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Osgood and company","r2_key":"document/db/dbc78e52d005b69c80628efbf4db58b90788c2368b2664a03f69797a78e97966.txt","record_kind":"document","sha256":"dbc78e52d005b69c80628efbf4db58b90788c2368b2664a03f69797a78e97966","slug":"new-england-legends","status":"published","summary":"Harriet Prescott Spofford, 1871. A collection of eastern Massachusetts legends printed thirteen years before Drake's, and one of the deeper public-domain folklore sources this archive was sent to find.","text_extract":"Google \n\n\n\nThis is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project \n\nto make the world's books discoverable online. \n\nIt has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject \n\nto copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. 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Please do not remove it. \n\n+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just \nbecause we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other \ncountries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of \nany specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner \nanywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. \n\nAbout Google Book Search \n\nGoogle's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers \ndiscover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web \n\nat |http: //books .google .com/I \n\n\n\nr \n\n\n\nNew-England Legends. \n\n\n\nHARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. \n\n\n\nWl-m ILLUSTRATIONS. \n\n\n\nBOSTON : \nJAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, \n\n(Latx TiCkhdi & Fiu4», Aim F»lds, Omjood, & Co.) \n\n187.. \n\n\n\nr \n\n\n\nEntered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, \n\nBy HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. \n\nIn the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. \n\n\n\nJ \n\n\n\nSAHD, ATERT, A FBTB, PBIHTEBSy 3 GOBHHILL, BOSTON. \n\n\n\nC;r^ 6^ Tory. Nx^-^^i \n6\\ /U /OS\" \n\n\n\nTkE ifollowing hastily-prepared sketches, originally published in less pennaftent form, are \ncollected at the request of indulgent readers, and offered with all due apol(^ for their incom- \npleteness. H. P. S. \n\nNbwbustpost, Mass., Ang. x, xSjx. '^ \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nThb Tbue Acooukt of Caftahi Kidd \n\nChablbbtown \n\nSalbm \n\nNewbubtfobt \n\nDOYXB \nPOBTSMOUTH \n\n\n\nPAGE. \n1 \n\n8 \n\n15 \n\n24 \n\n29 \n\n86 \n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS. \n\n\n\nPAOB. \n\nEiDD KILLS William Moosb . . . . . v . . .3 \n\nEscape of the Mtsterious Ladt fbom the Ursitlikb Convent ox Mt. Bbnediot . 11 \n\nBuiNS OP THE Ubsuline Convbnt . . . . • . 13 \n\nRev. George Bubboughs acousbd of Witchcbaft . . . . .17 \n\nCapt. Boabdhan obdebs the Bbitish Flag to be stbugk . . .25 \n\nGband-daughteb of Majob Waldbon alone ik the Woods . . . .33 \n\nFbancbs Dbebing making Signal . . . . . . . .37 \n\n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\nTHE TRUE ACCOUNT OF CAPTAIN KIDD. \n\n\n\nTbe kdands aboat ihe harbon of all onr New \nEngland riven are so wild, and wotild seem to \nbave offered 80 many adrantages, that they \nhave always been supposed, by the ruder popu- \nlation, to be the hiding-place of piratical treas- \nures, and pardcalarly of Captain Kidd's : and \nthe secretion, among rocks and sahds, of chests \nof jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladles \nwho have walked the awftd plank, with shot- \niMgs fhll of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold. \nIs one of the tenets of the vulgar firith. This \nbelief has ranged up and down the whole \nshore with more flreedom than the pbfates eve^ \ndid, and the legends on the subject are legion \n—from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy \nBay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Caro- \nlina sandbars too countless for memory, the \nFtreship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of \nKarblehead, and the Lynn Hariner who, while \nburying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up \nalive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and \nwhom some one, under spiritual inspiration, \nspent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to \nunearth. The parties that have equipped them- \nselves with hazel-rods and spades, and pro- \nceeded, at the dead of night, in search of these \nriches, without turning their heads o^ uttering \nthe Divine Name, and, digging till they struck \nmetal, have met with all manner of ghostly ap- \npearances, firoih the little naked negro sitting \nand crying on the edge of the hogshead of \ndoubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up \nthe creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide \nJust opposite the excavation Into which it \nshoots with the speed of lightning, so terrlQr^ \ning and bewildering the treasure-seekers that \nwhen all is over they flill to find again the place \nof their late labor— 4he parties that have met \nwith these adventures would, perhaps, cease to \nwaste much more of their time in such pursuits \nIn this part of the country if they knew that \nCaptsdn Kidd had never landed north of Block \nIsland until, with flital temerity, he brought \nhis vessel into Boston, and that every penny of \nhis gains was known and was accounted for, \nwhile as to Bradish Ten and the rest of that \ngentry, they wasted everything as they went in \nriotous living, and could never have had a dol- \nlar to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they \nhad ; and whatever they did possess they took \nwith them when, quietly abandoning their ships \n10 the officers of the law, they went up- the \n\n\n\ncreeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed tftem- \nselves throughout the country. \n\nEver since the time of Jason there have been \nsea-rol>bers, and at one petiod they so infested \nthe Mediterranean-Owning a thousand galleys \nand four hundred cities. It is said^^that Pompey \nwas Eent out with a fleet and a fbrce of soldiery \nto extirpate them. In later times there were \ntribes of lawless men associated together in \nhunting the cattle of the West Indian islands, \ncuring the flesh, and exchanging it In adjacent \nsettlements ; they held all property in common, \nand were called BuocaneerSj from the word \n^^boucah,\" a Carib term for preserved meat. \nBy the mistaken policy of the viceifoys of the \nislands, who, in order to reduce them to less \nlawless lives, exterminated all the cattle, these \nmen were driven to the sea, and became in \ntime the celebhtted flreebooters, or ^^ Brethren \nof the Coast.** The bull of Pope Alexander YI., \nby authority of which Spain and Portugal \nclaimed all American discoveries, caused Eng^ \nland, France and the Netherlands to combine \nin the Western Hemisphere, whatever quarrels \ncame to hand in the Eastern, and to ravage the \ncommon enemy-HM> that letters-of-marque were \nconstantly issued by them to all adventurers, \nwithout requiring any condemnation of prizes \nor account of proceedings, by which means \nthese countries virtually created a system of \npiracy, and Sir Francis Drake's sack of St Do- \nmingo, and the subsequent pillage of Pemam- \nbuco, were in nowise different firom the ex- \nk>lolts of the brutal Olonois, Van Horn, and \nBrodely, upon the opulent Spanish dties of the \nMain. As the trade with the East and West In- \ndies increased, these freebooters ceased to sail \nunder any color but their own, the black flag ; \nno longer left their ships to inarch through \ntropical swamps and * forests, to float on rafts \ndown rivers of a hundred cataracts, to scale \nmountains, and fhll, as If out of the clouds, on \nthe devoted cities of the Isthmus of Darien, \nthe silver and gold <tf whose cathedrals, palaces \nand treasure-houses were worth the labor ; nor \ndid they confine themselves on sea to overhaul- \ning the Spanish galleon sitting deep In the wa- \nter with her lading from the Mexican and Peru- \nvian mines ; but they niade their attacks on the \ngreat slow ship of the Asiatic waters, and \nwhen their sappreMon became vital to com- \nmercoi and all powers united against them, \n\n\n\nTHE TBUE AOCOUNT OF OAPTAIN EIDD. \n\n\n\nIhey poBsessed themBelyes of samptuoiui re- \ntreats in Madagascar and the Indian Ocean, \nwhere they had their seraglios, and lived in \nfahulons splendor and luxury. As this race, \nhunted on sea and enervated on land, died out, \ntheir place was taken hy others, and expedi- \ntions came gradually to be fitted out firom the \ncolonies of New England, while Yirginia, the \nGarolinas, and even the Quakers of Philadel- \nphia, afforded them a market for their rob- \nberies. When these also in their time aban- \ndoned their profession, they made their homes, \nsome in the Carolinas, some in Rhode Island, \nand some on the south shore of Long Island, \nwhere their descendants are among the most \nrespectable of the community. \n\nTo none of these did Captain Kldd belong ; \nand, previous to the last two years of his Ufe, \nhe was esteemed a good citizen, and ag honest \na sea-captain as ever sailed out of New York, \nto which place he belonged, and where, in the \nSurrogate's office, is still preserved his marriage \ncertificate, that classifies him as Gentleman. \nDaring the war with France he had been mas- \nter of a ship in the neighborhood of the Carib- \nbean Sea, and had valiantly come to the assist- \nance of a British man-of-war, and the two \ntogether had vanquished a fleet of six French \nfrigates ; it was testified upon his trial that he \nbad been a mighty man in the West Indies, and \nthat he had refused to go a pirateering, upon \nwhich his men had seized his ship ; and it was \non account of his public services there that the \nGeneral Assembly of New York had paid him a \nbounty of one hundred and fifty pounds — a \ngreat sum in those days ; and the probability \nis, that, being made a bone of contention be- \ntween political parties, exactly what he was \napplauded for doing at one time he was hung \nfor doing at another. \n\nThe American seas being greatly troubled by \npirates, early in 1695 the King summoned the \nEarl of Bellomont before him, and told him \nthat, having come to the determination to put \nan end to the Increasing piratical tendencies of \nhis colonies, he had chosen him as the most \nsuitable person to be invested with the govern- \nment of New York and New England. The \nearl at once set about devising the readiest \nmeans for