is  just  possible 
that  there  may  have  been  more  noise  and 
clatter  when  the  Tow^er  of  Babel  was  run  up. 
But  then  that  was  a  more  imposing  struct 
ure,  there  were  more  people  engaged  in  it, 
and  it  was  in  the  Old  World ;  but  this  was 
pretty  well  for  a  new  country — three  wom 
en,  an  old  man,  and  a  hen-coop — and  made 
some  noise  in  the  world. 

When  the  work  was  about  half  finished, 
Alice,  who,  owning  not  a  penny  of  her  own 
in  the  wide  world,  was,  of  course,  of  a  very 
liberal  and  generous  disposition — as  penni 
less  people  usually  are — proposed  that  old 
Drosky  should  stop  and  rest,  and  have 
something  to  eat,  observing  to  Winny  that 
she  was  sure  he  must  be  tired,  and  hungry 
too. 

"  No,  he  aint — not  a  bit  ob  it,"  said  Win 
ny,  with  a  reproving  and  admonitory  wink 
of  her  eye,  and  a  shake  of  her  sagacious  old 
head  at  Alice.  "He  aint  a  mite  hungry  yet, 
yer  know,"  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  full 
in  old  Drosky's  face,  whose  hungry  eyes 
spoke  a  very  different  language.  "  You  aint 
not  a  mite  hungry  now,  nigger ;  but  I  'spects 


ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGNS. 


139 


yer  will  be  when  yer  work  is  done,  and  den 
I  'clare  I  guess  yer'll  get  sum'pen  to  eat — I 
do." 

"  Shoo  !"  she  said,  sotto-voce,  turning  to 
Alice,  "  yer  don'  know  dat  are  ole  man  as 
well  as  I  do — he's  a  mighty  powerful  han' 
to  eat.  Yer  sot  'im  at  it  now,  an'  I  guess 
yer  cocks  an'  hens  will  hev  to  stan'  roun' 
all  night  for  want  ob  a  roost  to  sot  down  on. 
Keep  'im  at  it  till  de  work's  done,  I  tell  yer, 
an'  den  stan'  clear  —  an'  you'll  see  !"  and 
Drosky  resumed  his  work  submissively  but 
regretfully.  But  at  length  the  work  was 
completed — the  partition  was  all  up;  the 
broken  hinge  of  the  door  was  replaced ;  slats 
were  put  over  the  window,  to  allow  air,  but 
not  egress ;  the  waste  ashes  were  spread  over 
the  floor,  "  to  keep  off  wermin,"  as  Winny 
explained  to  Alice ;  a  clothes-pole  was  put 
up  for  a  roost;  and  two  old  boxes,  filled 
with  hay,  were  introduced  to  offer  suggest 
ive  ideas  to  any  well-disposed  hen  who  might 
be  thriftily  inclined  to  pay  for  her  board  in 
eggs  and  chickens;  and  all  was  declared  in 
readiness  for  the  expected  tenants. 

Alice  was  delighted — but  still  more  charm- 


140 


SALEM. 


ed  was  old  Drosky.  He  went  in,  and  silent 
ly  contemplated  the  little  apartment  wTith 
intense  satisfaction;  possibly  he  was  admiring 
the  work  of  his  own  hands — more  probably 
he  was  thinking  how  superior  the  accommo 
dations  were  to  his  own;  but  he  stayed  so 
long  in  wrapt  contemplation  that  Winny 
had  to  interfere  at  last. 

"  I  'clare  fort,"  she  said,  "  I  b'liebe  dat  ole 
nigger  ob  mine  wud  jest  stay  an'  sot  in  dar 
all  night,  if  we'd  let  'im;  pity  he  could'nt 
sot  for  yer  hens,  Alice — 'twould  save  dere 
time,  an'  it's  jest  'bout  what  he's  fit  for." 
But  Winny  knew  of  a  potent  charm  suffi 
cient  to  draw  him  out. 

"  Kim  a  he'ar,  nigger,  an'  get  sum'pen  to 
eat ;"  and  the  old  man  was  at  her  heels  in  a 
moment. 

Laughingly  Alice  followed  them  to  a  table, 
which  Winny  had  improvised  out  of  two 
barrels  and  a  board  for  his  express  use. 
Here  the  indulgent  daughter  laid  out  two 
or  three  dozen  of  cold  boiled  potatoes ;  half 
a  peck  of  cold  baked  beans,  with  a  corre 
sponding  lump  of  pork ;  half  of  a  pie ;  a  loaf 
of  bread ;  a  huge  bit  of  cheese ;  a  ham-bone ; 


ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGNS. 


a  saucerful  of  pickles  ;  a  bowl  of  tea  ;  and  a 
can  of  cider. 

With  laughing  eyes,  full  of  mingled  mirth 
and  amazement,  Alice  stood  quietly  by  and 
watched  the  old  darkie  make  his  way 
through  this  heterogeneous  mass  of  food, 
with  the  celerity  and  the  apparent  ease  with 
which  an  able  mower  cuts  his  swath  through 
a  field  of  ripened  grain  ;  keeping  up  all  the 
time  an  incessant  shuffling  of  his  feet,  as  if 
that  were  some  part  of  the  machinery  by 
which  he  was  able  to  accomplish  so  much  in 
so  short  a  time;  but  when,  after  making  a 
clean  sweep  over  the  board,  he  turned  his 
wishful  eyes  upon  Winny  with  an  Oliver 
Twistical  expression,  Alice  could  not  help 
laughing.  "  He  doesn't  mean  that  he  wants 
more,  does  he,  Winny  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  laws  bress  us,  no  ;  he  tinks  he 
does  ;  but  he  dun'no.  No,  no,  nigger  !  yer 
won't  get  nuffin'  more  here  —  yer  kin  go 
home  now  an'  hav'  yer  supper." 

But  when  Alice,  furnished  with  the  money 
by  her  grandmother,  was  about  to  offer  it  to 
old  Drosky,  the  dusky  hand  of  Winny  was 
interposed.  "Hi!  hi!  Alice;  don't  yer  go 


142 


SALEM. 


to  giv'  it  to  'im — yer  giv'  it  to  me ;  he  don't 
know  nuffin'  about  money  —  I'll  take  it. 
Here,  nigger  !  here's  some  coppers  for  yer 
to  buy  'bacca  wid ;  an'  now  make  yer  man 
ners  an'  take  yerself  off — do  yer  hear  2" 

Again,  in  obedience  to  his  daughter,  the 
rani -like  butting  and  scraping  performance 
was  gone  through  with,  and  Drosky  moved 
off;  but  at  the  gate  he  paused,  looked  back 
with  admiring  eyes  at  the  work  of  his  hands, 
and  half  turned,  as  if  to  enter  the  coop  again ; 
but  his  daughter's  eye  was  upon  him ;  a  sud 
den  clapping  of  hands,  a  loud  shout — "Hist ! 
hist !  Drosky  !  tidy-man  !  tidy-man  /" — and 
poor  old  Drosky  was  off  like  a  shot,  just  as 
the  cart  drove  up  with  Goody  Nurse's  pres 
ent. 

With  great  cackling  and  squalling,  laugh 
ing  and  talking,  the  new-comers  were  re 
leased  from  their  confinement  and  introduced 
to  their  new  quarters,  where  they  went  to 
roost  at  once,  as  if  the  events  of  the  day  and 
their  unexpected  journey  had  been  almost 
too  much  for  them,  and  they  knew  that 
"  what  was  new  at  night  would  still  be  new 
in  the  morning." 


ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGNS. 


Alice  looked  in  upon  them  with  much 
pleasure  as  they  crowded  close  together,  side 
by  side,  on  the  low  roost,  and  shut  and  but 
toned  the  door  upon  them  with  a  proud  feel 
ing  of  ownership,  as  novel  to  her  as  it  was 
delightful. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE. 

"  Daring  to  shake,  with  rude,  irreverent  hands, 
From  Life's  frail  glass  the  last  slow-ebbing  sands." 

MONG  the  best  known,  most  in 
fluential,  and   widely    respected 
of  all  the  families  of  Salem  vil 
lage   was    the   large    family    of 
Francis  Nurse. 

"  Goodman,"  or  "  Grandfather,"  or  "  Land 
lord  Nurse,"  which  were  the  several  titles  of 
respect  usually  accorded  to  him,  as  the  hon 
ored  head  and  patriarch  of  his  numerous 
family  of  children  and  grandchildren,  was 
then  about  seventy-six  years  of  age. 

He  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  great 
and  acknowledged  respectability  ;  a  person 
of  much  energy  and  stability  of  character, 
and  his  judgment  was  much  relied  upon  by 
his  neighbors;  he  being  frequently  appoint- 


GOODY  REBECCA  NURSE. 


ed  to  act  the  part  of  umpire  in  disputes,  ar 
bitrator  on  conflicting  claims,  and  also  as 
committee-man  and  juror.  Goodman  Nurse 
had  been  a  mechanic  in  Salem,  but  having 
by  patient  industry  accumulated  a  little 
money,  he  removed  to  Salem  village,  where, 
in  the  year  1650,  he  purchased  the  great 
"Townsend  Bishop  Farm,"  as  it  was  termed, 
a  tract  of  about  three  hundred  acres  of  land, 
much  of  it  already  improved,  at  the  cost  of 
.£400.  He  was  at  this  time  a  fine,  hearty, 
hale,  and  vigorous  old  man  ;  his  wife,  Kebec- 
ca  Nurse,  was  about  one  year  younger  than 
himself. 

She  was  an  eminently  Christian  woman, 
full  of  good  works;  a  regular  member  of 
long  standing  in  the  mother  church  at  Sa 
lem  ;,  but  after  their  removal  to  Salem  vil 
lage,  by  reason  of  her  advanced  age  and 
consequent  frequent  infirmities,  often  a  wor 
shiper  at  the  nea'rer  church  in  the  village, 
although  never  formally  united  with  them. 
Goody  Nurse  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those 
rarely  gifted  women  who  unite  the  solid 
worth  and  excellence  of  a  deeply  religious 
character  with  the  lighter  graces  of  a  cheer- 
G 


I46  SALEM. 


t'ul  and  attractive  manner:  kind-hearted,  sin 
gle-minded,  and  free-spoken. 

This  worthy  couple  had  brought  up  a  large 
and  exemplary  family  of  children.  They  had 
four  sons — Samuel,  John,  Francis,  and  Benja 
min  ;  and  four  daughters — Kebeeca,  married 
to  Thomas  Preston  :  Mary,  the  wife  of  John 
Tarbell :  Elizabeth,  the  wife  of  William  Kus- 
sel;  and  Sarah,  then  unmarried,  but  after 
ward  .the  wife  of  Michael  Bowdon,  of  Mar- 
blehead. 

Francis  Xurse,  senior,  having  by  the  united 
industry  of  himself  and  his  children  cleared 
off  all  the  encumbrances  upon  his  large  es 
tate,  had  apportioned  it  among  his  several 
children,  reserving  a  homestead  for  himself; 
and  his  son  Samuel,  and  his  two  sons-in-law, 
Thomas  Preston  and  John  Tarbell,  had  al 
ready  established  themselves  there  near  their 
parents,  having  separate  households  and  gar 
dens  upon  the  land  thus  "conveyed  to  them 
by  their  father ;  and  a  happier,  more  united, 
or  more  respectable  family  can  hardly  be  im 
agined  than  were  the  Nurses  at  the  time  the 
great  delusion  of  witchcraft  first  broke  out. 

Thomas  Preston,  one  of  the  sons-in-law,  was 


GOODY  REBECCA    NURSE. 


147 


at  first  n  )>eliever  in  the  sufferings  of  the  "  af 
flicted  children ;"  but  many  others  of  the 
family  circle,  and  among  them  the  beloved 
and  venerable  mother,  refused  credence  to 
their  pretensions,  and  had  absented  them 
selves  from  attendance  at  the  village  church 
in  consequence  of  the  great  and  scandalous 
disturbances  which  they  created  there. 

It  is  also  noticeable  that  the  Nurse  family 
had  been  opposed  to  the  party  or  faction  who 
had  been  so  zealous  in  favor  of  Mr.  Bayley, 
the  former  minister,  and  they  had  thus  drawn 
upon  themselves  the  ill-will  of  Mrs.  Ann  Put 
nam,  who  had  been  one  of  his  most  zealous 
partisans,  and  was  now  one  of  the  most  fa 
natical  of  the  accusers. 

Mrs.  Nurse,  who  was  a  free-spoken,  active 
body,  had  taken  a  decided  part  in  these 
church  discussions :  it  is  singular  to  note  how 
in  all  parish  difficulties  the  female  portion 
are  the  most  zealous,  the  most  belligerent,  and 
the  most  vituperative.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Nurse 
had  been  free  in  the  expression  of  her  senti 
ments  upon  both  these  subjects — it  was  the 
nature  of  the  woman  to  be  so ;  and  unfriendly 
remarks  about  the  children,  any  doubt  of  the 


I48  SALEM. 


truth  of  their  statements  or  the  reality  of 
their  sufferings,  were  sure  to  be  carried  to 
them  at  once,  and  of  course  suggested  to 
them  new  victims  to  accuse  as  the  authors 
of  all  their  sufferings  and  torments. 

There  had  been  for  some  time  a  half-con 
cealed  intimation  that  some  one  more  noted 
than  any  of  the  previous  victims  was  to  be 
brought  to  justice,  and  expectation  and  fear 
were  at  their  highest,  when  at  length  it  was 
stealthily  whispered  about  that  (rood wife 
Nurse  was  suspected  and  was  to  be  cried 
out  upon. 

At  first,  of  course,  the  rumor  was  indig 
nantly  discredited ;  the  quiet,  unobtrusive 
virtues  of  the  aged,  Christian,  village  matron, 
her  well-known  charities  and  kindliness  of 
heart  setting  defiance  to  the  monstrous  charge 
against  her. 

But  day  by  day  the  rumor  grew  that  she 
was  to  be  called  out,  and  at  last  two  of  her 
personal  friends,  Israel  Porter  and  his  wife 
Elizabeth,  were  requested  to  go  to  the  Farm, 
see  Mrs.  Nurse,  and  tell  her  that  several  of 
the  afflicted  ones  had  accused  her. 

As  the  persons  thus  selected  and  sent  wese 


GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE. 


149 


her  friends,  it  would  seem  to  intimate  that 
the  painful  visit  they  were  to  make  was  un 
dertaken  in  a  friendly  spirit,  and  was  intend 
ed  to  warn  the  unsuspecting  woman  of  the 
peril  in  which  she  stood,  and  very  possibly 
they  may  have  hoped  that  she  would  take 
the  alarm  and  save  herself  by  flight. 

Entering  the  grounds,  now  all  bright  and 
smiling  in  the  new  promise  of  their  spring 
beauty,  the  anxious  friends  reached  the  house, 
which  was  then  regarded  as  a  spacious  and 
elegant  one;  it  had  once  been  the  abode  of 
some  of  the  choicest  and  best  spirits  in  New 
England  —  here  Bishop  had  spent  his  wealth 
to  beautify  the  spot,  and  here  he  and  Chick- 
ering  and  Ingersoll  had  exercised  the  rites 
of  liberal  and  elegant  hospitality ;  and  now 
it  was  the  happy  home  of  an  honest  and  pros 
perous  family. 

Entering,  they  found  the  venerable  and 
unsuspecting  hostess  in  her  usual  place.  She 
welcomed  them  gladly,  with  all  her  wonted 
friendly  hospitality;  although,  as  she  told 
them  in  answer  to  their  inquiry,  in  a  rather 
weak  and  low  condition,  having  been  sick 
and  confined  to  the  house  for  nearly  a  week 


150  SALEM. 


Then  they  asked  how  it  was  with  her 
otherwise.  To  which  the  patient,  cheer 
ful-hearted  old  Christian  replied,  "that  she 
blessed  God  for  it,  that  she  had  had  more  of 
his  presence  in  this  sickness  than  at  some 
other  times,  but  not  so  much  as  she  desired ; 
but  she  would,  with  the  apostle,  l  press  for 
ward  to  the  mark,' "  with  other  passages 
from  Scripture  to  the  like  purpose.  This 
was  not  the  cant  of  a  hypocritical  piety — it 
was  the  common  mode  of  expression  among 
Christian  believers  in  those  times;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  her  religious  beliefs  and  the 
natural  buoyancy  of  her  spirits  kept  her 
up  under  the  weight  of  her  years  and  in 
firmities. 

After  a  little  conversation  relative  to  per 
sonal  and  domestic  matters,  such  as  is  usual 
among  friendly  neighbors,  she  naturally  and 
of  her  own  accord  alluded  to  the  great  afflic 
tion  which  had  broken  out  among  them,  and 
which  was  of  course  the  most  common  sub 
ject  of  conversation. 

She  spoke  very  kindly  of  Mr.  Parris's  fam 
ily,  and  said  she  was  much  grieved  for  them, 
but  she  had  not  been  to  see  them  because 


GOODY  REBECCA  NURSE. 


she  had  once  been  subject  to  fits  herself,  and 
she  did  not  wish  to  see  them,  as  people  told 
her  their  sufferings  were  awful  to  witness ; 
that  she  pitied  them  with  all  her  heart,  and 
had  prayed  to  God  for  them;  but  she  had 
heard  that  there  were  some  persons  accused 
whom  she  fully  believed  were  as  innocent 
as  she  was  herself. 

After  a  little  more  conversation  of  this 
sort,  the  visitors  told  her  that  they  had  heard 
a  report  that  she  too  had  been  spoken  against. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  it  be  so,  the  will  of 
the  Lord  be  done." 

Then  for  a  while  she  sat  perfectly  still, 
as  if  utterly  amazed  at  what  she  had  heard 
—and  well  she  might  be.  The  mind  of  the 
aged  and  saintly  woman  could  not  admit  the 
fact;  it  was  all  too  unnatural  —  too  mon 
strous — that  her  good  name  could  be  thus 
vilely  traduced. 

How  could  she  for  a  moment  believe  that 
her  own  neighbors,  whom  she  had  loved  and 
befriended — that  the  members  of  the  church 
where  she  had  worshiped — would  listen  to 
such  a  horrible  accusation. 

After  a  little  silent  reflection,  and  doubt- 


152 


SALEM. 


less  an  inward  prayer,  the  poor  woman  said, 
sadly,  "Well,  as  to  this  thing,  I  am  as  inno 
cent  as  the  child  unborn.  But  surely,"  she 
added,  "what  sin  hath  God  found  out  in 
me,  unrepented  of,  that  he  should  lay  such 
a  heavy  affliction  upon  me  in  my  old  age  ?" 

The  pious  and  loving  old  woman,  the 
mother,  grandmother,  and  great-grandmoth 
er  of  a  large  and  affectionate  family,  made 
no  attempt  to  escape  or  evade  her  enemies, 
as  she  might  possibly  even  then  have  done ; 
but  fully  conscious  of  her  own  integrity,  and 
with  a  heart  full  of  love  and  good -will  to 
others,  she  felt  sure  her  friends,  her  towns 
people,  and  her  fellow- worshipers  would  jus 
tify  and  defend  her. 

But  her  inexorable  fate  was  hurrying 
along;  and  on  the  23d  of  March  a  warrant 
was  duly  issued  against  her  on  the  com 
plaint  of  Edward  and  Jonathan  Putnam; 
and  on  the  next  morning,  at  eight  o'clock, 
she  was  arrested — torn,  sick  and  feeble  as 
she  was,  from  the  clinging  arms  of  her  weep 
ing  daughters  and  indignant  husband  and 
sons,  and  brought  up  for  examination  by  the 
marshal,  George  Herrick, 


GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE. 


153 


At  this  time,  it  would  seem  that,  though 
many  accusations  had  been  made,  and  sever 
al,  after  undergoing  a  preliminary  examina 
tion,  had  been  committed,  there  had  been  no 
actual  trials,  and,  of  course,  no  convictions 
or  condemnations;  consequently  it  may  be 
that  the  prisoner  and  her  friends,  although 
fully  alive  to  the  disgrace  and  obloquy  of 
such  a  charge,  did  not  realize  the  awful  peril 
of  death  in  which  she  was  now  standing. 

It  was  bitterness  enough  that,  sick  and 
feeble  as  she  was  in  health,  infirm  and  aged, 
she  was  taken  all  unprepared  from  her  quiet 
and  comfortable  home,  and  the  tender  care 
of  her  devoted  husband  and  children,  upon 
a  charge  so  utterly  unfounded,  and  subject 
ed  to  an  examination  so  harrowing  and  so 
disgraceful. 

The  preliminary  examination  of  this  ven 
erable  "Mother  in  Israel"  took  place  at  once 
in  the  village  meeting-house,  the  magistrate 
Hathorne  commencing  the  proceedings,  mak 
ing  himself  the  mouthpiece  of  the  assembly; 
and  it  is  noticeable  all  through  these  ex 
aminations  that  Hathorne,  full  of  zeal,  took 
an  active  and  prominent  part  in  them,  al= 
G  2 


J54 


SALEM. 


most  assuming  the  office  of  prosecuting  of 
ficer,  while  his  brother  magistrate,  Justice 
Corwin,  although  present,  and  signing  the 
commitments,  seems  to  have  been  a  silent, 
passive,  and  almost  unwilling  agent  in  the 
affair;  so  evidently  was  this  the  case,  that 
his  lukewarmness  excited  the  displeasure  of 
the  accusing  girls,  and  they  made  several 
attempts  to  cry  out  against  members  of  his 
family. 

Hathorne  began  in  this  case  by  address 
ing  one  of  the  afflicted  ones : 

"What  do  you  say?  Have  you  seen  this 
woman  hurt  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  beat  me  this  morning." 

"Abigail,  have  you  been  hurt  by  this 
woman  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

Here  Ann  Putnam  had  a  terrible  fit,  and 
cried  out  that  it  was  Rebecca  Nurse  who 
was  afflicting  her.  When  Ann's  fit  was 
over,  and  order  restored  in  court,  Hathorne 
continued : 

"  Goody  Nurse,  here  are  two  who  com 
plain  of  you  as  hurting  them ;  what  do  you 
say  to  it?" 


GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE. 


"  I  can  say,  before  my  Eternal  Father,  I  am 
innocent  ;  and  God  will  clear  my  innocency." 

Hathorne  was  apparently  touched  for  the 
time  by  her  language  and  bearing,  and  said 
to  her  : 

"  Here  is  never  a  one  in  the  assembly  but 
desires  it  ;  but  if  you  be  guilty,  pray  God 
discover  you." 

The  prisoner  again  affirmed  her  innocence, 
asserting  in  answer  to  the  charge  of  hurting 
any  one,  that  she  had  been  sick,  and  not  out 
of  doors  for  some  days. 

This  simple  statement  seemed  to  awaken 
a  doubt  of  her  being  guilty  in  the  mind  of 
the  magistrate,  and  the  popular  feeling  seem 
ed  turning  in  her  favor,  when  the  wife  of 
Thomas  Putnam  —  who  had  an  old  grudge 
against  her  on  account  of  her  opposition  to 
Mr.  Bayley,  and  whose  wild,  passionate  ex 
citement  carried  her  beyond  the  control  of 
her  reason  —  suddenly  cried  out  with  a  loud 
voice  : 

"  Did  you  not  bring  the  black  man  with 
you?  Did  you  not  bid  me  tempt  God  and 
die?  How  often  have  you  eat  and  drank 
your  own  damnation  ?" 


156  SALEM. 


This  sudden  and  terrible  charge,  uttered 
with  frantic  cries  and  vehement  gesticula 
tions,  roused  the  listening  multitude  to  hor 
ror.  Even  the  prisoner  herself  seemed  to 
be  shocked  at  the  woman's  evident  madness, 
and,  raising  her  hands  to  heaven,  she  fervent 
ly  ejaculated — "  Oh,  Lord  !  help  me,  help 
me!" 

Upon  this  all  the  afflicted  children  were 
tormented;  and  when  all  this  various  tu-' 
rntilt  had  subsided,  Hathorne  again  address 
ed  the  .prisoner : 

"  Do  you  not  see  what  a  solemn  condition 
these  are  in,  that  -when  your  hands  are  loosed 
they  are  afflicted  ?" 

Then  Mary  Walcott  and  Elizabeth  Hub- 
bard  accused  her,  but  she  answered : 

"  The  Lord  knows  I  have  not  hurt  them ; 
I  am  an  innocent  person." 

Then  Hathorne  continued : 

"  It  is  very  awful  to  see  all  these  agonies ; 
and  you,  an  old  professor,  thus  charged  with 
contracting  with  the  devil  by  the  effects  of 
it ;  and  yet  to  see  you  stand  with  dry  eyes, 
when  there  are  so  many  wet." 

It  was  considered  one  proof  of  a  witch 


GOODY  REBECCA  NURSE. 


that  she  could  not  shed  tears,  and  to  this 
she  said,  "  You  do  not  know  my  heart." 

Hathorne  continued:  "You  would  do 
well,  if  you  are  guilty,  to  confess,  and  give 
glory  to  God." 

"I  am  innocent,"  she  replied,  "  as  the  child 
unborn." 

Then  he  told  her  that  they  charged  her 
with  having  familiar  spirits  come  to  her  bod 
ily  person  then  and  there,  and  asked  her  : 

"  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  I  have  none,  sir." 

"If  you  have,  confess,  and  give  glory  to 
God.  I  pray  God  clear  you  if  you  be  inno 
cent,  and  if  you  are  guilty,  discover  you; 
and  therefore  give  me  an  upright  answer: 
Have  you  any  familiarity  with  these  spir 
its?" 

"  No,  I  have  none  ;  but  with  God  alone." 

At  this  point  it  seems  as  if  the  magistrate 
began  to  waver  as  to  her  guilt  ;  after  ques 
tioning  her  upon  many  other  things,  he 
seems  almost  convinced  of  her  innocence. 

"  You  do  know,"  he  said,  "  whether  you 
are  guilty,  and  have  familiarity  with  the 
devil;  these  testify  that  there  is  a  black 


158 


SALEM. 


man  whispering  in  your  ear,  and  birds  about 
you ;  what  do  you  say  to  it  ?" 

"That  it  is  all  false;  I  am  clear." 

"Possibly  you  may  apprehend  you  are  no 
witch;  but  have  you  not  been  led  aside  by 
temptations  in  that  way  2" 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"  Have  you  not  had  visible  appearances, 
more  than  what  is  common  in  nature  ?" 

"  I  have  none ;  nor  ever  had  in  my  life." 

"  Do  you  think  these  suffer  voluntarily  or 
involuntarily  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell." 

".That  is  strange ;  every  one  can  judge." 

"  I  must  be  silent." 

"They  accuse  you  of  hurting  them,  and 
you  think  it  is  not  unwillingly,  but  by  de 
sign;  you  must  then  look  upon  them  as 
murderers." 

"  I  can  not  tell  what  to  think  of  it." 

This  last  answer  was  considered  as  equiv 
alent  to  calling  them  murderers;  but  this 
she  denied,  saying  that  being  a  little  hard 
of  hearing  she  did  not  quite  understand  the 
question,  and  had  meant  only  to  say  that  she 
could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  their  conduct. 


GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE.  759 

"Do  you  think  that  these  suffer  against 
their  wills,  or  not  ?' 

"  I  do  not  think  they  suffer  against  their 
wills." 

"  But  why  did  you  never  go  to  see  these 
afflicted  persons  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  afraid  I  should  have  fits 
too." 

Upon  every  motion  of  the  prisoner's  body 
the  children  had  fits,  upon  which  Hathorne 
said: 

"  Is  it  not  an  unaccountable  thing  that 
when  you  are  examined  these  persons  are 
afflicted?" 

Seeing  that  he  and  all  the  others  believed 
in  her  accusers,  her  only  reply  to  this  was : 

"I  have  nobody  to  look  to — but  God." 

As  she  said  this  she  naturally  attempted 
to  raise  her  hands,  upon  which  the  afflicted 
ones  were  taken  with  great  fits. 

When  order  was  again  restored  after  all 
this  tumult,  the  examiner  continued : 

"Do  you  believe  these  afflicted  persons 
are  bewitched  ?" 

"  I  do  think  they  are." 

Goody  Nurse  was  a  clear-minded  but  un- 


160  SALEM. 


educated  woman ;  she  held  the  common  opin 
ion  of  her  times — she  believed  in  witchcraft, 
and  was  willing  to  allow  that  the  children 
were  bewitched ;  but  she  knew  her  own  in 
nocence,  and  she  only  asserted  that  and  said, 
"  Would  you  have  me  belie  myself?" 

At  length — being  old,  sick,  and  feeble, 
worn  out  both  in  mind  and  body,  and  wea 
ried  with  all  she  had  thus  undergone  in  this 
long  examination — the  poor  woman's  head 
drooped  in  very  weakness ;  and  at  once,  to 
the  consternation  of  the  court  and  specta 
tors,  the  necks  of  all  the  children  were  bent 
in  the  same  way. 

Elizabeth  Hubbard's  neck  appeared  fixed, 
and  could  not  be  moved,  and  Abigail  Will 
iams  cried  out : 

"  Set  up  Goody  Nurse's  head,  or  the  maid's 
neck  will  be  broke ;"  whereupon  some  one 
holding  up  the  prisoner's  head,  the  neck  of 
the  other  was  righted  at  once. 

Then  the  Rev.  Mr.  Parris  read  aloud  a 
declaration  of  what  Thomas  Putnam's  wife 
had  said  while  in  her  fits — that  the  appari 
tion  of  Goody  Nurse  had  come  to  her  at  sev 
eral  times,  and  had  horribly  tortured  her; 
and  then  Hathorne  asked  her : 


GOODY  REBECCA  NURSE.  161 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?" 

"  I  can  not  help  it ;  the  devil  may  appear 
in  my  shape." 

At  the  close  of  this  long  and  most  one 
sided  examination,  where  all  the  power  and 
subtlety  were  with  the  examiner,  and  the 
unfortunate  prisoner  stood  alone  and  unsup 
ported,  she  was  committed  to  Salem  jail  to 
await  further  examination ;  and  there,  doubt 
less,  in  common  with  all  the  others  commit 
ted  on  the  same  charge,  she  was  put  in 
chains. 

All  this  time  the  prevailing  excitement 
was  artfully  heightened  and  kept  up  by 
lectures  and  sermons  by  Mr.  Parris  and  Mr. 
Lawson,  in  which,  by  ingenious  and  labo 
rious  research  of  both  the  Old  and  New  Tes 
tament  histories,  they  proved  and  enlarged 
upon  the  nature  and  evidences  of  witch 
craft. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  week  preparations 
were  made  to  renew  operations,  and  to  at 
tempt  to  give  to  them  a  new  and  more  com 
manding  character ;  and,  as  new  complaints 
were  constantly  being  made,  new  arrests 
were  issued,  and  the  marshal  received  orders 


SALEM. 


to  bring  his  prisoners  into  the  meeting-house 
in  Salem  on  April  eleventh. 

This  was  not  to  be  an  examination  before 
the  two  local  magistrates,  as  the  others  had 
been,  but  before  the  highest  legal  tribunal 
in  the  colony — the  Honorable  Thomas  Dan- 
forth,  deputy  governor,  and  his  council  be 
ing  present. 

But  we  do  not  propose  to  give  the  details 
of  these  trials ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
consummate  tact  and  boldness  of  the  accus 
ing  girls  deluded  every  body. 

No  necromancers  have  ever  surpassed  them 
in  sleight -of -hand  and  simulation.  It  has 
been  said  that  in  their  strange  performances, 
in  which  they  had  now  perfected  themselves 
by  long  practice,  they  equaled  the  ancient 
sorcerers  and  magicians.  Of  their  fearful 
blasphemies,  the  horrible  inventions,  the 
monstrous  fancies  of  the  devil-worship,  the 
fiendish  sacraments,  and  other  revolting  rit 
ual  of  which  they  accused  their  victims,  we 
can  only  say  that,  while  it  was  fully  cal 
culated  to  produce  an  overwhelming  effect 
upon  minds  so  imbued  with  a  belief  in  all 
the  superstitions  of  those  days,  they  are  to 


GOODY  REBECCA  NURSE. 


us,  in  our  more  enlightened  age,  simply  too 
tedious  and  revolting  to  be  transcribed  upon 
our  pages  ;  and  while  we  wonder  at  the 
marvelous  dexterity  of  the  girls  in  their  per 
formances,  the  principal  interest  for  us  is  de 
rived  from  the  evidence  they  give,  that  all 
this  fearful  imagery  was  beyond  the  inven 
tion  of  youthful  minds,  and  reveal  the  fact 
that  some  older  and  more  experienced  hand 
was  moving  unseen  behind  them. 

At  the  close  of  this  examination,  Mrs.  Nurse 
and  five  others  were  fully  committed  for  trial, 
and  were  sent  to  Boston  jail  for  safe  keep 
ing. 

The  court  met  again  June  29th,  and  Mrs. 
Nurse  was  put  upon  trial  ;  but  the  charac 
ter  of  the  venerable  old  woman  was  too  well 
known  not  to  have  created  many  friends  ; 
time  had  given  rise  to  reflection,  and  many 
persons,  who  had  believed  in  other  cases, 
paused,  and  hesitated  to  believe  her  guilty  ; 
and  many,  who  had  been  silent  through  fear, 
now  came  forward  boldly  in  her  defense. 
Testimonials  of  her  moral  worth  and  un 
blemished  character  were  got  up  and  signed 
by  persons  of  the  highest  respectability,  and 


SALEM. 


among  these  names  appears  that  of  Jonathan 
Putnam,  one  of  the  very  men  who  had  pro 
cured  the  warrant  against  her. 

So  deeply  were  the  jurors  impressed  with 
the  proofs  of  the  virtue  and  Christian  excel 
lence  of  her  character,  that,  in  spite  of  the 
clamors  of  the  spectators,  the  monstrous 
charges  brought  against  her  by  the  accus 
ers,  and  even  the  plain  leaning  of  the  court 
against  her,  they  brought  in  their  verdict  of 
"Not  guilty." 

But  immediately  all  the  accusers  in  court, 
and  shortly  after  all  the  afflicted  out  of  the 
court,  made  a  great  and  hideous  outcry,  to 
the  amazement  not  only  of  the  many  specta 
tors,  but  of  the  court  itself. 

One  of  the  judges  expressed  himself  as 
not  being  fully  satisfied;  another  of  them 
said  that  they  would  have  her  indicted 
anew;  and  the  chief  justice  intimated  to  the 
jury  that  they  had  not  well  considered  one 
expression  used  by  the  prisoner. 

This  induced  the  jury  to  ask  leave  to  go 
out  again,  and  reconsider  their  verdict. 

The  point  in  question  was  this,  that  when 
one  of  the  accused,  who  had  confessed  to  be- 


GOODY  REBECCA   NURSE.  165 

ing  a  witch  (as  several  of  the  poor  creatures 
were  induced  to  do,  in  hope  of  thus  making 
their  escape  from  death),  was  brought  up  as 
a  witness  against  her,  Goody  Nurse  had  said, 
"  Why  do  you  bring  her  ?  She  is  one  of  us." 
The  foreman  of  the  jury  afterward  stated 
that,  upon  considering  this  point,  he  could 
not  tell  what  to  make  of  her  words — "  she  is 
one  of  us;"  that  he  had  returned  to  the 
court  and  stated  his  doubts;  and  that  the 
prisoner,  being  still  at  the  bar,  she  gave  no 
reply  or  explanation,  which  made  the  words 
seem  strong  evidence  against  her  (as  if  by 
them  she  acknowledged  that  she  was  one  of 
the  avowed  witches). 