the execution of the King's purpose, \nand Robert Livingston, chancing then to be in \nLondon, and being acquainted with the earl, \nintroduced to him William Kldd, who, having \nleft his wife and children in New York, was \nalso then in London, as a person who had se- \ncured some fame in engagements with the \nFrench, a man of honor and intrepidity, and \none who, knowing the haunts of the pirates, \nwtis very fit to command the expedition against \nthem which Bellomont and others were plan- \nning. Livingston became Kidd's surety, a \nkindness that the latter always remembered, \nas he threatened, on his return two years \nafterward, to sell his sloop, and Indemnify \nLivingston out of the proceeds, If Bellomont \n^d not surrender the bond. \n\nIt was at first proposed that Kldd should \nhave a British flrigate, but hardly daring to \ngive him that— which hesitation in itself indi- \ncates how far the great lords were really impli- \ncated in his transactions--^ ship was purchased \nfor six thousand pounds, Kldd and Livingston \nbeing at one-fifth of the expense, and the rest \nbeing borne by the Earlls of Bellomont and \nBoibney, the Lord Chancellor Somen, the Lord \n\n\n\nHigh Admiral, the Duke of Shrewsbury, and \nSir Edward Harrison, ana they agreed to give \nthe King, who entered into it very heartily, ft \ntenth of the profits of the afllair. Kldd was \nsomewhat averse to the plan, and seriously de- \nmurred, it is believed, but was threatened by \nthe men of power that his own ship should be \ndetained and taken fi-om him if he persisted, \nand accordingly he yielded, and in 1696 was \nregularly commissioned under two separate \nparchments, one to cruise against the French, \nand the other — an etktraordlnary one, but issued \nunder the Great Seal, empowering him to pro- \nceed against the pirates of the American seas, \nand really given for the purpose of authorizing \nhim to dispose of such property as he might \ncapture. He had orders to render his accounts \nto the Earl of Bellomont, remotely and securely \nin New England ; and the. Adventure Galley, a \nprivate armed ship of thirty guns and eighty \nmen, was brought to the buoy in the Nore at \nthe latter end of February, and on the 23d of \nApril, 1696, he sailed In her from Plymouth, \nreaching New York in July, and bringing In a \nFrench ship, valued at three hundred and fifty \npounds, which he had taken on the passage, \nand which he there condemned. \n\nIn New York he invited men to enter his ser- \nvice, by notices posted in the streets, and pre- \nsenting large ofi'ers of booty after forty shares \nfor himself and the ship should be deducted ; \nand increasing his crew to more than one hun- \ndred and fifty men, he went to Madeira, then \nto several of the West Indian ports, and after- \nward to Madagascar, the coast of Malabar, and \nto Bab's Key, an island at the entrance of the \nRed Sea, where he lay in wait for the Mocha \nfleet, then pieparing to sail. It is evident that \nhe went outside of his nominal Instructions by \nthus leaving the American for the Asiatic wa- \nters ; but it is also evident that he understood \nhe was to be supported by the people of power \nwho were behind him at home, and believed \nhimself to be only following out their inten- \ntions ; and the man who had been encouraged \nto rob one ship had not, perhaps, sufficient re- \nfinement of discrimination to think any difi'er- \nent matter of robbing another. Moreover, \nhaving come across and captured no vessel \nsince leaving New York, he might naturally \nhave felt that his owners were expecting more \nof him, and thus have resolved on something \ndesperate. At any rate he did not consider \nhimself to be going outside of his duty, or to \nbe appearing in any questionable light, when, \non his voyage out, he met the ship carrying the \nambassador to the Great Mogul, and exchanged \ncourtesies therewith. \n\nTired out with his want of success, when an- \nchored at Bab's Key, he sent boats to bring the \nfirst news of the sailing of the Mocha fieet, es- \ntablished a lookout on the hills of the island, \nand told his men that now he would freight the \nAdventure Galley with gold and silver when \nthe fleet came out, though it was found that \nmany of its ships belonged to fMendly nations, \nand it was convoyed by an English and a Du1»h \nman-of-war. Kldd, however, sailed into the \nmidst of the fleet, which flred at him first, and \nreturning the fire with one or two ineffectual \nshots, he hauled off and left it to pursue its \ncourse Sailing then for the coast of Malabar, \na couple of months afterward Kldd took a Moor- \nish vessel belonging to Aden, but commanded \nby an Englishman, and finding but little ot \n\n\n\nTHE TBUB JlOOOXJKI OF OAPTiJN EIDD. \n\n\n\nVBlne Id the prize, he had her men hoisted bj \nthe arms and beaten wUh the flat or a cutlaaa \nto maka tbem reveul what ihey hod dona wllh \ntbefr moQef — a pantahment which, wbelber 6a- \nvere or not for that Beml-barbBrons era, wm, \nwith two exceptlouB, tbe ool; act of persoaal \noraelty of which he waaereraccnsed; and peo- \nple whom, irth6 general Idea of him were true, \nbe wonld bave dispatched with a bullet, he \ndmplykept in tbe hold till, tnqulr; for them \nbotng over, ha dismissed them. Ha obtained \nfrom this Tasael some coffee, pepper, aad Ara- \nbian gold, and some mynh, with which the ez- \ntraTBg;an t ro^e pltehed his ship. Going further \nout to sea again, he next enconnl«red a Portu- \ngese man-of-war, bnC after a brief engagement \nwithdrew with ten men wounded, and retomed \n\n\n\npresentlf to the coast of Halabar. Bere, his \ncooper having been killed b; the natives, he \n\"served them In pretlymuch tbe same way,\" \nsays one vrller, \"aS' the ofllcerE of our late \nBouth Bea Exploring Expedition served the \nFIJlaQS, burning their- houses and shooting one \nof tbe murderers.\" This, however, was one of \ntbe other Instances of cruelty to which reffr- \nencehas JOst been made, the tnnrderer being \nbound to- a tree and shot at In turn by all the \nretallatore.. Shortly after this, Captain Eldd \nfell In with tbe ship Royal Captain, which he \nTislCed, and whose officers lie entertatoed on \nboard the Adventure Galley; hut lotne of ber \ncrew having told that there were Greeks and \nothers on board with much wealth of precious \nstones, the piratical spirit of bis men led to \n\n\n\nTHE TEUB AOCOUKT OF OAFTAIN KIDD. \n\n\n\nmutinoiis dedres and eiq;>re89ion8 ; and, In a \nrage with those who had wished to boara and \nrob the Royal Captain, Eidd snatched up an \niron-bonnd bucket, and stnick Wllllam Hoore, \nthe gunner and chief grumbler, a blow on the \nhead, of which he died next day. Kidd re- \nmarked to his surgeon that Ihe death of the \ngunner did not trouble him so mucb as other \npassages of his Toyage, as he had ftlendd In \nEngland who oould easily bring liim off for \nthat ; and he himself had it urged as a virtdeus \nact rather than otherwise, since done to pre* \nvent both piracy and mutiny. \n\nStill on the coast of Malabar, in November he \nran across another Moorish vessel, «nd artfully- \nhoisted the French colors, upon which the Moor \n\ndid the same. ** By 1 have I catched you f\" \n\nhe cried ; ^'you are a ttee prize to England !^' \nand making easy conquest of her, he caused \none Le Roy, a French passenger, to act the \npart of master, and to show a pretended Freneh \npass, upon which he declared her formally a \nprize to England, as if observing again the pre* \nscribed forms, and intending to claim for his \nconduct, should he ever need to do so, the pro- \ntection of the commission snthorlzing him to \ntake French ^ips. In the course of the next \nmonth, December, he captured a Moorish ketch \nof fifty tons, and turned her adrift ; took about \nfour hundred pounds' worth from a Portuguese, \nand sunk her near Calcutta; and then made \nprize of an Armenian vessel of four hundred \ntons, called the Quedagh Merchant, and some- \ntimes the Scuddee, and commanded by an \nEnglishman — the entire value of the latter cap- \nture being sixty-four thousand pounds, of which \nKidd's share was about sixteen thousand. Eidd \nthen went to Madagascar, where, having ex- \nchanged all the equipments of the Adventure \nGalley for dust and bar gold and silver, silks, \ngold-doth, precious stones, and spices, he \nburned that ship, which was leaking badly, and \ntook to the Quedagh Merchant, refosing a ran- \nsom of thirty thousand rupees which the Arme- \nnians came, crying and wringing their hands, \nto offer him. \n\nHere, too, he is said to have met with one \nof the East India Company's ships. Captain \nCulliford, turned pirate. It was clearly his \nduty, under his commission, to offer batUe at \nonce ; but, instead of anything of the kind, \nit was testified on the trial that when the pi- \nraces, with bated breath, sent out a boat to in- \nquire concerning his intentions, he drank with \nthem, in a kind of lemonade called ** bomboo,\" \ndamnation to his own soul if he ever harmed \nthem, and exchanged gifts with Culliford, re- \nceiving some silk and four hundred pounds in \nreturn for some heavy ordnance. Eidd denied \nthat he had ever been aboard of CuUlfoFd, and \ndeclared that, when he proposed to attack him, \nhis men said they would rather fire two shots \ninto nim than one into Culliford; that they \nstole his journal, broke open his chest and rifled \nit, plundered his ammunition, and threatened \nhis life so that he was obliged to barricade him- \nself in bis cabin — his statement being borne out \nin some degree by the £Etct that here ninety-five \nof his men deserted to Captain Culliford, as if \ntheir own master were not sufficiently piratical, \nwhereupon, recniiting a handfhl of men, he \nsailed immediately for the West Indies. He de* \nclared ftirther that he did not go on board the \nQuedagh Merchant until after the desertion of \nthese meui which left only about a dozen in hi« \n\n\n\ncrew— not enough to keep his leaking emfl \nfirom sinking. \n\nBut the captiye of the Quedagh Merchant bad \nbeen reported home by the East India Company, \nand directions had been issued to all the Ame- \nrican governors and viceroys to seize him \nwherever he -should appear. At Anguilla he \nlearned that he had been 'officially proclaimed \na pirate, and figming to obtain any provisions \neither there or at St. Thomas, at which latter \nplace he was not even allowed to land, he went \nto Curagoa, firom whence intelligence of his \nwhereabouts was forwarded to England, and \nthe man-of-war Queensborough was sent in pur- \nsuit of him. \n\n. Eidd was aware that he had been upon a \nhazardous enterprise, so fiir as the risks at \nhome were considered, to say nothing of the \nrisks at sea; and whether he was oonsclong \nthat he had exceeded his instructions, too \neagerly misinterpreting them, or whether he \nknew that it Is a way with the greatNto sacrifice \nthose who compromise them -too seriously, he \nprepared himself for any fortune : he deter- \nmined to go to New York, and prove lor him- \nself what protection and countenance he now \nhad to expect from Bellomont and the othen; \nbut he also determined to venture as littla as \npossible, and he accordingly bought the sloop \nAntonla— though excusing this afterward to the \nearl by saying that his men^ fHghtened by the \nproclamation, had wished to run the ship \nashore, and so many of them left him that \nagain he had not enough to handle the ropes, \nwhich must have been untrue — ^loaded her with \nhis silks, muslins, jewels, bullion and gold-dust \n(the rest of his booty, consisting of bales of \ncoarse goods, sugar, iron, rice, wax, opium, \nsaltpetre and anchors, he left in the Quedagh \nMerchant, moored on the south side of Hi9pa» \nniola, with twenty gons^ in the hold and thirty \nmounted, and twenty men, with his mate in \ncommand) — and sailed in ner for New York ; \nintimating, by his action, a doubt of his re- \nception, though that might well be accounted \nfor by a knowledge of the Eing*s proclamation, \nbut Just as plainly intimating that he had reason \nto rely on the promises of Bellomont and the \nrest of that royal stock company in piracy. \n\nMeanwhile Bellomont had been delayed firom \nentering upon his official life by one thii^ and \nanother, until two years had elapsed fh>m the \ntime of Eidd*s departure from Eni^and. On \narriving in New York, he heard of the rumored \ncareer which Eidd was running, and presently \nthe news having reached England, and an ac- \ncount of the public sentiment about it there \nbeing returned to him, Bellomont felt that very \nactive measures were necessary in order to ex- \nculpate himself^ the Ministry and the Eing from \nthe popular accusation of participating in Eidd's \nrobberies, and took every step necessary for his \napprehension. \n\nNeeding some repairs before reaching his \ndestination, Eidd ve^^ cautiously put into Dela- \nware Bay, where he landed a chest belonging \nto one Gillam, an indubitable pirate, who had \nbeen a Mohammedan, and who now returned, \na passenger from Madagascar. The news \nspreading up the coast, an armed sloop went \nafter Eidd, but fkiled to find him« and he \nreached the eastern end of Long Island with- \nout being overhauled. Entering the Sounds \nhe dispatched a letter to Bellomont, and from \nOyster Bay pent loving greeting to his faml^y^ \n\n\n\nTHE TRUE AOCX)UNT OF OAFTAIN ED)]). \n\n\n\n6 \n\n\n\nand ft lawyer, by the name of Emot, came down \nfrom New York and went on board the An-, \ntonla. Learning that the Earl of Bellomont \nwas. In Boston, Kidd altered his ooorBe for \nBhode Island, and, arriving there, sent Mr. \nEmot to Boston to secure a promise of safety \nfrom BeUomont if he should land ; a promise \ngranted on condition of Its proving that Emot \ntold the truth'— he having asserted that Eldd's \nmen locked him up while they committed plr \nracles. Kidd then went to Block Island, and \nwrote to Bellomont again, protesting his inno* \noence, urging the care he had taken of the \nowner's interests, and sending Lady Bellomont \na present of Jewels of the value of sixty \npounds, which Bellomont had her keep lest she \nShould offend the giver and prevent tbe devel> \nopments that he desired, though afterward \nsurrendering and adding them to the general In* \nyentory of Kidd*s effects. While at Block Island \nlie was Joined by his wife and children, under \nthe care of a Mr. Clark ; he then grateAilly went \nout of his way in order to land Mr. Clark on \nGardiner's Island, as that gentleman wished to \nreturn to New York ; and although Kidd him- \nself did not go ashore at the latter place, he \nleft with Mr. Oardiner a portion of his treasure \nafterward abandoned to the Commissioners \nsent for it by tbe Governor. WhUe lying here, \nthree sloops from New York came down and \nwere loaded with goods, which were, however, \nall recovered — Kidd maintaining, with so much \npaueity ol Invention as to resemble the truth, \nthat it was his men and not he who shipped \nthem ofL Meanwhile the earl sent down Dnn- \nean Campbell, the postmaster at Boston, to in- \nTite Captain Kidd to that port, telling him that \nif innocent he might safely come Jn, and he \nwould intercede for his pardon; and Kidd \nstraightway headed the Antonla for Boston, \nreaching there on the 1st of July and appear- \ning publicly upon the streets. Hearing of his \narrival, the earl sent for him, and, reAistng to \nsee him without witnesses, examined him be- \nfore the Council, directed him to draw up a narw \nrative of bis proceedings, and dismissed him. \nBellomont, however, kept a watch upon his \nmovements, as he both desired and needed his \narrest, bat thought it expedient to use friendly \nmeans in order to discover the extent of his \noutrages and the disposition of ^e property \nacquired tiirough them. At 'the end of the \nweek, Kidd showing no intention to unbosom \nhimself in that wise, and it being feared that \nhe meant to make ofl^ he was arrested and \ncommitted to. prison, though not till he had \nmade a valiant opposition and had drawn his \nsword upon the King*s officers — the arrest \ntaking place near the door of the earl's lodg- \nings, into which Kidd rushed and ran toward \nhim, followed by the constables. His sloop, on \nthat, was immediately appraised, its contents \ntaken possession of by certain Ck)mmiasioners \nappointed for that purpose, his papers, contain- \ning accounts of his buried treasure and of that \nin Mr. Gardiner's hands, were opened, and all \nthe property was finally delivered, to the earl, \nwith an inventory of one thousand one hun- \ndred and eleven ounces of gold, two thousand \nthree hundred and fifty-three ounces of silver, \nttiree-score Jewels, and bags, bales and pieces \nof goods about as valuable as the precious \nmetals. Mrs. Kidd's property, which included \nseveral pieces of plate, nearly three hundred \ndollars of her own and twenty-five crowns of \n\n\n\nher maid's, was taken out of her temporary \nlodgings in the house of Duncan Campbell, at \nthe time when search was made for a bag of \ngold-dust and Ingots of the value of a thousand \npounds, that Kidd had intended for a gift to \nLady Bellomont, and that was found between \ntwo sea-beds ; but on petition the Governor \nand Council restored to Mrs. Kidd her own. \nHis wife-^to whom he had been but a few \nyears married — accompanying him with her \nchildren, her maid and ah that she possessed, \nshows that Kidd had no intention of being sur- \nprised and overmastered ; but on tbe contrary, \nif worse came to worst, that he had meant to \ntake her back to the Quedagh Merchant and \nfind a home in some place beyond the pale of \nBritish Justice ; while retaining her affection, \nand caring to retain it, is In Itself a sort of \ntestimony that he was hardly so black as he \nhas been painted. Ten days after his arrest \nnews came that the mate of the Quedagh Mer- \nchant, left in command, had taken out her \ncargo, removed it to Curayoa, and had then \nset her on fire, and the mariner who brought \nthe intelligence had seen her burning. That \n•was a dark day, doubtless, to Captain Kidd, \nbut not so dark as others yet to come. \n\nA shlp-of-war had now been dispatched \nfrom England to take Captain Kidd over there, \nbut being delayed by inclement weather, and \nputting back in a storm after he was on board, \nby the time It arrived in the Thames all Eng- \nland was in a state of excitement over his \nalleged partnership with several of the Minis- \nters, and their apparent determination not to \nbring him to justice; and fh)m a common \nmalefactor he became the lofty subject of a \nstate trlaL \n\n. On his arrival the House of Commons ad- \ndressed the King, asking to have Kldd's trial \npostponed until tbe next Parliament, that there \nmight be time for tiie transmission of all the \nexisting documents having any relation to his \nafliedrs ; and he was accordingly confined In \nNewgate until the next year, when the papers \nwere laid before the House, together with a \npetition fh>m Cogl Baba, on behalf of himself \nand other Armenians, subjects of the King of \nPersia, setting forth all the facts of the \nQuedagh Merchant's capture, and praying for* \nKidd's examination and their own rellefl Cogi \nBaba was ordered before the House, and Kidd \nhimself was produced at the bar, and afterward \nremanded to prison. A motion was then made \nin the House to declare void the grant made to \nthe Earl of Bellomont and others of all the treas- \nure taken by Kidd, but it was negatived, and \nthe House of Commons then requested the \nKing to have Kidd proceeded against according \nto law, and he was brought to trial at the Old \nBailey, in 1701, for murder and piracy upon \nthe high seas. \n\nAt the same time, the House of Commons \nwas proceeding upon an impeachment of the \nEarl of Oxford and Lord Somers, for certain \nhigh crimes and misdemeanors, one of which \nwas their connection with Kidd, and their \nagency in passing the commissions and grant \nto him, as prejudicial to public service and \nprivate trade, and dishonorable to the King, \ncontrary to the law of England and to the bill of \nrights. It was urged in reply that a pirate \nwas liostis humani generis^ and his goods be- \nlonged to whomsoever it might be that de- \nstroyed him, and the King granted title only to \n\n\n\nTHE TEUE ACCOUNT OP CAPTAIN KIDD. \n\n\n\nfhat for which no owner was to be found. Be- \nfore the lords were acquitted Bellomont was \ndead, and Eidd was hung ; while popular feel- \ning ran high, parties took sides in the afliair ; \nthere were accusations afloat that these lords, \nnow on their own trial, had set the Great Seal \nof England to the pardon of the arch-pirate ; \nand as the anti-Ministerial side was determined • \nto hang Kidd in order to prove the complicity \nand guilt of the Ministers with him, the Minis- \nters themselves were, of course, determined to \nhang him to prove their own Innocence. \n\nEidd made a very good appearance upon his \ntrial, ignorant as he was of all the forms of \nlaw ; he Insisted on his innocence, and that he \nhad only captured ships with French passes or \nBailing under the French flag, and he fought \nmanfhlly, but to no purpose. Of the men that \nwere tried with him, several plead that they \nBurrendered themselves upon a certain procla- \nmation of the Eing's pardon, but the Court de- \ncided that, not having surrendered themselves \nto the designated persons, they did not come \nwithin its provisions, and they must swing for \nit, and 80 they did. A couple of servants were \nacquitted ; but to Eidd himself no mercy was \nshown. Justice Turton, Dr. Newton, Advocate \nfor the Admiralty, and the Lord Chlef^ Baron, \nall made elaborate arguments against him, \nwhile no one spoke for him ; and all his pre- \nvious plunderings were allowed to be cited in \nthe Court, in order to prove that he plundered \nthe Quedagh Merchant. When he desired to \nhave counsel assigned him, Sir SalathlelLovell, \nthe Recorder, wonderlngly asks him, ''What \nwould you have counsel forT' And Dr. Ox- \nenden contemptuously Inquires, '' What matter \nof law can you have ?'' But as Eidd quietly \nanswers, '^ There be matters of law, my lord,'* \nthe Recorder a^s again, '^ Mr. Eidd, do you \nknow what you mean by matters of lawf \nWhereupon Eidd replies as quietly as before, \n^I know what I mean; I desire to put off \nmy trial as long as I din, 1^ I can get my evi- \ndence ready. '^ He has had but a fortnight's \nnotice of his trial, and knowing how important \na delay would be to him in which the popular \nfeeling might die out or abate, he urges, '* I \nbeg your lordships* patience till I can procure \nmy papers. I had a couple of French passes, \nwhich I must make use of to my justlflcation,*' \nand presently adds, *'I, beg your lordships I \nmay have counsel admitted, and that my trial \nmay be put off; I am not really prepared for \nit.\" To which the Recorder rudely replies, \n\" Nor never will, if you can help it»» \n\nKidd still contended for counsel, and at last \nIt was assigned to him. It then appeared that he \nhad already petitioned for money to carry on his \ntrial, and though it had, as a matter of course, \nbeen granted to him, as to any prisoner, it had \nbeen put into his hands only on the night be- \nfore. His counsel, for whose services he had \n80 exerted himself, made one or two timid re- \nmarks, but, after the jury were sworn, although \nthe Solicitor-General plied the witnesses with \nleading questions, the cowardly lawyers never \ncross-examined, made any plea, or opened their \nlips. \n\nThe indictment for murder, upon which Eidd \nwas first tried, portrayed, with great particu- \nlarity, the blow struck the gunner, saying that \nof that mortal bruise 'Hhe aforesaid William \nMoore, flrom the thirtieth day of October • • • \nnntU the one-imd-thlrtieth day ** * * did \n\n\n\nlanguish, and languishing did live,\" but on the \none-and-thlrtieth day did die, and declaring \nthat William Eidd feloniously, voluntarily and \nof malice aforethought did kill and murder him; \nto all of which Eidd plead not guilty, constantly \ninterrupting the Court with his exclamationB \nand explanations. ^^ The passes were seized by \nmy Lord Bellomont; that we will prove as \nclear as the day !** cries he. When invited to \nfind cause for exception In the jury, he either \nadroitly or ingenuously answers, '^ I shall chal- \nlenge none ; I know nothing to the contrary \nbut they are honest men.'' The time coming \nfor his defense, he told In an earnest manner a \nshort and simple story, but one in which, by \ncomparison of the various witnesses, sevei^ \ndiscrepancies with the truth were found. ^' My \nlord,\" said he, '' I wUl tell you what the case \nwas. I was coming up within a league of the \nDutchman, and some of my men were making \na mutiny about taking her, and my gunner told \nthe people he could put the captain In a way to \ntake the ship and be safe. Says I, 'How will < \nyou do that V The gunner answered, ' We will \nget the captain and men aboard.' ' And what \nthen r ' We will go aboard the ship and plun- \nder her, and we will have it under their hands \nthat we did not take her.' Says I, 'This is \nJudas-Uke. I dare not do such a thing.' Says \nhe, ' We may do it, we are beggars already.' \n' Why,' says I, ' may we take thTs ship because \nwe are poor ?' Upon that a mutiny arose, so I \ntook up a bucket and just throwed it at him, \nand said, ' You are a rogue to make such a mo- \ntion.' This I can prove, my lord.\" \n\nBut he did not prove it, and though he strug- \ngled hard to do so, and though his falthiUl \nservant Richard Barlicorn, also on trial for his \nlife, must ^lave committed a hundred perjuries \nin nis behalf, the Court could not find evidence \nof any mutiny for more than a month before the \ngunner's death, and decided that William \nMoore's outcry that Eidd had brought him and \nmany others to ruin was not sufficient provoca- \ntion for the killing. And though Eidd plead \nthat striking the man in a passion, with so rude \nand unpremeditated a weapon as the first slush- \nbucket at hand^ if not justifiable as a prevent- \nive of mutiny, was, at Airtbest, no more than \nmanslaughter, and exclaimed that '' it was not \ndesignedly done, but In his passion, for which \nhe was heartily sorry,\" yet. It being deter- \nmined to hang him at all odds, the lawyers \nwere given hints, the witnesses were brow- \nbeaten, and the jury were instructed, after \ntedious iteration, to bring liim in guilty ; which \nwas done. \n\nAt the trial next day on the indictments for \npiracy, Eidd' did not lose heart. There were \nbut two important witnesses produced against \nhim. Palmer, one of his crew, and his ship's \nsurgeon, Bradlnham, who, though both of \nthem sharers in his adventures, had become evi- \ndence for the Crown on the promise of their \nown safety. Eidd himself cross-questioned \nthem, but idly, their replies being always \nstraightforward uid consistent. His on^ de- \nfense was that he nad taken French passes from \nevery capture, that the Earl of Bellomont had \nseized them, and that his men, once catching \nsight of a French pass when a ship was over- \nhauled, would not let that ship go, and for the \nrest answered with indifference, *' That Is what* \nthese witnesses say,\" as if such depraved testi- \nmony could really be worth nothing. \" Did yon \n\n\n\nTHE TRUE AGOOUNT OF OAFTAIN KIDD. \n\n\n\nhear me say so V* he demanded of Palmer once. \n^ I heard you say so,'' was the reply. <^ I am \nBare,\" said Eidd then, contemptuoiulyi '^yoa \nnever heard me say such a word to such a log- \ngerhead as you.\" But matters going beyond \nhis patience soon, '^ Hear me I\" be cried indig- \nnantly, but was fenced by the Court, only to \nbreak out again presently on Palmer with, \n^^ Certainly you have not the impudence to say \nthat!\" .and to ac^ure him to ^^ speak true.\" \nBy-and-by the question of one of the passes be- \ning up, ^' Palmer, did you see that pass ?\" he \neagerly asks ; and, the old subordinate manner \nreturning to the other man, he answers, ^^ In- \ndeed, captain, I did not ;\" whereupon, like one \nwho throws up his hands in despair, Eidd ex- \nclaims, ^< What boots it to ask him any ques- \ntions? We have no witnesses, and what we \nsay signifies nothing.\" With Bradinhatfi be is \nless contemptuous and more enraged* ^ This \nman contradicts himself in a hundred places !\" \nlie declared. '^ He tells a thousand lies * * * \nThere was no such thing in November; he \nknows no more of these things than you do. \nThiB fellow used to sleep Ave or six months to- \nother In the hold ! * * It is hard,\" he ex- \nclaims after awhile, '^ that a couple of rascals \nshould take away the Eing*s subjects' lives. \nBecause I did not turn piittte, you rogues, yon \nwould make me one 1\" And, with that, hope \nIdips faster and fitster away from his grasp, and \nwhen the Solicitor-General would know if he \nlias anything flirther to ask of the witnesses, he \nreplies, '^ No, no i So long as he swears it, our \nwords or oathB cannot be taken* No^ oo^\" h« \n\n\n\ncontinues, wearily, ^it signlfles nothing.\" But \nhe does ask at last one other question. \" Mr. \nBradinham,\" he cries, bitterly, \" are not you \npromised your life to take away mine ?\" and a \nUttle later he adds, with dignity, ^^ I will not \ntrouble the Court any more, for it is a folly,\" \nand when the final word of the Judge has been \nuttered, that he shall be taken thence to his \nexecution, he says, '^ My lord, it is a very hard \nsentence. For my part, I am the innocentest \nperson of Uiem ^ only I have been sworn \nagainst by perjured persons.\" \n\nThe feeling against Kidd, though, was hardly \nsatisfied even by his death; and fearM lest \nthey had lost a victim, after all, the public cir- \nculated stories of bis escape, and of the hanging \nof a man of straw in his place, although if the \n^^blnnt monster with uncounted heads\" had \ntaken the troable to use one of those heads, the \nabsorditj of the rumor might have been evident; \nfor Eidd*s evil fortune pursued him even from \nthe Bcaflbld, and the rope breakiag, doubled \nand prolonged the last awfhl moments, and \nbetween the first hanging and the final one \nhe was heard to have conversation with the \nexecutioner, ere passing to that Bar where \nhe was judged, let us hope, after a different \nfashion. \n\nBut the death of Captain Eidd put an end to \npiracy In the American and most other seas ; \n\n\n\nand, in the \n\n\n\nmeantime, so \n\n\n\nfar from lying con- \n\n\n\ncealed to enrich the poor treasure-seekers oi \nour coasts, all tiie gains of Captain Eidd, ill*> \ngotten at the best, have gone to swell the rere- \nnues of the EngUib Kingdom* \n\n\n\nCHARIESTOWN. \n\n\n\nThb tnTeler wbo seeks the eool nortbeast \nseiMiide is scarcely Uware how. near it is to him \nwhen, after his weailsome Joomey, he crosses \nthe narrow and crooked streets which are Bos- \nton's crown of picturesque glory, and leaTes \nthe city by the JE<«8tern Bail way. For no sooner \nhas the train moved out of the station than the \nsea-viewsi begin. to open on him as he goes — \nTlstas oC the broad, Une bay; streams just \nemp^lng in ; salt marshes, rich with every tint \nand every odor; the bold blu0to of Nabant; the \nlong lines and lonely houses of the Chelsea \nbeaches ; forts fieur away in the harbor, where \nthe flag waves like a blossom on its reed; and \ntown after town, all more or less historic, and \nall fUll of the wild sea-breath that gives such a \nbloom