The  foreman  having  thus  stated  the  case, 
and  receiving  no  reply  or  explanation  of  the 
words  from  the  prisoner,  returned  to  the 
jury,  who  thereupon  reconsidered  their  vote, 
and  brought  in  a  second  verdict  of  "  Guilty," 
upon  which  she  was  condemned,  and  sen 
tenced  to  be  hanged  upon  the  coming  19th 
of  July. 

When  the  prisoner  was  afterward  inform 
ed  of  this  question,  she  explained  her  mean 
ing  to  have  been  simply  this,  that  the  wit- 


1 66  SALEM. 


ness  in  question,  being  herself  one  of  "the  pris 
oners,  she  did  not  think  her  evidence  ought 
to  be  taken  against  her  fellow-prisoners; 
but  that  being  hard  of  hearing,  and  also 
full  of  grief  and  terror,  she  did  not  under 
stand  the  meaning  given  to  her  words ;  and 
no  one  informing  her  how  the  matter  stood, 
she  had  no  chance  to  explain.  Even  after 
her  condemnation,  the  governor  saw  cause 
to  grant  her  a  reprieve;  but  the  accusers 
made  such  an  outcry  that  he  was  induced 
to  recall  it. 

"  In  a  capital  case,"  says  the  careful  histo 
rian  from  whom  we  have  gathered  some  of 
these  facts,  "  the  court  often  refuses  the  ver 
dict  of  '  guilty,'  but  rarely  sends  a  jury  out 
to  reconsider  one  of l  not  guilty.' ': 


CHAPTER  X. 

EXCOMMUNICA  TION. 

•None  shall  weep  for  thee — none  shall  pray  for  thee; 

Never  a  parting  psalm  be  sung; 
Never  a  priest  shall  point  death's  way  for  thee, 

Never  a  passing  bell  be  rung." 

FTER  the  fearful  sentence  had 
been  pronounced,  Mrs.  Nurse  was 
again  taken  to  Salem  jail,  and 
there  kept,  loaded  with  chains 
and  bound  with  cords,  until  her  execution, 
it  seeming  to  be  the  general  belief  that  more 
restraint  was  needed  for  witches  than  for  any 
other  criminals. 

But  a  new  affliction  was  preparing  for  the 
aged  and  suffering  Christian. 

Upon  the  3d  of  July,  in  the  morning  of 
the  Sabbath-day,  at  the  close  of  the  services, 
after  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  had 
been  administered,  it  was  propounded  by 
the  elders,  and  unanimously  consented  to  by 


l68  SALEM. 


the  Church  members  (by  those  who  had  just 
been  commemorating  the  love  of  Him  who 
died  for  sinners),  that  Sister  Rebecca  Nurse 
being  a  convicted  witch,  and  by  sentence  of 
the  court  condemned  to  die,  she  should  be 
excommunicated  by  the  Church ;  and  this 
was  accordingly  done  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  same  day. 

Can  the  imagination  picture  any  thing 
more  revolting  to  all  good  feeling  ?  At  the 
very  time  when  she  stood  most  in  need  of 
the  prayers  and  support  of  her  Christian 
friends  and  fellow-worshipers,  she  was  to  be 
ruthlessly  struck  out  of  their  communion, 
denied  their  sympathy,  and  cast  off,  reviled, 
and  contemned  by  those  in  whose  devotions 
she  had  so  often  taken  a  part. 

Of  course,  this  intended  ceremonial  was 
widely  made  known.  The  great  meeting 
house  in  Salem  was  crowded  to  its  utmost 
capacity,  in  every  nook  and  corner ;  the  two 
ministers,  or  "ruling  elders,"  as  they  were 
then  termed,  Mr.  Higginson  and  Mr.  Noyes, 
were  both  in  the  pulpit;  the  deacons  and 
other  elders  all  in  their  places,  when  the 
sheriff  and  the  constables  brought  in  their 


EXCOMMUNICA  TION.  1 69 

prisoner,  heavily  manacled  and  bound  with 
cords,  and  placed  her  in  the  broad  aisle. 

Then  the  Rev.  Mr.  Noyes,  rising  like  an  ac 
cusing  spirit,  pronounced  upon  her  the  stern 
and  awful  sentence  of  the  Church,  which 
was  then  regarded  as  not  only  excluding 
her  from  the  Church  on  earth,  but  as  closing 
against  her  the  very  gates  of  heaven.  Be 
lieving  she  had  already  transferred  her  alle 
giance  to  the  devil,  he  then  and  there  form 
ally  made  her  over,  body  and  soul,  to  the 
great  enemy  forever  and  ever. 

How  the  noble  but  grief-stricken  old 
woman  met  this  new  and  most  appalling 
stroke  of  refined  cruelty,  neither  history  nor 
tradition  has  told  us — but  it  were  needless. 
Our  own  hearts  can  reproduce  the  terrible 
picture.  We  can  almost  see  her  aged  form,- 
as  with  slow  and  fettered  steps  she  passed  up 
the  accustomed  aisle,  with  the  stern* guard 
ians  of  the  law  on  either  side  of  her,  the 
hushed  and  awe-smitten  crowd  shrinking 
away  from  the  pollution  of  her  touch. 

We  can  see  the  dim,  sad  eyes  turning 
their  piteous  gaze  from  side  to  side,  hoping 
to  catch  one  glance  of  love  or  sympathy  or 
H 


I70  SALE  AT. 


pil^y.  In  vain.  If  pity  or  sympathy  were 
there,  only  the  bowed  head  and  averted  face 
manifested  it.  In  that  dark  hour,  like  her 
Master,  "  the  Man  of  sorrows,"  she  stood  for 
saken  and  alone.  We  can  see  the  quivering 
of  her  whole  frame,  as  the  stern,  terrible 
words  fall  upon  her  clouded  hearing,  and 
see  her  waver  and  shrink  and  totter,  as  if 
the  summer  thunder-bolt  had  blasted  her. 
It  is  but  for  a  moment :  the  weak  woman  has 
faltered — but  the  believing  disciple  stands 
firm  again ;  she  knows  in  whom  she  has  be 
lieved — she  knows  that  her  "Redeemer  liv- 
eth;"  and  trusting  in  his  love  and  power, 
she,  who  has  meekly  followed  his  example 
through  life,  follows  it  even  now.  We  see 
her  fold  her  fettered  arms  across  her  submis 
sive  breast,  as,  raising  her  dim  eyes  to  heav 
en,  she  faintly  murmurs,  in  his  own  words, 
"  Father,  forgive  them ;  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do." 

When  this  mockery  of  religion  on  the 
part  of  the  Church  was  over,  she  was  again 
taken  to  Salem  jail,  where  she  remained  until 
the  19th  of  July,  when  she  was  hung  at  Gal- 
low's  Hill. 


EXCOMMUNICA  TION.  T  7 1 

There  seem  to  be  two  distinct  sources  from 
which  we  are  permitted  to  see  a  beautiful 
and  softening  light  thrown  over  the  tragical 
horrors  of  this  dark  picture  of  fanatical  per 
secution.  The  one  is  the  calm,  unwavering 
constancy,  and  the  unbending  fortitude  of 
the  sufferer  herself — aged  even  beyond  the 
allotted  "threescore  years  and  ten,"  infirm 
of  health,  suffering  still  from  the  effects  of  a 
recent  illness  and  her  long  and  rigorous 
confinement — no  persecution  could  break 
down  her  trust  in  God,  or  her  assurance 
of  her  own  innocence  and  integrity  of 
heart. 

She  was  urged  by  her  enemies  to  confess 
her  guilt,  and  she  well  knew  that  only  by 
confession  could  she  hope  to  save  herself 
from  the  horrors  of  an  impending  and  igno 
minious  death ;  but  she  repelled  them  with 
scorn :  "  Would  you  have  me  belie  myself?" 
and  their  threats  had  no  power  to  move 
her. 

No  doubt  some  of  her  family  or  friends, 
seeing  her  thus  in  mortal  peril,  may,  in  their 
loving  earnestness,  have  importuned  her  to 
the  same  course;  but,  if  so,  she  was  proof 


172 


SALEM. 


against  their  affectionate  pleadings.  Life 
was  pleasant  to  her,  indeed — home  and  its 
loving  endearments  had  never  seemed  so 
sweet ;  but  more  precious  still  was  the  im 
mortal  soul,  which  put  its  faith  in  God,  and 
knew  its  own  integrity.  What  to  her  were 
her  few  remaining  days  of  the  life  on  earth, 
that  she  should  barter  for  them  the  blessed 
hopes  of  the  life  eternal? — and  she  stood 
firm. 

The  other  beautiful  and  mitigating  circum 
stance  is  the  deep  love  and  unwavering  trust 
of  her  husband  and  children.  They  never 
doubted  or  forsook  her.  Day  after  day, 
early  and  late,  braving  the  scoffs  of  the  jeer 
ing  and  reviling  crowd,  they  were  at  the 
prison,  cheering  her  by  the  assurance  of  their 
unshaken  love  and  trust,  and  supporting  her 
by  their  tender  ministrations.  They  left  no 
means  unessayed  for  her  vindication  :  they 
put  in  new  evidence ;  they  got  up  petitions, 
testimonials,  and  remonstrances;  they  walk 
ed  beside  her  to  the  place  of  execution, 
cheering  and  sustaining  her  to  the  last  by 
the  assurances  of  their  unabated  and  devoted 
love;  and  when  all  was  over,  at  the  risk  of 


EXCOMMUNICA  TION. 


173 


their  own  lives,  they  obtained  the  dishonor 
ed  but  beloved  remains,  and  privately  and 
by  night  gave  them  tender  and  reverent  bur 
ial  in  their  own  land,  where  they  rest  to 
this  day  at  peace  among  her  kindred. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  MERCHANT'S   WIFE. 
"I  call  her  angel— but  he  called  her  wife." 


3j/"T  was  in  Salem,  at  noon,  on  Saturday, 


IP 

and   the   court,  which    held   its  ses 


sions  in  the  great  First  Church  on 
Essex  Street,  had  just  risen  and  ad 
journed  to  the  coming  week,  when  Justice 
Jonathan  Corwin,  leaving  the  heated  and  op 
pressive  air  of  the  court-room  (oppressive  at 
once  to  mind  and  body),  passed  with  slow, 
dignified  steps,  thoughtfully  depressed  head, 
and  arms  crossed  behind  him,  down  Essex 
Street,  to  a  large  house  then  standing  upon 
the  site  of  the  present  market-place  in  Derby 
Square,  and  occupied  by  the  Honorable  Col 
onel  William  Browne. 

Entering  unannounced,  with  the  familiar 
air  of  a  frequent  and  ever  welcome  guest,  he 
passed  through  the  hall  which  divided  the 


THE  MERCHANTS   WIFE.  175 

house,  and  opening  the  glass  doors  which 
closed  it  at  its  lower  extremity,  came  out 
upon  a  vine-shaded  porch  or  veranda,  which 
ran  across  a  portion  of  the  southern  or  back 
part  of  the  house.  Below  the  wTide,  easy 
steps  spread  the  flower-garden,  now  bright  in 
all  the  radiance  of  its  summer  hues ;  and  at 
the  extremity  of  the  little  flowery  domain, 
the  quiet,  blue  waters  of  "Browne's  Cove" 
were  rippling  and  flashing  in  the  sunny 
light. 

Upon  a  straight,  high-backed  chair  in  this 
cool  and  shady  seclusion  sat  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Browne,  the  mistress  of  the  establishment, 
still  a  fair  and  graceful  matron,  although 
now  past  the  earlier  bloom  and  freshness  of 
her  youthful  beauty. 

She  was  richly  and  becomingly  dressed, 
after  the  rather  gorgeous  fashion  of  the  day. 
A  loosely  fitting  negligee  of  rich  satin,  of  that 
peculiar  shade  of  lilac-pink  which  we  so  oft 
en  see  in  Copley's  matchless  portraits,  was 
worn  over  a  pale  sea-green  petticoat  of 
quilted  silk,  and  fell  in  sheeny  folds  to  the 
ground.  The  dress  was  cut  low  and  open 
in  front,  leaving  her  neck  partially  bare,  and 


1 76  SALEM. 


so  were  her  white  arms  to  the  elbow  :  but 
both  neck  and  arms  were  shaded  and  relieved 
by  wide  ruffles  of  the  costliest  lace.  Her 
soft  and  still  abundant  dark  hair  was  drawn 
off  from  her  brow,  and  combed  over  a  crape 
cushion — much  as  modern  taste  dictates  to 
its  votaries  of  the  present  day — and  being 
gathered  into  a  clasp  or  band  at  the  back  of 
the  head,  the  ends  were  suffered  to  flow  in 
loose,  waving  curls  over  her  neck  and  shoul 
ders.  A  string  of  large  pearls,  clasped  close 
ly  around  her  slender  throat,  and  a  brill 
iant  pin  at  the  knot  of  ribbons  at  the  top 
of  her  bodice  (or  stomacher,  as  it  was  term 
ed),  connected  by  a  glittering  chain  to  the 
massive  gold  watch  and  equipage  at  her 
side,  were  the  common  ornaments  which 
marked  her  rank  in  life,  at  a  period  when  fe 
male  domestics  were  not  accustomed  to  out 
shine  their  mistresses  in  extravagance  of 
dress  and  demeanor. 

We  have  said  that  she  was  no  longer  in 
extreme  youth,  but  the  fair  face  was  still 
smooth  and  delicately  tinted;  and  time,  which 
had  added  thoughtfulness  to  the  open  brow, 
and  penetration  to  the  deep,  darkly  lustrous 


THE  MERCHANT'S   WIFE. 


eyes,  smiling  beneath  their  finely  arched 
brows,  had  left  unimpaired  the  almost  child 
like  tenderness  of  the  sweet  lips. 

"  Good-morning,  Sister  Browne,"  said  the 
brother,  stepping  out  upon  the  veranda,  and 
bending  over  her  with  the  stately  courtesy 
of  the  times,  he  pressed  a  light  kiss  upon 
her  fair,  round  cheek. 

"  Good-morning,  Jonathan,"  responded  the 
matron,  offering  her  hand  in  hospitable  greet 


ing. 


"  Husband  not  come  home  yet,  Hannah  ?" 
inquired  the  visitor. 

"Not  yet,"  she  replied.  "The  colonel  is 
later  than  usual  very  often  nowadays.  They 
are  about  fitting  out  two  of  their  vessels, 
and  my  husband  is  often  detained  at  the 
store  quite  beyond  the  usual  hour.  The 
times  are  so  out  of  joint  at  present  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  procure  the  necessary 
labor.  Every  body  seems  to  be  taken  out 
of  themselves,  and  all  work  is  neglected,  while 
these  terrible  trials  are  occupying  all  minds." 

Judge  Corwin  made  no  answer,  but  lounged 
carelessly  up  to  a  little  table  at  the  back 
of  the  veranda,  which  held  a  massive  silver 
H2 


i78 


SALEM. 


punch -bowl,  richly  chased  round  the  brim 
with  a  pattern  of  roses  and  lilies  of  natural 
size.  This  bowl  stood  upon  a  salver  of  the 
same  costly  material  and  workmanship — a 
wreath  of  corresponding  roses  and  lilies  be 
ing  enchased  round  the  outer  border.  He 
lifted  the  heavy  silver  ladle,  with  the  family 
arms  richly  engraved  upon  the  handle,  and 
dipping  up  a  very  moderate  portion  of  the 
lemon-punch,  which  was  then  the  common  and 
uncriticised  noonday  beverage  of  gentlemen, 
he  put  it  into  one  of  the  tall  glasses,  whose 
slender  stems  were  curiously  enriched  with  a 
white  spiral  substance  artfully  blown  into 
the  glass,  which  stood  in  readiness  to  receive 
it ;  took  a  sip,  and  then  returning,  glass  in 
hand,  drew  a  chair  and  seated  himself  near 
his  sister,  who  had  now  quietly  resumed  her 
embroidery. 

"You  certainly  do  brew  better  punch 
than  any  body  else,  Sister  Hannah,"  he  said, 
approvingly.  "I  do  not  get  it  nearly  so 
good  at  my  own  house  as  you  make  it." 

"  That  may  be  because  I  make  it  by  the 
old  home  receipt,"  said  Mrs.  Browne,  smiling. 
"I  make  it  just  as  I  used  to  make  it  at  fa- 


THE  MERCHANT'S   WIFE. 


179 


ther's — only  the  colonel  and  his  father  both 
like  it  better  made  of  green  tea ;  that  is  the 
only  change  I  have  made.  But  won't  you 
stay  and  dine  with  us,  brother  ?" 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  so.  What  have 
you  for  dinner  ?  Don't  put  me  off  with 
pudding  and  beans  again." 

"  No,  no  !"  said  the  hostess,  laughing.  "  I 
remember  that;  but  it  is  not  baked -bean 
day  to-day — it  is  Saturday." 

"  Oh,  true.  Then,  of  course,  I  am  to  con 
clude  it  is  to  be  salt-fish,  beef-steak,  and  ap 
ple-pie." 

"  Of  course  it  is — and  will  you  stay  ?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  I  think  so ;  for  my  wife 
is  in  Boston  at  her  mother's.  Here,  you  lit 
tle  ones,"  he  said,  as  two  of  his  sister's  chil 
dren  came  up  from  the  garden  and  stood  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  looking  at  him, 
"  run  and  see  if  you  can  find  Jim  or  Sambo, 
or  somebody  or  other  to  pull  off  my  boots, 
and  bring  me  slippers." 

When  this  accommodation  had  been  fur 
nished  him,  he  held  out  his  hand  affably  to 
the  two  little  ones,  who  had  returned,  and 
who  now  stood,  hand  in  hand,  at  the  foot  of 


Z8o  SALEM. 


the  steps,  silently  regarding  him,  the  strict 
etiquette  of  the  times  forbidding  a  nearer  and 
more  familiar  approach  to  their  uncle  until 
such  time  as  he  might  see  fit  to  address  them. 

"  Here,  sirrah  !"  he  said  at  last,  addressing 
the  boy,  who  was  the  eldest  of  the  two  chil 
dren,  "  and  you,  too,  little  maid  Mary,  come 
up  here,  and  tell  me  what  you  have  learned 
since  I  saw  you  last.  What  do  you  know 
now? — tell  me." 

"  Nothing  much,  I  think,  uncle,"  said  the 
boy,  lifting  his  clear  eyes  to  the  inquirer's 
face,  with  a  look  of  roguish  meaning,  as  th-e 
two  stood  at  their  uncle's  knee ;  "  I  guess  I 
know  but  little,  and  sister  Mary  here  don't 
know  any  thing."  The  timid  little  Mary 
turned  her  eyes  upon  him  deprecatingly,  but 
said  nothing. 

"Well,  my  little  man,"  said  the  judge, 
laughing,  as  he  pinched  the  boy's  round 
cheek,  "that  is  modest,  Johnny,  any  way. 
And  now,  if  you  please,  tell  me  the  little  you 
do  know.  Hey,  sirrah  ?" 

"  I  know,"  said  the  boy  stoutly,  "  that  you 
are  one  of  the  judges  that  are  trying  the 
wicked  witches,  uncle." 


THE  MERCHANT'S    WIFE.  T8i 

"  Ahem  !"  said  the  magistrate,  settling  his 
laced  neck-tie,  and  somewhat  disconcerted  by 
the  unexpected  answer.  "  Oh  !  you  know 
that,  then,  do  you  ?  And  now  your  turn, 
my  little  maid  —  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what 
you  don't  know." 

Raising  her  clear,  soft  eyes  to  his  face,  the 
child  without  a  moment's  hesitation  replied, 
"I  don't  know  what  you  will  do  with  all 
the  poor  witches,,  uncle." 

"  Good  !"  said  the  questioner,  turning  to 
his  sister.  "  I  could  not  have  answered  the 
questions  better  myself.  Your  children  are 
quick-witted,  and  appear  to  be  well  posted 
up  in  the  topics  of  the  day,  Sister  Han 
nah." 

"  Only  too  much  so,"  said  the  mother  with 
a  sad  sigh  ;  "  it  is  no  subject  of  congratula 
tion  to  me,  I  assure  you,  Jonathan. —-You 
may  go  now,  my  children.  I  wish  to  talk 
with  your  uncle.  You  and  Mary  may  play 
in  the  garden  till  dinner-time,  Johnny ;  but 
do  not  go  down  to  the  water."  As  the  little 
ones  wandered  away  among  the  flowers,  Mrs. 
Browne  arose  and  carefully  shut  the  glass 
doors  behind  her,  and  looked  anxiously  up 


1 82  SALEM. 


at  the  closed  windows.  Then  resuming  her 
seat  by  her  brother's  side,  she  spoke  in  low 
tones,  but  in  a  voice  of  deep  feeling : 

"  You  say  my  children  are  well  posted  up 
in  the  news  of  the  day,  Jonathan,  and  I  re 
gret  to  confess  it  is  so.  It  is  a  solemn  and 
a  fearful  thing  to  have  children  as  young  as 
these  listening  to  all  the  details  of  the  hor 
rors  that  are  going  on  around  us.  It  is  a 
fearful  thing  to  have  their  young  ears  con 
taminated,  and  their  innocent  hearts  hard 
ened  by  such  things  as  are  the  common  top 
ics  of  conversation  ;  and,  situated  as  I  am,  I 
am  powerless  to  prevent  it.  They  hear  it 
on  every  hand.  I  went  into  the  garden  only 
this  very  week,  and  there  I  found  John 
Indian  and  Tituba  in  close  and  earnest  con 
fabulation  with  my  own  servant ;  and  close 
by  them  stood  my  innocent  children,  eagerly 
listening  with  open  mouths  and  ears  to  the 
pestilent  communications  —  swallowing  all 
they  heard,  and  doubtless  with  their  imag 
inations  all  at  work,  conjecturing  even  worse 
than  they  heard  from  hints  and  gestures,  and 
wild,  suggestive  grimaces ;  and  yet  what  can 
I  do  to  prevent  it  ?" 


THE  MERCHANT'S   WIFE. 


"  Order  them  off  of  your  premises  at  once 
and  forever  —  or  get  your  husband  to  do  it 
—and  forbid  their  coming  again,"  said  the 
magistrate,  unhesitatingly.  "  Or,  if  you  wish, 
I  will  do  it  for  you." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no  !  —  not  for  the  world.  Alas  ! 
I  dare  not  —  it  is  a  time  of  too  much  peril. 
The  very  air  is  heavy  with  danger,  and  sick 
ening  with  horror.  I  feel  that  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  spies  and  eavesdroppers,"  she  said, 
glancing  fearfully  up  at  the  closed  windows, 
and  dropping  her  voice  to  a  still  more  cau 
tious  whisper.  "  One  knows  not  where  to 
look  for  treachery  now.  My  power  over  my 
own  servants  is  gone,  and  I  am  at  their  mer 
cy.  A  chance-dropped  word,  innocent  as  it 
may  be,  may  be  caught  up  and  twisted  from 
its  meaning,  and  carried  to  those  who  will 
know  how  to  make  a  fearful  use  of  it.  It 
has  come  to  this,  brother,  that  I,  a  quiet,  home- 
keeping  matron  —  a  believing,  and,  I  hope,  a 
consistent  Christian  —  connected  by  birth 
and  marriage  with  the  best  and  most  influ 
ential  families  in  the  land  —  I,  the  daughter 
of  Judge  George  Corwin,  and  the  wife  of  the 
Honorable  William  Browne,  dare  not,  in  my 


184  SALEM. 


own  house,  to  speak  ray  own  mind  or  order 
my  own  servants,  lest  I  should  draw  down 
a  fearful  vengeance  on  myself  or  my  dear 
ones.  I  can  not  bear  it  any  longer.  I  seem 
to  be  stifling  in  this  dreadful  atmosphere; 
and  it  was  this  in  part  that  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  Jonathan — I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  leave  the  country." 

"  Good  heavens  !  Hannah  ;  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Where  will  you  go  ?" 

"  Home  to  England.  My  husband  has 
duties  that  will  call  him  to  the  court  of  St. 
James — you  know  he  has  been  out  before 
— and  he  has  promised  to  take  me  and  my 
children  with  him.  If,  by  the  mercy  of  God, 
this  horrible  cloud  is  ever  dispersed,  I  will 
return  —  if  not,  I  will  remain  there.  Our 
fathers  left  England  to  enjoy  freedom  of 
conscience,  and  the  liberty  of  thought  and 
speech,  and  we  have  been  taught  to  honor 
them  for  it.  I  will  go  back  in  pursuit  of 
the  same  inestimable  blessings." 

"  And  does  your  husband  approve  of  this 
step  V  asked  her  brother,  in  surprise. 

"  He  consents  to  it." 

"  But,  my    dear    sister,  this    decision    of 


THE  MERCHANT'S    WIFE. 


yours  appears  to  me  premature — at  least,  I 
think  you  are  nervous  and  causelessly 
alarmed.  What  possible  danger  can  reach 
you,  secure  as  you  are  in  your  social  and 
moral  position  ?" 

"  Not  more  secure  than  others  have  be 
lieved  themselves  to  be,  Jonathan.  Oh,  my 
brother!  think  of  Mrs.  Nurse — the  purest, 
truest,  humblest  Christian;  of  high  standing 
in  the  Church,  and  blameless  in  character. 
I  knew  her  well.  She  was  with  me  in  many 
of  my  trials — she  was  at  the  birth  of  all  my 
children ;  and  in  the  dark  days  when  it 
pleased  God  to  take  my  precious  ones  from 
me,  she  was  with  me,  sustaining  my  weaker 
faith  and  trembling  spirits  under  sickness, 
suffering,  and  loss,  by  her  more  fervent 
piety  and  gentle  ministrations.  Oh !  I 
knew  her  well ;  no  child  ever  turned  to  its 
mother  in  surer  confidence  of  finding  the 
support  and  sympathy  it  needed  than  I  did 
to  her,  and  she  never  failed  me ;  and  where 
is  she  now?  Snatched  from  the  home  of 
which  she  was  the  loved  and  loving-  centre : 

o 

reviled  and  deserted  by  the  neighbors  she 
had  served  and  blessed ;  excommunicated  by 


SALEM. 


the  Church  of  Christ,  of  which  she  had  long 
been  an  honored  member ;  her  innocent  life 
lied  away  by  malicious  tongues ;  she  was  im 
prisoned  for  months ;  she  met  a  felon's  death ; 
and  her  poor  remains  are  not  even  allowed 
to  rest  in  hallowed  ground.  Oh,  brother ! 
forgive  me  if  I  speak  too  strongly,  but  my 
heart  is  full  of  bitterness ;  and  how  do  I 
know  if,  before  another  week  closes,  I  may 
not  myself  occupy  the  cell  from  which  she 
has  gone,  and  my  little  children  be  cast  out 
to  the  mercy  of  the  cold  world,  as  so  many 
other  poor  children  have  been  ?" 

For  a  few  moments  Jonathan  Corwin  sat 
meditating  in  gloomy  silence,  his  head  rest 
ing  on  his  hand,  while  Mrs.  Browne  wept 
silently.  At  last,  raising  his  head,  he  asked 
in  trembling  tones : 

"  Hannah,  do  you  blame  me ;  do  you  hold 
me  responsible  for  all  this?  if  you  do,  you 
must  look  upon  me  as  a  murderer." 

"  No,  Jonathan,"  answered  his  sister,  lay 
ing  her  hand  kindly  upon  his,  "  I  do  not 
mean  to  blame  you ;  I  know  that  your  office 
has  its  painful  duties ;  1  do  not  believe  you 
ever  willfully  wronged  any  one ;  but  I  do 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIFE.  187 

think  that  you  are  blinded  and  deceived ; 
you  are  my  own  brother  in  the  flesh,  and 
still  more  the  dear  brother  of  my  affections, 
and  I  know  your  heart  is  a  good  and  true 
one ;  it  grieves  me  to  differ  from  you — but 
I  must  bear  my  honest  testimony  to  you 
that  I  think  you  are  misled  in  this  matter. 
I  know  something  of  these  girls — these  i  ac 
cusers,'  as  they  are  called :  I  have  known 
Abigail  Williams  ever  since  she  first  came 
here,  and  I  know  her  to  be  an  artful,  design 
ing,  false-hearted  girl;  I  know,  too,  that 
Elizabeth  Hubbard,  the  niece  of  Dr.  Griggs 
his  wife,  and  I  know  no  good  of  her  what 
ever  ;  and  Ann  Putnam,  too,  she  has  always 
been  known  to  be  a  mischievous,  malicious 
girl ;  I  know,  too,  a  little  about  Mary  Warren 
and  Sarah  Churchill  —  Sarah,  indeed,  lived 
with  me  a  little  while,  and  I  dismissed  her 
for  lying.  I  believe  they  are  both  moved  by 
revenge  for  fancied  wrongs  against  their  em 
ployers.  I  know  also  that  for  months  past, 
indeed  all  through  the  winter,"  these  girls 
have  been  practicing  all  manner  of  charms 
and  enchantments,  all  sorts  of  sorceries  and 
black  arts,  under  the  teaching  of  those  Pagan 


1 88  SALEM. 


slaves  of  Mr.  Parris — until  their  brains  are 
overset,  and  their  sense  of  right  and  wrong 
is  wholly  perverted. 

"  I  do  not  dare  to  say  how  far  their  suffer 
ings  and  fits  are  real  or  assumed.  How  far 
they  are  acting  a  part  I  can  not  tell,  of 
course;  but  I  do  believe  that  if  they  are 
not  insane,  they  are  themselves  bedeviled. 

"  I  can  not  understand  why  their  testimony 
is  so  freely  taken,  while  that  of  others  is  re 
jected  ;  these  insolent,  artful  girls,  whose 
flippant  and  reviling  tongues  are  dealing 
death  so  recklessly — who  are  boldly  clamor 
ing  against  lives  worth  far  more  than  their 
own — why  are  they  entitled  to  such  ci'ed- 
ence  ?  Tell  me,  my  brother,  do  our  laws  con 
demn  one  without  allowing  him  a  chance  to 
defend  himself?  and  yet,  it  is  well  known, 
these  unhappy  prisoners  are  not  allowed 
counsel;  they  are  not  allowed  to  speak  for 
themselves,  unless  it  is  to  confess,  and  all 
witnesses  in  their  favor  are  set  aside — is  this 
right,  is  this  impartial  justice,  is  this  English 
law  ?"  and  she  paused. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  more 
calmly,  "  do  you  get  on  any  ?  do  you  see 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIFE.  189 

any  light  breaking  in  upon  this  horrible 
darkness  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  magistrate,  sadly  ;  "  I 
must  confess  I  do  not." 

"  Have  there  been  any  more  arrests  or 
commitments  ?" 

"  Several." 

"  Any  new  condemnations  ?" 

"  Alas  !  my  sister — do  not  ask  me." 

"  I  must  ask,  Jonathan,  and  you  must  hear 
me.  Oh,  my  brother  !  remember  that  the 
sword  of  justice  is  a  fearful  thing — it  is  a 
two-edged  weapon,  too,  Jonathan  ;  beware, 
lest  it  turn  in  your  grasp  and  wound  the 
hand  that  wields  it." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Hannah ;  how 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  this  terrible  power,  thus  en 
couraged  and  helped  on  by  the  ministry,  the 
law,  and  by  medical  science,  is  growing  daily 
more  and  more  exacting ;  do  you  fail  to  see 
that  the  victims  it  demands  are  daily  more 
numerous  and  of  a  higher  class  in  life  ? — tell 
me,  brother,  what  will  you  do  if  they  should 
accuse  your  wife  or  me  ?" 

"  Nay,  my  dear  sister,  you  jest — that  can 
not  be — it  is  impossible." 


190 


SALEM. 


"  Not  so ;  we  may  be  cried  out  upon  any 
day,  any  hour ;  what  would  you  do  ?  Would 
you  believe  their  accusations  against  us  ?" 

"  Good  heavens  !  Hannah — how  can  you 
ask  it  ?  No  !  ten  thousand  times  no  !  God 
forbid." 

"  But  why  not,  if  the  evidence  were  con 
clusive  ?  you  have  believed  it  in  other  cases, 
why  not  in  ours  T 

"  Why  not  ?  because  it  would  be  too  mon 
strous  ;  because  I  know  you  both  incapable 
of  such  things." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  how  would  that  avail 
us  ?  you  could  not  convey  your  convictions 
of  our  innocence  k>  other  minds.  So  did  I 
fully  believe  in  the  entire  innocence  of  my 
poor  old  friend,  Goody  Nurse — and  so  did 
hundreds  of  others — but  what  did  that  avail 
her  ?  At  my  urgent  request  my  husband 
drew  up  a  paper  in  testimony  of  her  worth 
and  her  blameless  life,  and  many  of  .our  best 
people  signed  it  gladly ;  but  the  petition,  of 
her  friends  was  rejected,  and  the  words  of 
those  miserable  children,  and  of  one  or  two 
other  persons  who  were  known  to  have  a 
grudge  against  her  or  her  family,  took  away 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIFE.  191 

her  life.  Oh  !  I  shudder  when  I  contemplate 
the  widespread  misery,  the  sea  of  blood  that 
lies  before  us  ; — when  shall  it  end  ?" 

"  But  what  can  be  done,  Hannah  ?     I,  for 
one,  am  open  to  conviction ;  suggest  a  better 


course." 


"  I  would  give  the  accused  a  fairer  trial ; 
I  would  have  them  have  counsel  to  defend 
them — their  very  ignorance  and  helplessness 
demand  it.  Think  of  that  miserable  Sarah 
Good,  a  poor,  forlorn,  friendless,  and  for 
saken  creature,  deserted  by  her  husband,  the 
subject  of  universal  prejudice,  an  object  of 
compassion,  not  of  persecution,  surely.  I 
have  heard  there  was  not  a  word  brought 
against  her  in  the  whole  trial  that  ought  or 
would  have  sustained  the  charge  in  the  mind 
of  any  impartial  person  at  a  less  exciting 
time;  (forgive  me,  brother;  I  take  my  account 
of  these,  trials  second  hand — of  course,  I  can 
not  be  present  myself) ;  and  still  more, 
think  of  her  child — that  little,  miserable, 
half-starved  Dorcas;  just  think  of  the  whole 
majesty  of  the  law  setting  itself  against  the 
wits  of  a  poor,  little,  ignorant,  vicious,  base- 
born  child,  not  yet  five  years  old  ;  think, 


I92  SALEM. 


Jonathan,  younger  than  our  little  Mary  here! 
—does  it  not   seem  pitiful  ?   it  is  too  un 
equal  ;  if  it  were  not  so  tragic,  it  would  be 
an  absurdity." 