to the faces of their women, and such a \nvigor to their men. He has hardly crossed the \nfirst bridge before one of these towns rises on \nhis sight, sitting on her hill the while as fkilr as \nany pictured city of walls and towers, and over- \nlooking the Mystic and the Gharies, and the \nwide and windy bay. Indeed, a lovelier view \nof any town I do not know than Oharlestown, \nwhen seen ttom the car window, her lights re« \nfleeted in the water at her feet, and her streets \nlifted in tier over tier, till the lofty spire of tho \nhill-top church glitters in the moon or starlight \nflir above them all. \n\nIt is not so charming a spot, however, upon \nnearer acquaintance, for most of its streets are \nas narrow as those of the neighboring metropo- \nlis, and not one-half so clean, and it is more in- \nteresting as a congregation of workshops, \nfoundries, and great industrial establishments, \nthan in any other light ; for, owing to the cir- \ncumstance of five, towns having been set off \nfrom it, and a part of four others, it has now \nthe smallest territory of any town in the State \nof Massachusetts, and is necessarily crowded. \nBunning along the waterside is the Navy Yard, \nsurrounded by a massive granite wall, ten feet \nhigh, and encircling the barracks both for ma- \nrines and officers and their families, together \nwith the great machine-shops, ropewalks, ship- \nyards, wliarves, dry-docks, and other Govern- \nment works on a vast scale, thronged with two \nthousand busy artisans, and all guarded by sen- \ntries pacing their perpetual round, and by the \nreceiving-ship Ohio, anchored in the stream \nbeyond. This whole agglomeration of men \n\n\n\nand trades formi a itrong political element In \nits locality, and a prominent and potential \nmember of Congress has been heard to declare \nthat he once staid Mix. weeks in Washington \nafter the session in order to secure the appoint- \nment of a common painter in the Navy Yard, \nand failed at last. \n\nThe State Prison, another lion of the place. \nIs a machine hardly less powerftU, as any one \nmight easily imagine who saw it entrenched \nbehind Its perpendicular fortifications and rowa \nof spikes, and thought of the number of of* \nficials necessary to carry on its operations and \nmaintain order among its unhappy denizens. \nIt is a gloomy-looking fiibric, Uke all the tra- \nditional prisons ^^ that slur the sunshine half a \nmile,'** and a satirist has mentioned the £act as \ncharacteristic of certain inconsistencies between \ntheory and practice common in Massachusetts^ \nthat almost the only place within her borders \nwhere a liberty-cap is displayed is at the top of \nher State Prison, not so glaring an inconsist- \nency, nevertheless, as It at first sight appears, \nsince the imprisonment of criminals means the \nfreedom of all the rest of society. \n\nIn quite another portion of Charlestown \nstands the famous Bunker Hill Monument, \nmaking the most attractive feature of the \ntown, with its gray shaft rising in perfect \nsymmetry from the ample space at the sum- \nmit of a lofty and smoothly-swarded green \nhllL Here the statue of Warren is to be found, \nwith various trophies of the Bevolution, less \ninterestinif in themselves than are the sugges- \ntions of the scene-~a scene that calls up one \nmorning, almost a hundred years ago, with the \nuDquaUing farmers gathered behind thehr \nbreastworks of sod and hay, and the flashing \nbayonets and scarlet lines of British grenadiers \nmoving up' the hill, while the town below was \nblazing in a conflagration of every dwelling \nthere ; that calls up another morning fifty \nyears later, where trembling old hands, that, \nwhen youth and chivalry frere at flood, helpea \nto lay the comer-stone of the BepubUc, now \nin the midst of its success laid the comer-stone \nof this monument to one of its flrst struggles \nfor existence, and, in the presence of the sur- \nvivors of that stmggle, the thunders of Web- \nster's eloquence were answered by the thun- \nders of the people's applause. Who is it that \n\n\n\nOHASLESTOWN. \n\n\n\n9 \n\n\n\ndeclareB the Inolosnre at Bunker Hil! peculiarly \ntypical of our national characteriBtlcs, inas- \nmuch as, being badly beaten there, we built a \nmonument to the fact, and have never ceased \nboasting thereof? One thing can certainly \nbe said in reply, that the moral effect In teach- \ning the enemy how sadly in earnest the brave \nrebels were, and in encouraging the dispirited \npatriots by sight cf raw recruits thrice break- \ning the form of the inyading veterans, was \nsomething inestimable ; that rail fence stuffed \nwith meadow-hay was not merely the breast- \nwork of Putnam and Prescott, it was the first \nredoubt of flreedom the wide world over, and \nfrom' Bunker Hill began that march of noble \nthought and grand action across this continent' \nwhich is destined to overthrow all tyrannies, \nboth of intellect and of empire, In this hemi- \nsphere to-day, to-morrow in the other. It elves \none a very satisfactory emotion of patriotism to \nstand on Bunker Hill, as well as a «rood idea ot \nthe recuperative power of the country, for \nwhen the enemy drove every soul out of \nCharlestowii, and burned every building there, \nit was but five hundred houses in all that were \ndestroyed, while to-day the' population ap- \nproaches the number of forty thousand. It is \nft population, however, that must have under- \ngone many changes ; as, for instance, one \nwould fancy that its action of thirty years ago, \nin the destruction of the Ursuline Convent, \nwould, at present, be quite impossible, since \nthe Catholic Church now far outnumbers any \nother single sect in the place— for the Catholic \nChurch has a subtle, self-healing way with it \nlike that belonging to some natural organism, \n80 that where it has received a wound, thither \nit immec lately sends its best and freshest blood \nto repair the harm, as the case is with the limb \nof an animal or the branch of a tree, and thus \nmending itself and growing y/ith greater vigor \nwhere the hurt was, it presently outstrips in- \nJury, and plants itself in the place of its assail- \nant. \n\nThe Ursuline Convent Just mentioned be- \nlonged, at the time of its demolition, to one of \nthe congregations of Ursulines founded some \nthree hundred years earlier as a religious sis- \nterhood for nursing the sick, relieving and in- \nstructing the. poor, and named for the martyred \nSU Ursula, a Christian princess of Britain, and \none of the first to associate maidens with her^ \nself for devout purposes. Originally every Sis- \nter remained in her own home, and performed \nfrom that point such duties as were hers ; but \nshortly after the death of Angela Iferlci, the \nfoundress, they adopted a uniform dress, their \nprinciples and plan of action became more \nwidely spread, and they gradually gathered \ntogether under the same roof, chose a Direct- \nress, or Superior, and to k some simple vows, \nTOWS afterward exchanged for others of a more \nsolemn nature. In the year 1860 there were \nmore than five hundred houses of Ursulines in \nthe world; and, never entirely abandoning \ntheir original purpose, they are to-day princi- \npally devoted to the tuition and care of young \ngirls ; and of such benefit to the general com- \nmunity have they always been considered, that, \nwhen certain European Governments put an end \nto the existence of convents within their ter- \nritory, the Ursulines were permitted to remain \nunmolested, and were moreover aided and en- \ncouraged in their work. The ruins of the \nUrsuline Convent in Charlestown stand in a \n\n\n\nremote part of the town, lately taken into the \nvillage of Somervllle, on a place known as \nMount Benedict, and smoke-blackened and \nweather-beaten, the broken walls and chimneys \nhave stood for more than thirty years till be- \ncoming picturesque with time. Wild cherry \ntrees have sprung up within the walls of tim \ncloisters, and have grown into ftill bearing of \ntheir bitter fhiit ; cattle browse among them, \nand lie beneath the great trees that have arched \nthemselves, untaught, over the old avenues; \nsheep crop the turf where once the nuns' flower- \ngarden may have been, and where, long since, \nthe natural growth of the place has retaken its \nown rights, and where here and there a weed \nblooms, which is only a garden-flower returned \nto its one original stock. One side of the hill com- \nmands the harbor and the placid Charles, with \na view of the neighboring metropolis. Just re- \nmote enough for a haze of distance to render \nit poetic ; and on the other side, far away \nacross meadows and bending elms, the blue \nand lovely Mystic winds to the sea, and soft, \nlow hUls Inclose the wide and varied land- \nscape. It is a retreat of peace, that now re- \nmains unbroken by anything except the rude- \nness of the winter storms, but it bears upon it \nthe moss-grown marks of a violence sadly in \ncontrast, for thirty-five years ago it was the \nscene of an outrage on human rights and free- \ndom of thought, which, it is to be hoped, neither \nthis country nor this age shall behold again. \nThe convent had been founded in 1820 by Doe- \ntors Matigon and Cheverus with funds contribu- \nted for that purpose by a resident and native of \nthe city of Boston : and upon their urgency a \nfew Sisters of the ursuline Order came to this \ncountry, and made Boston their home. The \nconfinement and the city air, however, dis- \nturbed their health, accustomed as they had \nbeen to the out-door exercise of their gardens, \nand, some half-dozen years after their arrival, \nthe bishop procured for them the estate In \nCharlestown, to which they immediately re- \nmoved, occupying a farmhouse at the foot of \nthe hill till their owa residence upon the sum- \nmit should be completed. This was done in the \nnext year, and it was shortly so crowded with \npupils from New England, the West Indies, \nSouthern States and British provinces, that a \ncouple of years afterward two large wings were \nadded to the establishment, the number of nuns \nvarying from four to ten, and the pupils flrom \nfllty to sixty. \n\nThe feeling In Charlestown toward them \ncould hardly ever have been of a hospitable \nnature, for one of the Selectmen of the town, \nwho appears to have been of a very inflammable \ntemperament, told the Superior that it had \nbeen his intention on the first night of the \noccupancy of the farmhouse by the nuns to \ncome with thirty men and tear it down about \ntheir ears, but he was deteired by the quiet \nprocession of the little company taking their \nwalks across the hill next day, which appears \nto have been a moving sight to him. Welcome \nor not, however, the school prospered wonder- \nfully, as indeed it could hardly help doing when \nthe teachers were so devoted to their duties, \nthe fact of their being devoted for life being \nprobably the chief secret of their success. \nThere was then comparatively little attention \npaid to science and the severer studies gen- \nerally, and the education of women was con- \nfined almost especially to the accomplishments \n\n\n\n10 \n\n\n\nOHAELBSTOWN. \n\n\n\nof language, mnslo, and painting, which were \ntaught here to perfection ; and, thronged with \npnpils and applicants. It is possible the school \naroused the Jealousy of those who conjectured \nthe good Income which it yearly added to \nthe revenues of a Church they abominated. \nThere was no need, though, of adding this \nJealousy to the elements at work in the neigh- \nborhood already dlstrustftil of Roman Catholic \ninstitutions, keeping a Tigilant lookout over \nwhat it considered as little less than a branch \nof the Inquisition introduced into the midst of \nIt, constantly fearfhl of Catholic supremacy — \nnot from any largeness of view concerning the \nChurch as a Church of authority denying the \nrigbt of individual opinion, and thus a drag \nupon the wheels of progress, but with an im- \nagination inflamed by the wood-cuts of *' Fox's \nBook of Martyrs,\" by such legends as that old \none of the unfaithful nun, sealed up aUve in a \nwall, and regarding the quiet building on the \nhill not as a place of innocent merriment and \ngirlish study, but of severe penance, of hor- \nrible punishment, of underground cells and \npassages through which all the mighty power of \nthe Church walked abroad to crush any refrac- \ntory spirit into death or submission. There were \nsad rumors of barbarities exercised upon the \nsick, of a child sent away in an advanced stage \nof scarlet-fever, of fearM penances imposed \nupon a dying nun. It was also urged that the \nConvent made great efl'ort to secure the chil- \ndren of Protestants for proselyting purposes, \nexcluding the children of Catholics ; oblivious \nof the truth that its doors were open to all who \nwere able to meet the cost of such expensive \neducation, that, its pupils being chiefly daugh- \nters of the wealthy, there really belonged to \nCatholic parents a proportion of them corre- \nsponding to the proportion of, wealthy Catholics \nin. the community at large, while for poorer \nCatholics a free school already existed in Bos- \nton, where their education was provided for \nquite suitably to their probable station in life ; \nand in the meantime not a single pupil, in all \nthe number educated in 4;he convent, had ever \nbecome a nun, nor had one even been con- \nverted to Catholieism.^ But more than this in- \nherited dread of papacy and its influence were \nthe swarms of suspicions of another sort. It \nmakes one doubtful of the inherent worth of \nhuman nature to hear the baseness of conjecture \nindulged in by these people ; it seems as if \nthey were so vile themselves that they could \nbelieve in the virtue of no others ; because \npriests assumed to be celibate and nuns to be \nvirgin, they denounced the good bishop as a \nmonster and the stainless Sisters as prodigies \nof impurity. And as time wore on, and all \nthese unfortunate feelings and fancies glowed \nmore and more hotly, it needed but a single \nspark to kindle the flame of intolerance into \nopen action among this population, watchM, \nand ready to give the worst possible construc- \ntion to every simple circumstance. \n\nThe flame was kindled quickly enouglu In \nthe summer of 1834 there were flfty-four young \ngirls, from ali parts of the country, students In \nthe convent, and ten nuns resident there— two \nof the latter being novices, and therefore doing \nnothing in the schoolroom. Of these fifty-four \nyoung girls, it is probable that nearly all took \nmusic-lessons, while there appear to have been \nbnt two of the nuns attending to music— one \nof these an invalid already in consumption — so \n\n\n\nthat the greater part of the hnndred and odd \nmnslo-lessons a week fell to the share of tbe \notheV — Sister Mary John, formerly, when in \nthe world and retainiug the name of her birth^ \na Miss Elizabeth Harrison. Miss Harrison was \na native of Philadelphia, had passed her noviti- \nate of two years, and had for four years been a \nmember in ftill communion. She had a brother \nand a brother-in-law living in Boston, across \nthe bridge, and ylsiting her at the convent \nwhenever they chose ; and as she had, besidefl, \nunrestricted opportunities of reposing coiil- \ndence in her pupils, had she desired to be \ntaken from the convent nothing would have \nbeen easier — all the more as no restraint was \nput upon an individual there ; and two nuns \nwho had taken the vail had left, without let or \nhindrance, and still maintained friendly reli^ \ntions with the Superior. She had been giving \nsteadily fourteen lessons a day of forty-flye \nmicutes each; any one who has studied or \ntaught music, or who has been present during \na lesson in that art, knows what an exquisitely \ntrying thing to the nerves it is, and Miss Har- \nrison was not only tired and weak, bnt her \nbrain was in a state of high excitement. Sev- \neral members of her fomily had been subject \nto occasional mental alienation — ^a circum- \nstance of which had the Ursulines been aware \nupon her reception among them, they would \nprobably have allotted her less fatiguing dn^ \nties. Old Dr. Warren had already pronounced \nMiss Harrison's health to be very delicate ; al- \nways in excessively cold or warm weather she \nhad trouble in her head, and feeling this quite \nbadly, at about the last of July, she had fool- \nishly taken an emetic which had acted strangely \nwith her ; she began to manifest great rest- \nlessness, went about the house acting extravar \ngantly, clamoring for new instruments, setting \nthe doors wide open as if to cool her fever, \nand when, one afternoon, the Superior told \nher that she looked too ill to be attending \nto the lessons, she replied by a burst- of \nlaughter, and her nervous excitement culmi- \nnating in delirium as .the heat of the day In- \ncreased, she slipped out of the convent, into \nthe grounds, and away to a neighbor's house, \nunobserved by the Sisters, who would never \nhave dreamed of such a thing, as she was a \nperson incapable of disguising her feelings, and \nhad never before been heard to express the \nleast dissatisfaction, but of whom, on the con- \ntrary, it was thought that there Could not be a \nhappier person than she in the whole Ursuline \nOrder. From the neighbor's house she was \ntaken by the Selectman, himself another neigh- \nbor, and the one who nad at first intended to \ntear down the fiEurmhouse about the nuns' earsj \nto the residence of a gentleman in West Cam- \nbridge, after which, going to the convent, he \nnotified the Superior of what he had done, and \non the next day the brother of the young lady \nwent to see her. Probably the rest from her \nlabors and the change of scene had already \nacted beneficially on Miss Harrison's mind, for \nshe implored her brother to bring Bishop Fen- \nwick to her, as if she longed for his assistance \nin regaining her self-control, tt would seem \nthat the bishop had been disinclined to inter^ \nfere ; but, on the solicitation of the Superior, he \nwent with Miss Harrison's brother in the after- \nnoon to visit her. Bishop Fenwick testified \nupon oath that he found Miss Harrison in a \nstate of derangement, her looks haggard, her \n\n\n\nexpre8«l«ni lneo1i«reDt, vhlie the Inaglied *nd \ncried Id tbe iame moment ; Ihat his one object \nin going for her was to take tier to the corTsnt, \nclothe her properljr, and stud b^r to her friends, \npresnmlngttiat ebe left because dli>sa.tlUIedvlth \ntier mode or treatment ; but when he proposed \nher return to ber bome, she begged and eu- \ntrealed to be allowed to remalQ. Upon her \nresloratlon to tbe coovent, she declared that \n'^BhedidnothDow wbat It allmeaat,\" and sbe \nbegged the people who called npon her not to \nrerer kq; more to the clrcnmstaDceB of her \nbtlef absence, for she conid not be respanBlble \nfur what she then said or did. To 1[I>>h Aldeu, \nwho In past times bad heard her fi«queatl.v sa; \nthat the conld never cease to bo thanbtol \n\n\n\n11 \n\nenough tor hnrlng been colled to that happ; \nstate of life, and who now visited her, she ex- \npressed the greatest horror at the step she had \ntaken, and said that she would prefer death to \nleaving. And upon being examined In conrt, \non the triii of the rioters, she averred tbat had \nany one ever told her she should do what she \nhad done, she would have thought It Impossi- \nble : thit nothing was omitted, In tbe conduct \not the InatltiitioD, that conld contribure to her \nhappiness or ta that of the other Inmate's ; that \nher recollection ot what took place after her \nBigbt was very Indistinct, for she was bereft of \nreason; and she covered her face and burst Into \n\nThe worst eoiOeetare, one wonld have \n\n\n\nL?