"  But,  Hannah,  that  child  was  a  pestilent 
little  wretch  as  ever  breathed  ;  if  you  had 
only  heard  her  vile  profanity  and  inso 
lence." 

"  I  do  not  question  it  in  the  least :  poor, 
miserable  little  thing,  she  could  be  no  less — 
a  vagabond  from  her  very  birth  ;  dragged 
round  from  place  to  place  by  her  vagrant 
mother,  what  chance  had  she  to  learn  any 
thing  but  evil  ?  Poor  little  Dorcas  !  how 
often  I  have  fed,  and  clothed  her  wTith  my 
children's  clothing ;  if  I  had  not,  I  think  her 
wretched  little  body  must  have  perished 
long  ago  —  I  almost  wish  it  had,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her,  perhaps." 

"  But,  Hannah  !  you  know  the  miserable 
child  confessed." 

"  Confessed  ?  yes,  I  dare  say  she  said  just 
what  she  had  been  told  to  say — she  did  not 
know  right  from  wrong ;  but,  Jonathan,  if 
you  had  been  a  mother  of  many  children,  as 
I  have  been,  and  had  sat  and  listened,  as  I 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIFE.  193 

have  done,  to  their  thoughtless  "babble,  you 
would  surely  have  been  astonished  at  the 
strange  and  monstrous  absurdities  that  they 
will  often  utter." 

"  Aye,  but  this  child  was  precociously  evil 
— she  was  just  like  her  mother." 

"  And  who  else  should  she  be  like  ?  She 
never  knew  any  other  parent." 

"  Very  true ;  and  '  black  cats  have  black 
kittens,'  they  say." 

"Sometimes  they  do,  but  not  always,  I 
believe,"  said  his  sister.  "And  even  when 
they  do,  I  suppose  it  is  from  a  law  of  their 
nature,  not  their  choice." 

"  Perhaps ;  but  the  result  is  the  same,  I 
conclude." 

"  Pardon  me,  no  !  Physically,  not  moral 
ly,  it  may  be  the  same.  In  the  one  case  it 
would  be  a  misfortune  simply,  in  the  other 
it  would  be  a  fault." 

"  Why,  Hannah  !  what  a  casuist  you  are ! 
There  has  been  a  mistake  in  our  family. 
You  should  have  been  bred  to  the  law,  not  I." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  I  was  not,"  said  Mrs. 
Browne,  fervently. 

"  You  have  reason  to  say  so  in  these  pres- 
I 


I94  SALEM. 


ent  times/'  said  her  brother,  sadly.  "But 
you  seem  to  have  reasoned  upon  these  mat 
ters  a  great  deal.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
conclusion  you  have  come  to  ?" 

"  I  am  but  an  ignorant  woman,  Jonathan 
— wholly  unskilled  in  all  these  subtle  ques 
tions.  I  never,  indeed,  thought  of  these 
things  before;  but  I  can  not  shut  my  eyes 
or  close  my  mind  to  the  terrible  realities  that 
are  going  on  around  me.  I  have  suffered 
deeply,  and  thought  much,  and  of  course  I 
have  formed  my  own  conclusions." 

"  And  will  you  not  let  me  have  the  benefit 
of  them  ?" 

"  You  put  me  to  the  blush,  brother.  You 
are  a  magistrate,  an.d  I  know  nothing  of  the 
law." 

"  But  I  think  the  instincts  of  a  pure  and 
earnest,  healthful  mind  are  the  voice  of  a 
higher  law — the  voice  of  God.  Tell  me, 
then — surely  you  believe  in  the  existence  of 
the  devil?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  must.  The  Bible  af 
firms  it,  and  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  his 
words  do  so  instruct  us.  I  do  believe  in 
persons  being  bedeviled ;  but  that  does  not, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIFE. 


to  my  apprehension,  imply  a  belief  in  witch 
craft." 

"  But  where  do  you  make  the  distinction  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  very  plain  one. 
It  is  this:  If  the  devil  hath  power,  which 
we  dare  not  deny,  surely  the  Lord  God  Al 
mighty  hath  a  greater  power.  I  think  a  per 
son  may,  by  his  own  act,  by  means  of  his  own 
sins,  forsake  God%  and  be  brought  into  bond 
age  to  the  power  of  the  devil.  Such  a*  one 
is  bedeviled.  But  I  do  not  believe  the  devil 
hath  power  to  take  possession  of  any  inno 
cent  soul  that  trusts  in  God,  and  make  use 
of  it  to  torment  others ;  and  that,  as  far  as  I 
understand  it,  is  witchcraft — being  a  witch, 
having  power  from  the  devil  to  torment  and 
bewitch  others." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Justice  Corwin  rose,  and  grasping  his  sister's 
hand  warmly,  he  said,  "  I  think,  Hannah,  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  change  my  mind,  I  will 
not  dine  here  to-day.  What  you  have  said 
has  given  me  much  to  reflect  upon.  I  want 
the  quiet  of  my  own  study." 

"  But,  brother,  my  husband  has  just  come 
home.  I  hear  the  footsteps  of  his  horse  at 


196 


SALEM. 


the  door.  His  hospitality  will  be  wounded 
if  you  should  leave  his  house  just  at  the  very 
dinner  hour.  Do  stay,  and  take  a  hasty  din 
ner  with  him.  He  is  too  busy  himself  just 
now  to  tarry  long  over  the  table.  Stay,  and 
we  will  speak  of  these  terrible  things  no 
more.  You  can  talk  to  him  about  his  ves 
sels,  his  farm,  his  garden ;  but  do  not  go 
until  after,  dinner.  You  will  oblige  me  if 
you  will  stay." 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

CONDOLENCE. 

"No!  had  all  earth  decreed  that  doom  of  shame, 
I  would  have  set,  against  all  earth's  decree, 
The  inalienable  trust  of  my  firm  soul  in  thee." 

MONGr  all  the  various  members 
of  the  community  that  had 
been  shocked  and  saddened  by 
the  tragical  death  of  Rebecca 
Nurse,  possibly  no  single  individual  out  of 
the  circle  of  her  own  immediate  family  felt 
it  more  keenly  or  sorrowed  more  deeply 
than  Alice  Campbell.  The  kind,  cheerful, 
generous-hearted  old  woman  had  distin 
guished  her  by  many  little  acts  of  affection 
ate  kindness  and  many  tokens  of  good-will, 
and  the  loving  heart  of  the  young  girl  had 
warmly  responded.  Alice  was  naturally  af 
fectionate  and  grateful,  and  the  extremely 
limited  circle  of  her  personal  friends  had 
perhaps  intensified  the  love  she  bore  them. 


198  SALEM. 


Then,  again,  it  was  the  first  time  that  the 
grim  skeleton,  death,  had  ever  crossed  her 
own  horizon,  and  here  he  was  revealed  in 
deed  as  the  very  "  king  of  terrors."  There 
were  no  mitigating  circumstances — no  soft 
ening  of  the  awful  shadow.  The  words 
"  here  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrow,"  "  in  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,"  to  which  she 
had  listened  so  often,  had  suddenly  taken 
on  a  new  meaning,  and  become  to  her  an 
awful  reality. 

The  glad  young  spirit  of  the  girl,  so  new 
to  suffering,  was  rent  alike  with  grief  for  her 
own  loss  and  intense  sympathy  for  the  be 
reaved  family,  and  her  own  powerlessness  to 
help  or  comfort  them,  and  she  longed  at  least 
to  assure  them  of  her  undiminished  love  and 
trust. 

One  evening  she  came  up  the  little  door- 
yard  of  her  humble  home,  with  a  step  so 
heavy,  so  slow  and  lagging,  that  her  listen 
ing  grandmother,  who  was  waiting  for  her, 
did  not  recognize  it,  it  was  so  unlike  the 
usual  firm,  free,  bounding  step  of  her  child. 
As  Alice  entered  the  room,  the  old  woman 
looked  up  and  started,  shocked  at  the  ghast 
ly  paleness  of  her  darling's  face. 


CONDOLENCE. 


199 


"  Oh,  Allie,  my  ain  precious  bairn !"  she 
cried.  "  Oh  !  what,  is  it,  my  darlin'  ?  what 
ha'  kim  ower  ye  ?" 

Alice  did  not  speak,  but,  sinking  down  at 
her  grandmother's  feet,  she  laid  her  head 
upon  the  kind  knees  that  had  ever  been 
her  place  of  refuge  in  all  her  childhood's 
troubles,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  Allie,  Allie,  my  ain  sonsie  lassie ! 
what — oh,  what  is  it?  Dinna  ye  greet  sae 
sairly.  Tell  me  what  it  is  that's  grievin'  ye. 
Is  there  ony  new  throuble  \  Oh,  tell  me — 
tell  me !" 

"  Oh,  no?  no,  grandmother!"  sobbed  Alice, 
whose  hearty  burst  of  tears  had  relieved  her 
overcharged  feelings.  "  No,  there  is  nothing 
new ;  but  I  think  my  heart  is  broken." 

"  Na?,  na',  my  dearie.  Dinna  say  that,  nor 
think  it,  either,"  said  the  grandmother,  fond 
ly  parting  the  girl's  sunny  curls,  and  ten 
derly  kissing  her.  "Ye  are  young,  lassie, 
an'  young  hearts  dinna  break  when  they 
think  they  will.  Ye  will  win  ower  it,  my 
darlin',  in  time,  though  it's  hard  to  bear  noo. 
But  tell  me,  lassie,  where  hae  ye  been,  an'  what 
hae  ye  met  wi',  that  ha'  so  cast  ye  doon  ?" 


200  SALEM. 


"  I  have  been  over  to  Nurse's  Farm,  gran 


nie." 


"  To  Nurse's  Farm,  indeed  ?  Ye  don't  tell 
me  sae.  An7  did  ye  walk  it  a7  the  way  there 
an'  bock  ?  Ah,  weel-a-weel !  I  dinna  won 
der  an'  ye  are  a'  used  up.  Ye  are  na'  fit  to 
be  gangin'  sae  lang  a  walk." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  that,  grandmother,"  said 
Alice,  relapsing  into  tears  again.  "I  did 
not  mind  the  w^alk." 

uTo  Nurse's  Farm?"  repeated  the  old 
woman.  "  Oh,  Allie,  my  dearie,  how  could 
ye  hae  the  heart  to  go  there  ?" 

"  Say,  rather,  how  could  I  have  the  heart 
to  keep  away,"  answered  the  sobbing  girl. 
"Think  how  kind -and  good  she  was  to  me, 
and  how  much  I  loved  her ;  think,  too,  what 
they  have  suffered.  Oh,  how  could  I  keep 
away,  and  let  them  think  I  believed  all  those 
lying,  infamous  charges? — think  that  I  did 
not  love  her,  and  sorrow  with  them  ?  Oh,  I 
could  not  keep  away ;  and  though  to  go  has 
almost  broken  my  heart,  still  I  am  glad  I 
have  been." 

"  I  believe  ye,  dear.  It  wa'  a  hard  thing 
to  do;  but  ye  wa'  right  to  go.  Tell  me 
aboot  it,  Allie." 


CONDOLENCE.  2OI 


"  Oh,  grandmother,  it  was  sad  !  sad  !— 
sadder  even  than  I  expected  it  would  be. 
Every  thing  was  so  changed  since  I  was 
there  last,  and  that  only  so  short  a  time 
ago."  Alice  paused  a  moment  to  recover 
herself,  and  then  wrent  on. 

"  You  know  when  I  went  there  last,  it  was 
all  so  bright  and  gay.  The  doors  and  win 
dows  were  all  set  wide  open,  and  the  merry 
little  children  were  trooping  in  and  out  all 
the  time,  laughing  and  playing,  and  all  the 
family  were  gathered  there,  so  glad  and 
happy,  and  all  seeming  so  secure.  The  very 
house  seemed  to  be  full  of  sunshine  and 
laughter;  and  now — oh,  such  a  sad  con 
trast  !  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  have 
told  from  the  very  look  of  the  house  outside 
that  she  had  gone,  and  they  were  mourning 
for  her. 

"Every  door  and  window  was  shut  fast. 
Not  a  creature  to  be  seen  moving  about— 
no  happy  children,  no  merry  voices,  no 
laughter,  no  sunshine.  It  seemed  the  still 
ness  of  death.  I  scarcely  dared  to  go  in. 
Two  or  three  times  I  lifted  the  knocker; 
but  my  heart  failed  me,  and  my  hand  fell, 
12 


202  SALEM. 


and  I  did  not  knock ;  but  at  last  I  did,  and 
the  sound  came  back  to  me  so  hollow  and 
strange  that  I  thought  the  house  must  be 
deserted  and  empty. 

"  There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  I 
heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  inside,  and  old 
Landlord  Nurse  himself  opened  the  door  for 
me.  Oh,  grandmother  !  I  thought  I  should 
scream  when  I  saw  him  ;  he  is  so  changed, 
you  would  not  know  him — his  flesh  has  all 
fallen  away ;  he  is  sunken,  and  all  bent  over 
on  a  cane,  and  his  eyes  looked  so  glassy  and 
bewildered  and  winking,  as  if  he  had  wept 
the  very  sight  out  of  them." 

"  Puir  auld  mon !  .1  dare  say ;  I  suppose 
he  is  jist  fairly  dementit  wi7  the  sorrow." 

"'I  could  not  speak  a  word  to  him — I  only 
held  out  my  hand  to  him,  and  broke  down, 
crying.  I  could  not  help  it ;  but  I  think  he 
knew  me,  and  knew  what  I  felt,  for  he 
squeezed  my  hand  hard  in  his,  and  laid  the 
other  on  my  head ;  and  then  without  a  word 
lie  led  me  into  the  room  where  his  daughter 
Sarah  was  sitting  all  alone,  and  oh !  so  sad. 
She  held  out  her  arms  to  me,  and  I  tried  to 
tell  her  what  I  felt,  but  we  both  broke  down, 


CONDOLENCE.  303 


and  cried  together ;  and  the  poor  old  man 
went  into  the  other  room,  and  sat  down  in 
his  big  chair,  and  rested  his  head  on  the  top 
of  his  cane,  and  never  spoke  or  looked  up. 

"And  then,  when  we  had  got  a  little  more 
composed,  she  tried  to  tell  me  about  her 
mother ;  but  every  time  she  tried  to  speak  of 
her  her  voice  choked,  and  she  cried  so  terri 
bly,  I  begged  her  not  to  speak  of  her ;  and  I 
tried  to  talk  to  her  of  other  things — of  her 
father,  her  sisters,  the  children,  the  garden, 
the  poultry — but  somehow  or  other,  every 
thing  seemed  to  lead  round  to  her  mother 
again. 

"At  last  her  sisters  came  in,  and  I  was 
thankful  they  did,  for  they  were  more  com 
posed.  I  suppose  they  may  have  loved  their 
mother  as  well  as  she  did — perhaps  they 
did ;  but  of  course  they  do  not  miss  her  so 
much,  for  they  have  their  own  houses  and 
their  husbands  and  children  to  interest 
them ;  but  poor  Sarah  is  the  youngest,  and 
has  always  lived  at  home  with  her,  and  of 
course  she  must  miss  her  the  most. 

"  But  when  she  went  out  to  get  the  old 
man's  supper  ready  for  him,  the  others  told 


204 


SALEM. 


me  all  they  could  about  their  mother — how 
patient  and  resigned  and  forgiving  she  was; 
and, oh !  grandmother!  this  is  a  great  secret- 
hut  they  told  me  I  might  tell  you,  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  glad  to  know — they  have 
got  their  dear  mother's  body,  and  buried  it 
decently  in  their  own  grounds,  and  that  is 
such  a  comfort  to  them. 

"They  told  me  all  about  it — how  one  of 
their  kind  neighbors  kept  watch  to  see  what 
was  done  with  it,  and  came  and  told  them ; 
and  how  they  all  gathered  together  at  their 
father's  house,  and  the  sisters  remained  with 
poor  Sarah,  who  was  almost  beside  herself, 
while  their  poor  old  father,  with  all  his  sons 
and  sons-in-law,  went  off  at  midnight  to  that 
awful  place  to  try  to  recover  it.  Oh  !  it 
would  make  your  heart  ache  to  hear  them 
tell  of  it. 

"  There  they  sat,  they  said,  all  alone  in  the 
dark,  for  they  did  not  dare  to  have  a  light 
at  that  hour  in  the  house,  fearing  some  one 
might  see  it  and  inform  against  them,  or  it 
might  betray  the  party  going  out  or  coming 
home.  And  so  there  they  sat  in  the  dark 
ness,  holding  each  other's  hands,  weeping  and 


CO  ND  OLE  NCR.  205 


praying,  it  seemed,  they  said,  as  if  it  was 
hours  and  hours. 

"  But  at  last  they  heard  the  slow  steps  of 
the  father  and  brothers  returning,  and  they 
knew  by  their  heavy,  solemn  tread  that  their 
search  had  been  successful ;  and  sobbing  but 
silent,  they  all  hurried  out  and  opened  the 
door  to  give  her  a  sad  welcome  to  her  home 
once  more,  though  they  knew  it  was  but  for 
a  few  hours  ;  and  they  said,  terrible  as  it 
was,  they  were  thankful  even  for  that. 

"  And  then  the  young  men  went  out  again 
and  dug  the  grave  in  their  own  ground  ;  and 
they,  her  daughters,  with  their  own  trem 
bling,  loving  hands,  hastily  made  her  ready 
for  it.  And  when  all  was  prepared,  they  all 
went  out  together,  and  placed  her  there  in 
silence  and  darkness ;  not  a  word  was 
.  spoken,  but  they  all  knelt  and  prayed  silent 
ly — for  wrho  could  tell  who  might  be  listen 
ing;  they  did  not  even  dare  to  raise  up  the 
sods  above  her,  lest  their  enemies  might  sus 
pect,  and  steal  the  body  from  them  ;  and 
so  they  just  smoothed  it  off,  and  got  back  to 
the  house  just  as  day  dawned.  And  the 
young  men  have  taken  turns  to  watch  there 


206  SALEM. 


every  night,  but  it  has  not  been  disturbed. 
And  when  I  was  coming  away,  they  took 
me  round  to  see  where  they  had  laid  her ; 
but  they  told  me  not  to  pause  or  even  turn 
my  head  as  we  passed  the  spot,  for  fear  it 
might  betray  it,  for  they  think  her  enemies 
may  still  be  on  the  watch  to  steal  her  away. 

"  And  so  they  came  with  me  to  the  gate, 
and  kissed  me,  and  thanked  me  for  my  sym 
pathy,  and  I  came  away;  but  I  am  glad  I 
went,  grandmother,  sad  as  it  was." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  ye  maun  be ;  if  it  wa' 
hard  to  do,  it  wa'  the  mair  merit — l  no  cross, 
no  crown' — an'  sure  an'  sartin  they  maun 
ha'  felt  thankful  to  ye." 

"  Yes ;  I  am  sure  they  were  pleased  and 
grateful  for  my  visit.  But,  grandmother,  I 
have  got  something  more  to  tell  you — some 
thing  which  seems  very  strange  to  me." 

"  Weel !  an'  what  wad  that  be,  Allie  ?" 

"  As  I  was  coming  home,  walking  through 
the  village,  thinking  sadly  of  all  I  had  just 
seen  and  heard,  I  heard  my  own  name  spoken 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street — I  was  sure  I 
was  not  mistaken — '  There,  that  is  the  Camp 
bell  girl,'  I  heard  the  voice  say.  'That  is 
Alice  Campbell,  now.' " 


CONDOLENCE.  207 


"  Haith  !  ye  wa'  mistaken,  lassie — ye  wa' 
thinkin'  of  ither  things." 

K  No,  I  could  not  be  mistaken — I  heard 
it  plainly.  You  will  see  I  was  not  mistaken, 
for  as  I  looked  over  across  the  street  (I  could 
not  help  doing  that,  of  course,  hearing  my 
own  name  spoken  out  so),  there  stood  two 
women,  and  one  of  them  was  one  of  those 
dreadful,  lying  accusers." 

The  sensitive  young  girl  stopped  and  shud 
dered  ;  her  naturally  clear  mind  had  doubt 
ed  the  charge  of  witchcraft — even  when  its 
victims  had  been  vagrants  of  a  more  than 
questionable  reputation.  But  when  the  aw 
ful  charge  had  been  brought  against  her  own 
old  friend,  whose  true  and  consistent  piety 
and  excellence  she  had  intimately  known  and 
admired,  the  whole  baseness  and  falsity  of 
the  charge  seemed  to  stand  out  in  bold 
prominence  to  her,  and  she  hesitated  not  to 
deny  the  whole  thing  as  an  imposture;  the 
cruel  injustice  of  her  doom,  so  opposed  to 
all  law,  human  or  divine,  which  reached  out 
hands  eager  to  secure  the  victim,  had  out 
raged  her  feelings,  and  she  looked  upon  the 
cruel  accusers  as  murderers  of  her  friend. 


2o8  SALEM. 


"  But,  an'  who  were  they,  Allie  ?"  asked 
her  grandmother,  as  Alice  paused. 

"  I  do  not  know  her  name — I  do  not  think 
I  ever  heard  it,  though  she  was  pointed  out 
to  me  as  one  of  them ;  and  the  other,  an  elder 
woman,  was  her  aunt — I  have  seen  her  with 
her  before.  When  I  looked  round,  the  girl 
called  to  me,  and  beckoned  with  her  hand  : 
4 Alice  Campbell!  come  over  here;  we  want 
to  speak  to  you.' 

"  But  when  I  saw  who  it  was,  and  remem 
bered  how  those  lying  lips  had  falsely  sworn 
away  the  life  of  my  dear  old  friend,  I  could 
not  bear  to  speak  to  them,  or  even  look  at 
them ;  I  shook  my  head,  and  hurried  on.  In 
a  moment  they  had  crossed  the  street,  and  I 
heard  their  footsteps  hurrying  after  me. 

"  '  Stop,  Alice  Campbell,'  says  the  girl  ; 
4 1  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

" '  I  can  not  stop,'  says  I ;  and  I  almost 
ran  on. 

"  '  Well,'  says  she,  catching  my  sleeve, '  I 
must  say  you're  civil;  we  will  walk  with 
you.' 

"'I  do  not  care  for  company,'  says  I; 
i  and  I  ana  in  a  hurry.' ': 


COND  OLENCE.  2  09 


"  Oh,  Alice,  my  child  !  wa'  it  safe  to  of 
fend  them  ?  Who  kens  what  harm  they 
may  do  ye  ?" 

"  I  know  it,  grandmother ;  but  I  could  not 
bear  to  look  at  them  or  speak  to  them,  or 
have  them  touch  me ;  I  felt  as  if  they  were 
murderers — that  there  was  blood,  innocent 
blood,  on  their  cruel  hands. 

"  i  Why  do  you  walk  V  says  she  ;  *  if  you 
are  in  such  a  hurry,  why  don't  you  ride  ?' 

"'You  might  have  been  riding  in  your 
own  coach,'  says  the  woman,  l  if  your  old 
grandmother  had  not  stood  in  your  way.7 
And  then  they  both  laughed. 

" '  You  know  nothing  of  me  or  my  grand 
mother,7  said  I.  '  Let  me  go,  will  you  ?'  and 
I  pulled  away  my  sleeve. 

"  '  Don't  I  ?  indeed  !'  says  the  woman  ; 
1  maybe  I  know  more  of  her  than  you  do. 
And  when  did  you  hear  last  from  your  fa 
ther,  my  dear  V 

" '  You  have  mistaken  me  for  some  one 
else,'  says  I, t  for  I  have  no  father.'  And  I 
broke  from  them. 

" t  No ;  none  to  speak  of,  you  mean,'  says 
the  woman,  laughing ;  but  I  would  not  hear 


SALEM. 


any  more — I  broke  from  them,  and  fairly  ran 
down  the  street.  But  what  did  it  all  mean, 
grannie  ? — was  it  not  strange  ?" 
.  Could  Alice  have  seen  her  grandmother's 
averted  face  in  the  gathering  twilight,  she 
would  have  been  struck  with  its  sudden 
change  —  the  ruddy  complexion  was  ashy 
pale. 

"  An'  hoo  should  I  ken  ?"  she  answered 
angrily,  snapping  out  the  words  with  sharp 
bitterness ;  "  I  did  na'  see  her." 

"  But  what  could  she  have  meant  ?" 

"  Her  meanin'  ?  don't  ye  ken  well  enough 
that  they  are  awfu'  liars  ?" 

"  But  you  know  who  the  woman  is,  I  sup 
pose  ?" 

"  An'  hoo  should  I  ?  If  she  is  ane  of  those 
vile  creatures,  I  wad  na'  wish  to  ha'  ony 
thing  to  do  wi'  her." 

"  Oh !  but  I  thought  you  might  have 
known  something  of  her  at  home  years  ago, 
because  she  is  a  Scotch  woman,  and  came 
out  in  the  spring.  Her  name  is  Evans,  I 
think,  and  I  heard  she  had  been  making 
many  inquiries  about  us — so  I  thought  it 
was  possible  it  might  be  some  one  you  used 


CONDOLENCE.  2 1 1 


to  know  at  borne.  But  never  mind  about 
her  now.  I  am  all  tired  out,  grandmother, 
and  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed  now — it  has 
been  a  very  hard  day  to  me.  I  am  weary 
all  over,  in  body  and  mind ;  I  do  not  think 
there  is  a  bone  in  my  body  that  does  not 
ache,  and  my  head  and  heart  the  worst  of 
all ;  I  hope  I  shall  feel  better  to-morrow— 
and  so  good-night,  grandmother." 

And  Alice  kissed  her  fondly  and  left  her ; 
but  for  hours  after,  Goody  Campbell  sat 
silent  and  motionless,  just  where  Alice  left 
her.  But  if  she  moved  not,  her  restless 
thoughts  roved  far  and  wide  in  vivid  recol 
lections  of  the  past;  which,  if  the  working 
of  her  features  might  be  regarded  as  indica 
tive  of  their  nature,  were  any  thing  but  sat 
isfactory. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR. 

"In  the  cold,  moist  earth  they  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast 

the  leaf, 

And  they  wept  that  one  so  beautiful  should  have  a  life  so 
brief." 

JEAKLY  a  week  subsequent  to  the 
conversation  between  Justice  Cor- 
win  and  his  sister,  which  has  been 
given  in  a  previous  chapter,  Col 
onel  William  Browne,  who  had  found  him 
self  strangely  vexed  and  hampered  in  every 
way  in  his  business,  owing  to  the  excitement 
of  the  .times,  and  the  intense,  all-absorbing 
interest  taken  by  all  classes  of  the  commu 
nity  in  the  pending  witch-trials,  informed 
his  wife  at  "supper-time,"  as  it  was  then 
commonly  designated,  that  he  should  prob 
ably  be  out  late,  as  it  was  his  intention  to 
pass  the  evening  at  his  father's  house,  where 
they  were  to  be  busy  in  adjusting  certain 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  213 

shipping-papers  relative  to  the  two  vessels 
they  were  preparing  to  send  out ;  and  re 
quested  her,  as  her  health  was  constitution 
ally  delicate,  and  her  nervous  system  had 
been  heavily  overtaxed  of  late,  not  to  sit  up 
for  him,  but  to  retire  at  her  usual  hour ;  add 
ing,  moreover,  that  as  it  was  wholly  impossi 
ble  for  him  to  say  at  what  hour  he  might 
come  home,  he  did  not  wish  any  one  to  be 
kept  up  for  him,  but  he  would  take  the  key 
of  the  side  door  with  him  and  let  himself  in, 
whenever  he  could  get  through  the  business 
he  had  on  hand. 

That  night  Mrs.  Browne  was  oppressed  by 
a  strangely  vivid  and  most  uneasy  dream. 
She  seemed  to  be  walking  by  night  through 
a  deep  and  most  impenetrable  forest,  trying 
to  pick  her  uncertain  way  through  the  thick, 
rank  undergrowth  which  grew  up  breast- 
high  around  and  before  her;  the  choking 
vines  and  interlaced  bushes  intercepting  and 
baffling  her,  clinging  ever  tenaciously  around 
her  feet,  and  resisting  the  frantic  efforts  of 
her  utmost  strength  to  tear  them  away, 
while  a  strangely  sweet,  but  heavy,  pungent 
odor  from  the  branches  she  bruised  seemed 


2I4 


SALEM. 


to  rise  and  confuse  and  almost  suffocate  her, 
and  all  the  while  a  strange,  weird  sound,  half 
tempest,  half  music,  seemed  to  pursue  and 
surround  her. 

Gasping,  panting,  breathless,  and  oppress 
ed,  she  struggled  with  this  fearful  sort  of 
nightmare — now  half  reviving  to  conscious 
ness,  now  again  sinking  down  into  a  sort  of 
conscious  stupor,  until  at  length,  when  the 
sense  of  oppression  became  absolutely  un 
bearable,  she  suddenly  started  and  awoke — 
awoke  to  the  full  conviction  that  some  one 
or  something  was  in  the  room  with  her. 

For  one  moment  she  lay  in  mute,  helpless 
mental  bewilderment,  bathed  from  head  to 
foot  with  the  cold  dew  of  terror,  and  doubt 
ful  even  where  she  was — doubtful  if  she  were 
still  asleep  or  awake  —  for  the  closely  shut 
room  was  too  entirely  dark  to  enable  her  to 
discover  even  the  faintest  outline  of  familiar 
things;  and  still  she  was  conscious  of  the 
same  warm,  sweet,  sickening  odor,  and  still 
sounding  in  her  ears  was  the  same  weird, 
mysterious  music ;  was  it  in  the  room  or  out 
of  it?  she  could  not  tell.  It  was  a  low, 
sweet,  wailing  symphony — unutterably  sad ; 


THE  MIDNIGHT \  TERROR.  2 1 5 

at  times  so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible, 
yet  never  wholly  ceasing :  now  swelling  like 
the  high  notes  of  the  ^Eolian  harp,  close  as 
it  would  seem  to  her  very  bedside ;  then  soft 
ly  retreating — away — away — it  would  seem 
miles  afar,  yet  still  distinct;  then  swelling 
again — nearer,  and  nearer,  and  yet  more  near. 
She  was  too  fearfully  agitated,  too  full  of 
terror,  to  tell  if  it  were  vocal  or  instrumental 
—the  question  did  not  then  even  occur  to 
her;  it  was  like  a  chant  by  human  voices; 
but  if  there  were  words  to  it,  she  did  not 
catch  them. 

At  last,  with  a  desperate  effort  (a  very 
woman's  courage,  born  of  excess  of  fear),  she 
sprang  from  her  bed,  and  gaining  the  win 
dow  with  uncertain  steps,  she  loosed  the 
clasp,  and  flung  the  casement  wide  open. 
The  sultry  summer  night  was  damp  and  star 
less,  and  although  without  she  could  discern 
the  dim  outline  of  the  trees,  it  gave  no  light 
into  the  chamber;  but  the  outer  air  had 
somewhat  revived  her,  and  for  a  moment  she 
clung  to  the  window-frame  for  support,  glanc 
ing  fearfully  behind  her  into  the  darkness. 
Nothing  moved  in  the  chamber  but?  herself, 


216  S A  LEAL 


the  strange  music  had  died  away  into  si 
lence,  and  in  the  awful  stillness  she  could 
hear  the  fierce  beating  of  her  own  heart 
beat,  beat,  beat !  She  felt  as  if  the  life-blood 
thus  violently  pumped  up  must  break  in 
hemorrhage  over  her  parched  and  stiffening 
lips. 

Another  desperate  effort,  and  she  has  dart 
ed  across  the  room  and  gained  the  chamber 
door.  She  will  call  for  help ;  her  trembling 
hand  is  feeling  for  the  latch ;  she  has  found 
it — she  has  torn  it  open ;  a  figure  stood  just 
beyond  the  threshold,  and,  with  a  wild,  glad 
C1y — "  Oh,  William  !" — she  was  springing 
forward  to  the  shelter  of  her  husband's  arms 
— but,  merciful  heavens  !  that  tall,  vague, 
shrouded  figure,  dimly  revealed  to  her  by 
the  hall  window  just  behind  him,  is  not  her 
husband  !  not  her  husband's  the  cold,  damp, 
clammy  hand  that  firmly  clutched  her  wrist, 
and  held  her  one  moment  forcibly  in  the 
doorway,  then  sternly  thrust  her  back  into 
the  chamber,  closing  the  door  between  them. 

Quick  as  thought,  with  rare  presence  of 
mind,  the  trembling  woman  shot  the  bolt  of 
the  door.  One  terror  at  least  was  thus  shut 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  217 

out;  but  what  might  she  not  thus  have 
shut  in  ?  Clasping  her  hands  about  her 
throbbing  temples,  "  I  must  not  faint,"  she 
said  mentally;  "  no,  I  must  not — I  must  not, 
and  I  will  not !" 

Fully  aware  that  in  this  terrible  emer 
gency  she  had  no  one  but  herself  to  depend 
upon,  she  summoned  up  all  her  resolution, 
and  creeping  with  fearful  and  uncertain  steps 
in  the  direction  of  the  fire-place,  she  groped 
blindly  about  for  the  means  of  procuring  a 
light. 

In  those  early  times,  the  dangerous  but  ef 
ficient  lucifer  matches,  which  we  bless  and 
anathematize  almost  in  the  same  breath,  had 
never  been  thought  of,  and  thousands  who 
now  in  moments  of  need  or  terror  obtain  an 
instantaneous  light  by  a  mere  scratch  upon 
the  wall,  have  never  realized  the  blessing  of 
this  much-abused  invention.  At  the  close  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  and  long  afterward, 
it  was  a  work  of  time,  skill,  and  patience  to 
gain  a  light ;  and  now  Mrs.  Browne,  having 
found  her  tinder-box,  and  secured  the  nec 
essary  apparatus  of  flint  and  steel,  began  to 
strike  a  light ;  but  her  trembling  hands, 
K 


2i8  SALEM. 


which  shook  as  in  an  ague  fit,  added  to  the 
usual  difficulties  of  the  task. 

A  dozen  times  she  struck  the  implements 
together  nervously  before  she  could  obtain 
a  spark,  and  even  when  she  did  obtain  it, 
owing  to  her  trepidation,  the  tiny  messenger 
of  hope  fell  outside  of  the  prepared  tinder 
in  the  box,  and  was  lost;  another — and  an 
other — and  they  do  not  light ;  again  it  lights, 
but  her  own  eager,  gasping  breath  has  ex 
tinguished  it.  At  length,  after  repeated  dis 
appointments,  the  tinder  is  ignited,  and  she 
hastily  lighted  the  rushlight  at  the  moment 
ary  blaze.  Oh !  thank  heaven  for  the  pro 
tection,  the  sense  of  security  that  there  is  in 
light. 

She  breathed  more  freely,  as  looking  round 
the  room  she  saw  no  traces  of  disorder  or 
disturbance:  every  thing  was  in  its  place, 
every  thing  was  unaltered,  and  this  familiar 
home  look  did  much  to  compose  and  reas 
sure  her.  Finding  that  the  open  window 
had  cleared  the  room  of  much  of  its  oppress 
ive  odor,  Mrs.  Browne  hastened  to  close  and 
fasten  it;  and  then,  as  by  a  natural  connec 
tion  of  ideas,  she  stepped  to  the  other  win- 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  219 

dow,  which  she  had  not  opened  —  to  her 
surprise  she  found  it  unclasped,  and  a  little 
way  opened. 

As  this  window,  being  situated  very  near 
the  bed,  was  rarely  opened,  this  fact  con 
firmed  her  in  the  conviction  that  some  one 
had  been  in  the  room.  As  she  hastily  shut 
and  fastened  it,  she  heard  the  side  door  open 
and  close  again — her  husband  had  returned, 
then.  Oh,  welcome  sound;  she  recognized 
his  well-known  step  in  the  hall  below;  she 
heard  the  familiar  creak  of  the  door  of  the 
little  entry  closet  where  he  was  wont  to  de 
posit  his  hat  and  cane;  and  now  his  wel 
come  step  was  on  the  stairs.  Oh !  what 
blessed  sense  of  relief  there  \vas  in  that 
steadily  approaching  tread  !  But  then  there 
flashed  over  her  mind  the  remembrance  of 
that  dim,  shrouded  figure  she  had  seen  in 
the  entry  way.  What  if  her  husband  should 
encounter  him,  unarmed  and  in  the  darkness ! 
and  fears  for  herself  all  forgotten  in  tender, 
wifely  anxiety  for  one  so  infinitely  dear  to 
her,  she  opened  her  chamber  door  and  stood, 
light  in  hand,  to  receive  him. 

"Why,  Hannah!    why,  wife!"    said    the 


220  SALEM. 


strong,  hearty,  manly  voice  —  "what  is  the 
meaning  of  all  this  ?  why  in  the  world  are 
you  up  at  this  hour,  and  with  a  light?  is 
any  one  sick?" 

Wholly  overcome  with  the  sudden  reac 
tion  of  feeling,  the  overexcited  woman  put 
down  the  light,  tottered  forward,  and  sank 
fainting  into  his  arms. 

Colonel  Browne  was  a  man  of  warm  feel 
ings,  but  of  a  calm  temperament;  he  loved 
his  wife  tenderly,  but  he  had  often  seen  her 
in  a  fainting  fit,  to  which  she  was  constitu 
tionally  subject ;  therefore  he  was  not  alarm 
ed  by  it,  and,  remembering  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  he  called  up  no  one ;  bearing  her 
back  into  her  chamber,  he  found  and  applied 
the  usual  restoratives,  which  were  always  at 
hand,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  recovered ; 
and  then,  sitting  with  her  cold,  trembling 
hands  in  the  firm,  warm  clasp  of  his,  she  told 
him  the  story  of  her  terrible  experience. 

But  Colonel  Browne,  although  he  listened 
patiently  and  respectfully  to  his  wife's  nar 
ration,  was  evidently  incredulous — husbands 
are  apt  to  be  in  such  cases.  In  vain  the  ex 
cited  woman  reiterated  her  story:  "'Pooh, 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  221 

pooh  !  sweetheart ;  it  was  nightmare — you 
were  dreaming." 

"  Yes,  William,  I  know ;  I  had  had  the 
nightmare,  and  I  had  been  dreaming,  but 
not  then ;  I  was  wide-awake  enough  at  the 
last." 

"  Well,  well,  Goody !  you  see  there  is 
nothing  in  the  chamber  now,  at  any  rate ; 
you  are  satisfied  of  that,  I  suppose;  you 
must  try  to  go  to  sleep,  my  dear  Hannah, 
or  you  will  have  one  of  your  dreadful  head 
aches  if  you  allow  yourself  to  become  so 
much  agitated;  try  to  forget  it  all ;  it's  only, 
a  bad  dream ;  we  will  keep  a  light  burning 
if  you  wish,  but  you  will  laugh  at  it  all  to 
morrow — I  am  sure  you  will." 

Overruled,  but  not  in  the  least  shaken  in 
her  own  convictions,  the  mother  now  insist 
ed  upon  visiting  her  children's  room  to  see 
if  they  were  safe,  and  nothing  but  the  use 
of  her  own  motherly  eyes  would  satisfy  her. 
Supported  on  the  strong  arm  of  her  hus 
band —  for  she  was  really  unable  to  walk 
alone — she  crossed  the  entry  into  the  room 
occupied  by  the  children. 

"All  safe  here,  you  see,"  whispered  the  fa- 


222  SALEM. 


ther,  as  with  carefully  shaded  light  they 
bent  over  the  little  white  beds  which  held 
their  sleeping  treasures.  "  Are  you  satisfied 
now,  dear  Hannah  ?" 

It  would  have  amused  a  less  anxious  ob 
server  to  see  how  characteristically  different 
the  two  children  were,  even  in  the  uncon 
sciousness  of  sleep — the  little,  gentle  Mary, 
straight  and  fair  as  a  lily  in  her  almost 
breathless  repose,  with  quiet  limbs  all  prop 
erly  disposed  in  unconscious  grace,  a  half- 
formed  smile  on  her  calm,  sweet  face,  and  her 
little  dimpled  hands  crossed  lightly  over  her 
bosom,  lay  like  some  saintly  fair  marble  ef 
figy  upon  a  monumental  stone,  as  if  sleep 
had  surprised  her  at  her  innocent  devotions ; 
while  the  more  decided,  active  Johnny,  rest 
less  and  energetic  even  in  his  sleep,  with  up 
turned  face  and  eager  lips  apart,  the  soft, 
loose  curls  brushed  back  from  his  moistened 
brow  and  flushed  cheeks  —  with  graceful 
limbs  tossed  about  the  bed  in  careless  free 
dom — lay  with  his  little  sturdy  fists  doubled- 
up  like  a  prize-fighter  above  the  disordered 
bedclothes,  as  if  he  had  fought  to  the  very 
last  against  the  approaches  of  the  slumber 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  223 

that  could  alone  have  power  to  subdue  his 
active  "nature.  Pressing  a  light  but  fervent 
kiss  upon  the  brow  of  each  of  her  darlings, 
the  mother  returned  to  her  owrn  room. 

Once  more  within  the  sacred  privacy  of 
their  own  apartment,  the  wife  made  a  new 
attempt  to  convince  her  husband  of  the  truth 
of  her  own  convictions,  but  in  vain ;  his  in 
credulity  was  impenetrable  at  every  point, 
and  she  had  no  proof  to  offer  him  beyond 
her  own  word  and  her  own  firm  belief.  She 
called  his  attention  to  the  fact  of  the  win 
dow  witich  she  had  found  open  ;  but  to  him 
that  fact  offered  no  proof  at  all. 

"  Did  you  look  at  it  before  you  went  to 
bed,  Hannah  ?  Are  you  quite  sure  it  was 
fastened  then  ?" 

No ;  she  had  not  looked  at  it,  as  it  was  a 
window  very  rarely  opened. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "the  fact  of  finding  it 
open  clearly  proves  nothing ;  it  may  have 
been,  and  very  possibly  had  been,  unfastened 
for  some  time  past,  and  you  had  not  noticed 
it— that  is  all." 

"  Then  you  do  not  believe  in  what  I  have 
told  you  2"  said  the  wife. 


224 


SALEM. 


"  I  do  believe  in  every  word  of  it,  my  dear 
Hannah  —  that  is,  I  believe  in  your  belief; 
but  I  can  not  share  it.  I  found  you  in  a 
,  very  nervous,  excited,  and  hysterical  state 
when  I  came  in — this  you  will  allow,  certain 
ly — and  you  tell  me  you  were  comparatively 
calm  then,  because  the  light  had  revealed 
to  you  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  room. 
If,  then,  you  were  still  more  excited  before  I 
came,  how  can  I  help  feeling  that  your  judg 
ment  was  at  the  mercy  of  your  terrors? 
It  seems  to  me  there  is  really  nothing  in 
all  this  to  prove  to  my  senses  that  it  was 
any  thing  more  than  a  distempered  dream." 

"  But  you  seem  to  forget,  William,  that  I 
had  the  evidence  of  nearly  all  my  senses," 
said  Mrs.  Browne.  "You  forget  that  I  heard 
the  music,  that  I  smelt  the  sickening  odor, 
that  I  saw  the  veiled  figure  in  the  hall,  and 
felt  his  rude  grasp  upon  my  arm.  What 
further  evidence  of  my  senses  could  I  have  ? 

"  William,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause, "  I  will  not  ask  you  further  to  believe 
me,  for  I  see  that  you  are  wholly  incredu 
lous,  and  I  have,  as  you  say,  no  actual  proof 
to  give  you.  I  can  not  make  you  believe 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  22$ 

against  what  you  call  the  evidence  of  your 
senses,  and  I  can  not  hope  to  convey  to  your 
mind  the  convictions  of  ray  own.  But  this 
much  I  may  and  I  do  ask  of  you  :  Do  not 
attempt  by  reasoning  or  by  ridicule  to  com 
bat  what  I  in  my  own  secret  soul  fully  be 
lieve.  I  do  not,  I  can  not  attempt  to  ac 
count  for  the  transactions  of  this  night ;  but 
my  conviction  of  their  reality  is  as  firmly 
fixed  as  is  my  belief  in  heaven  ;  and  your  ar 
guments,  however  much  they  may  wound 
and  distress  me,  can  never  convince  me. 

"Let  this  subject,  then,  be  dropped  be 
tween  us  now  and  forever.  I  shall  keep  my 
belief  until  my  dying  day,  and  you  may 
keep  your  unbelief  as  long  as  you  can ;  but 
I  do  ask  that  the  matter  shall  never  be  di 
vulged  to  friend  or  foe.  If  it  has  come  from 
the  invisible  world  (it  may  be  a  warning — 
I  know  not),  we  are,  of  course,  powerless  to 
contend  against  it ;  if  it  is  (as  it  may  be) 
the  result  of  earthly  malice,  our  only  safety 
is  in  silence.  I  am  too  well  aware  that  I 
have  already  given  offense  to  the  evil  ones 
who  seem  to  rule  the  hour,  by  the  earnest 
zeal  that  I  have  manifested  in  behalf  of  my 
K  2 


226  SALEM. 


poor  old  friend,  Goody  Nurse.  I  feel  that 
I  am  watched  and  suspected — the  merest 
trifle,  a  chance  word,  a  look  even,  may  place 
me  in  the  same  position.  Complete  silence 
and  total  inaction  are,  I  feel,  my  only  chance 
for  escape,  until  you  can  take  me  and  our 
children  away.  My  only  hope  of  safety  is  in 
being  overlooked  and  forgotten.  Will  you 
not  promise  me  this,  at  least  ?  I  ask  it  for 
our  children's  sake  as  well  as  my  own." 

Of  course  this  promise  was  freely  given; 
for  Colonel  Browne  saw,  no  less  clearly  than 
his  wife  did,  that  in  the  present  inflammable 
state  of  the  public  mind,  any  notoriety — 
any  thing  which  might  serve  to  draw  atten 
tion  to  them  —  would  be  not  only  unwise, 
but  positively  unsafe ;  and  he  felt  sure  that 
a  public  discussion  of  the  mysterious  events 
of  the  night — in  the  strange  truth  of  which 
his  wife  so  fully  believed — would  be  sure  to 
link  her  name  with  the  powers  of  darkness 
in  a  way  that  might  peril  her  reputation, 
her  safety,  and  even  her  life ;  and  he  fully 
agreed  to  her  proposal  to  keep  the  whole 
affair  a  profound  secret. 

In    compliance    with    this    decision,  Mrs. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  227 

Browne,  the  next  day,  although  she  was  in 
reality  ill  from  the  effects  of  her  midnight 
terror,  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  appear  at 
the  early  breakfast-table  as  usual ;  but  her 
husband  did  not  tell  her  that  the  morning's 
light  had  revealed  to  him  that  the  flowering 
vines  around  the  porch,  beneath  the  window 
she  had  found  open,  were  slightly  but  dis- 
cernibly  broken,  trampled,  and  crushed,  as 
if  an  expert  climber  had  ascended  and  de 
scended  by  that  means ;  for  he  feared  such  a 
confirmation  of  her  story  would  only  lend 
a  new  intensity  to  her  belief;  and  he  fond 
ly  hoped  that  time  and  change  —  absence 
from  the  terrible  scenes  around  her,  and  the 
charms  and  incidents  of  foreign  travel,  to 
which  they  were  looking  forward — would 
obliterate  it  from  her  mind.  But  in  this  hope 
he  was  mistaken ;  the  conviction  was  far  too 
firmly  rooted,  and  she  brooded  over  it  in 
fearful  silence  day  and  night. 

Although  in  advance  of  her  times  in  re 
gard  to  the  subject  of  witchcraft,  and  look 
ing  with  scorn  and  horror  upon  the  mad  fa 
naticism  of  the  multitude  around  her,  she  was 
not,  of  course,  wholly  superior  to  the  almost 


228  SALEM. 


universal  superstition  of  the  age  she  lived 
in.  If  the  occurrences  of  that  fearful  night 
—which  seemed  burned  in  upon  her  heart 
and  brain — were  natural  or  supernatural,  she 
could  not  tell ;  either  way  they  boded  her 
no  good,  and  they  haunted  her. 

It  might  be  that  the  terrible  secret  was 
all  the  more  terrible  to  her  because  she  kept 
it  so  closely  locked  up  in  the  recesses  of  her 
own  breast.  She  received  no  sympathy, 
for  she  asked  none.  Between  herself  and 
her  husband  her  own  wish  had  made  it  a 
forbidden  subject,  and  no  one  else  knew  of 
it — not  even  to  her  brother,  Judge  Corwin, 
whom  she  tenderly  loved,  and  with  whom 
through  life  she  had  ever  been  in  the  habit 
of  full,  free  interchange  of  thought  and  feel 
ing,  did  she  ever  in  any  way  allude  to  the 
secret  weight  of  gloomy  apprehension  which 
was  slowly  but  surely  dragging  her  down 
ward  to  an  untimely  grave. 

Her  naturally  delicate,  nervous  organiza 
tion  could  not  long  bear  up  against  so  in 
tense  a  pressure,  and  her  health  gave  way. 
Slowly  at  first,  and  almost  imperceptibly, 
but  daily  more  and  more  speedily,  the  sad 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TERROR.  229 

change  came ;  and  as  the  summer  drew  near 
to  its  close,  she  drooped  more  and  more. 
There  were  indeed — as  there  often  is  in  these 
cases — alternate  intervals  of  failure  and  of 
recruit ;  but  those  who  watched  her  most 
closely  and  most  tenderly  saw  that  when  she 
rallied,  she  never  got  back  to  the  point  she 
had  last  failed  from. 

The  purposed  trip  to  the  mother  country 
had  to  be  given  up,  for  she  had  not  now 
the  strength  to  make  the  passage  as  it  was 
then  obliged  to  be  made. 

People  called  it  a  decline — perhaps  it  was 
so ;  but,  though  gentle  as  ever,  she  never  re 
vealed  her  solemn  secret — possibly  her  hus 
band  thought  she  had  forgotten  it. 

The  most  skilled  physicians  were  called  in, 
but  the  case  baffled  their  highest  art ;  for 
she  alone  knew  what  had  sapped  the  springs 
of  life,  and  she  would  not  tell. 

The  sad  summer  passed  on,  and  as  the 
flowers  faded,  she  faded  with  them.  When 
the  brilliant  days  of  the  Indian  summer 
drew  near,  and  the  laud  put  on  its  gorgeous 
robes  of  regal  beauty,  she  would  sit,  propped 
up  in  her  cushioned  chair,  at  the  southern 


23° 


SALEM. 


window,  which  overlooked  the  garden  where 
her  children  played,  her  quiet  eyes  roam 
ing,  with  their  tender,  wistful  gaze,  over  the 
blue,  dancing  waters  of  the  little  cove  to  the 
fair,  green  hills  beyond — or  turning  dreamily 
to  the  golden  southwest,  where  the  sunset 
clouds  spread  their  pavilion  curtains  of  pur 
ple  and  softest  rose-tints;  and  "when  the  mel 
ancholy  days  had  come,  the  saddest  of  the 
year,"  a  shrouded  armorial  hatchment  over 
Colonel  Browne's  door,  a  passing  bell,  and  a 
slowly  moving  train  wending  its  mournful 
way  to  the  then  thinly  populated  burial- 
ground,  told  of  the  removal  of  one  whose 
youth  and  health,  rank,  wealth,  beauty,  grace, 
and  loveliness  are  now  known  only  "as  a 
tale  that  is  told." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WAKEFULNESS. 

"'Tis  well  for  us  there  is  no  gift 

Of  prophecy  on  earth, 
Or  how  would  every  pleasure  be 
A  rose  crushed  at  its  birth. n 

LICE  retired  to  her  bed  ;  but, 
weary  as  she  was,  she  could  not 
sleep.  Hitherto,  whatever  her 
griefs  or  anxieties  had  been, 
night  had  brought  repose — sleep,  blessed 
sleep,  that  panacea  of  all  human  woes,  which 
the  young  and  happy  have  never  learned  to 
estimate,  had  never  failed  her  before ;  but 
now  her  powers  of  mind  and  body  had  all 
been  overtasked,  and  her  whole  delicate 
nervous  system  was  shaken  by  the  intense 
strain  it  had  undergone,  and  she  could  not 
sleep.  Restless  and  feverish,  she  turned 
from  side  to  side  in  strange,  unwonted  wake- 
fulness.  Her  head  ached,  her  cheeks  burned, 


232 


SALEM: 


her  temples  throbbed,  her  aching  eyes  seem 
ed  strained  unnaturally  wide  open,  and  her 
hot  hands  and  restless  arms  were  tossed 
wildly  above  her  head. 

She  had  no  power  to  stop  the  action  of 
mind  and  memory.  Thought  seemed  to  her 
like  the  great  wheel  of  some  ponderous  ma 
chine,  which,  once  set  in  motion,  could  nei 
ther  be  guided  nor  stopped,  but  would  go  on 
and  on  forever,  with  its  terrible  but  useless 
activity. 

Probably,  for  the  first  time  in  her  healthy, 
happy  young  life,  she  realized  what  wake- 
fulness  was,  and  she  lay,  with  quick  beating 
heart  and  widely  opened  eyes,  staring  into 
the  blank  darkness,  through  long,  uncounted 
hours,  that  seemed  to  her  inexperience  to  be 
interminable. 

Of  course,  in  this  state  of  enforced  bodily 
stillness,  and  unnatural  mental  excitement 
and  activity,  the  sad  scenes  of  the  previous 
day,  the  terrible  sorrow  she  had  witnessed 
and  shared  in  could  not  be  put  aside — it 
was  all  lived  over  again  in  her  excited  imag 
ination. 

Again  in  memory  she  went  through  all 


WAKEFULNESS. 


233 


the  sad  details  of  that  harrowing  story; 
again  she  saw  and  pitied  the  silent,  hopeless 
grief  of  the  bereaved  and  sorrow-stricken  old 
man,  whose  voiceless  woe  was  more  eloquent 
than  the  most  expressive  words;  again  she 
seemed  to  pass  that  nameless  and  unmarked 
grave,  where  she  dared  not  pause  to  drop  a 
tear,  and  over  which  the  tenderest  love  vent 
ured  not  to  place  a  stone  or  a  flower.  And 
when,  by  a  powerful  effort  of  self-will,  she  at 
last  succeeded  in  turning  her  mind  away 
from  this  dreadful  subject — there  rose  up  be 
fore  her  the  recollection  of  her  unwilling 
interview  with  the  two  women  who  had  so 
rudely  accosted  her  in  the  street  on  her  way 
home,  and  she  naturally  began  to  wonder 
who  they  were  and  what  they  could  have 
meant. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  either  of  them 
before,  and  knew  nothing  of  them  beyond 
what  she  had  told  her  grandmother.  What, 
then,  could  they  know  of  her  or  her  affairs  ? 

But  as  Alice  pondered  this  question  curi 
ously,  a  new  thought  took  possession  of  her 
mind.  The  woman  had  spoken  of  her  father 
— how  oddly  the  words  sounded  to  her  ears 


234  SALEM. 


—her  father  ?  She  had  never  heard  of  him 
before;  and,  strange  as  it  now  seemed  to 
her,  when  her  thoughts  were  thus  turned  to 
the  subject,  it  had  never  before  occurred  to 
her  that  she  ever  had  a  father. 

Her  grandmother  had  so  constantly  spok 
en  of  her  as  her  daughter's  child,  as  her 
own  Alice's  "  wee  Allie,"  that  it  had  never 
entered  her  mind  that  she  belonged  to  any 
other  parent. 

Her  grandmother,  her  mother,  and  herself 
— these  formed  for  her  a  regular  trio ;  and 
she  had  grown  up  so  impressed  with  the 
idea  that  they  three  were  and  had  been  all 
in  all  to  each  other,  that  any  other  relation 
ship  had  seemed  superfluous ;  but  now,  when 
her  thoughts  had  been  called  to  the  subject, 
she  wondered  at  her  own  stupidity,  and  puz 
zled  herself  in  wild  conjectures.  Why  had 
her  grandmother  never  mentioned  her  father 
to  her  ?  No  doubt  he  must  have  died  long 
ago — in  her  infancy,  perhaps,  as  her  poor 
mother  did.  And  yet,  if  he  had — her  grand 
mother  had  always  talked  to  her  of  her 
mother,  and  had  taught  her  to  love  and 
cherish  her  memory.  Why,  then,  had  she 


WAKEFULNESS.  235 


not  taught  her  to  remember  and  love  her 

o 

father  too  ? 

Surely,  she  thought,  her  grandmother  must 
have  done  so — of  course  she  had,  and  she, 
undutiful  child,  must  have  forgotten  it.  It 
would  all  come  back  to  her  by  and  by — she 
should  be  able  to  remember  what  grannie 
had  told  her  about  her  father ;  and  she  taxed 
her  memory  to  the  utmost  to  try  to  recall 
any  such  information — any  allusion,  even,  to 
such  a  person  having  ever  existed.  It  was 
all  in  vain ;  but  as  she  thus  explored  the  ut 
termost  limits  of  her  childish  recollections, 
there  came  up  a  dim,  shadowy  remembrance 
of  that  vague  suspicion  which  had  been 
awakened  long  ago,  when  she  was  but  a  lit 
tle  child,  and  had  dressed  her  hair  with  the 
purple  flowers,  and  grandmother  had  seemed 
so  displeased  with  her — she  did  not  know 
why.  She  did  not  understand  it  then,  and 
she  did  not  understand  it  any  better  now. 
It  was  all  so  hazy  and  dim,  she  could  make 
nothing  of  it. 

Turning  away  in  despair  from  that  vain 
research,  the  restless  thoughts  took  a  new 
direction,  and  she  began  to  wonder  who  and 


236 


SALEM. 


what  this  unknown  father  could  have  been. 
Already  his  very  name  had  taken  a  strong 
hold  upon  her  innocent  affections.  Surely 
she  ought  to  love  him,  to  make  up  to  him 
for  her  life-long  forgetful  ness.  Who  could 
he  have  been  ?  What  was  he  like  ?  What 
was  his  name?  But  here  a  new  question 
started  up — why  did  not  she  bear  his  name, 
instead  of  that  of  her  mother  and  grand 
mother  ? 

In  vain  she  questioned  and  conjectured. 
There  was  but  one  way  out  of  this  strange 
mystery — her  grandmother  must  know  all 
about  it.  To-morrow  she  would  ask  her. 
Yes ;  to-morrow  she  would  get  her  grand 
mother  to  tell  her  all  about  it ;  but  though 
she  repeated  these  words  to  herself  a  dozen 
times,  they  did  not  satisfy  her  impatient 
longing,  and  more  widely  awake  than  ever, 
she  looked  and  longed  for  the  coming  day. 

And  Mrs.  Campbell,  too,  had  had  her  sleep 
less  night  (but  it  was  not  so  new  to  her). 
She,  too,  had  been  tossing  restlessly,  striving 
vainly  with  the  memories  of  the  past  and 
the  anxieties  of  the  future. 

Again  she  reviewed  the   sad   events  of 


WAKEFULNESS.  237 


other  days ;  again,  with  a  renewed  bitter 
ness,  they  rose  up  before  her ;  again  she 
strove  with  a  mighty  sorrow,  a  cruel  wrong, 
an  unmerited  disgrace,  a  fierce  temptation, 
a  ready  revenge,  a  yielding  circumstance ; 
again  she  weighed  chances  long  passed,  and 
pondered  probabilities  all  long  gone  by,  and 
balanced  with  trembling  hands  and  waver 
ing  brain  the  eternal  right  and  wrong. 

Again  she  seemed  to  look  with  bitter  an 
guish  on  the  face  of  the  dead ;  again,  by  her 
persistent  will,  she  tore  open  the  deep  but 
unforgotten  wounds  of  her  heart,  and  laid 
her  own  fierce  hand  -on  the  unhealed  scars 
that  bled  with  a  touch. 

Alas !  there  was  no  comfort  there.  What 
had  all  that  suffering  brought  her,  that  a 
chance  word  might  not  have  swept  away  ? 

She  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  Al 
ice  would  question  her — she  knew  the  girl 
too  well  to  doubt  it.  That  quick,  impera 
tive  spirit  was  too  like  her  own  for  her  to 
think  for  a  moment  that  she  would  relin 
quish  her  purpose.  How  could  she  baffle 
or  resist  her  ?  and  what  and  how  should  she 
answer  her  eager  inquiries  ?  What  to  keep 


238  SALEM. 


back,  and  what  to  reveal,  was  a  momentous 
and  unanswerable  question.  Long  and  pain 
fully  she  pondered  it,  but  no  new  light  broke 
in  upon  the  troubled  darkness  of  her  spirit ; 
for  the  trying  ordeal  must  be  met,  and  to 
morrow  would  surely  bring  it. 

At  last  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
would  steadfastly  refuse  all  explanation 
whatever.  Alice  could  not  force  it  from  her, 
and  she  should  not.  She  might,  indeed, 
question — no  doubt  she  would ;  but  what 
then  ?  She  had  held  her  own  sa.d  secret  for 
more  than  eighteen  years — should  a  mere 
child  have  power  to  wring  it  from  her  now  ? 

With  this  fallacious  hope,  of  the  insecurity 
of  which  she  was  but  too  well  aware,  she 
tried  to  fortify  herself  for  the  coming  inter 
view;  but  it  was  with  a  new  and  strange 
feeling  of  constraint  on  both  sides  that  the 
grandmother  and  her  child  met  each  other 
the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

E  S  TRANCE  M  EN  T. 

•A  something  light  as  air — a  look — 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken ; 
Oh !  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 
A  word— a  breath— like  this  has  shaken." 

'N  the  silent  and  lonely  hours  of  the 
sleepless  night  it  had  seemed  to  Alice 
a  very  simple  and  easy  thing  to  ask 
the  question  she  meditated,  and  ob 
tain  from  her  grandmother  the  information 
she  desired,  and  she  longed  for  the  coming 
day  to  dawn  that  she  might  begin  her  inves 
tigation  ;  but  in  the  clear  light  of  day  it 
seemed  neither  so  easy  nor  so  practicable, 
and  she  almost  trembled  at  the  temerity  of 
her  own  purpose. 

She  glanced  at  her  grandmother's  stern, 
set  face  (all  the  more  stern  from  her  mid 
night  resolve),  and  her  habitual  awe  and  rev- 
*erence  for  the  old  woman  came  back  to  her 


240 


SALEM. 


with  redoubled  force.  She  saw,  too,  that  her 
grandmother  was  watching  her  with  uneasy 
glances,  and  her  heart  sunk  appalled  at  the 
task  she  had  set  herself;  yet  she  never  for 
one  moment  thought  of  relinquishing  her 
purpose. 

And  the  grandmother,  on  her  part,  noticed 
Alice's  furtive,  uneasy  glances  at  her,  and 
knew  the  dreaded  hour  was  at  hand,  and 
braced  herself  to  meet  it. 

"  I  laid  awake  nearly  all  night  last  night, 
grandmother,"  said  Alice,  at  length,  begin 
ning  afar  off;  "I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
—my  visit  was  such  a  sad  one." 

"  I  dinna  doot  it,"  replied  Mistress  Camp 
bell,  gravely.  ^  Ye  had  a  lang,  weary  walk, 
an'  a  varry  mournfu'  visit;  I  wad  na'  won 
der  ye  could  na'  sleep." 

"  No,  indeed.  I  seemed  to  live  it  all  over 
again — I  could  not  forget  it ;  and  I  got  my 
eyes  so  wide  open,  it  seemed  as  if  I  should 
never  sleep  again.  And  then,  grandmother" 
—and  here,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  keep 
it  steady,  the  poor  child's  voice  trembled  a 
little,  and  she  was  sure  her  grandmother 
noticed  it  —  "and  then  I  thought  of  what, 
those  women  said  to  me  in  the  street." 


ESTRANGEMENT.  2  4  T 

"Haith  !  Alice,"  said  the  old  woman,  snap 
pishly,  as  she  rose  from  the  table,  as  if  to 
put  an  immediate  end  to  the  conversation, 
"  an'  what  do  ye  fash  yersel'  aboot  them  for  ? 
Ye  ken  fu'  weel  that  they  are  vile  leers  an' 
defamers;  dinna  talk  o'  them  to  me — forget 
them — let  them  gang." 

"  Yes,  grandmother,  I  know  —  I  would 
gladly  forget  them ;  I  do  not  wish  ever  to 
see  or  hear  of  them  again.  I  only  want  you 
to  tell  me  what  they  meant." 

"  An'  hoo  suld  I  ken  their  meanin'  mair 
than  yersel'?  I  did  na'  hear  them." 

"  No ;  but  I  told  you  what  they  said." 

"  An'  what  if  ye  did  ?  I  ha'  nathing  to 
say  to  them  ;  an'  I  dinna  care  to  ken  their 
leeing  words." 

"But,  grandmother,  tell  me  what  it  meant." 

"  How  do  I  ken  ?  I  ha'  nathing  to  say  to 
them  or  of  them ;  an'  I  suld  think,  Allie,  ye 
wad  na'  care  to  keep  company  wi''  them  that 
wrought  the  death  o'  Goody  Nurse." 

Trembling  with  vainly  suppressed  pas 
sion,  Goody  Campbell  uttered  these  taunt 
ing  words.  She  meant  that  they  should  cut 
deeply,  and  they  did ;  but  she  saw  in  a  mo- 
L 


242  SALEM. 


ment  that  she  had  made  a  mistake  —  she 
had  gone  too  far.  Alice's  pale  face  flushed 
to  the  very  temples,  and  all  the  passionate 
impulse  of  the  temper  she  had  inherited 
from  her  grandmother  flashed  back  upon  her 
from  those  startled  eyes. 

"  Grandmother,  it  is  not  of  Goody  Nurse 
or  her  accusers  that  I  am  speaking,"  she 
said,  controlling  her  rising  temper  with  diffi 
culty,  "  but  of  my  father." 

Goody  Campbell  made  no  answer,  beyond 
an  emphatic  and  contemptuous  "  Hump !" 

"  I  ask  you,"  said  Alice,  with  her  blue  eyes 
wide  open,  and  glittering  like  cut  steel— 
"  I  ask  you  only  to  tell  me  about  my  father." 

"An'  I  hae  nathing  to  tell  ye.  Tak'  yer 
answer,  an'  gang." 

"  I  will  not  take  that  answer.  You  have 
told  me  about  my  mother  a  hundred  times ; 
then  why  not  tell  me  something  about  my 
father?" 

"  I  dinna  ken  ony  thing  aboot  him — I  hae 
nathing  to  tell  ye.  I  hae  na'  seen  him,  or 
heard  fra'  him,  sin'  ye  kim  into  the  warld. 
What  hae  I  to  tell  ?" 

"Neither  have  you  seen  nor  heard  from  my 


ESTRANGEMENT.  243 

mother  since  I  was  born ;  and  yet  you  can 
talk  to  me  for  hours  about  her." 

"Alice,"  said  the  grandmother,  making  a 
desperate  effort  to  re-establish  her  hold  upon 
the  girl's  affections,  "  hoo  kin  ye  try  me 
sae  ?  Yer  mither  wa'  my  ain  bairn — my  on'y 
child ;  sure  I  hae  much  to  tell  o'  her ;  an'  ye 
are  her  on'y  bairn.  Hoo  kin  ye  doot  me? 
Hoo  kin  ye  doot  if  I  hae  ony  thing  pleas 
ant  to  tell  ye  I  wad  na'  wait  for  ye  to  ques 
tion  me  T 

But  the  effort  failed.  Alice  stood  proud 
and  unyielding. 

"  Grandmother,  I  do  not  ask  for  pleasure 
—I  ask  for  information.  I  have  a  right  to 
know  something  of  my  own  history — of  my 
own  parents.  I  have  been  kept  blinded  long 
enough.  I  am  no  longer  a  child,  to  be  put 
aside  with  a  jest  or  a  scolding.  I  ask  you 
again — will  you  tell  me  about  my  father,  or 
not  ?" 

Alice  paused  ;  but  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Grandmother,  I  am  in  earnest ;  will  you 
answer  me — yes  or  no  ?  I  must  knojv  the 
truth." 

"  Ye    maun    know,   did    ye    say,  Allie  ? 


SALEM. 

244 


Haith!  lass,  'must'  is  a  bold  doggie  enow; 
but  'you  can't'  is  the  doggie  that  kin  pu' 
him  doon,  an'  hold  him  there,  I  wot." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Alice,  carelessly.  "  But 
'I  can  and  will'  can  conquer  even  him,  3 
think ;  and  I  tell  you  now  plainly  that  I 
both  can  and  will." 

"  Tut,  tut !  lass.    Dinna  bark  when  ye  kin- 
na  bite— hoo  kin  ye,  an'  hoo  will  ye?" 

"I  will  go  to  the  women  I  met  in  the 
street ;  it  is  clear  to  me  that  they  know  what 
you  refuse  to  tell  me.  <  An  open  enemy  is  bet 
ter  than  a  false  friend'— I  will  go  to  them." 
"Alice,  girl,  are  ye  mad?  Would  ye 
gang  to  those  awfu',  leeing  creatures  that 
hae  the  power  o'  the  evil-eye  j  Ye  wad  na' 
— ye  wad  na'." 

« I  will,"  said  Alice,  calmly  ;  "  I  fear  them 
not.     I  will  brave  the  evil-eye,  and  the  evil 
tongue  too— but  I  will  find  out  the  truth 
you  are  hiding  from  me.     I  will  give  you 
the  day  to  make  up  your  mind  in— I  will 
wait  until  the  evening;  if  you  choose  to  tell 
me  tfeen,  I  will  have  the  story  from  you— if 
not,  then  before  this  night  closes  I  will  try 
to  learn  it  from  them." 


ESTRANGEMENT.  245 

"  Nay ;  but  Alice,  hear  me." 