->-' \n\n\n\n^2 \n\n\n\nCHABLEST0T7K. \n\n\n\nthougbt, that, in uncliarlty, could have been \nput upon this affair, would have been that, \nnever of very strong mind, and now worn out \nwith the unceasing recurrence of her labors, \nshe had suddenly Imagined the life unbearable, \nand in a wild moment had escaped l^om It only \nto find herself grown unused to the world, and \nmore unhappy there than over her old tasks in \nthe convent. But that was truth beside the \ncalumnies that instantly spraug into being upon \nthe foundation of this unfortunate occurrence. \nIt was remembered, too, that another young \nwoman had left Mount Benedict not long pre- \nviously, and the atrocious slanders upon the \nsisterhood which she scattered wherever she \nwent were revived with added burden, and \nthere was hardly any scandal possible to be in- \nvented but was repeated and believed, till the \nstately brick edifice on the hill was honestly re- \ngarded far kind near, by the bigoted and narrow- \nminded of the untaught population, as a den of \nwickedness and filth ; and a conspiracy for its \nsuppression was hurriedly formed, not only in \nCharlestown, but throughout other towns and \nextending into other States. Matters probably \nwere greatly hastened then by the appearance \nin one of th« neighboring newspapers of a para- \ngraph entitled \"The Mysterious Lady,\" and \ncontaining the Items of local erosslp about Miss \nHarrison^s escapade, magnified and exagge- \nrated loto the flight of a nun brought back by \nforce, and either murdered, secreted In the \nundergrouDd vaults, or sent away for some \nawful punishment in remoter regions ; and this \nwas only the visible ai d audible expression of \nwhat appears to have been in the minds of \nnearly all, if not In their mouths ; and the first \nmanner in which the general feeling outcropped \nwas by waylaying the convent-gardener and \nbeating him within an inch of his life, wreak- \ning in a vicarious way the vengeance that could \nnot yet arrive at his employers. \n\nA few days after Miss Harrison's return to \nMount Benedict, the Lady Superior, whom Dr. \nThompson, a Charles^ own physician, has men- \ntioned as ^Hhoroughly educated, dignified in \nher person, and elegant in her manners, pure \nin her morals, of- generous and magnanimous \nfeelings, and of high religious principles,\" was \nrude y waited on by one of the Selectmen of the \nto^n — the same whose k.nd intentions respect- \ning the farmhouse have been mentioned— and \ninformed that the convent would be destroyed \nif the Mysterious Lady could not be seen. The \nSuperior had already told this gentleman the \nstate of Hiss Harrison's healthy and the inci- \ndents leading to her temporary aberration of \nmind, and she knew It was quite in his power \nto contradict any wrong impression abroad, and \nto quell any uneasiness without troubling her \nmrther; but, it being Sunday, she now ap- \npointed Monday, the next day, for the five Se- \nlectmen to be shown over the establlshn;ient, \nand included in her Invitation two iielghbors \nwho had been Insirumental in increasing the \npopular prejudice. On Monday the visitors \ncame, and ferreted the house through firoin \ncellar to cu^ltola, occupying three hours, look- \ning even into the paint-boxes, searching every \ncloset, opening every drawer, assisted by the \nMysterious Lady, Miss Harrison, herself, in per- \nson. Tl'eir errand done, they declared them- \nselves satisfied that not only was there nothing \nto censure in the least, but, on the other hand, \nmuch to praise, and they adjourned to the house ' \n\n\n\nof one of their number to prepare a pronunda- \nmento to that purpose for the morning papers. \nThey had but little more than left the building, \njust before sunset, when a group of men \ngathered about the gates of the avenue, using \nimpertinent language , but, upon the Superior's \nnotifying the Selectmen, she was assured there \nwas not the least prospect of the occurrence of \nanything disagreeable. It was shortly after \nnine in the evening when she became more \nseriously alarmed by a great noise on the Med- \nford road, made by an advancing mob, with \ncries of ** Down with the convent ! Down with \nthe convent !\" With much presence of mind, \nshe instantly aroused the Community, telling \nthem she feared they were in danger— the riot- \ners on the road, meanwhile, constantly increas- \ning in force with new arrivals, on foot and in \nwagons, from every quarter. After waking \nthose that were asleep, she went into the se- \ncond story of the building, and, throwing up a \nwindow, asked the party of forty or ^fty \ngathered outside what they desired, adding \nthat they were disturbing the slumbers of the \npupils, some of whom were the children of \ntheir most respected fellow-citizens. They re- \nplied that they did not mean to hurt the chil- \ndren, but they must see the nun that had run \naway. The Superior went to fetch her, but \nfound that she had fainted with fl-lght, and lay \nInsensible in the arms of four of the Sisters. \nThe Superior then returned to tell the people \nthat this was the case ; she asserted to them \nthat the establishment had that day been visited \nby the Selectmen, who had been pleased with \nall they saw, and would assure them of It, and \nthat If they would call on the next day, at a \nsuitable hour, they should have every satisfao- \ntion« They asked her if she were protected, \nand she answered, \" Yes, by legions I\" invok- \ning tfie celestial guardians. But other parties \nhaving come to swell their numbers, they re- \nplied in ^indecent terms, calling her an old \nfigurehead made of brass, telling her that she \nwas lying, and that they had one of the Select- \nmen with them who had opened the gates to \nthem. The Selectman then came forward, and \nadvised the Superior to throw herself on his \nprotection, but as he was the same Selectman \nwhose ofisclousupss had already produced much \nof the trouble, the Superior, after asking him \nif he had secured the attendance of any other \nmembers of the board, refU&ed to trust her es- \ntablishment to his safe-keeping, telling him, if \nhe wished to befHend her, first to disperse the \nmob. This he feebly attemp'ted, deterring the \nrioters fVom firing the building, when they \ncalled for torches, by telling them that if lights \nwere brought they would be recognized and \ndetected— after which noble effort he returned \nto his house, and valiantly went to bed. \n\nThe mob then fired a gun in the labyrinth \nunder the willow-trees, possibly as a token of \nsome sort to their accomplices, and withdrew a \nlittle, while waiting for the treBh arrivals. At \nabout eleven o'clock the fences were torn up \nand a bonfire kindled, which is believed to \nhave been a concerted signal for the presence \nof all the conspirators, ana the bells being rung \nas for an alarm of fire, both in Charlestown \nand Boston, multitudes pressed to the spot. \nSeveral fire-engines also appeared — the Charles- \ntown ones halting opposite the bonfire, and \none firom Boston passing up to the front of the \nmansion, where it was seized upon by the mob \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nCHABLESTOWN. \n\n\n\nftad prevented ftom doing any Bervloe irben \nneeded, U bo Incllaed, Rumor still rana tbat \na( this point, wbeu Boston would b&ve sent \notner engines and further means to subdue tbe \ndlsturbBucos, tbe drawbrldgee were IlJrt«d, and \nIt wan fouQl to be Impoaelble toufct tbem down. \nTha arrir^ of the euglns f^om Boston was, \nhowever, Instantly followed by an assault upon \ntbo building la tlia Bbape of a shower of brick- \nbats and clubs against the windows, after which \ntbe bold assaUanta waited to see If an; defbnne \nwere to be made, or aoj resentment manifested \nt« tbla attack, which iliey knew might kill or \nmalm many of the helpless Inma^tes. This brief \npause aUowed the Lady Superior opportonlty to \nmarshal her little flock, wbom she bad refused \npreviously to allow to leave tbe building, lest \nthat should be only betraying it to Ita destrno \nUon, and under convoy of the terrified Sisters \nto secure tbelr retntat down the garden, Into \n' tbe summer-house, and over the fence Into the \nailjolning grounds, wtiere tbey were safe tlil \nthey could be collected in a friendly house : \nthere had bpen sixty children to be taken care \nof, and of the nuns that night one was in the \nlast stages of giuImoDary consumption, one was \nin convulsive fits, and Miss Harrison hod been \nwrought, by the agitation 1 1 the evening, to a \nraving delirium. The Superior, having per- \nformed this duty, lingered herself, with the \ntrue sph-lt of a leader in such situation, open- \ning the doors'of every room and lookluj Into \nevery dormitory, calling every child by name, \nto be suie that none were left bel:lDd, and \nthen, last of all, descending to her own room \nto secure the valuables tliere, toecther wun a \nthonsand dollars belonging to tbe revenue of \ntbe Institution ; but before tbe last of tbn \nchildren had left the building the varlets had \npoured In, and aashe herself fled from It they \nwere but t«a feet behind her. In a tno- \nment afterward the bouse was fllled with \nthe mob, Bhoutlng, yelling, and blaspheming; \ntorches snatched troai the engines Uehted tbe \nnay for them, tbey ransacked every room, \nrtfled every trunk, broke open every drawer, \nBtole watches, thrust tbe costlyjewelry of tbe \nSpanish children Into their pockets, split np \nHie piano-fortes, shattered the splendid harps, \nand even made way with the altar ornaments \npresented by the good Archbishop of Bordeaux. \nHaving satiaQed their curiosity and greed, they \npiled up the furniture, curtains, books, plc- \ntnree, tn the centre of the several rooms, and \ndeliberately set fire to every heap, threw in \nthe altar vestmente, the Bible and the cross, \nand, the act of virtue consummated, Icfi; the \nbnOding tn flames. After this, tbe bishop's \nlodge experienced a similar fate, tbe farm- \nbonse belonging to tbe Institute followed, and \nthe grand demonstration of proper religious \nsentiment wound up with tearing open the \ntomb of the place, pillaging tbe sacred Teasels \nOiero, BtcallDgtbe coSln-plates, and ecatlerlug \nthe ashes of the dead to tbe four winds. \n\nNot a hand was lifted to stay tliese abomina- \nble proceedings, by any one of tbe vast multi- \ntape onlfllde t tbe flremen, who declared fre- \nquently tliat they could prevent the flames If \nallowed, were hindered from acMng— although \ntheir sincerity may be suspected bom tbe fact \nthat an engine returned to Boston decked with \nIbe flowers stolen from tbe altar; the magis- \ntrates neither made any re nonstrance, nor \nread tbe rlot^ct, nor demanded help of neigh- 1 \n\n\n\nLEGEND op OHAKLESTOWN, \n\n\n\nboring towns, nor asEed for the services of the \nmarines at the Navy Yard, nor made a single \narrest during all the seven boors of the riot \nAnd though tiie ontslde multltode, who took \nno pait In the crime, were all Trotestant^, not \none of them dared to protest against tbls ont- \nrage, not only upon weakness and defenseless- \nness, but upon civil liberty, and all remained \nparalyzed lintll the end, doubtful perhaps If \nthere were enough disapprovers among them \nto be of any avail, snd i ntlrely (Orgetfui that a \nstream from a single engine-hose would have \ndlBpersed the whole mob more quickly than a \nbattery could have done. \n\nMeanwhile tbe nnns, escaping with difficulty, \nand with yet greater filfficulty supporting the \nyoung consumptive, Sister Mary St, Henry, and \ngetting her across the fence at the garden's \nthot, had found a, kindly sbeltpr, and were \nshortly alterward Invited by old General Deai- \nborn to hU seat In Roxbury, .called Brinlej \nPlacp, Mhere