"  No,"  said  Alice, "  there  is  no  use  in  any 
more  angry  words.  We  have  both  spoken 
too  many  already.  I  will  wait  till  night ; 
then  you  may  speak"  or  not,  as  you  may  think 
best ;"  and  sweeping  by  her  grandmother 
with  an  air  of  proud  defiance  she  had  never 
manifested  before,  Alice  left  the  room. 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  no  word  was 
exchanged  between  this  so  lately  loving  pair. 
In  silence  they  met  and  passed  each  other  in 
the  performance  of  their  respective  daily  du 
ties,  and  in  silence  each  covertly  and  anx 
iously  scanned  the  face  of  the  other — but  in 
.vain.  They  were  well-matched  antagonists, 
for  they  were  far  too  much  alike  in  temper 
and  spirit,  for  either  of  them  to  be  able  to 
detect  one  sign  of  wavering  in  the  other. 

But  when  their  evening  meal  was  over, 
Alice  rose  in  silence  and  put  on  her  shawl. 

"  Alice  !"  cried  her  grandmother,  starting 
as  from  a  stupor,  "  where  are  ye  gangin'  the 
night  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  the  village,  as  I  told  you 
I  should." 

"  Whist !  Alice,  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell, 


246 


SALEM. 


seizing  the  shawl  with  no  gentle  hand,  and 
drawing  it  hastily  from  her  shoulders ;  "  ye 
are  na'  gangin'  to  those  awfti'  leeing  creat 


ures." 


"  I  am,"  said  Alice,  resolutely. 

"  Girl,  ye  are  mad — mad  !  I  think  the 
power  o'  the  evil-eye  is  upon  ye  a'ready." 

"  It  is  your  own  work,  grandmother.  Re 
member  always,  if  any  harm  come  of  it,  it 
was  you  that  sent  me  there;  it  was  not  my 
own  choice  to  seek  them — you  drove  me 
to  it." 

"  What  is  it  ye  wad  know,  lass  ?"  said  the 
woman,  brought  to  terms  at  last.  . 

"  I  w^ant  to  know  the  story  of  my  birth 
—I  want  to  know  about  my  father ;  I  have 
been  kept  blindfolded  long  enough.  I  want 
the  whole  story — and  I  want  the  truth." 

"Alice,"  said  the  old  woman  sadly  and 
reproachfully,  "  ye  are  unjust.  For  yer  ain 
sake  —  to  spare  ye  —  I  hae  concealed  the 
truth,  that  I  ken  too  weel  will  gie  ye  sair 
pain  ;  but  niver  in  a'  my  life  did  I  tell  ye  a 
lee." 

"Very  well,"  said  Alice,  coldly;  "let  us 
have  an  end  of  concealment  now.  Will  you 


ESTRA  NGEMENT. 


247 


tell  me  the  whole  story  now?  —  or  shall  I 
seek  it  of  others?" 

"  I  will,  Alice ;  but  if  it  gies  ye  pain,  mind 
ye  hae  yersel'  to  thank." 

"Very  well,"  said  Alice,  folding  up  her 
shawl  and  resuming  her  seat — "I  will  take 
that  risk." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY. 

"A  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  friends  together — 
Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now?" 

•E  hae  set  me  a  hard  task,  Alice," 
began  her  grandmother;  "  Lard 
er  far  than  ye  ken,  for  the  story 
ye  ask  is  sair  to  hear  an'  sair 
to  tell;  but  'the  willfu'  mon  maun  hae  his 
way,'  an'  if  it  makes  yer  ain  heart  as  heavy 
as  mine,  ye  will  remimber  ye  wad  hae  me 
speak. 

"  It's  an  ower  lang  tale,  lass — for  to  gar  ye 
onderstan'  hoo  it  a'  came  aboot,  I  maun 
needs  gae  far  bock,  an'  tell  ye  somethin'  o' 
my  ain  youth.  Like  yer  mither  an'  yersel', 
I  wa'  an  on'y  child,  an',  like  her  too,  an'  yer 
sel',  I  wa'  called  fair  to  luke  upon,  an'  had  a 
quick,  passionate  temper — I  think  these 
things  rin  in  our  bluid. 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  249 

"  My  father  wa'  a  inon  in  humble  life,  but 
he  wa'  a  guid  mon,  an'  ane  that  wa'  much 
respectit ;  he  wa'  weel  off  for  his  station- 
he  wa'  na'  so  to  say  rich,  but  he  farmed  his 
own  Ian' — he  had  a  snug  little  farm,  a  sma' 
housie,  a  cosy  but  an'  ben,  as  we  ca'  it ;  he 
owed  nae  mon  a  penny,  an'  he  had  a  little 
siller  laid  by,  as  he  used  aften  to  tell  me,  for 
my  tocher  —  for  he  wa'  varry  fond  o'  me. 
An'  so  it  kim  aboot  that,  being  called  fair, 
an'  my  father  reputit  rich,  I  wa'  na'  to  seek 
for  suitors ;  but  I  did  na'  care  for  them — ane 
an'  a'  wa'  nathing  to  me. 

"  But  my  father's  little  place  wa'  near  a 
barrack  toon,  an'  ane  day  I  met  wi'  a  gay 
young  soger  laddie  fra'  the  toon— weel-a- 
weel,  lassie,  words  are  but  idle  brith,  never 
mind  them  ;  but  he  had  a  merry  eye,  a  ready 
tongue,  an'  a  winsome  smile ;  an'  the  upshot 
o'  it  wa'  that  he  woo'd  an'  won  me ;  an'  I 
had  nae  thought  but  for  my  gay,  bonnie 
soger  laddie. 

"  But  my  father,  he  wad  na'  hear  tell  on't. 

'  He's  but  a  rovin'  blade,  Elsie,'  he  said  to 

me ;  i  he'll  maybe  be  ordered  awa'  fra'  here 

ony  day  in  the  year,  an'  then  I'll  lose  my 

L2 


250 


SALEM. 


on'y  child.'  An'  inair  he  said  to  me,  an' 
raair  to  the  purpose ;  but,  whist !  lassie, 
young  girls  are  aye  silly — an'  luve  is  blin', 
an'  deaf  too;  I  wa'  jist  like  a  colt  fra'  the 
heather,  an'  I  wad  na'  hear  till  him. 

" '  Ye  may  tell  yer  braw  wooer,  Elsie,'  he 
said  to  me  ane  day, '  if  he  courts  ye  for  the 
siller,  he  wi'  marry  ye  wi'  an  empty  han' ; 
for  I  tell  ye  noo  that  niver  a  baubee  o'  my 
honest  arnings  sail  gae  into  his  pouch,  to  be 
squandered  ower  the  mess-table;  an'  ye  may 
tell  him  so  fra'  me.' 

"But  I  did  na'  tell  him  — I  could  na';  I 
thought,  puir  silly  lass,  that  it  wa'  as  if  I 
dooted  his  luve ;  an'  so  when  my  father  an' 
mither  baith  held  out  agin'  him,  an'  talked 
hard  to  me  about  Robin,  I  jist  rinned  awa' 
fra'  them,  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  my  gay 
soger  lad. 

"  He  married  me,  Allie — yes,  he  made  me 
his  honest  wife;  ah!  he  took  tent  o'  that, 
for  he  counted  sure  upon  my  little  fortin; 
but  my  father — alas,  he  better  onderstood  his 
feathering  tongue  than  I  did,  for  whin  he 
wrote  him  word  that  a'  his  sma'  property 
wad  gae  to  his  brither's  son,  my  husband 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  251 

cursec^  me  to  my  face,  an'  swore  I  haed 
cheated  him  into  niarryin'  a  penniless  lass. 

"  Weel ;  I  trow  I  haed  a  hard  life  enow 
— but  I  wa'  true  to  him ;  for  mind  ye  this, 
Allie,  I  wa'  his  wife,  an'  I  luved  him,  in  spite 
o'  a'  his  onkindness.  So  I  held  by  him  for 
ower  two  years — through  guid  an'  evil — till 
my  little  baby  wa'  born,  an'  thin  jist  what 
my  father  haed  foretold  kim  true — the  regi 
ment  wa'  ordered  to  move,  an'  he  went 
whistlin'  awa',  an'  left  me  wi'  the  puir  wee 
thing  lyin'  by  my  side,  an'  na'  the  first 
haY-penny  to  live  on,  an'  rne  too  weak  to 
ettle  to  win  ane. 

"  An'  thin — ah  !  Alice,  mind  ye,  there's 
nae  luve  like  the  luve  that  ha'  growed  up 
wi'  us:  my  father  haed  niver  lost  sight  o' 
me,  though  he  left  me  to  drink  the  cup  I 
brewed ;  he  kim  to  me  in  my  desolation,  an' 
took  tent  o'  me,  an'  my  puir  wee  lambie. 

"In  less  than  a  month  I  got  news  o'  the 
shipwreck  o'  ane  o'  the  transport  ships,  an' 
my  husband  wa'  lost.  Thin  my  father  an' 
mither  forgave  me,  an'  took  me  name  to  their 
hearts  ance  mair;  an'  whin  they  deed  long 
after,  they  left  me  weel-to-do;  an'  my  wee 


252  SALEM. 


Allie  wa'  to  hae  it  a'  after  me.  An7  my 
Allie,  oh  !  she  wa'  jist  the  varry  light  o'  my 
een ;  an'  sae  fair,  an'  sweet,  an'  sousie — every, 
bodie  luved  her ;  an'  she  haed  luvers  too, 
but  she  did  na'  care  for  ony  o'  them,  she 
wa'  crouse  an'  cantie  as  a  bird  in  the  tree, 
but  niver  bould — jist  cannie  an'  sweet  to  all. 

"  There  wa'  ane  chiel,  a  nee'bor's  lad,  that 
coorted  her,  an'  I  liked  him,  an'  fain  wad  I 
hae  married  her  to  him,  an'  kept  her  an  ear 
me ;  but  it  wa'  na'  sae  to  be.  He  wa'  an 
honest,  hamely  bodie,  but  Allie  did  na'  tak' 
a  likin'  to  him.  Ye  see,  she  haed  been 
better  educatit  than  ever  I  were,  an'  she  wa' 
mair  of  a  leddie — she  wa'  often  up  at  the 
manse,  an'  the  rector's  young  leddies,  they 
made  friends  o'  her,  till  at  last  she  half  lived 
there,  an'  there's  where  the  trouble  began. 

"  The  rector's  son,  he  haed  been  tutor  to  a 
young  mon,  the  on'y  son  o'  a  wealthy  En 
glish  family ;  they  haed  been  on  their  travels 
—he  an'  his  tutor  that  haed  been — an'  whin 
they  kim  hame,  he  kim  wi'  him  to  the  rectory, 
an'  there  he  an'  Alice  met — an'  she  wa'  very 
fair,  an'  sweet,  an'  innocent,  an'  the  young 
mon  made  luve  to  her. 


GOODY  CAMPBELLS  STORY.  253 

"Whin  I  kirn  to  the  knowledge  o'  it,  I 
wa'  sair  vexed,  for  though  he  seemed  an 
honorable  young  mon,  an'  asked  her  in  mar 
riage,  an'  though  I  kenned  she  wa'  fair  an' 
good  as  the  varry  angels  were,  an'  would  be 
no  discredit  to  ony  mon,  still  I  kenned  his 
family  wa'  rich,  an'  proud,  an'  high-born— 
an'  they  might  feel  she  wa'  na'  his  equal ; 
an'  I  wad  na'  hae  my  precious  child  looked 
doon  on  by  ouy  o'  his  English  bluid — an' 
sae  I  refused  to  hear  till  it;  an'  whin  I  heard 
his  father  wanted  him  to  wed  a  girl  whose 
father's  lands  joined  his  ain,  I  wa'  glad  to 
hear  it,  for  I  thought  that  wad  stop  it.  But 
I  reaped  as  I  haed  sowed — my  bounie  Alice 
fled  fra'  my  hame,  as  I  haed  fled  fra'  my  fa 
ther's.  t  Ah  !  then  I  kenned  what  my  ain  sin 
haed  been ;  then  I  kenned  what  my  father 
and  rnither  haed  suffered  for  me,  an'  I  felt  I 
haed  na'  a  word  to  say. 

"In  a  day  or  two  mair  I  got  letters,  beg- 
gin'  me  to  forgi'e  them  (ah  !  hoo  could  I  re 
fuse — I  that  haed  dune  the  varry  same  thing 
mysel1  ?)  ;  they  wrote  me  that  they  were  pri 
vately  married  directly  Allie  left  hame ; 
that  as  the  auld  laird  wa'  varry  sick,  an'  it 


SALEM. 


wa'  feared  ony  vexation  or  opposition  might 
do  him  an  injury,  so  it  wa'  to  be  kept  secret 
fra'  him  for  a  while.  Ah !  lassie,  I  tell  ye  I 
did  na'  like  the  lukes  o'  that — but  what 
could  I  do  but  try  to  be  patient  ? 

"  Weel,  time  wint  on ;  I  got  letters  fra'  my 
Alice  regularly,  an'  she  wa'  so  happy,  her 
husband  wa'  a'  she  could  ask — an7  I  tried 
to  feel  satisfied. 

"  In  little  mair  than  a  year  I  got  word  fra' 
her  that  the  auld  laird,  her  husband's  father, 
wa'  mair  dangerous — they  feared  something 
wa'  wrong  aboot  his  head,  an'  his  doctors 
haed  ordered  him  awa'  for  his  health,  an' 
he  wad  na'  gae  without  his  on'y  son  went 
too — an'  as  he  haed  na'  told  of  his  marriage, 
an'  dare  na',  he  could  na'  be  excused. 

"  So  as  Alice  wa'  in  delicate  health,  her 
husband  wad  na'  lave  her  amang  strangers, 
an'  he  haed  gi'en  consint  she  should  come 
harne  an'  stay  wi'  me  while  he  wa'  gone. 
An',  oh  !  she  wa'  as  blithe  as  a  bird  at  the 
thought  o'  seeing  me,  an'  Tibbie,  an'  the  auld 
hame  again ;  an'  ye  may  think  I  wa'  nae  less 
delightit  at  the  chance  to  see  my  bonnie 
bairn. 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  255 

"  Weel,  I  made  ready  for  her  wi'  a  glad 
heart — I  an'  auld  Tibbie,  who  haed  been  her 
nurse,  an'  luved  her  a'rnaist  as  weel  as  I  did. 
But  a  day  or  twa  before  she  wa'  expectit  to 
come,  I  wa'  out  to  buy  some  sma'  matters, 
an'  I  chanced  upon  Jeannie  Evans,  the  sister 
o'  the  lad  that  I  wanted  Allie  to  marry,  ye 
mind,  an'  I  kenned  weel  she  haed  na'  for- 
gi'en  Allie  for  the  slight  she  felt  we  haed 
put  upon  her  brither. 

" i  Haith  !  Mistress  Campbell,'  she  says  to 
me, '  this  is  great  news  indeed ;  I  hear  tell,' 
she  says,  '  yer  Allie  is  kimming  hame  to  ye 
again.  I  did  na'  think,'  she  says, '  that  he'd 
cast  her  a"ff  sae  sune ;  it  wad  hae  been  better 
by  far  for  her  to  hae  married  to  a  puir  but 
honest  boy,  that  wad  hae  stood  by  her,  an' 
luved  an'  respectit  her,  if  he  were  but  a 
hamely  lad  like  Sandie  Evans.' 

" '  An'  what  do  ye  mean  by  that  ?'  I  said ; 
though  I  kenned  well  eneugh  by  the  evil 
luke  in  her  wicked  een  what  she  meant. 

" l  Oh  !'  says  she, '  have  ye  na'  got  yer  een 
opened  yet  ?  My  faith !  hoo  blind  people  kin 
be  whin  they  don't  choose  to  see !  ye  diuna 
think  it  is  a  real  marriage  yet,  do  ye — an'  he 
sendin'  her  aff  like  this  ?' 


256  SALEM. 


"  An'  this  to  be  said  o'  my  girid  an'  beau 
tiful  Alice,  an'  said  to  her  ain  mither,  too ! 
Oh  !  I  could  hae  struck  the  creature  to  the 
earth,  but  I  dared  na'  trust  mysel'  to  answer 
her.  I  turned  awa'  and  went  harne.  I  told 
auld  Tibbie,  for  she  luved  my  bairn  a'maist 
as  I  did  mysel' ;  an'  she  counseled  me  to  be 
silent,  an'  na'  to  let  Allie  ken  what  we  haed 
heard,  an'  see  wha'  she  wad  say :  if  it  were 
true,  an'  she  kenned  it,  she  wad  be  sure  to 
tell  us — an'  if  the  puir  lassie  did  na'  ken  it, 
why  should  we  be  the  anes  to  tell  her? 

"  Weel,  she  kim  ;  an'  oh,  Allie,  it  seemed 
she  wa'  mair  beautiful  than  ever;  she  wa' 
dressed  a'  in  her  rich  silks  as  a  leddy  should 
be,  an'  she  haed  jewels  on  her  neck  an' 
arms ;  an',  the  innocent,  loving  young  thing, 
she  haed  dressed  her  beautiful  hair  wi'Hhe 
purple  heather  flowers,  to  show  me  she  luved 
her  ain  countrie  still ;  an'  she  wa'  a'  sae 
bright  an'  sae  happy,  an'  sae  full  o'  praises  o' 
her  husband — her  liusband!  Oh,  but  it  made 
my  varry  bluid  creep  in  my  veins  to  hear 
the  innocent  creature  ca'  him  so,  knowing 
weel  what  I  did  of  his  vile  baseness — but  I 
never  let  on  to  her,  I  took  tent  o'  that. 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  257 

"  A  nee  or  twice,  whiles  she  talked  to.  us 
sae  glad  an'  gay,  an'  lookin'  sae  bonnie,  I 
thought  I  saw  a  strange,  sudden  luke  o'  pain 
pass  ower  her  sweet  face ;  an'  at  last  I  took 
notice  o'  it,  an'  I  questioned  her  aboot  it. 
At  first  she  put  me  by,  an'  telled  me  it  wa' 
nathin' ;  but  at  last  she  had  to  own  up,  an' 
she  telled  us  that  in  gettin'  out  o'  ane  o'  the 
coaches  on  her  route  hame,  she  had  slipped 
an'  fallen,  an'  haed  somehoo  strained  hersel' 
a  little ;  but  she  tried  to  laugh  it  aff,  an'  said 
it  wa'  nathin';  but  Tibbie  an'  I  felt  there 
wa'  reason  to  be  anxious  in  her  circum 
stances. 

"That  night,  alas!  she  haed  to  ca'  us  up 
—oh,  that  wa'  a  dreadfu'  night !  an'  before 
the  mornin'  broke  on  us,  you,  a  puir,  weakly 
baby,  wa'  prematurely  born,  an'  Alice — my 
treasure,  my  darlin',  my  on'y  child  —  wa' 
gaen  fra'  me  foriver. 

"  Then,  Alice,  I  think  my  brain  gave  way, 
an'  I  wa'  mad — mad !  There  wa'  but  ane 
bit  o'  comfort  left  me — I  wa'  glad  I  haed 
never  told  her  o'  the  sin  o'  the  mon  she 
luved  sae  weel ;  an'  she  died  in  her  innocent 
belief  that  she  wa'  his  luved  an'  lawfu'  wife — 


258  SALEM. 


that  wa'  a  comfort  as  regarded  her,  the  on'y 
comfort;  but  as  for  him,  the  deceiver — I 
could  hae  torn  his  fause  heart  out. 

"  But  Tibbie  helped  me  in  my  thirst  for 
revenge.  Tibbie  an'  I  haed  been  alone  in 
the  house  wi'  Alice — nabodie  but  she  an'  I 
kenned  the  terrible  event  of  the  night.  She 
put  it  into  my  mind  to  conceal,  yer  birth; 
she  took  ye,  poor  unconscious  babe,  under 
her  plaidie,  an'  awa'  wi'  ye  to  the  house  o' 
her  brither,  who  had  a  baby  aboot  the  same 
age,  an'  left  ye  wi'  his  wife,  who  promised 
to  rear  ye  wi'  her  ain  young  ane.  Tibbie 
swore  them  to  secrecy,  an'  kirn  bock  to  me; 
an'  wi'  our  ain  hands  we  made  our  darlin1 
ready  for  the  grave — we  were  a'  alane  wi' 
our  dead  an'  our  dool ;  but  if  we  had  na' 
been,  I  wad  hae  let  nae  hand  but  my  ain  or 
Tibbie's  touch  her  sweet  bodie. 

"An'  so  my  precious  Allie  wa'  laid  in  her 
grave,  close  by  the  side  o'  my  father  an' 
mither ;  an'  then  the  auld  rector,  who  knew 
an'  loved  my  Alice,  who  haed  baptized  her, 
an'  read  the  burial  service  ower  her,  an'  who 
knew  a'  that  the  young  folks  cared  to  tell 
him,  he  wrote  out  to  yer  father,  at  the  out- 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  S7VRY.  259 

landish  place  (wheriver  it  were,  I  did  na'  ken) 
where  he  an'  the  auld  laird  were.  I  did  na' 
ask  him  wha'  he  wrote,  an'  he  did  na'  ask  me 
wha'  he  should  write;  I  wa'  thankfu'  for 
that.  I  suppose  he  thought  I  wa'  too  wild 
like  in  my  great  sorrow  to  send  any  mes 
sage;  so  he  jist  wrote  wha'  he  thinked  best. 
Nae  doot  he  telled  him  o'  the  accident  she 
met  wi'  on  her  way  hame,  and  o'  its  fatal 
effects,  which  might  weel  hae  been  expectit 
in  her  circumstances;  but  he  could  na'  tell 
him  o'  the  birth  o'  her  child — nabodie  guess 
ed  that — nabodie  haed  seen  her  fra'  the  time 
she  kim,  till  they  seen  her  sweet  face  in  the 
coffin ;  nabodie  kenned  wha'  had  happened 
but  Tib  and  I,  for  the  event  had  na'  been 
expectit  for  many  weeks  yet,  an'  the  secret 
wa'  safe  eneugh  wi'  us. 

"  After  a  while  news  kim  fra'  abroad  that 
the  auld  inon  wa'  gainin'  somewhat,  out 
there  where  the  doctors  haed  sint  him;  an' 
now  that  Alice  wa'  gone,  his  son's  first  duty 
wa'  to  his  father,  an'  he  wad  stay  wi'  him 
as  long  as  he  remained  there.  The  rector 
telled  me  this;  an'  there  wa'  somewhat  aboot 
luve  an'  sorrow — idle,  bleth'rin  words !  I 


260  SALEM. 


did  na'  care  to  hear  them — they  could  na' 
bring  bock  my  bairn  to  me,  or  atone  for  the 
wrong  he  haed  done  her." 

"But,  grandmother,"  said  Alice,  raising 
her  pale  face,  and  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
as  Goody  Campbell  paused — "  tell  me,  what 
did  he,  what  did  my  father  say,  when  you 
did  see  him  ?  tell  me — did  he  deny  or  own 
the  terrible  wrong  ?" 

"  Haith,  Alice,  I  haed  nae  chance  to  see 
him  ;  an'  I  wad  na'  if  I  haed.  J  ne'er  looked 
on  his  fause  face  again;  my  on'y  wish  wa'  to 
keep  out  o'  his  way." 

"  Bat  did  you  never  write  to  him — never 
question  him — never  charge  him  with  his 
baseness  ?  never  give  him  a  chance  to  clear 
himself?" 

"  Not  I,  indeed  !  Hoo  could  he  repair 
the  wrong  he  haed  done  ?  My  bonnie  lassie 
wa'  lyin'  under  the  mools ;  an'  wha'  wa'  he 
to  me  ?  Would  I  gi'e  him  the  chance,  think 
ye,  to  cast  mair  dishonor  on  my  Alice's  mem 
ory,  or  to  disown  her  innocent  bairn?  Never, 
never !  I  tell  ye,  No  !" 

"  But,  grandmother,  that  was  unjust.  You 
took  the  angry  word  of  a  revengeful  woman 


GOODY   CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  26l 

against  him,  and  gave  him  no  chance  to  dis 
prove  it.  That  was  cruel — cruel  and  unjust. 
I  will  not  so  lightly  accept  the  story  of  my 
mother's  shame  and  my  father's  dishonor. 
I  will  hold  fast  by  the  loving  trust  my  sweet 
mother  had  in  him.  But  tell  me — did  he 
never  seek  you  out  when  he  returned  to  his 
home  again  ?" 

"  He  did  na'  return  for  years ;  an'  lang  be 
fore  he  did  come  hame,  I  wa'  far  eneugh  awa'. 
I  wa'  too  restless  an'  unhappy  to  remain 
there,  where  every  thing  reminded  me  o'  a' 
that  I  haed  lost.  I  wanted  to  be  awa' — 
awa'  fra'  a'  that  knew  me.  I  sold  the  little 
place  that  wa'  my  father's,  an'  removed  awa' 
to  the  Highlands — to  the  t  Hillside  Farm' 
— wi'  on'y  my  faithful  Tibbie;  and  there, 
where  nabodie  kenned  my  sad  story,  where 
nabodie  spiered  to  ken  my  name  or  where  I 
kimmed  fra',  there  I  ventured  to  tak'  ye 
hame  to  me ;  for  ye  wa'  a'  I  haed  left  to  me 
in  life,  an'  in  ye  I  felt  a'maist  as  if  I  haed 
my  ain  Allie  bock  again. 

"But  when  ye  wa'  five  or  six  year  auld 
I  chanced  to  see  by  a  paper  that  the  auld 
laird  wa'  dead,  an'  that  his  son  wa'  comin' 


262  SALEM. 


hame  to  England ;  an'  I  could  na'  rest  easy 
for  the  fear  lie  might  track  me  out,  an'  tak' 
ye  fra'  me,  ye  wa'  so  like  yer  mither;  an' 
sae  I  sold  a'  out  again,  an'  took  ship,  an'  kirn 
to  America,  for  I  made  sure  he'd  ne'er  find 
me  here." 

"  But,  oh,  grandmother !"  said  Alice,  speak 
ing  in  quick,  eager  tones ;  "  is  he — is  my  fa 
ther — oh  !  tell  me — is  he  living  yet  ?" 

a  I  dinna  ken;  I  hae  telled  ye  a'  I  ken  aboot 
him." 

"  And  you  do  not  know  that  he  is  dead, 
then  ? — you  never  heard  that  he  was  ?" 

"I  tell  ye  I  dinna  ken  aught  mair  aboot 
the  mon ;  I  dinna  want  iver  to  hear  o'  him 
again." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Alice,  rising  proudly; 
"  he  is  my  father,  and  as  such  I  will  love  and 
honor  him,  until  I  know  he  is  unworthy  of 
my  love.  I  will  seek  him  the  world  over, 
and  not  until  I  hear  it  confessed  by  his  own 
lips  will  I  believe  this  cruel  story." 

"  Ye  will  seek  him,  did  ye  say,  Alice  ?  an' 
hoo  ?"  asked  the  grandmother,  with  a  con 
temptuous  smile. 

"  I  will  cross  the  sea  to  find  him,  if  I  have 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  263 

to  work  ray  passage,"  said  the  girl,  resolute 
ly  ;  "  and,  if  he  still  live,  I  am  sure  I  shall 
find  him." 

"  An'  hoo  will  ye  ken  where  to  seek  him, 
silly  bairn «" 

"I  will  go  first  to  the  rectory —I  know 
how  to  find  my  way  there.  I  will  tell  my 
story,  and  those  who  knew  my  mother  will 
help  her  child  to  find  her  father." 

"  An'  ye  will  leave  me,  Alice  ?"  said  the 
trembling  voice  of  the  old  woman. 

"  I  will  go  to  my  father,"  replied  the  reso 
lute  tones  of  the  younger  one. 

"  Alice !  Alice !  an'  is  this  a'  the  return 
ye  make  me  for  the  care  that  ha'  bred  ye, 
an'  fed  ye,  an'  luved  ye  wi'  a  mither's  luve, 
for  rnair  than  eighteen  years." 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Alice,  sternly,  "  I  re 
member  only  that  for  more  than  eighteen 
years  you  have  deprived  my  poor  widowed 
father  of  his  daughter's  love,  and  me  of  a  fa 
ther's  love  and  care." 

"  An'  ye  will  leave  me,  an'  go  to  seek  the 
fause  -  hearted  mon  that  wronged  yer  puir 
mither?  Oh,  Allie !  Allie !  I  did  na'  luke 
for  this  fra'  ye." 


264  SALEM. 


"  Grandmother,  you  are  cruel — cruel !  you 
have  no  mercy — you  have  no  pity  for  me  ! 
You  stab  me  to  the  heart,  and  then  ask  me 
for  love  and  gratitude — you  have  no  mercy, 


none." 


As  Alice  uttered  these  words,  with  raised 
and  passionate  voice,  a  slight  rustling  under 
the  open  window  attracted  Goody  Camp 
bell's  attention,  and  fearing  they  might  be 
overheard,  she  rose  to  close  the  sash ;  but  as 
she  did  so,  a  retreating  footstep,  and  a  low, 
mocking  laugh,  floated  back  to  her,  and  con 
vinced  her  that  they  had  had  listeners ;  but 
she  was  too  much  troubled  with  the  turn  af 
fairs  had  taken  to  pay  much  heed  to  the 
circumstance.  She  closed  the  window,  and 
returning  to  her  usual  chair,  sat  down  in 
ominous  silence,  her  head  resting  on  her 
hand.  And  Alice  too  remained  silent,  busy 
with  her  perplexed  and  tumultuous  thoughts. 
And  so  they  sat  in  silence  for  more  than  an 
hour,  Goody  Campbell  absorbed  in  the  past, 
Alice  quite  as  much  absorbed  with  the  fut 
ure;  Alice  nervously  and  restlessly  chang 
ing  her  position,  while  her  grandmother  nev 
er  moved. 


GOODY  CAMPBELL'S  STORY.  265 

But  Alice,  though  quick  and  impulsive  in 
temper,  was  affectionate  and  loving ;  and  her 
heart  upbraided  her.  From  time  to  time 
she  glanced  uneasily  at  the  unmoving  figure 
in  the  old  arm-chair.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
a  strange  grayness  was  stealing  over  those 
aged  features.  Surely  she  thought,  as  she 
looked  at  her,  she  had  grown  old  since  the 
morning;  and  was  it  her  unkindness  that 
had  wrought  the  sudden  change  ? 

She  thought  of  all  her  patient  love  and 
tender  care ;  she  thought  of  all  she  had  suf 
fered,  and  all  she  had  lost — her  parents,  her 
husband,  her  only  child ;  and  her  warm  but 
hasty  little  heart  swelled  in  pitying  and  re 
pentant  tenderness.  How  still  she  sat,  so 
motionless !  oh,  if  she  would  only  move  her 
head — her  hand  !  And  her  usually  erect  fig 
ure,  how  drooping !  There  was  something 
awful  in  her  unnatural  silence  and  stillness. 
Oh,  what  if  her  unkindness  had  broken  that 
true  and  loving  heart !  what  if  she  were  pal 
sy-smitten,  and  would  never  move  again — 
never  again  speak  to  her !  At  this  terrible 
thought,  Alice  left  her  seat,  and  drew  nearer 
to  that  sad  and  silent  figure.  She  laid  her 
M 


266  SALEM. 


own  hand  upon  the  cold  hand  which  rested 
on  the  table;  it  did  not  move  to  meet  the 
proffered  clasp. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  dear  grandmother !" 
burst  from  the  girl's  lips  in  sudden  penitence; 
"forgive  me— oh,  do  forgive  me!  I  have 
been  too  unmindful  of  your  love  and  care; 
can  you  forgive  me?  I  have  been  very 
wrong." 

Not  a  word,  not  a  motion  betrayed  that 
she  had  been  heard ;  and,  wild  with  terror,  she 
threw  herself  in  quick,  penitent  tears  at  her 
grandmother's  feet,  and  sobbed  out  her  pray 
er  to  be  forgiven. 

Ah !  it  was  her  childhood's  story  over 
again.  The  doting  grandmother  could  not 
hold  out  against  the  beloved  penitent,  and 
the  loving  arms  unclosed  to  her  once  more. 
Again  Alice  was  taken  back  in  love  and  for 
giveness,  and  again  she  wept  out  her  passion 
ate  rebellion  upon  that  true  and  faithful  heart. 

Ah,  happy  for  them  both  that  the  recon 
ciliation  was  not  deferred  until  it  was  too 
late — that  they  "  suffered  not  the  sun  to  go 
down  upon  their  wrath ;"  that  with  tender, 
loving  words  and  fond  embraces  and  mur 
mured  blessings  they  parted  for  the  night.  ' 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IN  DANGER. 

"  Send  down  thy  bright- winged  angel,  Lord  ! 

Amid  the  night  so  wild ; 
And  bid  him  come  and  breathe  upon, 
And  heal  our  gentle  child." 

GAIN  darkness  spread  its  shad 
owy  wings  over  the  little  dwell 
ing  of  Mistress  Campbell,  and 
its  inmates  separated ;  but  again 
poor  Alice  passed  a  restless  and  feverish 
night,  tossing  and  turning  in  painful  sleep 
lessness,  wearied  and  exhausted  in  mind  and 
body,  but  still  seemingly  condemned  to  sad 
watchfulness. 

It  might  have  been  something  peculiar  in 
the  heavy  atmosphere  which  oppressed  her, 
for  the  sultry  night  air  was  surcharged  with 
electricity ;  or  it  might  have  been  merely 
the  natural  result  of  the  overtasking  of  nerve 
and  brain  which  the  sensitive  girl  had  un- 


268  SALEM. 


dergone  during  the  last  two  days ;  but  sleep 
seemed  denied  her. 

Oh  !  how  welcome  to  her  would  have 
been  only  one  short  hour  of  that  calm,  dream 
less  slumber,  light  as  the  sleep  of  infancy, 
which  she  had  never  learned  to  appreciate 
till  the  lesson  came  to  her  through  its  loss. 
Oh  !  for  only  one  short  hour  of  blessed  sleep, 
to  cairn  her  wild,  feverish  unrest — to  take 
the  sting  of  pain  out  of  the  hot  and  dazzled 
eyes,  whose  aching  lids  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  again  close  over  the  strained 
vision. 

In  vain.  She  lay,  restlessly  tossing  and 
moaning — only  made  conscious  of  a  moment 
ary  drowse,  when  a  sudden  nervous  start 
betrayed  to  her  that  she  had  been  treading 
the  border-lands  of  sleep.  Yet  it  was  not  so 
much  the  sad  memories  of  the  past,  or  the 
doubts,  hopes,  and  anxieties  of  the  future, 
which  dwelt  now  upon  her  mind,  and  kept 
her  waking,  as  it  had  been  the  night  before. 
Her  mind  was  perhaps  quite  as  much  and 
as  unnaturally  overtasked ;  but  it  was  far 
less  clear,  and  its  condition  was  wholly  dif 
ferent. 


IN  DANGER.  269 


On  the  preceding  night,  although  pain 
fully  excited  and  disturbed,  the  action  of  her 
mind  had  still  been  coherent  and  natural — 
the  objects  which  had  then  passed  in  review 
before  her  were  real,  though  distressing,  and 
she  had  mind  and  memory  enough  to  think 
them  out,  and  follow  them  up  to  their  legit 
imate  conclusion;  but  now  it  was  the  delir 
ium  of  coming  fever — her  mind  drifted  be 
yond  her  control,  and  her  brain  was  filled 
with  the  rapidly  shifting,  weird,  and  often 
grotesque  visions  of  an  incoherent  and  disor 
dered  imagination. 

o 

A  strange  physical  drowsiness,  that  was 
not  sleep,  contended  with  a  fierce  mental  ac 
tivity  that  was  not  wakefulness ;  and  she 
lay,  vaguely  watching  the  procession  of  fan 
tastic  figures  which  moved  around  her,  won 
dering  if  they  could  be  real,  yet  wholly  un 
able  to  convince  herself  that  they  were  false ; 
now  feebly  laughing  at  their  mocking  show 
—then  cowering  from  them  in  weak  terror. 

Slowly  —  slowly,  the  heavy  hours  of  the 
night  crept  by ;  and  was  it  wonderful  if, 
when  the  tardy  morning  broke  at  last,  she 
was  wholly  unable  to  rise — unable  to  lift  her 


270  SALEM. 


weary,  aching  head  from  its  heated  pillow 
. — and  that  her  grandmother  found  her  with 
burning  cheeks,  rapid  pulse,  throbbing  tem 
ples,  and  all  the  terrible  premonitory  symp 
toms  of  fever  I 

But  Elsie  Campbell,  who  was  an  experi 
enced  and  tender  nurse,  though  fully  aware 
of  the  danger  which  threatened  Jier  darling, 
met  it  with  calm  demeanor  and  active  rem 
edies.  With  her  loving  heart  wrung  to  its 
very  core,  she  wasted  no  time  in  idle  ques 
tions  or  useless  protestations ;  her  loving, 
active  hands  shut  out  the  light  from  the  sad, 
staring  eyes — tenderly  bound  the  moistened 
linen  round  the  tortured  brow — bathed  the 
burning  cheeks,  and  held  the  cooling  drink 
to  the  parched  and  thirsting  lips.  She 
fanned  the  languid  sufferer,  lifted  the  feeble 
form  to  an  easier  position,  or  held  the  ach 
ing  head  upon  her  kind,  maternal  bosom. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  memory  of  their  recent 
feud  had  passed  from  the  mind  of  each — all 
was  forgiven  and  forgotten.  Alice,  moaning 
and  tossing,  with  the  unconscious  selfishness 
which  sickness  so  often  awakens  in  the  inex 
perienced  in  suffering,  calling  freely  for  all 


IN  DANGER.  271 


her  grandmother's  tender  care  and  loving 
sympathy,  forgot  she  had  so  lately  doubted 
them ;  and  poor  Elsie,  hanging  over  her  in 
soothing  ministrations,  with  a  perpetual  pray 
er  in  her  heart,  remembered  only  her  dar 
ling's  present  danger,  and  forgot  she  had  ever 
been  less  than  dutiful. 

Mistress  Campbell  was  well  skilled  in  all 
the  homely  curative  lore  upon  which,  in  the 
olden  days,  experience  relied.  She  knew 
the  health-giving  properties  hidden  in  herbs 
and  roots  and  barks — the  simple  remedies 
drawn  from  Nature's  own  laboratory — and 
which,  if  possibly  less  potent  for  good,  were 
far  more  harmless  than  the  drugs  of  our 
modern  pharmacists ;  and  so,  through  the 
long,  uncounted  hours  of  the  bright,  hot  sum 
mer's  day — through  the  slow-moving  watch 
es  of  the  sultry  summer  night — the  patient 
watcher  kept  her  weary  place  by  the  sick 
bed,  with  tireless  ministry,  and  tender,  sooth 
ing  words ;  and  by  her  skill  and  love  seemed 
to  hold  even  the  "  king  of  terrors"  at  bay,  and 
actually  to  ward  off  the  impending  danger. 
It  was  a  fearful  contest,  for  life  or  death,  and 
often  poor  Mistress  Campbell's  heart  sank 


272  SALEM. 


within  her ;  but  as  the  second  day  drew  to 
ward  its  close,  her  experienced  eye  detected 
a  hopeful  though  very  gradual  change. 

The  burning  fever  was  lessened ;  the  tor 
turing  pain  in  the  temples  was  subdued ;  the 
restlessly  tossing  limbs  relaxed  their  painful 
tension,  and  sunk  into  easier  attitudes  of 
rest ;  the  rapid  pulse  grew  slower  and  more 
regular;  the  quick,  gasping  respiration  be 
came  deeper  and  less  rapid  ;  a  gentle  moist 
ure  broke  out  on  the  parched  skin,  and  Alice 
dozed  off  into  a  light  and  broken  slumber 
beneath  the  glad  eye  of  the  watcher,  who 
held  her  breath  to  listen  with  thankful  heart, 
as  the  health-bringing  sleep  grew  more  and 
more  profound,  until,  as  the  cooler  shades  of 
night  came  on,  the  young  sufferer  lay  in 
calm  and  peaceful  rest,  beneath  the  glad  eyes 
that  ventured  now  to  weep  in  very  thank 
fulness. 

Deeper  and  deeper  grew  that  blessed,  sav 
ing  slumber  as  the  night  wore  on,  only 
broken  when  Alice  was  aroused  to  take  the 
offered  medicine  or  nourishment,  which  she 
received  with  grateful  consciousness,  and 
then  sank  back  to  quiet  sleep  again;  and 


IN  DANGER.  273 


still  the  grandmother  watched  and  waited, 
with  a  perpetual  song  of  thanksgiving  at 
her  heart. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  when  Alice  awoke  from  her  restorative 
sleep,  calm  and  refreshed,  and  with  a  clear 
brain  ;  but  weak — oh  !  weak — to  almost  in 
fantine  weakness.  Instinctively  she  turned 
her  head  to  address  her  faithful  watcher ; 
but  she  missed  the  dear  old  familiar  face, 
which  she  remembered  had  bent  like  that  of 
a  guardian  angel  above  her.  But  with  re 
turning  clearness  of  mind  had  come  back 
Alice's  habitual  thoughtfulness  for  the  com 
fort  of  others ;  and  remembering  her  grand 
mother's  patient  and  protracted  watching, 
she  naturally  concluded  she  had  left  her  to 
seek  the  refreshment  of  needed  sleep,  and 
she  kept  very  quiet,  resolved  not  to  disturb 
her,  but  to  wait  patiently  until  she  came  to 
her. 

But  she  waited  long  and  vainly — no  one 
came ;  and  at  last,  feeling  the  need  of  nour 
ishment,  and  hearing  Winny  moving  with 
restless  steps  in  the  room  below,  she  called 
to  her,  faintly  at  first,  for  fear  of  disturbing 
M2 


274  SALEM. 


her  grandmother ;  but  as  her.  call  seemed  un 
heard  or  unheeded,  she  raised  herself  pain 
fully  from  her  pillow  and  called  again. 

And  Winny  came  —  but  oh  !  merciful 
heavens  !  what  had  happened  ?  What  was 
the  awful  horror  that  spoke  in  those  great, 
wildly  rolling  eyes — which  had  blanched  to 
a  gray  ashiness  that  dusky  face  ? 

"  Oh  !  Winny,  Winny,  what  is  it  ?  Oh  ! 
tell  me  —  tell  me  at  once,"  murmured  the 
girl's  pale,  quivering  lips — "  tell  rne  what  it 
is.  I  can  bear  any  thing  better  than  silence. 
Tell  me — oh  !  tell  me — or  I  shall  go  mad." 

And  poor  Winny,  thus  adjured,  did  tell. 
She  had  been  cautioned  not  to  tell — to  wait-, 
and  let  others  break  the  sad  tidings  care 
fully  to  Alice ;  but  grief  and  horror  rendered 
all  precaution  impossible  to  her,  as,  throw 
ing  herself  down  in  abject  terror,  she  burst 
out  with  the  terrible  truth  in  all  the  pas 
sionate  volubility  of  her  race. 

Goody  Campbell  had  been  cried  out  upon 
by  the  accusing  girls — the  constables  had 
come  with  a  warrant  that  morning  and  tak 
en  her  away  to  jail,  to  be  tried  as  a  witch, 
like  poor  Goody  Nurse ! 


IN  DANGER.  275 


And  Alice  heard  and  comprehended  it  all 
—and  then,  shrieking  in  wild  delirium,  she 
sunk  back  upon  her  bed  in  utter  uncon 
sciousness,  and  knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MISTRESS   CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL. 

"Perchance  Elijah  thought  his  fate  was  sealed— 

That  God  had  sent  premonitory  warning; 
And  that  the  croaking  ravens  but  revealed 
His  death  to-morrow  morning." 


poor  Mistress  Campbell, 
dizzy  with  want  of  sleep,  and 
worn  and  weary  with  her 
anxious  and  long  -protracted 
watch,  was  summoned  from  her  grandchild's 
sick-bed,  in  the  chill  gray  of  the  early  morn 
ing,  to  encounter  the  stern  messengers  of  the 
law,  her  first  instinctive  thought  was  the 
fear  that  Alice  might  be  disturbed. 

Of  her  own  impending  danger  she  took 
not  the  slightest  heed  —  indeed,  she  scarcely 
realized  it  ;  for,  conscious  of  her  own  entire 
innocence  of  the  crime  imputed  to  her,  and 
ignorant  that  she  had  any  enemies  or  ill- 
wishers,  she  never  doubted  that  the  whole 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  277 

tiling  was  a  mistake,  and  that  it  needed  only 
to  be  explained  to  be  rectified  at  once ;  and 
she  confidently  made  this  assertion.  But 
in  answer  to  this,  the  officers  produced  the 
warrant  for  her  arrest,  in  which  her  name 
was  plainly  inserted. 

Still,  though  surprised  and  indignant  at 
the  ignominy  and  shame  which  such  a  charge, 
even  if  unfounded,  must  leave  upon  her  hith 
erto  spotless  good  name  in  the  little  com 
munity,  she  felt  no  personal  fear  for  the  re 
sult.  Her  only  thought  was  for  Alice  - 
Alice,  sick  and  in  danger.  How  could  she 
leave  her,  when  perhaps  that  precious  life— 
so  much  dearer  than  her  own  —  yet  hung 
upon  her  continued  care  ?  —  and  with  tears 
and  entreaties  that  she  would  have  scorned 
to  use  in  her  own  behalf,  she  pleaded  ear 
nestly  for  a  short  delay. 

She  told  the  officials  of  the  dangerous  nature 
of  her  grandchild's  illness,  and  tried  to  touch 
their  feelings.  She  promised,  with  solemn 
protestations,  that  she  would  not  leave  the 
house,  but  would  consider  herself  their  pris 
oner — and  wait,  and  be  found  there,  ready 
to  answer  any  future  legal  summons,  if  they 


278  SALEM. 


would  only  leave  her.  for  a  few  days  to 
watch  over  her  sick  child.  But  she  pleaded 
in  vain ;  her  words  fell  upon  unheeding  ears. 
Possibly  the  men  had,  by  virtue  of  their  of 
fice,  become  inured  to  such  scenes,  and  their 
hearts  were  hardened  to  them;  or  it  might 
be  that  the  very  imputation  of  being  a 
witch  had  shut  her  off  from  all  human  sym 
pathy  ;  but  the  officials  were  deaf  to  her 
tearful  pleading,  inexorable  in  the  perform 
ance  of  their  cruel  duties,  and  would  admit 
of  no  delay. 

Still,  even  then,  amid  all  the  agitation  of 
that  hurried  and  terrible  home-leaving,  with 
true  motherly  love,  the  afflicted  woman 
thought  only  of  Alice,  and  contrived  to  send 
a  message  to  her  friends  at  Nurse's  Farm  to 
inform  them  of  her  own  arrest  and  Alice's 
illness,  and  asking  them  to  come,  and  com 
fort  and  care  for  her  darling  in  her  own  en 
forced  absence  from  her  home. 

And  these  sisters  in  affliction  answered 
the  appeal  at  once,  and  hastened  to  Alice's 
bedside  —  though  not,  as  we  have  seen,  in 
time  to  prevent  the  terrible  disclosure  which 
poor  terrified  Winny  had  made. 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  279 

But  it  would  have  made,  possibly,  but 
little  difference  in  fact  how  the  terrible  story 
was  told.  No  cautious  words,  however  care 
fully  chosen — no  tender,  pitying  tones,  how 
ever  sympathetic  —  could  have  robbed  that 
awful  communication  of  its  fearful  meaning. 
But  they  found  poor  Alice  wildly  raving  in 
a  relapse  of  the  fever  which  her  grandmoth 
er's  devotion  and  skill  had  so  nearly  avert 
ed,  and  they  took  charge  of  the  desolate 
household,  and  watched  over  the  suffering 
girl  with  sisterly  love. 

But  while  Alice,  blessed  by  her  very  un 
consciousness,  lay  battling  with  the  fierce  fe 
ver  which  had  fastened  upon  her,  and  tend 
ed  by  the  loving  care  of  the  few  true  and 
faithful  friends  whom  misfortune  and  dan 
ger  only  drew  more  closely  to  her  side,  her 
grandmother's  free  and  active  spirit  chafed 
in  her  close  confinement  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  jail. 

The  clever,  bustling,  active  housekeeper, 
who  had  kept  herself  busy  with  all  the  de 
tails  of  her  little  household,  and  to  whom 
fresh  air  and  active  out-of-door  exercise 
seemed  to  be  a  very  necessity  of  her  being, 


2  So  SALEM. 


was  helpless  and  cramped  in  chains  and  bond 
age  ;  she,  to  whom  "  cleanliness  was  next  to 
godliness,"  was  sickened  and  disgusted  by 
the  dirt  and  discomfort  all  around  her ;  and 
far  more  than  all  these  lesser  evils  was  the 
heart's  deep  craving  for  the  companionship 
of  her  child,  from  whom  until  now  she  had 
never  been  separated  for  a  single  night  since 
Alice's  infancy ;  and  now  this  one  treasure 
of  her  otherwise  desolate  heart  was  ill — pos 
sibly  dying— and  she  was  kept  from  her. 

This  thought  exasperated  her  beyond 
measure.  Her  knowledge  of  her  own  entire 
innocence  made  the  unfounded  charge  seem 
almost  an  absurdity  in  her  eyes.  She  could 
not  realize  that  others,  from  a  different  stand 
point,  took  different  views ;  and  she  felt  a 
thorough  contempt  for  what  seemed  to  her 
the  willful  blindness  of  her  accusers  and 
prosecutors,  and  this  sentiment  she  did  not 
hesitate  openly  to  declare. 

It  was  strange  that  her  reliance  upon  her 
own  innocence  should  have  rendered  her 
thus  fearless,  with  the  tragic  fate  of  poor 
Goody  Nurse  before  her,  for  she  believed  in 
her  friend's  integrity  as  fully  as  in  her  own. 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  28l 

But  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  Re 
becca  Nurse  had  made  many  personal  ene 
mies  by  the  part  she  had  taken  in  the  former 
Church  controversy,  and  to  their  malicious 
revenge  many  persons  attributed  her  con 
demnation  ;  while  she  herself  was  wholly  un- 
compromised  in  these  matters,  and  was  not 
aware  of  an  enemy. 

At  length,  when  worn  with  her  confine 
ment  and  irritated  with  delay,  she  was  ar 
raigned  for  trial,  and  the  same  formulas  were 
gone  through  with  that  had  marked  the  tri 
als  of  her  unfortunate  predecessors  ;  but  El 
sie  Campbell,  with  her  heart  full  of  anxiety 
for  her  child,  and  bitter  contempt  and  hatred 
of  her  judges,  was  a  sharp  match  for  the 
sharpest  of  her  opponents. 

Reckless  of  all  possible  consequences  — 
fearless  by  nature  —  sure  that  a  trial  must 
make  her  innocence  clear  to  all — and  stung 
to  madness  by  the  uncalled-for  malice  of  her 
accusers  and  the  injustice  of  her  confine 
ment,  her  sharp  Scottish  shrewdness  and 
quick  mother  wit  flashed  back  upon  them  in 
angry,  scornful  words. 

When  she  was  placed  at  the  bar,  Justice 


282  SALEM. 


Hathorne  (who  seems  to  have  combined  in 
his  own  single  person  the  several  duties  of 
judge  and  prosecuting  officer,  in  a  manner 
that  is  incomprehensible  to  our  modern  ideas 
of  legal  etiquette)  thus  addressed  her  : 

"Elsie  Campbell,  look  at  me.  You  are 
now  in  the  hands  of  authority  ;  answer, 
then,  with  truth." 

"I  kinna  answer  ye  wi'  ony  ither.  The 
truth  is  my  mither  tongue — I  aye  speak  it." 

"Tell  me,  then,  why  do  you  torment  these 
children  ?" 

"I  dinna  torment  them.  I  niver  hurted 
a  bairn  in  my  life — I'd  scorn  to  do  it." 

"  But  they  say  that  you  do." 

"I  kinna  help  wha'  they  say.  I  am  jist 
an  honest,  God-fearin'  woman ;  I  dinna  ken 
aught  o'  yer  witchcraft." 

"But  what,  then,  makes  them  say  it  of 
you  V 

"  Hoo  suld  I  ken  ?  I  kinna  fash  mysel'  to 
tell  hoo  ilka  fule's  tongue  may  wag." 

"  But  do  you  not  know  that  if  you  are 
guilty  you  can  not  hide  it  ?" 

"  Haith  !  an'  I  ken  that  weel  enow ;  an' 
sae  do  the  Lord  abune  us." 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL. 


283 


"  Yea,  He  doth ;  and  He  hath  power  to 
discover  the  guilty,  and  bring  them  to  open 
shame." 

"  In  varry  deed  He  hath.  He  kin  gie  wis 
dom  to  the  simple  —  may  he  open  the  een 
o'  magistrates  an'  ministers." 

"  Do  you  think  to  find  mercy  by  denying 
and  aggravating  your  sin  ?" 

"  Alas  !  that  is  a  true  word — na',  I  dinna 
think  it." 

"You  should  look  for  it,  then,  in  God's 


way." 


"  An'  sae  I  do ;  an'  in  nae  ither." 

"  Here  are  three  or  four  witnesses  who 
testify  against  you." 

"  Weel-a-weel,  an'  what  kin  I  do  ?  Many 
may  rise  up  again'  me — I  kinna  help  it.  If 
a'  be  again'  me,  what  can  I  do  ?" 

"  You  said  just  now  that  we  magistrates 
needed  to  have  our  eyes  opened." 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?  Na'— na',  I  but  said  I 
prayed  it  might  be." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  are  blind, 
then  2" 

"  I  suld  think  ye  maun  be,  if  ye  kin  see 
a  witch  in  me." 


284  SALEM. 


"  I  hear  you  have  said  that  you  would 
open  our  eyes  for  us." 

"  Na' — na',  I  ne'er  said  the  word ;  I  wad 
na'  be  that  presumptuous." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  That  I  think  it  is  far  abune  me.  It  wad 
tak'  the  power  o'  Him  who  opened  blind 
Bartimeus  his  eyes." 

This  allusion  to  the  supposed  professional 
blindness  of  the  court  which  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  was  accused  of  having  made,  seems 
to  have  rankled  in  the  breast  of  Justice  Ha 
th  orne  with  peculiar  bitterness ;  and  her 
spirited  answer,  although  it  might  silence, 
was  certainly  not  calculated  to  conciliate 
him — indeed,  the  whole  conduct  and  bearing 
of  the  prisoner,  both  in  confinement  and 
upon  trial,  was  rasping  and  irritating  in  the 
extreme,  and  such  as  to  increase  the  preju 
dice  already  existing  against  her. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  in  her  exten 
uation  that,  believing  the  charge  brought 
against  her  had  originated  in  some  absurd 
ignorance,  which  would  be  brought  to  light 
in  the  course  of  events,  and  wrould  trium 
phantly  vindicate  her  good  name,  she  could 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  285 

not  believe  that  even  her  persecutors  really 
believed  in  it ;  and  exasperated  at  what  she 
considered  an  unauthorized  and  unlawful 
interference  in  her  private  rights,  in  compell 
ing  her  to  leave  her  home  and  the  bedside 
of  her  sick  child,  she  assumed  a  defiant  and 
even  contemptuous  attitude,  to  which  the 
sharpness  of  her  foreign  tongue  gave  per 
haps  additional  point. 

But  Justice  Hathorne  continued  his  inves 
tigations,  which  seem  to  have  had  little 
method : 

"You  may  have  engaged  not  to  confess 
your  sins." 

"I  wa'  na'  brought  up  to  make  confes 
sions  to  men — I  am  nae  papist." 

"  But  God  knoweth  the  heart." 

"  So  he  doth — that  is  a  true  word,  an'  I 
confess  my  sins  to  him." 

"  And  who  is  your  God  ?" 

"  Surely,  the  God  who  made  me." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"The  Lord  God  Almighty;  glory  be  to 
his  holy  name ;  an'  may  he  keep  his  servants 
in  the  hour  o'  their  trial." 

"  Hath  he  no  other  name  ?" 


286  SALEM. 


"Yes,  he  is  sometimes  called  'the  Lord 
Jehovah.' " 

"And  does  the  one  you  pray  to  tell  you 
lie  is  God  ?" 

"I  dinna  pray  to  ony  but. the  God  that 
made  me." 

"  Do  you  not  believe  there  are  witches  in 
the  country  ?" 

"  Sure,  I  dinna  ken  there  is  ony ;  I  am  but 
a  stranger  an'  sojourner  here  —  what  do  I 
ken?" 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  V 

"  Did  I  laugh  ?  I  did  na'  ken  it ;  but  weel 
I  may  at  sich  folly." 

"  I  ask  you — what  ails  these  people  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken ;  how  suld  I,  when  they  are 
strangers  to  me  ?" 

"  But  they  say  that  you  have  tormented 
them." 

"  An'  I  say  it  is  na'  true.  Why  suld  I  ? 
I  hae  nae  ill-will  to  them,  I  dinna  ken  aee- 
thing  aboot  them." 

"But  if  not  —  what  do  you  think  ails 
them  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken — an'  I  dinna  desire  to  spend 
my  sma'  judgment  upon  it." 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  287 

"  But  do  you  think  they  are  bewitched  ?" 

"  Na' ;  I  dinna  think  they  are." 

"Well,  then — what  do  you  think  about 
them?" 

"I  kinna  say;  my  thoughts  are  my  ain 
whiles  I  keep  them  to  mysel'  ;  but  ance 
they  are  out,  they  are  anither's." 

"  But  who  do  you  think  is  their  mas 
ter?" 

"  That  is  nae  affair  o'  mine — I  dinna  serve 
him." 

"  But  who  do  you  think  they  serve  ?" 

"  Aiblins  they  be  dealin'  in  the  black  art, 
ye  maun  ken  as  weel  as  I." 

"Do  you  believe  they  do  not  speak  the 
truth  ?" 

"  'Deed ;  an'  they  may  lee,  for  a'  I  ken." 

"  And  why  may  not  you  lie  as  well  ?" 

"  I  dare  na'  tell  a  lee — not  if  it  wad  save 
my  life." 

"  Pray  God  discover  you,  if  you  are  guil 
ty,"  said  the  examiner  impatiently  ;  and 
the  dauntless  woman  responded  fervently, 
"  Amen !  amen  !  so  be  it ;  but  a  fause  tongue 
can  ne'er  make  an  innocent  bodie  guilty." 

Up  to  this  time,  this  rather  pointless  ex- 


288  SALEM. 


animation  had  failed  to  prove  any  thing ;  and 
now  the  accusers,  seeing  doubtless  that  the 
popular  sympathy  was  on  the  side  of  the 
spirited  old  woman,  and  that  the  case  was 
evidently  going  against  them,  fell  into  dread 
ful  convulsions,  and  writhed  in  strong  con 
tortions,  giving  utterance  to  fearful  groans 
and  shrieks.  When  this  disturbance  was 
over,  and  quiet  was  again  restored,  the  mag 
istrate  asked  the  prisoner :  "  Is  it  possible 
that  you  have  no  pity  for  these  afflicted 
ones  T  and  she  calmly  replied,  "  Na' ;  I  hae 
nae  pity  to  waste  on  them." 

"  Do  you  not  feel  that  God  is  discovering 
you  ?" 

"  Ne'er  a  bit ;  but  if  ye  kin  prove  me 
guilty,  I  maun  lie  under  it." 

At  last,  after  a  consultation,  the  magistrate 
informed  her  that  one  of  her  accusers  had 
testified  that  she  had  been  known  to  torture 
and  cruelly  use  the  young  maid,  her  own 
grandchild,  living  with  her. 

"  Alas  !  that  she  is  na'  to  the  fore  to  -speak 
for  me,"  said  poor  Elsie ;  "  she  wad  na'  say 
sae ;  but  she  is  lyin'  deein'  at  hame,  her 
lane,  puir  lambie."  And  at  the  thought  of  her 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL.  289 

darling's  danger,  thus  suddenly  brought  be 
fore  her,  tears,  that  her  own  woes  had  not 
called  forth,  fell  thick  and  fast  upon  her  fet 
tered  hands. 

The  wily  accuser  saw  her  advantage,  and 
hastened  to  press  it  on. 

"  She  has  said  so — she  has  been  heard  to 

• 

say  it,  and  you  yourself  have  heard  her." 

"  She  ha'  said  it — said  what  ?"  said  Elsie, 
starting  like  a  war-horse  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet.  "  What  ha'  she  said  ?" 

"  That  you  were  cruel  to  her ;  that  you 
had  no  mercy ;  that  you  stabbed  her  to  the 
heart  and  tortured  her." 

As  these  terrible  words  fell  upon  her 
ears,  a  burning  flush  rose  to  poor  Mistress 
Campbell's  brow ;  too  well  she  remembered 
Alice's  passionate  and  heedless  words — too 
clearly  she  realized  now  who  had  been  list 
ening  beneath  her  window  on  that  sad 
night ;  and  as  the  utter  impossibility  of  ever 
clearing  herself  from  this  new  and  horrible 
imputation  broke  upon  her,  she  wrung  her 
fettered  hands  in  anguish,  sank  back  and 
groaned  aloud. 

Of  course  the  impression  this  made  was 
N 


290 


SALEM. 


overwhelming :  it  was  regarded  as  a  clear 
and  signal  proof  of  her  guilt.  There  was  a 
momentary  silence,  and  then  the  justice 
spoke  again : 

"  Did  I  not  say  truly  that  God  was  dis 
covering  you  ?  What  will  you  say  to 
this  ?"  ' 

"That  it  is  fause,"*said  Goody  Campbell, 
starting  up ;  "  it  is  as  fause  as  the  leein' 
lips  that  say  it." 

"  Do  you  deny  the  truth  of  it,  then  ?  Can 
you  say  that  your  grandchild  never  said 
it?" 

"  Na' !"  said  the  unhappy  prisoner,  trem 
bling  with  wrath  and  shame,  "  I'll  na'  deny 
it;  but  they  were  thoughtless,  heedless  words, 
if  the  lassie  did  utter  them,  and  had  naught 
to  do  -wi'  witchcraft." 

"  How  did  the  maid  happen  to  use  them, 
then  ?' 

"She  did  na'  mean  them;  I  wa'  tellin' 
the  lassie  somewhat  that  happened  at  hame, 
years  agone,  afore  iver  she  wa'  born,  when 
she  said  it." 

"  And  what  was  the  strange  event  which, 
happening  so  long  ago,  called  out  so  much 


MISTRESS  CAMPBELL'S   TRIAL. 


291 


feeling?  You  will  please  state  it  to  the 
court." 

"It  wa'  somewhat  wi'  which  the  coort  ha' 
nathing  to  do,"  persisted  Elsie,  who  would 
have  died  sooner  than  tell  the  story  of  her 
daughter's  wrong  in  open  court.  "  It  wa' 
jist  an  auld  world  story,  an'  I  am  na'  free  to 
tell  it  here." 

Insinuation,  question,  and  cross-examina 
tion  failed  to  draw  any  thing  more  from  the 
wary  and  determined  old  woman,  and  she 
was  remanded  to  jail. 

Of  course  the  impression  she  had  made 
was  a  very  unfavorable  one;  her  sharpness 
had  irritated  her  judges,  and  the  pertinacity 
with  which  she  refused  to  gratify  the  curios 
ity  of  the  court  was  looked  upon  as  a  sure 
test  of  her  guilt. 

Twice  more  she  was  arraigned,  and  still 
she  refused  to  give  any  further  explanation 
of  the  ominous  words ;  and  her  refusal  to 
comply  being  regarded  as  contumacy  and 
contempt  of  court,  in  addition  to  the  primary 
charge  against  her,  the  verdict  of  the  jury 
was  "  Guilty  "  —and  she  was  condemned  and 
sentenced  to  death. 


292  SALEM. 


And  Alice,  raving  in  the  delirium  of  fever, 
was  spared  the  agony  of  knowing  that  her 
passionate  words,  caught  up  by  revenge  and 
repeated  by  malice,  forged  the  terrible  link 
in  the  chain  of  evidence  which  condemned 
her  grandmother  to  a  felon's  death. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WAITING    FOR    DEATH. 

'How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not  break! 

How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not  die! 
I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache, 

Of  soul  or  body,  brings  our  end  more  nigh. 
Though  we  are  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  aud  worn— 
Lo !  all  things  can  be  borne." 

ND  poor  Alice  lay  ill  for  weeks, 
hovering  long  between  life  and 
death,  and  all  unconscious  of  the 
bitter  woe  that  was  awaiting  her 
tardy  recovery — a  woe  so  vast  that  even 
her  loving  attendants,  having  had  to  pass 
through  the  same  terrible  experience  them 
selves,  almost  hoped  she  might  never  awaken 
to  the  consciousness  of  it,  but  find  her  grand 
mother  in  a  better  world,  without  the  agony 
of  the  parting  in  this. 

But  youth  is  strong,  and  Alice  had  a  good 
constitution,  and  she  rallied  at  last ;  but  oh  ! 


294  SALEM. 


to  what  a  bitter  awakening ! — to  find  her 
nearest  and  dearest,  her  only  known  relative, 
languishing  in  chains  and  bondage,  and  un 
der  condemnation  to  death. 

But  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  attempt 
to  keep  the  awful  truth  from  her — it  must 
be  made  known ;  and  Alice — the  petted  child, 
the  creature  hitherto  of  the  sunshine  and  the 
summer — had  to  listen  to  the  communication 
which  must  strike  the  summer  and  the  sun 
shine  out  of  all  her  future  life. 

But  the  moment  she  was  able  to  stand 
alone  she  insisted  upon  going  at  once  to  her 
grandmother;  and  dreadful  as  their  meeting 
must  be,  her  friends  felt  there  wras  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  delaying  it ;  while  Alice  felt 
as  if  every  moment  of  that  doomed  life  was 
far  too  precious  to  her  to  be  wasted  apart; 
and  soon  the  morning,  noon,  and  evening 
found  the  faithful  child  feebly  creeping,  with 
weak,  tottering  steps,  back  and  forth,  to  and 
from  the  miserable  prison,  where  her  pres 
ence  brought  the  only  ray  of  comfort  that 
could  enter  those  melancholy  wralls ;  and 
even  the  hardened  jailers  grew  to  know  and 
pity  the  beautiful  and  desolate  young  creat- 


WAITING  FOR  DEATH. 


295 


ure,  and  opened  their  doors  to  her,  when 
they  refused  admittance  to  others. 

But  though  Alice's  presence  gave  comfort 
to  the  weary  prisoner,  the  grandmother  was 
the  one  to  essay  the  part  of  comforter.  By 
a  strong  effort  of  her  indomitable  will,  she 
had  reconciled  herself  to  her  fate.  She  knew 
she  was  to  suffer  unjustly ;  but  surely,  she 
argued,  it  was  far  better  so  than  if  she  had 
merited  her  sentence.  Death,  early  or  late, 
was  the  natural  finale  of  every  life,  and  what 
did  a  few  more  years  of  old  age  and  infirmity 
have  to  offer  her  ? 

The  one  great  trouble  upon  her  mind  was 
the  thought  of  Alice's  future.  Alone  in  the 
world — beautiful,  friendless,  and  penniless 
(for  she  well  knew  that  by  her  attainder  as 
a  witch  all  her  little  property  would  be 
confiscated) — what  was  to  become  of  her? 
Only  the  "Father  of  the  fatherless"  could 
know ;  and  often,  lifting  her  poor  manacled 
hands  to  heaven,  she  prayed  for  his  mercy 
and  guardianship  for  her  desolate  child. 

It  was  a  striking  bnt  not  unnatural  proof 
of  the  unselfish  love  of  the  parent  and  child, 
that  while  the  former,  setting  aside  all  ques- 


296  SALEM. 


tion  of  her  own  forfeited  life,  dwelt  ever  upon 
the  future  life  of  her  darling,  vainly  striving 
to  form  some  idea  of  what  her  existence 
would  be  after  her  own  was  ended,  Alice's 
thoughts  never  wandered  beyond  that  terri 
ble  event — that  was  to  her  the  termination 
of  all  things.  To  her  the  world  itself  would 
end  writh  the  life  of  her  only  relative.  After 
that,  all  was  a  blank  to  her.  Up  to  that  ter 
rible  hour,  all  was  blind  agony  and  useless 
prayer,  and  then — "after  that — the  deluge." 

And  so,  while  Mistress  Campbell  wasted 
away  in  prison,  the  dreadful  day  was  fast 
approaching,  and  no  voice  was  raised  to 
plead  for  her,  no  hand  was  lifted  to  avert 
her  terrible  doom. 

How,  indeed,  could  there  be,  when  Alice's 
warmest,  steadiest,  and  most  powerful  friends 
were  the  various  members  of  the  Nurse  fam 
ily  ?  They  had  tried,  as  we  have  seen,  every 
expedient  in  their  own  case:  by  appeals  to 
justice  and  clemency;  by  certificates  and 
testimonials ;  by  fervent  entreaties  for  delay 
and  a  new  trial ;  and  4hey  had  all  signally 
failed.  They  knew,  and  felt  it  was  worse 
than  useless  to  attempt  it  again  in  behalf  of 


WAITING  FOR  DEATH. 


297 


another;  and  thus,  while  they  surrounded 
Alice  with  their  loving  attentions,  and  com 
forted  and  supported  her  by  every  means  in 
their  power,  they  regarded  it  as  only  cruelty 
to  encourage  in  her  hopes  which  they  felt  a 
sure  conviction  must  only  end  in  disappoint 
ment. 

One  day,  when  Alice  was  searching  at  their 
desolate  home  for  some  article  which  her 
grandmother  required,  she  chanced  to  come 
quite  unexpectedly  upon  the  little  wampum 
chain  which  Pashemet  had  given  her  at  their 
last  parting;  and  as  she  lifted  the  simple 
pledge  of  friendship  in  her  trembling  hands, 
and  thought  of  the  kind  words  then  spoken 
by  him,  her  tears  fell  freely  over  it.  The 
peaceful*  scene  when  it  had  been  bestowed 
upon  her — the  quiet  water,  the  overhanging 
trees,  the  mellow  sunset — all  rose  upon  her 
memory  in  strong  contrast  with  the  fearful 
present.  Could  it  be  indeed  the  same  world  ? 
That  happy,  untroubled  security  !  It  was  so 
short  a  time  ago,  in  reality,  and  yet,  in  the 
momentous  events  which  had  crowded  into 
it,  it  seemed  like  a  period  of  long  years. 

"  Oh,  Pashemet,  Pashemet !  my  brother !" 
N  2 


298  SALEM. 


she  murmured,  in  a  voice  broken  by  her  sobs; 
"he  little  knows  how  wretched  I  am  now. 
Ah  !  he  would  help  me  if  he  could — he  said 
he  would ;  but  alas !  alas !  he  can  not  help 
me — no  one  can  help  me  now." 

But  Alice's  friends  were  far  too  few  to  suf 
fer  her  to  forget  one  of  them ;  and  although 
she  was  sure  Pashemet  could  not  aid  her, 
still  she  felt  as  if  even  the  knowledge  of  his 
true,  though  distant,  sympathy  and  sorrow 
for  her  in  her  dreadful  affliction,  if  ineffectu 
al,  would  yet  be  soothing  to  her  lonely  heart. 
So  giving  the  little  token  into  the  hands  of 
the  faithful  old  Winny,  she  directed  her  to 
send  it  to  Pashemet  by  the  hands  of  an  old 
neighbor,  who  belonged  to  the  Naumkeag 
tribe  of  Indians,  and  tell  him  of  her  great  dis 
tress,  and  t)f  her  grandmother's  dreadful  fate. 

How  and  what  was  the  Indian  method  of 
conveying  tidings,  secretly  and  speedily, 
through  the  intervening  wilds  and  unbroken 
forests  of  a  then  uninhabited  country,  has, 
we  believe,  never  yet  been  satisfactorily  ex 
plained.  We  know  that  they  were  fleet  of 
foot,  and  of  untiring  strength  in  the  race; 
but  whether  information  was  thus  posted  on 


WAITING  FOR  DEATH. 


299 


from  hand  to  hand,  as  was  wont  to  be  done 
by  the  Scottish  clansmen  in  the  days,  of  old, 
we  know  not ;  but  it  is  a  well-authenticated 
fact  that  intelligence  was  conveyed  among 
them  with  marvelous  speed  and  unerring 
certainty :  and  Alice  felt  sure  the  little  token 
and  the  message  would  reach  her  friend,  al 
though  she  hoped  and  expected  nothing  more 
from  it  than  his  deep,  brotherly  interest  in 
her  sad  misfortune ;  but  to  her,  who  stood  so 
much  alone  in  the  world,  even  to  feel  that 
there  existed  for  her  this  one  little  bond  of 
sympathy  with  a  true  and  loving  heart  was 
a  relief. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

THE  DA  Y  OF  EXECUTION. 

"Perhaps  the  dreaded  future  has  less  bitterness  than  I  think— 
The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  water  before  I  stoop  to  drink — 
Or,  if  Marah  must  be  Marah,  He  will  stand  beside  the  brink." 

jIME,  the  inexorable  messenger, 
whose  tardy  pace  no  passionate 
wishes,  however  ardent,  can  accel 
erate,  whose  rapid  flight  no  break 
ing  heart  can  arrest,  moving  on  in  his  regu 
lar  course,  all  unheeding  of  human  joys  and 
sorrows — ever  the  same,  regardless  "if  em 
pires  rise  or  empires  fall "-  —was  bringing  on 
the  dreadful  hour. 

The  last  terrible  day — the  day  appointed 
for  the  execution — had  come.  Clear,  bright, 
and  beautiful  it  dawned  upon  the  earth,  as 
if  its  cloudless  light  was  sent  in  mockery, 
to  tantalize  the  sad  eyes  which  were  doomed 
before  it  reached  its  zenith  to  be  closed  in 
death,  and  see  its  sweet  light  no  more  for 
ever. 


THE   DA  Y  OF  EXECUTION. 


301 


The  unhappy  prisoner,  who  though  worn 
and  pallid  with  the  rigorous  confinement, 
which  told  fearfully  upon  her  active  nature, 
used  to  sun  and  air  and  unlimited  liberty  of 
motion,  had  borne  it  uncomplainingly,  had 
made  but  one  request — and  that,  alas  !  could 
not  be  complied  with.  She  had  prayed  that 
Alice  might  be  kept  away  from  her  on  that 
last  solemn  occasion.  She  had  felt  when  she 
parted  from  her  darling  the  night  before, 
with  mingling  tears,  blessings,  and  caresses, 
and  sent  her  from  her,  that  the  worst  of 
death  was  over,  and  she  begged  that  that 
bitter  agony  might  not  be  renewed. 

But  Alice  would  not  be  thus  kept  away. 
She  counted  as  a  miser  does  his  treasure  ev 
ery  moment  that  remained  to  her  of  that 
precious  life,  although  she,  too,  well  knew 
that  every  moment  wTas  a  renewed  anguish. 
She  could  not  be  kept  back  except  by  actual 
violence,  and  that  no  one  had  the  authority 
or  the  heart  to  use.  She  was  early  at  the 
prison  doors,  and  would  be*  admitted.  But 
over  those  last  sad  moments  we  must  drop 
the  veil  of  silence — they  are  too  sacred  for 
words. 


•?  o  2  SA  LEM. 


"  There  is  a  tear  for  all  who  die,  a  mourner 
o'er  the  humblest  grave;" — for  death  is  al 
ways  death ;  no  lavished  words,  no  mitigat 
ing  circumstances  can  make  it  any  thing 
less — but  do  we  never  think  how  aggravat 
ing  circumstances  may  make  it  more  ? 

We  weep  when  we  stand  by  the  death 
bed  of  our  beloved  ones,  and  watch  the  fad 
ing  eye,  and  fondly  clasp  the  nerveless  hand ; 
they  may  have  been  spared  to  us  even  to 
the  utmost  limitation  of  human  life,  and  yet 
our  affections  can  not  let  them  go.  Death 
comes  to  them,  as  our  hearts  know  and  our 
lips  acknowledge,  from  the  hand  of  a  loving 
Father,  sent  perhaps  as  a  welcome  release 
from  tears  and  pains,  from  weakness  and  in 
firmity — but  yet  it  is  death,  and  our  hearts 
rebel  against  it.  We  may  have  been  per 
mitted  to  watch  over  them  in  loving  tender 
ness;  we  have  surrounded  them  with  all 
that  love  or  skill  or  science  could  devise  for 
their  relief;  we  have  walked  with  them 
hand  in  hand,  and  smoothed  and  cheered 
their  path  through  "  the  dark  valley,"  and 
yet,  "  when  the  long  parting  summons  them 
away,"  it  is  death  —  still  death;  and  our 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION.  303 

wounded  hearts  cry  out,  and  refuse  to  be 
comforted. 

But  what  do  we  know  of  the  agony  of 
those  who  see  the  impending  blow  coming, 
not  from  the  beneficent  and  all-wise  Father, 
whose  right  to  the  creature  he  has  made  we 
do  not  dispute,  but  from  man,  the  petty  in 
strument  of  a  fallible  judgment,  stepping  in 
between  the  Creator  and  the  created  ?  Who 
see  the  beloved  one  moving  before  them,  in 
fullness  of  health,  in  unimpaired  vigor  of 
mind  and  body,  and  in  undoubted  love  and 
faith,  and  yet  know  that  before  another  sun 
shall  set  that  precious  life  shall  be  crushed 
out  by  brute  violence  ? 

"Heaven  in  its  mercy  hides  the  book  of 
fate"-— but  man,  unpitying  man,  sets  the  inev 
itable  hour  full  before  his  victim's  eye,  and 
the  terrible  moments  melt  away,  each  one 
bearing  off  a  visible  portion  of  the  life  still 
palpitating  in  the  heart. 

Ah !  we  say  such  agony  is  too  great  to 
be  borne.  But  it  has  been  borne  by  hearts 
as  tender  and  as  loving  as  our  own. 

And  how  can  human  nature  endure  it  ? 
We  know  not — we  only  know  that  it  has 


3  04  SALEM. 


been  borne.  "  Lo  !  all  things  can  be  borne." 
And  it  was  this  bitterest  portion  that  poor 
Alice  was  called  upon  to  suffer. 

The  last  terrible  moment  had  come.  The 
sun  had  climbed  to  the  mid-heaven,  as  if  to 
look  down  upon  the  sacrifice,  when  the  door 
of  the  prison  was  opened,  and  the  unhappy 
prisoner  came  forth — not  led  forth,  for  the 
brave  and  dauntless  old  woman  came  out 
unsupported,  and  walking  with  a  firm,  un 
faltering  step. 

There  was  a  marked  and  striking  differ 
ence  between  Goody  Nurse  and  Mistress 
Elsie  Campbell.  Both  went  to  their  death 
unflinchingly;  but  one  had  the  meek  resig 
nation  of  a  humble  Christian,  the  other  the 
fierce  heroism  of  a  Stoic :  the  first  was  saint 
ly,  the  last  was  majestic. 

Conscious  of  her  own  integrity,  and  of  the 
falsity  of  the  malicious  charges  against  her, 
and  full,  as  we  have  seen,  of  unmitigated 
contempt  for  the  tribunal  before  which  she 
had  been  so  unjustly  condemned,  the  spirit 
of  the  old  Scottish  Covenanters  was  roused 
within  her.  Her  face,  though  perfectly  col 
orless,  was  set  as  a  flint ;  and,  like  the  Indian 


THE  DA  Y  OF  EXECUTION. 


305 


warrior  at  the  stake,  she  was  fixed  in  her 
purpose  that  no  trembling  nerve,  no  falter 
ing  step,  should  gratify  the  malice  of  her  en 
emies  by  a  token  of  her  suffering. 

So  she  came  out,  disdaining  support,  and 
would  have  mounted  the  fatal  cart  unaided, 
had  not  her  manacled  limbs  forbidden  it. 

When  she  was  placed  in  the  vehicle,  an 
other  vain  attempt  was  made  by  Alice's 
friends  to  withdraw  her  from  the  awful 
scene;  but  the  faithful  child  would  not  be 
removed.  With  wild  eyes  and  piteous  hands 
she  waved  them  back.  Twice  she  essayed 
to  speak,  but  the  unuttered  words  died  on 
her  feverish  lips.  Again  —  and  they  who 
stood  nearest  to  her  caught  only  the  words, 
"  Having  loved  his  own,  He  loved  them  to  the 
end ;"  and  awed  and  silent,  they  desisted,  and 
made  way  for  her. 

Clinging  tightly  with  both  her  clenched 
hands  to  the  back  of  the  cart,  to  support  her 
tottering  and  uncertain  steps,  with  her  un 
covered  head  bent  down  upon  her  hands, 
and  her  bright,  disheveled  hair  falling  as  a 
veil  about  her,  Alice  followed  as  the  melan 
choly  procession  moved  onward  —  up  the 


306 


SALEM. 


length  of  Prison  Lane  (now  St.  Peter's  Street) 
into  Essex  Street. 

As  the  gloomy  train  wound  along  its  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  just  as  it  turned  the 
corner  into  Essex  Street,  an  Indian,  closely 
wrapped  in  his  blanket,  dropped,  as  if  by  the 
merest  chance,  a  bit  of  pine-bough  into  the 
slow-moving  cart. 

Apparently  by  accident  the  little  missile 
fell ;  but  it  had  been  thrown  by  a  dexterous 
hand,  and  with  a  calculated  and  certain  aim. 
Lightly  it  brushed  Alice's  fair,  bended  head, 
touched  her  clenched  hands,  and  fell  into 
the  cart  before  her.  But  Alice,  moving  on 
in  a  trance  of  giddy  horror,  with  her  heart 
u  so  full  that  feeling  almost  seemed  unfelt," 
did  not  notice  it.  If  she  had,  she  might 
have  recognized  in  it  a  token  of  the  hope  it 
was  meant  to  convey  to  her, 

Pashemet  had  received  the  little  wampum 
chain — he  was  true  to  his  pledge.  Even 
then  he  was  in  town  with  a  party  of  his 
bravest  young  warriors,  although  to  make 
himself  known  even  to  Alice  would  possibly 
have  defeated  his  object. 

Gradually  and  unobserved,  half  a  dozen 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION.  307 

Indians,  closely  wrapped  in  their  blankets, 
had  mingled  in  the  crowd — their  stolid,  in 
scrutable  faces  expressing  neither  interest 
nor  sympathy  in  the  sad  scene  passing  be 
fore  them.  But  under  those  blankets  they 
were  fully  armed ;  under  those  dark,  inex 
pressive  faces  there  was  keenest  observation 
and  intent  purpose ;  and  in  a  little  wooded 
hollow,  near  the  fatal  "  Gallow's  Hill,"  a  doz 
en  or  more  fleet  little  shaggy  Indian  ponies 
were  quietly  picketed,  waiting  for  their 

fierce,  tameless  riders. 

• 

The  plan  was  perfected  in  its  most  minute 
details.  The  town  officials,  unsuspicious  of 
opposition,  were  unarmed.  The  surprise  was 
to  take  place  at  the  moment  of  transit  from 
the  cart  to  the  ladder.  All  was  in  readi 
ness,  and  the  rescue  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  successfully  made  had  not  circum 
stances  wholly  unlooked  for  chanced  to  pre 
vent  it. 

The  street  was  crowded  with  spectators, 
as  upon  the  former  executions;  but  it  was 
clearly  evident  there  was  a  change  of  senti 
ment  in  the  lookers-on.  Possibly  the  thirst 
for  blood  had  now  been  satiated,  and  had 


308  SALEM. 


died  out — the  tide  of  popular  feeling  was 
evidently  turning.  The  faith  in  the  ac 
cusers,  once  so  unquestioning,  had  been  less 
ened :  the  girls  had  become  too  confident 
and  too  reckless.  Or  it  might  be  that  pos 
sibly  a  new-born  pity  was  awakened  in  be 
half  of  the  victims ;  and  who  could  wonder  ? 
In  a  small  community,  such  as  Salem  then 
was,  the  private  history,  the  affairs  and  per 
sonalities  of  each  of  its  inhabitants  is  consid 
ered  as  the  joint  property  of  all  the  rest; 
consequently  Alice's  desolate  orphan  girl 
hood — her  entire  dependence  upon  the  con 
demned  prisoner,  who  was  her  only  known 
relative  in  the  wide  world,  might  have  well 
awakened  pity  under  any  circumstances; 
but,  beyond  this,  the  rare  beauty  of  the  poor 
girl,  her  sweet  innocence,  and  her  fearless  de 
votion  to  her  grandmother,  had  called  forth 
the  interest  and  admiration  of  many  who 
had  never  personally  known  her ;  and  now, 
instead  of  the  coarse  jeers,  curses,  and  bitter 
invectives  with  which  the  howling  mob  had 
followed  the  first  sufferers,  there  was,  as  they 
passed  along,  an  awed  and  respectful  silence 
— broken  only  now  and  then  by  sobs  and 


THE  DA  Y  OF  EXECUTION.  309 

sighs,  and  half-uttered  exclamations  of  "  God 
help  them." 

As  the  sad  procession  wound  its  slow  way 
beneath  the  scorching  noonday  sun,  toiling 
up  the  little  crooked,  narrow  street,  an  in 
terruption  occurred.  In  one  of  the  very 
narrowest  portions  of  the  street  a  gay  caval 
cade  was  seen  approaching — their  gay  mili 
tary  harness  ringing  out  and  glittering  in 
the  sunbeams. 

It  was  the  new  governor,  Sir  William 
Phips,  who  had  only  arrived  in  the  country 
in  the  previous  May ;  and  who  was  now  rid 
ing  into  town,  accompanied  by  a  party  of 
officers,  most  of  them  composing  his  suite, 
and  one  or  two  personal  friends. 

Laughing  and  jesting  in  true  military 
style,  they  drew  near;  but  the  street  was 
too  narrow  to  allow  of  two  such  pageants  at 
one  time,  and  for  once  grim  Death  stood 
back,  jostled  out  of  the  way  by  busy,  joyful 
Life. 

The  miserable,  creaking,  jolting  death-cart 
drew  up  on  one  side  of  the  narrow  street, 
and  halted,  to  allow  the  governor  and  his 
suite  to  pass  by. 


3io 


SALEM. 


At  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  cart,  poor 
Alice  started  from  her  ghastly  drowse — pos 
sibly  she  thought  the  terrible  goal  was 
reached.  As  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
wildly  around  with  her  sad,  frightened,  be 
wildered  eyes,  the  words  which  were  passing 
from  lip  to  lip  around  her  fell  upon  her  ear : 
"  It  is  his  Excellency,  Sir  William  Phips,  the 
new  governor." 

In  one  instant,  straight  and  clear  as  a 
flash  of  light  from  heaven,  broke  in  upon 
her  clouded  mind  an  intuitive  ray  of  hope ; 
in  one  moment  she  had  quitted  the  cart  to 
which  she  had  convulsively  clung,  and  with 
one  wild  bound,  like  the  death-leap  of  some 
maddened  creature,  she  sprung  directly  in 
Sir  William's  path,  and  flinging  up  her  wild 
arms  to  arrest  him,  she  raised  her  sad,  be 
seeching  eyes  to  his,  and  faltered  out  her 
impassioned  appeal :  "  Mercy  !  mercy !  your 
Excellency  ;  pardon — pardon — for  the  sweet 
love  of  heaven — she  is  innocent !  Oh  !  as 
you  hope  for  mercy  in  your  own  sorest  need 
hereafter,  have  mercy  upon  us  —  mercy  ! 
mercy !" 

As  the  frantic  creature  paused  for  breath, 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION. 


she  sank  exhausted  upon  the  ground  just  in 
front  of  the  governor's  horse;  and  startled 
by  the  sudden  apparition  of  the  fair,  spirit- 
like  thing,  Sir  William  sat  in  silent  bewilder 
ment,  reining  in  his  plunging,  snorting  horse 
with  a  powerful  hand,  till  the  spirited  ani 
mal  sank  upon  his  haunches  beneath  the 
strong  control. 

But  Sir  William's  were  not  the  only  eyes 
to  which  that  fair,  frantic  face  appealed :  one 
of  the  officers  in  the  company,  who  had  come 
out  from  England  with  the  governor,  gal 
loped  to  the  scene,  and  forcing  his  horse  up 
to  the  side  of  the  death-cart,  peered  with 
quick,  inquiring  eyes  into  the  face  of  the 
prisoner,  who  had  sat  with  closed  eyes  and 
tightly  compressed  lips,  not  turning  her  head 
or  moving  hand  or  foot  since  she  entered 
that  car  of  death ;  then  suddenly,  as  if  his 
gaze  had  assured  him  of  her  identity,  he 
bent  forward  and  shouted  close  to  her  ear, 
"Elsie  Campbell !— look  at  me  !" 

With  a  mighty  effort,  the  fast-sealed  eyes 
unclosed ;  and  the  thoughts  which  had,  it 
would  seem,  already  preceded  her  to  the  un 
known  and  eternal  world  she  was  so  soon 


3I2  SALEM. 


to  enter,  turned  back  once  more  to  earth  ; 
she  did  not  speak,  but  her  involuntary  start, 
and  the  sudden  rush  of  color  that  flushed 
her  pallid  face,  betrayed  her  recognition  of 
him. 

Grasping  her  firmly  by  the  arm,  he  asked 
in  breathless  entreaty:  "Tell  me — who  is 
that  girl  ?  I  adjure  you — by  the  memory 
of  Alice — answer  me." 

For  one  moment  Elsie  Campbell  wavered 
—here  was  the  betrayer  of  her  only  child— 
and  for  one  moment  revenge  seemed  sweet 
to  her  still;  but. then  she  thought  of  Alice, 
her  darling,  left  alone  in  the  wide,  cruel 
world — no  friend,  no  protector;  this  man 
was  her  father — and  love  conquered  pride : 
the  rigid  lips  painfully  unclosed,  and  with 
an  evident  effort  she  murmured  hoarsely: 
"  Your  child,  my  lord ! — my  Alice's  daughter." 

Another  moment,  and  the  officer  had 
sprung  from  his  saddle  and  stood  by  Sir 
William's  side,  his  eager  hand  upon  the  gov 
ernor's  arm. 

"  Sir  William — hear  me  ;  you  know  my 
life's  sad  history,  and  my  unsuccessful 
search;  I  believe  that  girl  to  be  my  long- 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION. 


313 


sought  child ;  that  woman  is  the  mother  of 
my  sainted  wife — she  is  the  sole  possessor 
of  the  coveted  secret;  I  will  answer. for  her 
innocence  of  this  absurd  charge.  I  ask  you, 
by  our  life-long  friendship,  to  use  in  her  be 
half  the  executive  clemency  which  you  hold." 
The  hands  of  the  brother  officers  met  in  a 
wringing  clasp ;  and  then,  while  the  father 
pressed  forward  and  raised  the  unconscious 
form  of  Alice  from  the  ground,  there  was  a 
sudden  stir  and  conference  among  the  officers 
of  the  governor's  council,  a  few  words  to  his 
secretary,  a  few  hasty  formulas — and  then, 
the  magic  words,  "  A  reprieve — a  reprieve ! 
pardon  —  pardon!  the  governor's  pardon!" 
were  caught  up  by  the  nearest  by-standers, 
and  spread  rapidly  through  the  sympathiz 
ing  crowd.  The  governor  and  his  suite  gal 
loped  onward ;  the  clumsy,  creaking  death- 
cart  was  turned  about,  and  followed  them 
down  to  the  "Ship  Tavern,"  where  Alice's 
father  had  already  preceded  them  with  his 
precious  and  unconscious  burden ;  and  here, 
when  her  swollen  and  long-manacled  limbs 
were  once  more  set  at  liberty,  the  trembling 
and  half-bewildered  grandmother  assisted  in 
O 


3I4  SALEM. 


recovering  the  still  fainting  and  exhausted 
girl. 

"  Oh,  tell  me  !"  said  the  .father,  who  was 
supporting  his  child  in  his  arms — looking  up 
into  Goody  Campbell's  face  as  she  too  bent 
over  her  darling — "  Oh,  tell  me  those  blessed 
words  again — tell  me  that  this  is  indeed  the 
child  of  my  beloved  Alice — my  precious 
wife." 

"  An'  wa'  she  your  wife — in  varry  deed  T 
asked  the  still  doubting  listener,  with  her 
keen,  penetrating  eyes  fixed  full  upon  his 
face. 

"  Was  she  my  wife  ?  Good  heavens  !  yes 
—ten  thousand  times  yes !  who  dares  to  ques 
tion  it  ?  Yes  !  my  sainted  Alice  was  my  dear 
and  honored  wife;  did  you  —  did  any  one 
ever  doubt  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  •  said  Elsie  Campbell,  meekly,  "  I 
did  doot  it — I  wa'  told  it  wa'  a  sham  mar 
riage,  an'  I  believed  it ;  I  thought  you  had 
done  me  an'  my  dead  a  mighty  wrong,  an'  I 
could  na'  forgi'e  it.  But  I  see  now  that  I  hae 
done  ye  a  mighty  wrong,  an'  I  dare  na'  ask 
ye  to  forgi'e  me." 

"  I  can  forgive  any  thing  to-day,"  said  the 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION. 


father,  tremblingly,  "  if  only  this  precious 
one,  so  long  and  so  vainly  sought,  is  spared 
to  me  ;  but  we  have  each  of  us  much  to  ex 
plain." 

And  Alice  was  spared  to  them  —  but  not 
till  a  long  and  dangerous  illness  had  result 
ed  from  the  unnatural  strain  of  mind  and 
body  which  the  poor  girl  had  undergone 
did  they  dare  to  hope  ;  and  while  hovering 
in  united  care  and  anxiety  over  their  mutual 
treasure,  the  two  watchers  learned  each  oth 
er's  mutual  worth  —  and  if  they  could  never 
forget  the  heart  sorrow  they  had  each  suf 
fered  and  occasioned,  at  least  they  learned  to 
forgive  and  respect. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CONVALESCENCE. 

It  may  be  there  was  waiting  for  the  coming  of  my  feet, 

Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessedness,  some  joy  so  strangely  sweet, 

That  my  lips  can  only  tremble  with  the  thanks  that  I  repeat." 

UT  Alice  was  young  and  strong, 
and  of  an  unbroken  constitution ; 
and  youth,  when  aided  "by  love 
and  hope  and  happiness,  recuper 
ates  rapidly.  And  the  time  soon  came  when 
Alice,  sitting  supported  by  her  father's  arms, 
with  her  trembling  hand  fondly  clasped  in 
that  of  her  beloved  grandmother,  who  seem 
ed  to  her  as  one  restored  from  the  dead, 
could  listen  attentively  to  her  father  while 
he  recounted  to  them  the  events  of  those 
passed  years,  which  she  had  so  longed  to 
know  and  so  vainly  conjectured. 

He  described  her  mother  to  her  as  she 
was  when  they  first  met — her  beauty,  her 


CONVALESCENCE. 


3*7 


purity,  her  loveliness;  of  his  deep  admira 
tion  of  her;  of  the  love  she  inspired  in  him 
from  the  first,  and  which  he  flattered  him 
self  she  soon  learned  to  reciprocate ;  and  of 
his  full  and  fixed  determination  to  win  her 
for  his  wife. 

Then  he  told  her  of  the  obstacles  which 
his  father's  more  mercenary  views  for.  the 
greater  aggrandizement  of  him,  as  his  only 
son,  had  thrown  in  his  way;  and  that  the 
marriage  which  his  father  had  so  set  his 
heart  upon  would  have  made  his  life 
wretched. 

He  explained  to  her  that  his  father's  dis 
ease,  which  was  a  softening  of  the  brain,  had 
been  pronounced  incurable,  and  that  while 
he  might  live  for  years,  any  opposition  would 
be  sure  to  aggravate  it;  and  that  his  medi 
cal  attendants  had  plainly  stated  to  him 
that  to  cross  his  wishes  upon  any  point 
upon  which  they  were  strongly  fixed  would 
increase  the  difficulty  under  which  he  labor 
ed  —  would  certainly  be  dangerous,  and 
might  prove  fatal. 

What,  then,  could  he  do?  There  was  no 
hope  of  a  favorable  change  in  the  future,  and 


SALEM. 


the  postponement  of  his  marriage  might  be 
prolonged  for  years.  Under  these  circum 
stances  he  had  persuaded  Alice  to  consent 
to  a  private  marriage ;  but  this,  though  nec 
essarily  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  his  fa 
ther,  had  been  duly  solemnized  by  his  own 
clergyman,  in  the  presence  of  his  two  uncles 
(who  fully  approved  of  it),  and  two  or  three 
other  material  witnesses. 

He  told  her  of  his  distress  when  his  fa 
ther  concluded  to  go  abroad  for  change 
of  climate,  and  strenuously  demanded  he 
should  accompany  him,  which  he  could 
not  evade  without  declaring  the  fact  of 
his  marriage,  which  he  dared  not  venture 
to  do. 

He  told  her  of  his  deep  grief  and  despair 
when  in  a  foreign  land  he  received  the 
terrible  tidings  of  his  young  wife's  sud 
den  death ;  of  his  heart-felt  craving  to 
know  more;  of  the  many  letters  which  he 
had  addressed  to  Mrs.  Campbell,  implor 
ing  her  to  give  him  the  most  minute  de 
tails  of  all  that  related  to  his  wife's  sick 
ness  and  death,  but  which  had  been  all  un 
answered. 


CONVALESCENCE.  3 1 9 

That  when,  by  reason  of  his  father's  death, 
he  had  at  last  been  free  to  return,  he  had 
hastened  at  once  to  Scotland  to  see  her,  but 
only  to  find  all  his  letters  still  lying  uncall 
ed  for  at  the  post-office,  and  to  learn  that 
Mrs.  Campbell,  after  the  death  of  her  daugh 
ter,  had  sold  out  all  her  possessions  and  de 
parted,  and  no  one  could  tell  him  where  she 
had  removed  to.  And  he  had  only  the  mel 
ancholy  satisfaction  of  having  the  beloved 
remains  of  his  wife  removed  from  their  hum 
ble  resting-place  to  the  burial-place  of  his 
family,  and  a  suitable  monument  erected  to 
her  memory  as  his  wife. 

That  after  the  performance  of  this  sacred 
duty  he  had  prosecuted  his  search  for  Mrs. 
Campbell  in  every  direction,  hoping  only  to 
learn  from  her  something  of  his  wife's  last 
hours ;  but  in  vain,  until  in  a  remote  region 
of  the  Highlands  he  had  come  upon  traces 
of  her  recent  occupation  of  the  little  Hill 
side  Farm. 

Here  he  learned  for  the  first  time,  to  his 
infinite  surprise,  that  she  had  with  her  a  lit 
tle  girl  of  the  same  name  as  his  wife,  whom 
she  called  her  granddaughter.  As  he  well 


320 


SALEM. 


knew  that  she  had  not  only  no  other  child 
than  his  wife,  but  no  other  near  relative, 
there  arose  in  his  mind  the  vague  hope  that 
Alice  might  have  left  a  living  child;  and 
the  description  of  the  little  girl's  age  and 
appearance  confirmed  this  new  hope.  Yet, 
if  so,  why  had  the  fact  never  been  commu 
nicated  to  him  ?  And  his  sole  object  and 
interest  now  in  life  was  to  find  her.  But 
Elsie  Campbell  had  taken  her  measures  too 
carefully,  and  concealed  her  trail  too  success 
fully  for  this. 

For  years  he  had  prosecuted  this  eager 
but  ever  unsuccessful  search,  which  had  for 
him  the  only  hope  which  life  still  held  for 
him. 

At  last,  baffled  and  worn  out  by  repeated 
disappointments,  he  accepted  the  invitation 
of  his  friend  Sir  William  Phips  to  try  to 
forget  his  trouble  in  the  excitement  of  visit 
ing  the  New  World,  to  which  Sir  William, 
in  his  new  appointment  of  governor,  was 
about  to  embark.  In  very  hopelessness  he 
consented  to  make  the  trial ;  and  here,  where 
he  least  expected  it,  and  under  circumstances 
stranger  than  fiction  could  invent,  in  the 


CONVALESCENCE. 


321 


streets  of  Salem  he  found  his  long-sought 
child. 

But  even  now  the  doting  father  felt  he 
was  not  sure  of  the  safety  of  his  darling 
child,  until  he  had  her  under  the  shelter  of 
his  own  roof  and  the  protection  of  his  own 
country.  He  was  eager  to  take  her  home; 
and  as  neither  Alice  nor  her  grandmother 
were  reluctant  to  leave  the  land  where  they 
had  suffered  so  much  and  had  attained  such 
an  undesirable  notoriety,  preparations  were 
made  for  their  speedy  departure  for  En 
gland  so  soon  as  Alice  was  able  to  bear  the 
fatigue  of  the  voyage. 

But  although  it  was  fully  decided  that 
Grandmother  Campbell  was  to  cross  the  wa 
ter  with  them,  her  own  practical  good  sense 
showed  her  that  she  could  not  hope  or  ex 
pect  to  retain  her  place  at  her  grandchild's 
side  when  Alice  should  assume  her  true  po 
sition  in  her  father's  home;  and  it  was  her 
decided  and  openly  declared  intention  to  re 
turn  to  Scotland. 

Alice,  who,  in  spite  of  the  pleadings  of 
her  own  heart,  saw  the  propriety  of  this 
step,  strongly  urged  upon  her  a  return  to 
O  2 


322  SALEM. 


the  Hillside  Farm,  of  which  she  still  re 
tained  a  very  pleasant  impression,  as  the 
well-remembered  and  happy  home  of  her 
own  childhood.  But  Mrs.  Campbell  did  not 
wish  it.  The  six  years  they  had  passed 
there,  and  which  to  the  happy  child,  so  pet 
ted  and  indulged,  seemed  in  memory  all 
one  unclouded  day  of  enjoyment,  had  to 
the  grandmother  been  long  years  of  the 
most  intense  grief  and  constant  anxiety,  and 
she  had  no  pleasant  associations  with  the 
place. 

The  little  Lowland  farm,  once  occupied  by 
her  parents,  and  which  had  been  her  own 
patrimony,  was  now  again,  she  had  learned, 
for  sale.  It  was  the  scene  of  her  own  child 
hood  and  youth.  It  was  consecrated  to  her 
by  the  tender  memories  of  her  parents  and 
her  only  child.  Here  she  was  born.  Its 
kindly  roof  had  given  her  a  shelter  when 
she  came  back  to  it  a  deserted  wife  or  deso 
late  widow. 

It  was  near  enough  to  England  to  enable 
her  to  see  and  hear  from  her  beloved  grand 
child  regularly ;  and  the  quiet  grave  -  yard 
where  her  parents  slept  was  now  to  her  the 


CONVALESCENCE. 


323 


dearest  spot  on  earth.  She  would  return 
there,  to  await  the  close  of  the  eventful  life 
which  had  there  begun;  and  at  her  request 
an  agent  was  authorized  to  make  the  pur 
chase  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  PARTING. 

"Sometimes  beneath  exterior  rough 

A  loyal  soul  is  hidden, 
That  questions  not  the  Master's  will, 

But  does  the  task  that's  bidden; 
For  lowly  lot  and  form  uncouth 

May  yet  perchance  inherit 
A  grace  the  mighty  Caesar  lacked — 

A  calm,  contented  spirit." 

kHE  person  most  aggrieved  in  the 
prospect  of  the  departure  of  the  lit 
tle  family  was  our  humble  friend, 
the  faithful  old  Winny. 
To  her  it  was  a  loss  to  which  nothing 
could  reconcile  her,  and  though  (unlike  her 
self)  she  bore  it  in  silence,  still  it  was  plain 
to  see  that  she  drooped  under  it. 

One  day  Alice  found  her  sitting  upon  an 
inverted  wash-tub  in  front  of  the  hen-house, 
with  her  poor  woolly  head  in  her  hands,  in 
a  very  despondent  attitude.  Supposing  she 
was  grieving  for  her  coming  departure,  Alice, 


THE  PARTING.  325 


who  in  the  fullness  of  her  own  happiness 
longed  to  see  every  one  else  happy,  said  to 
her — 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Winny  ?  you 
seem  to  be  in  trouble.  Tell  me  what  it  is, 
and  see  if  I  can  not  help  you." 

"  So  I  be,  ruther,"  said  Winny,  raising  her 
dejected  face;  "  but  it  aint  nuffin'  to  trubble 
you  wid.  I  wuz  kinder  'flectin'  like — dat's 
all." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  your  reflections  were 
sad  ones,"  said  Alice,  kindly. 

"  Wai,  dey  wuz  ;  I'm  kinder  puzzled  like, 
Alice.  Yer  jest  set  down  here,  will  yer?" 
and  as  she  spoke  she  upset  another  of  her 
tubs,  dusted  it,  and,  throwing  her  apron  over 
it,  signed  to  Alice  to  sit  beside  her ;  and  Al 
ice,  who  loved  to  humor  the  simple-hearted 
old  woman,  gravely  complied,  and  sat  tete-a- 
tete  with  her,  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Yer  see,  Alice,  de  trubble  is  here.  I'm 
feared  I'se  done  wrong — kinder  cheated  like." 

"  Oh,  no,  Winny — no,  indeed ;  I  am  sure 
you  never  cheated  any  one  of  a  penny." 

"  Oh,  no ;  it  aint  no  money,  an'  I  didn't 
mean  to  do  nuffin'  wrong;  but  I'm  feared 


SALEM. 


I  haz  all  de  same,  unbeknownst  to  me.  Yer 
see,  Alice,  de  care  o'  hens  an'  chickens  is 
a  mighty  great  'sponsibility.  Didn't  yer 
neber  tink  so  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Alice,  laughing,  "  I  never 
have  thought  so ;  but  still  it  may  be — but 
how  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Well,  dat  are  is  what  I'm  goin'  to  tell 
yer.  When  dese  'ere  hens  dey  fust  begun 
to  lay — little  Speckle,  she  wuz  the  fust  to  be 
gin,  an'  it  wuz  wery  pretty  o'  her,  an'  I  tort 
it  wuz  wery  good  manners. 

"  But  yer  see,  little  Speckle,  she  were  a 
pert,  forth -puttin',  no -'count  sort  o'  critter; 
an'  her  eggs  —  well,  I  s'pose  she  done  her 
"best — but  her  eggs,  dey  warn't  nuffin'  to 
speak  ob — little  tings,  not  much  bigger  dan 
a  robin's  eggs.  So,  as  dey  wasn't  by  no 
means  fit  to  be  sot,  I  jest  used  dem  in  de 
family  as  dey  come  along.  But  bime-by 
Brownie,  she  begun  for  to  lay.  Brownie  is 
a  real  great,  gen'rous  sort  o'  hen,  an'  her 
eggs,  dey  wuz  sum'pen  like — big  again  as* 
Speckle's  wuz.  I  tell  you  dem  wuz  good 
measure,  a  credit  to  any  hen,  an'  I  kept  dem 
to  set. 


THE  PARTING.  327 


"  Ob  course,  Speckle,  she  habin'  begun  to 
lay  fust,  wuz  de  fust  to  want  to  set.  She 
wuz  allers  a  kinder  forward  young  ting ;  an' 
as  we  wuz  ompatient  to  hev  some  chickins, 
— an'  I  neber  tort  on't — I  went  an'  sot  her 
fust." 

And  here  the  speaker  paused,  and  looked 
up  at  Alice,  as  if  she  had  reached  the  point 
of  the  story. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Alice  wonderingly,  for  she 
did  not  understand ;  "  is  she  not  doing  well 
with  the  eggs,  Winny  ?" 

"Oh,  lors,  yes.  She's  a-doin'  well  enuff; 
but—" 

"  But  what  is  the  trouble,  then  ?     I  do  not 


see." 


"  Why,  poor  Brownie,  ob  course — don't  yer 
see  ?  Whose  chicks  will  dey  be,  Alice  ?" 

"Why  Speckle's,  of  course,"  said  Alice, 
"  if  she  hatches  them — won't  they  be  ?" 

"  Dere,  dat's  jest  it ;  yes,  I  s'pose  so. 
Dey'll  be  Speckle's  chickins,  an'  dey  didn't 
ought  to  be.  Brownie,  she  laid  dem  eggs, 
an'  now  I've  giv  um  to  Speckle,  an'  I'll  bet 
dat  pert  young  ting  she'll  go  a-troopin' 
round  wid  um,  as  proud  as  you  please,  right 


328  SALEM. 


under  Brownie's  nose  an'  eyes;  an'  poor 
Brownie,  she  won't  know  dey're  her'n ;  she'll 
tink  dey  are  on'y  her  neffers  an'  nieces. 
Now  aint  dat  are  too  bad  ?  an'  I  done  it !" 

"Probably,"  said  Alice,  laughing  at  the 
old  woman's  troubled  face,  "Brownie  will 
never  find  it  out ;  and  you  know  l  what  the 
mind  does  not  know  the  heart  will  not  rue.' 
I  guess  she  will  stand  it.  But  Winny,  I 
want  to  ask  about  your  father — how  is  old 
Drosky  ?" 

"  Oh,  lors  bress  us !  he's  well  enuff — 
strong  as  a  horse,  he  is." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  have  never  seen 
him  since  the  day  he  built  this  hen-coop." 

"  No,  nor  before  eder.  Don't  yer  remem 
ber  how  s'prised  yer  wuz  to  find  I  had  dad  ? 
An'  yer  neber  knowed  yer  had  one  yerself. 
I  guess  yer  wuz  more  s'priseder  yet  when 
yer  own  come  along.  He  is  jest  a  beauty, 
your'n  is.  I'd  swap  wid  yer  any  day,  I  'clare 
I  would,  on'y  I  dun'no  as  he'd  be  so  becom- 
in'  to  me  as  old  dad  is;  an'  like  as  not  I 
shouldn't  be  as  becomin'  to  him  as  you  be. 
So  I  s'pose,  on  de  whole,  we  had  better  each 
on  us  keep  to  our  own." 


THE  PARTING. 


329 


"Yes,"  said  Alice  quietly,  "I  think  so 
too." 

"  But,  Alice,  I  don't  like  yer  goin'  home 
to  de  old  country ;  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
spare  yer.  I  don't  braine  yer,  nuther;  I'd 
go  wid  yer  if  it  wuz  not  for  my  old  pardner 
here.  If  ole  dad  would  on'y  die  now !  but 
he  won't — he  aint  got  no  proper  feelin'  for 
me,  dat  ole  man  haint.  He  wouldn't  incon- 
vene  hisself — he  wouldn't  jest  die — no,  not 
to  obleedge  de  best  Men'  he  haz  in  de 
world — and  dat's  me ;  no  he  wouldn't.  An' 
I  don't  jest  like  to  turn  my  back  on  him  aft 
er  keepin'  him  on  so  long ;  but  I  really  tink 
he  grows  tougher  an'  stronger  ebery  day  he 
libs.  An'  why  shouldn't  he,  when  he  eats 
all  he  can  get,  right  hand  and  lef  hand,  fit 
to  beat  all  nater  2" 

"  Oh,  Winny,  Winny  !  do  let  the  poor  old 
man  have  enough  to  eat." 

"Enuff!  yes,  ob  course  —  but  what  is 
enuff?  I'd  like  to  know  dat;  you  don't 
know,  anr  I'm  sure  he  don't.  Why,  he'll  eat 
all  I  can  sot  afore  him,  an'  den,  if  anudder 
chance  comes  along,  he's  ready  for  it — he'll 
jest  turn  to,  an'  eat  jest  as  much  more. 


33° 


SALEM. 


Emiff !  I  'clare,  he  neber  'lowed  lie  had  it 
yet,  an'  I  guess  he  neber  will." 

Still  Winny  did  grieve  deeply  for  the  loss 
of  her  friends  with  a  genuine  sorrow,  for 
which  not  all  the  liberal  provision  they  had 
made  for  the  support  of  herself  and  her  fa 
ther  in  their  declining  years  could  compen 
sate.  Not  even  Alice's  last  laughing  injunc 
tion  to  her  to  "be  sure  and  let  old  Drosky 
have  as  much  to  eat  as  was  good  for  him," 
could  bring  to  the  dark  face  of  the  sorrow 
ing  old  woman  one  of  her  broadly  good-nat 
ured  smiles. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


THE    CONCLUSION. 

"Through  all  its  varying  scenes  our  tale  has  run — 

The  story's  ended,  and  the  play  is  done; 
Let  fall  the  curtain,  and  put  out  the  light — 
Then,  '  exeunt  omnes ' — and  to  all  'good-night.'" 


now,  having  disposed  of  the 
i^vj,  more  important  dramatis  per- 
n9L  sonce  of  our  story,  but  little 

^t^V^^p 

more  remains  to  bring  it  to  its 
conclusion. 

The  terrible  delusion  of  witchcraft,  upon 
which  this  narrative  is  founded,  had  a  sudden 
rise,  but  it  had  a  still  more  sudden  termina 
tion  ;  the  monstrous  evil  had  sprung  up  and 
swelled,  until  it  burst  by  the  innate  force  of 
its  own  virulence ;  it  was  like  one  of  those 
vile  poisonous  fungi  which  spring  up  in  a 
night,  scattering  sickness  and  death  around, 
and  disappear  forever. 

Perhaps  the  wretched  girls  who  figured  so 


332  SALEM. 


prominently  in  its  horrors,  and  whose  de 
moniac  performances  had  so  shocked  the 
public  mind  and  dethroned  all  the  calmer 
powers  of  reason,  had  become  wearied  of 
their  deadly  sport ;  or  else,  confident  in  their 
success  hitherto,  they  had  become  reckless 
of  consequences.;  but  it  is  certain  they  went 
too  far  and  struck  too  high. 

They  had  accused  the  wife  of  Philip  En 
glish,  one  of  the  most  prominent  merchants  of 
Salem,  who  had  escaped  from  jail,  and  saved 
her  life  by  flight ;  and  also  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Williard,  minister  of  the  Old  South  Church, 
in  Boston ;  and  the  mother-in-law  of  Justice 
Corwin,  an  estimable  lady  residing  in  Boston 
(probably  because  he  was  too  passive  at  the 
trials  to  suit  them) ;  and  now,  in  October, 
they  ventured  to  accuse  Mrs.  Hale,  the  wife 
of  the  minister  «of  the  First  Church  in  Bev 
erly  :  her  genuine  excellence  and  sweet 
womanly  graces  and  virtues  were  widely 
known ;  the  community,  through  undoubt- 
ing  faith  in  her,  became  convinced  of  the 
daring  perjury  of  the  accusers,  and  their 
power  was  at  an  end.  "Never  was  a  revo 
lution  so  sudden  and  so  complete,  and  the 


THE   CONCLUSION. 


333 


great  body  of  the  people  were  rescued  from 
their  delusion." 

All  the  previous  trials  had  been  held  by 
a  special  court,  which  was  now  superseded, 
and  a  permanent  and  regular  tribunal,  the 
Superior  Court  of  Judicature,  was  then  es 
tablished.  They  held  their  first  conrt  in 
January,  1693,  and  continued  their  sessions 
until  May — although  no  new  condemnations 
appear  to  have  been  made  by  them;  and  in 
May,  Sir  William  Phips,  the  governor,  by  a 
general  proclamation,  discharged  all  the  pris 
oners. 

The  number  thus  set  free  is  said  to  have 
been  about  one  hundred  and  fifty.  Twenty 
had  been  executed — some  had  died  in  prison 
—a  considerable  number  had  broken  from 
jail  and  made  their  escape;  and  it  has  been 
estimated  that  the  whole  number  of  persons 
who  had  been  committed  on  charge  of  this 
imaginary  crime  amounted  to  several  hun 
dreds. 

But  even  after  this  legal  acquittal,  the  pris 
oners  were  not  set  at  liberty  until  they  had 
paid  all  the  charges  for  their  board  while  in 
prison,  and  all  the  court  and  jailor's  fees;  by 


334  SALEM. 


this  cruel  refinement  of  extortion,  these  help 
less  beings,  who  had  already  had  their  homes 
and  possessions  despoiled,  were  reduced  in 
many  instances  to  utter  impoverishment. 

In  looking  back  upon  this  terrible  tragedy, 
even  after  the  long  lapse  of  years,  there  seems 
to  be  no  way  to  account  for  it  by  any  of  the 
known  and  recognized  laws  of  the  human 
mind;  the  actors  in  it  seem  to  have  been 
utterly  reckless  of  consequences  to  others, 
and  totally  incapable  of  human  feeling. 
There  is  no  mention  on  record  of  their  being 
once  moved  by  natural  pity  for  the  suffer 
ings  they  wrought ;  and  in  one  instance,  one 
of  the  girls  explained  her  unfounded  charge 
as  having  been  "  only  in  sport — we  must 
have  some  sport"  And  they  seem  to  have 
been  in  a  gay,  frivolous  state  of  mind,  as  if 
totally  unconscious  of  the  death-dealing  nat 
ure  of  their  accusations;  and  even  after  the 
delusion  had  passed  by,  although  some  few 
of  the  older  and  more  important  persons  in 
volved  in  this  fearful  loss  of  life  have  left  a 
noble  record  of  their  true  repentance  and  re 
morse  for  the  delusion  into  which  they  had 
suffered  themselves  to  be  drawn,  the  girls 


THE   CONCLUSION. 


335 


do  not  give  any  evidence  that  they  had  any 
realizing  sense  of  the  enormity  of  the  sin 
they  had  committed.  In  their  subsequent 
confessions  they  speak  of  their  conduct  by 
such  mild  terms  as  "  an  error  of  judgment, 
a  strange  delusion  of  the  devil,1'  rather  than 
in  a  spirit  of  heartfelt  repentance  for  their 
terrible  guilt,  and  its  widespread  and  irre 
mediable  effects. 

Even  the  Reverend  Mr.  Parris  appears 
himself  so  entirely  devoid  of  natural  human 
sympathies  that  he  was  positively  unable  to 
realize  their  existence  in  others :  "  He  could 
not  be  made  to  understand  why  the  sorrow 
ing  family  of  Rebecca  Nurse  felt  themselves 
so  much  aggrieved  by  her  cruel  and  unjust 
execution ;  he  told  them  in  plain  terms  that 
while  they  thought  her  innocent,  and  he  be 
lieved  her  guilty  and  justly  put  to  death, "  it 
was  a  mere  difference  of  opinion ;"  as  if  he 
regarded  the  fact  of  her  life  or  death  as  an 
altogether  indifferent  matter." 

But  the  history  of  the  Past  is  the  warning 
of  the  Future — the  beacon  that  shows  where 
one  frail  little  bark  went  down  has  saved 
many  a  gallant  vessel  from  a  similar  fate; 


336  SALEM. 


and  i£  the  terrible  delusion  of  1692  has 
taught  our  magistrates  and  rulers  caution 
and  temperate  judgment — if  the  sacred  fear 
of  taking  human  life  even  from  the  worst 
of  criminals  which  pervades  our  jury-boxes, 
and  has  sometimes  been  regarded  as  almost 
pusillanimity,  has  sprung  from  a  remem 
brance  of  the  terrible  era  when  the  judg 
ment  of  the  whole  community — legal,  eccle 
siastical,  and  secular — swerved  aside  and  was 
bent  like  a  reed  before  the  breath  of  passion 
and  superstition,  the  annals  of  "Salem  Witch 
craft  "  have  not  been  preserved  in  vain. 


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LYMAN  BEECHER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  &c.  Autobiography,  Corres 
pondence,  &c.,  of  Lyman  Beecher,  D.D.  Edited  by  his  Son,  CHARLES 
BEECIIER.  With  Three  Steel  Portraits,  and  Engravings  on  Wood.  In  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.  Including 
a  Journey  to  the  Hebrides.  By  JAMES  BOBWELL,  Esq.  A  New  Edition, 
with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes.  By  JOHN  WILSON  CROKER,  LL.D., 
F.R.S.  Portrait  of  Boswell.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

DRAPER'S  CIVIL  WAR.  History  of  the  American  Civil  War.  By  JOHN 
W.  DRAPER,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the 
University  of  New  York.  In  Three  Vols.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50  per  vol. 

DRAPER'S  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EUROPE.  A  Histo 
ry  of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe.  By  JOHN  W.  DRAPER, 
M.I).,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University 
of  New  York.  Svo,  Cloth.  $5  00. 

DRAPER'S  AMERICAN  CIVIL  POLICY.  Thoughts  on  the  Future  Civil 
Policy  of  America.  By  JOHN  W.  DRAPER,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of 
Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University  of  New  York.  Crown  Svo, 
Cloth,  $2  50. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  AFRICA.  Explorations  and  Adventures  in  Equatorial  Af 
rica,  with  Accounts  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  People,  and  of 
the  Chase  of  the  Gorilla,  the  Crocodile,  Leopard,  Elephant,  Hippopota 
mus,  and  other  Animals.  By  PAUL  B.  Du  CHAILLU.  Numerous  Illus 
trations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  ASHANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashango  Land:  and 
Further  Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  PAUL  B.  Du  CUAILLU. 
New  Edition.  Handsomely  Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


BELLOWS'S  OLD  WORLD.  The  Old  World  in  its  New  Face :  Impressions 
of  Europe  in  186T-18G8.  By  HENRY  W.  BELLOWS.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$350. 

BRODHEAD'S  HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK.  History  of  the  State  of  New 
York.  By  JOHN  ROMEYN  BRODHEAD.  1609-1091.  2  vols.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$3  00  per  vol. 

BROUGHAM'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life  and  Times  of  HENRT,  LORT> 
BROUGHAM.  Written  by  Himself.  In  Three  Volumes.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00  per  vol. 

^ULWER'S  PROSE  WORKS.  Miscellaneous  Prose  Works  of  Edward  Bul- 
wer,  Lord  Lytton.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


Harper  &°  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.  5 

BULWER'S  HORACE.  The  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace.  A  Metrical 
Translation  into  English.  With  Introduction  and  Commentaries.  By 
LORD  LVTTON.  With  Latin  Text  from  the  Editions  of  Orelli,  Macleane, 
and  Youge.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BULWER'S  KING  ARTHUR,  A  Poem.  By  LORD  LYTTON.  New  Edition. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BURNS'S  LIFE  AND  WORKS.  The  Life  and  Works  of  Robert  Burns. 
Edited  by  ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

REINDEER,  DOGS,  AND  SNOW-SHOES.    A  Journal  of  Siberian  Travel 
•    and  Explorations  made  in  the  Years  1865-'67.     By  RICHARD  J.  BCSH,  late 
of  the  Russo-American  Telegraph  Expedition.    Illustrated.    Crown  STO, 
Cloth,  $3  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Friedrich  II.,  called 
Frederick  the  Great.  By  THOMAS  CABLYLE.  Portraits,  Maps,  Plans, 
&c.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  History  of  the  French  Revolution. 
2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  With  Elucidations  and  Connecting  Narrative.  2  vols.,  12uio, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

CHALMERS'S  POSTHUMOUS  WORKS.  The  Posthumous  Works  of  Dr. 
Chalmers.  Edited  by  his  Son-iu-Law,  Rev.  WILLIAM  HANNA,  LL.D. 
Complete  in  9  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $13  50. 

COLERIDGE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Complete  Works  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge.  With  an  Introductory  Essay  upon  his  Philosophical 
and  Theological  Opinions.  Edited  by  Professor  SHEDD.  Complete  in 
Seven  Vols.  WTith  a  Portrait.  Small  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

DOOLITTLE'S  CHINA.  Social  Life  of  the  Chinese :  with  some  Account  of 
their  Religious,  Governmental,  Educational,  and  Business  Customs  and 
Opinions.  With  special  but  not  exclusive  Reference  to  Fuhchau.  By 
Rev.  JUSTUS  DOOLITTLE,  Fourteen  Years  Member  of  the  Fuhchau  Mis 
sion  of  the  American  Board.  Illustrated  with  more  that  150  character 
istic  Engravings  on  Wood.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

GIBBON'S  ROME.  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
By  EDWARD  GIBBON.  With  Notes  by  Rev.  H.  II.  MII.MAN  and  M.  GUIZOT. 
A  new  cheap  Edition.  To  which  is  added  a  complete  Index  of  the  whole 
Work,  and  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

HAZEN'S  SCHOOL  AND  ARMY  IN  GERMANY  AND  FRANCE.  The 
School  and  the  Army  in  Germany  and  France,  with  a  Diary  of  Sie^e 
Life  at  Versailles.  By  Brevet  Major-General  W.  B.  HAZEN,  U'S.A.,  Col 
onel  Sixth  Infantry.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

HARPER'S  NEW  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY.    Literal  Translations. 
The  following  Vols.  are  now  ready.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50  each. 
CAESAR. — VIRGIL. — SALLUST.*—  HORACE. —  CICERO'S  ORATIONS.  — CICERO'S 
OFFICES,  &c. — CICERO  ON  ORATORY  AND  ORATORS. — TACITUS  (2  vols.). 

— TERENCE. — SOPHOCLES. — JUVENAL. — XENOPHON. — HOMFR'SILIAD. 

HOMER'S  ODYSSEY.  —  HERODOTUS.  — DEMOSTHENES.  — THCCYDIDEB.  — 
JSsoiiYLUs. — EURIPIDES  (2  vols.). — LIVY  (2  vols.). 

DAVTS'S  CARTHAGE.  Carthage  and  her  Remains:  being  an  Account  of 
the  Excavations  and  Researches  on  the  Site  of  the  Phoenician  Metropo 
lis  in  Africa  and  other  adjacent  Places.  Conducted  under  the  Auspices 
of  Her  Majesty's  Government.  By  Dr.  DAVIS,  F.R.G.S.  Profusely  Illus 
trated  with  Maps,  Woodcuts,  Chromo-Lithographs,  &c.  8vo,  Cloth. 
$4  00. 

EDGEWORTH'S  (Miss)  NOVELS.  With  Engravings.  10  vols.,  12mo, 
Cloth,  $15  00. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.    12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $18  00. 


6          Harper  6°  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

HELPS'S  SPANISH  CONQUEST.  The  Spanish  Conquest  in  America,  and 
its  Relation  to  the  History  of  Slavery  and  to  the  Government  of  Colonies. 
By  AUTHOR  HELPS.  4  vols.,  l'2mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

BALE'S  (MRS.)  WOMAN'S  RECORD.  Woman's  Record  ;  or,  Biographical 
Sketches  of  all  Distinguished  Women,  from  the  Creation  to  the  Present 
Time.  Arranged  in  Four  Eras,  with  Selections  from  Female  Writers  of 
Each  Era.  By  Mrs.  SARAH  JOSEPUA  HALE.  Illustrated  with  more  than, 
200  Portraits.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALL'S  ARCTIC  RESEARCHES.  Arctic  Researches  and  Life  among  the 
Esquimaux :  being  the  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  in  Search  of  Sir  John 
Franklin,  in  the  Years  I860, 1861,  and  1862.  By  CHARLES  FUANOIS  HALL, 
With  Maps  and  100  Illustrations.  The  Illustrations  are  from  the  Origi 
nal  Drawings  by  Charles  Parsons,  Henry  L.  Stephens,  Solomon  Eytinge, 
W.  S.  L.  Jewett,  and  Grauville  Perkins,  after  Sketches  by  Captain  Hall. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALLAM'S  CONSTITUTIONAL  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  from  the  Ac 
cession  of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of  George  II.  Svo,  Clotii,  $2  00. 

HALLAM'S  LITERATURE.  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe  dur- 
in«-  the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  HENRY 
HALLAM.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

HALLAM'S  MIDDLE  AGES.  State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
By  HENRY  HALLAM.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HILDRETH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.  FIRST  SERIES: 
From  the  First  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal 
Constitution.  SECOND  SERIKS  :  From  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal  Con 
stitution  to  the  End  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  6  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth, 
$18  00. 

HUME'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  History  of  England,  from  the  Inva 
sion  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  Abdication  of  James  II.,  1688.  By  DAVID 
HUME.  A  new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  last  Corrections  and  Improve 
ments.  To  which  is  Prefixed  a  short  Account  of  his  Life,  written  by 
Himself.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

JAY'S  WORKS.  Complete  Works  of  Rev.  William  Jay :  comprising  his 
Sermons,  Family  Discourses,  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises  for  every 
Day  in  the  Year,  Family  Prayers,  &c.  Author's  enlarged  Edition,  re 
vised.  3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

JEFFERSON'S  DOMESTIC  LIFE.  The  Domestic  Life  of  Thomas  Jeffer 
son-  compiled  from  Family  Letters  and  Reminiscences,  by  his  Great- 
Granddaughter,  SARAH  N.  RANDOLPH.  With  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo, 
Illuminated  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $2  50. 

JOHNSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. 
With  an  Essay  on  his  Life  and  Genius,  by  ARTHUR  MURPHY,  Esq.  Por 
trait  of  Johnson.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

KINGLAKE'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea,  and  an  Ac 
count  of  its  Progress  down  to  the  Death  of  Lord  Raglan.  By  ALEXAN 
DER  WILLIAM  KINGLAKE.  With  Maps-  and  Plans.  Two  Vols.  ready. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00  per  vol. 

KTNGSLEY'S  WEST  INDIES.  At  Last :  A  Christmas  in  the  West  Indies. 
By  CHARLES  KINGSLEY.  Illustrated.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

KRUMMACHER'S  DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL.  David,  the  King  of  Isra 
el :  a  Portrait  drawn  from  Bible  History  and  the  Book  of  Psalms.  By 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  KRUMMAOHER,  D.D.,  Author  of  "Elijah  the  Tish- 
bite  "  &c  Translated  under  the  express  Sanction  of  the  Author  by  the 
Rev'.  M.  G.  EASTON,  M.A.  With  a  Letter  from  Dr.  Krnmmacher  to  his 
American  Readers,  and  a  Portrait.  12mo.  Cloth,  $1  75. 

LAMB'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.  Compris 
ing  his  Letters,  Poems,  Essays  of  Elia,  Essays  upon  Sliakspeare,  Ho 
garth,  &c.,  and  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the  Final  Memorials,  by  T.  Noon 
TAI/FOUBD.  Portrait.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 


Harper  6°  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.  J 

LIVINGSTONE'S  SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary  Travels  and  Researches 
in  South  Africa ;  including  a  Sketch  of  Sixteen  Years'  Residence  in  the 
Interior  of  Africa,  and  a  Journey  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  Loau- 
do  on  the  West  Coast;  thence  across  the  Continent,  down  the  River 
Zambesi,  to  the  Eastern  Ocean.  By  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE,  LL.D.,  D.C.L. 
With  Portrait,  Maps  by  Arrowsmitb,  and  numerous  Illustrations.  Svo, 
Cloth,  $4  50. 

LIVINGSTONES'  ZAMBESI.  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to  the  Zambesi 
and  its  Tributaries,  and  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Lakes  Shirwa  and  Ny- 
assa.  185S-1864.  By  DAVID  and  CHARLES  LIVINGSTONE.  With  Map  and 
Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

M'CLINTOCK  &  STRONG'S  CYCLOPAEDIA.  Cyclopaedia  of  Biblical, 
Theological,  and  Ecclesiastical  Literature.  Prepared  by  the  Rev.  JOHN 
M'CLINTOCK,  D.D.,  and  JAMES  STUONG,  S.T.D.  5  vols.  now  read;/.  Royal 
Svo,  Price  per  vol.,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  00 ;  Half  Morocco,  $S  00. 

MARCY'S  ARMY  LIFE  ON  THE  BORDER.  Thirty  Years  of  Army  Life 
on  the  Border.  Comprising  descriptions  of  the  Indian  Nomads  of  the 
Plains  ;  Explorations  of  New  Territory ;  a  Trip  across  the  Rocky  Mount 
ains  in  the  Winter;  Descriptions  of  the  Habits  of  Different  Animals 
found  in  the  West,  and  the  Methods  of  Hunting  them;  with  Incidents 
in  the  Life  of  Different  Frontier  Men,  &c.,  &c.  By  Brevet  Brigadier- 
General  R.  B.  MAUCY,  U.S.A.,  Author  of  "The  Prairie  Traveller."  With 
numerous  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $3  00. 

MACAULAY'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  The  History  of  England  from 
the  Accession  of  James  II.  By  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  With 
an  Original  Portrait  of  the  Author.  5  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  12mo, 
Cloth,  $7  50. 

MOSHEIM'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY,  Ancient  and  Modern;  in 
which  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Variation  of  Church  Power  are  considered 
in  their  Connection  with  the  State  of  Learning  and  Philosophy,  and  the 
Political  History  of  Europe  during  that  Period".  Translated,  with  Notes, 
&c.,  by  A.  MACLAINK,  D.D.  A  new  Edition,  continued  to  1826,  by  C. 
COOTE,  LL.D.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

THE  DESERT  OF  THE  EXODUS.  Journeys  on  Foot  in  the  Wilderness 
of  the  Forty  Years'  VVauderings;  undertaken  in  connection  with  the 
Ordnance  Survey  of  Sinai  and  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  By  E. 
•  H.  PALMER,  M.A.,  Lord  Almoner's  Professor  of  Arabic,  and  Fellow  of 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  With  Maps  and  numerous  Illustrations 
from  Photographs  and  Drawings  taken  on  the  spot  by  the  Sinai  Survey 
Expedition  and  C.  F.  Tyrwhitt  Drake.  Crown  svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

OLIPH  ANT'S  CHINA  AND  JAPAN.  Narrative  of  the  Earl  of  Elgin's  Mis- 
sion  to  China  and  Japan,  in  the  Years  1S5T,  '58,  '59.  By  LAURENCE  Oi.i- 
PHANT,  Private  Secretary  to  Lord  Elgin.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

OLIPHANT'S  (MRS.)  LIFE  OF  EDWARD  IRVING.  The  Life  of  Edward 
Irving,  Minister  of  the  National  Scotch  Church,  London.  Illustrated  by 
his  Journals  and  Correspondence.  By  Mrs.  OLIPH  ANT.  Portrait.  Svo, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

RAWLINSON'S  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  A  Manual  of  An 
cient  History,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Fall  of  the  Western  Empire. 
Comprising  the  History  of  Chaldaea,  Assyria,  Media,  Babylonia,  Lydia, 
Phoenicia,  Syria,  Judaea,  Egypt,  Carthage,  Persia,  Greece,  Macedonia, 
Parthia,  and  Rome.  By  GKORGE  RAWLINSON,  M.A.,  Camden  Professor 
of  Ancient  History  in  the  University  of  Oxford.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

RECLUS'S  THE  EARTH.  The  Earth:  A  Descriptive  History  of  the  Phe* 
nomena  and  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  E"LISEE  RKCLCS.  Translated  by  the 
late  B.  B.  Woodward,  and  Edited  by  Henry  Woodward.  With  234  Maps 
and  Illustrations  and  23  Page  Maps  printed  in  Colors.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

RECLUS'S  OCEAN.  The  Ocean,  Atmosphere,  and  Life.  Being  the  Second 
Series  of  a  Descriptive  History  of  the  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  £LIS^B  RE- 
OLUS.  Profusely  Illustrated  with  250  Maps  or  Figures,  and  27  Maps 
printed  in  Colors.  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 


8  Harper  6°  Brothers'  Vahiable  and  Interesting  Works. 

SHAKSPEARE.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  William  Shakspeare,  with  the 
Corrections  and  Illustrations  of  Dr.  JOHNSON,  G.  STKVKNS,  and  others. 
Revised  by  ISAAC  RF.EU.  Engravings.  6  vols,  Royal  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 
2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

SMILES'S  LIFE  OF  THE  STEPHENSONS.  The  Life  of  George  Stephen- 
son,  and  of  his  Sou,  Robert  Stephenson  ;  comprising,  also,  a  History  of 
the  Invention  and  Introduction  of  ihe  Railway  Locomotive.  By  SAMCKL 
SMILKS,  Author  of  "  Self-Help,"  &c.  With  Steel  Portraits  and  numerous 
Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

SMILES'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS.  The  Huguenots:  their  Set- 
tlernente,  Churches,  and  Industries  in  England  and  Ireland.  By  SAMUEL 
SMILKS.  With  an  Appendix  relating  to  the  Huguenots  in  America 
Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

SPEKE'S  AFRICA.  Journal  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Source  of  the  Nile. 
By  Captain  JOHN  HANNING  SPKKK,  Captain  H.M.  Indian  Army,  Fellow 
and  Gold  Medalist  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  Hon.  Correspond 
ing  Member  and  Gold  Medalist  of  the  French  Geographical  Society,  &c. 
With  Maps  and  Portraits  and  numerous  Illustrations,  chiefly  from  Draw 
ings  by  Captain  GRANT.  Svo,  Cloth,  uniform  with  Livingstone,  Earth, 
Burton,  &c.,  $4  00. 

STRICKLAND'S  (Miss)  QUEENS  OF  SCOTLAND.  Lives  of  the  Queens  of 
Scotland  and  English  Princesses  connected  with  the  Regal  Succession 
of  Great  Britain.  Py  AGNKS  STRICKLAND.  8  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

THE  STUDENT'S  SERIES. 

France.     Engravings.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Gibbon.     Engravings.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Greece.    Engravings.    l'2mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Hume.     Engravings.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Rome.     By  Liddell.     Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Old  Testament  History.     Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

New  Testament  History.     Engravings,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Strickland's  Queens  of  England.    Abridged.    Eng'a.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Ancient  History  of  the  East,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Hallam's  Middle  Ages.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Haliam's  Constitutional  History  of  England.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Lyell's  Elements  of  Geology.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

TENNYSON'S  COMPLETE  POEMS.  The  Complete  Poems  of  Alfred  Ten 
nyson,  Poet  Laureate.  With  numerous  Illustrations  by  Eminent  Artists,- 
and  Three  Characteristic  Portraits.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cents;  Cloth,  $1  25. 

THOMSON'S  LAND  AND  THE  BOOK.  The  Land  and  the  Book;  or,  Bib 
lical  Illustrations  drawn  from  the  Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes 
and  the  Scenery  of  the  Holy  Land.  By  W.  M.  THOMSON,  D.D.,  Twenty- 
flve  Years  a  Missionary  of  the  A.B.C.F.M.  in  Syria  and  Palestire.  With 
two  elaborate  Maps  of  Palestine,  an  accurate  Plan  of  Jerusalem,  and 
several  hundred  Engravings,  representing  the  Scenery,  Topography,  and 
Productions  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  Costumes,  Manners,  and  Habits 
of  the  People.  2  large -12mo  vols.,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

TYERMAN'S  WESLEY.  The  Life  and  Times  of  the  Rev.  John  Wesley, 
M.A.,  Founder  of  the  Methodists.  By  the  Rev.  LUKE  TVKRMAN.  Por 
traits.  3  vols.,  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $7  50. 

TYERMAN'S  OXFORD  METHODISTS.  The  Oxford  Methodists :  Memoirs 
of  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Clayton,  Ingham,  Gambold,  Hervey,  and  Broughton, 
with  Biographical  Notices  of  others.  By  the  Rev.  L.  TYEKMAN.  With 
Portraits.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

VAMBERY'S  CENTRAL  ASIA.  Travels  in  Central  Asia.  Being  the  Ac 
count  of  a  Journey  from  Teheren  across  the  Turkoman  Desert,  on  the 
Eastern  Shore  of  the  Caspian,  to  Khiva,  Bokhara,  and  Samarcand,  per 
formed  in  the  Year  1863.  By  AKMIMUS  VAMKEUY,  Member  of  the  Hun 
garian  Academy  of  Pesth,  by  whom  he  was  sent  on  this  Scientific  Mis 
sion.  With  Map  and  Woodcuts.  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  50. 

WOOD'S  HOMES  WITHOUT  HANDS.  Homes  Without  Hands:  being  a 
Description  of  the  Habitations  of  Animals,  classed  according  to  their 
Principle  of  Construction.  By  J.  G.  WOOD,  M.A.,  F.L.S.  With  about 
140  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $4  50. 


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