tbey found once more a home, \nalthough, before tbpy were fairly settled there, \nMary Bt, Henry died, at the age of twenty. \nThough an invalid, this young woman had been \nahle to give a lesson on the day of the destruc- \ntion of tile convent ; all that night she lay in a \ncold rigor, anil eleven days afterward she was \ndead. Her funeral was one of nnusnal pomp ; \nevery Calbolio In the vicinity made an object of \nattending, half the cltizena of Boston were \norganized into a special police through expect- \nation of some requital, and so deeply roused \nwere tbe feelings of the Injured party, that it Is \nprobable nothing but tie m ost unremitting exer- \ntions of their clergy jirevented severe retaliation. \nThe matter, however, did not end here Im- \nmediately. Loud expressions of disapprobation \nwere beard from ail portions of the Str.te, and \na seir-constituted Committee, of the best names \nIn Boston, Including such as Robert C. Wln- \nthrop, William Appleton, Horace Uano, The- \nopblliis Parsons, and Thomas Motley, prepared \nat once to Investigate tbe aSntr, and luring, If \n\n\n\n14 \n\n\n\nOHABLESTOWN. \n\n\n\npossible, the miscreants to justice. They ex- \namined more than one hundred and forty per- \nsons, and, chiefly by their exertions, thirteen \narrests were made, of which eight were of a \ncapital nature. The young woman who had \nscattered the atrocious slanders was visited, \nand she retracted everything but the assertions \nrelative to the severe penances of the sick nun; \nbut even on that point her word was discredited \nby means of other witnesses, the sisters by birth \nof Mary St. Henry ; it was proved that she had \nbeen a charlty-stodent in the Institute, desirous \nof taking the vail, admitted on probation for six \nmonths to discover if she had either capacity, \nsincerity, or strength of character, falling to dis- \nplay which she was about to be dismissed, when \nshe left secretly. Miss Alden, a young lady \nwho had taken the white vail at.Mount Benedict, \nand afterward freely left it, testified that, upon \nliving there two years, she became convinced \nthat she had no vocation for an ascetic life, and \nmade her feelings knowa to the Superior, who \nadvised her accordingly, strongly as they were \nattached to each other, to depart if she could \nnot be happy there, of which no one could Judge \nbut herself, and to her decision It should be \nleft, for their rules allowed no one to remain \nexcept such as found their happiness there, \nand there only. ^^She told me,*' said Miss \nAlden, ^Hbat I was at liberty to go when I \npleased, and should be provided with every- \nthing requisite for my departure — ^whlch was \ndone two years after, having remained that \nlength of time merely from personal attach-, \nment to the Lady Superior.\" And it was \nequally evident that others desiring to do \nso had been allowed to separate themselves \nfrom the Community in the same manner. \nThe charge of inhumanity to the sick was also \nsifted, and found amounting to nothing; tie \nchild with the scarlet-fever having been sent \nhome upon the first symptom of the disease, to \nprevent the Intection's reaching the remaining \nchildren. And to an assertion in relation to \nsecret vaults beneath the building, the mason, \none Peter Murphy, who laid the foundations, \ndeclared, under his own signature, that nothing \nof the kind existed. Although unanimously \nopposed to the Roman Catholic forms of re- \nligion, the Committee published a most mag- \nnanimous report of their investigation ; and \nfinally a man by the name of Buzzell was \nbrought to trial as a ringleader in the late \natrocity. He received, however, a very singu- \nlar trial ; one of the Jurymen was several times \n\n\n\nseen to be asleep ; and though it was proved to \nbe he that had beaten the convent-gardener, \nthat had been seen actively encouraging tbe \nrioters, breaking the doors, bringing tar-barrels \nand firing them, and though on the retirement \nof the Jury they stood seven to five tor convic- \ntion, on the way from their room to the court- \nroom they became unanimous for acquittal. \nThe only person ever punished for complicity in \nthe affair, was a mere boy, convicted on very \nlnsufi9cient evidence, but for whom it was \nprobably supposed the penalty would be made \nright ; he was sentenced to imprisonment for \nlife, his mother died of a broken heart, and \nfinally he was pardoned out, ruined, and old \nbefore his time. There all proceedings ended. \nThe nuns were invited to establish themselves \nat Newport, in the land where Boger Williams \nmade religious toleration a fact, but the propo- \nsition was declined, partly perhaps because the \nattack showed where their work was needed, \nand partly In the belief that Massachusetts \nwould render Justice, inasmuch as having al- \nways paid for protection, when then the protec- \ntion .was withheld the State became responsible \nfor all damages. This responsibility has never \nbeen met. Repayment has been constantly \nurged by all denominations ; Theodore .Parker \nmade himself especially prominent in the mat- \nter ; but, owing to a mistaken Judgment of what \nthe popular opinion may be, no Legislature has \nyet been found with sufilcient courage to make \nan appropriation to reimburse the Convent for \nIts losses, and in refusing this demand for pay- \nment the State has virtually repeated the out- \nrage year by year. \n\nPerhaps no more scathing commentary on the \nwhole matter will ever be made than that to be \nfound in the following exact copy : \n\n^'November 26, 1834. \n\n\"Received of Bishop Fenwlck, the sum of \nseventy-nine doUars and twenty cents, the same \nbeing taxes assessed by the Assessors of the \ntown of Charlestown, upon the land and build- \nings of the late Convent of Mount Bei^edict, fbr \nthe year 1834, and which were this day de- \nmanded by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector, \nagreeably to Instructions received by him from \nthe Assessors, to that effect, although said \nbuildings had been destroyed by a mob in Au- \ngust la£t. \n\n'* $79.20. (Signed) \n\n** Solomon Hovet, Jr., Collector.'* \n\n\n\nSUM. \n\n\n\nWhen tbe trayeler loses efght of Charles- \ntown, with its. trim but incongTaous monu- \nments, his traiikls passing out on the meadows \ndotted with haycocks and alive with every tint \nof red and russet, and presently is skirting the \nshores of Swampscot and Lynn, Here, per- \nhaps, he glances up at the High Bock com- \nmanding sight of the dim line of the Beverley \nbeaches, of the Gape Ann Shadows, the Jagged* \ncoast of Marblebead, the long sweep of the \nSwampscot sands, the wUd clifE^ of Nahant, \nand the immense horizon of the bay beyond — \na spot where Moll Pitcher for so many years \nperformed her ifiysiefiei'; and twenty minutes \nafterward the train is running into a region \nwhere witch and warlock, once holding revel, \nstill haunt every Inch of the ground. This re- \ngion, whose centre is known as the town of \nBalem, is very lovely In the river-banks and \nvtBas of its outskirts. For the town itself, \nslight marks remain of the old Puritan domina- \ntion, and its days of East Indian glory and \nspicy argosies are over. Reminiscences of that \nglory, however, continue to give caste In \nthe place, and every lady In Salem has a \ncachemire shawl, it is said, or else has no \npassport to society; and great warehouses \nand great fortunes remain to tell of the \nstate that has passed away. Among the \nsmaller towns along the coast, Salem is still the \nmost wealthy, and is therefore the target for \nmuch ill-nature on the part of her poorer \nneighbors. Nothing equals the contempt which \na Lynn man feels for a citizen of Salem, unless \nit is the contempt which a Gloucester man feels, \nor that which a Salem man not only feels but \nmanifests, for both of the others and the rest of \ncreation besides. In Marblehead this hostility \nreaches more open expression, and the mutual \nseutiments of both populations are uttered by \nthe urchins there when they cry: \"Here \ncomes a Salem boy — let's rock him round the \ncomer P Nevertheless, Salem contrives to \ncreep along, to found her museum, to become \nheadquarters for the Essex Institute, and to \nmake herself, in ever so slight a measure, a \ncentre of culture and advance. Lately the \nSQientific Societies met there, and were — ^un- \ndreamed-of thing — ^invited home to dinner: \nIn a town where, if necessity obliges you to \ncall upon a man at his club, he comes out and \n\n\n\nshuts the door behind him, keeping a grasp \nupon the handle as an intimation of the brevilj \nof your visit — ^where Choate and Webster, \npleading In court, have picked up a luncheon, \nat noontide, In hotel or eating-house, as best \nthey might, and where Hawthorne all but \nstarved. Salem Is conspicuous among New \nEngland towns for the beauty of Its women ; a \nplain face would be an anomaly there, and the \nwell-fed blood of wealthy generations Is told \nby the bloomy skins and abundant tresses, the \nexpression of sweetness and dlirnlty, the soft \neyes and fine features, of the daughters of the \nplace. The town still preserves a few relics of \nIts memorable past ; the House of tbe Seven \nOables was standing there a little while ago, \ntogether with the Townsend-Bishop house, \nfamous for Its share In th^jQld witchcraft trans- \nactions, and the Corwin house, at the corner of \nNorth and Essex streets, wh^e the Grand Jury \nsat upon those .transac^ons. There are some \nhandsome churches and public buildings of \nmore modem date, and a stone Court-house, \ntogether with a fine Registry of Deeds. There \nIs an Interest attaching to this latter structure, \nnot altogether archaeological though concern- \ning itself with antiquities, but an interest In \none of the darkest problems ever presented by \nhuman nature ; for here are kept such docu- \nments as have been preserved from the^yltch- \ncraft days, and among theifflHe death-warrant \nof Bridget Bishop. Tory few Indeed are these \npapers V ^^9 when the firenzy of the period \nbegan to subside, those \"Salem Gentlemen** \nwho petitioned the Government to grantno^§- \nprleve to Rebecca Nurse, a woman who had lived • \nnearly eighty years-ef a 'nAtttly lire, were over- \ntaken by remorse and shame, and hastened to \ndo away with all reinembrance of their recent ac- \ntion, exhibiting a better sense of the fitness of \nthings than their descendants do who do-day \ndisplay In a sealed vial a dozen bent and verdi- \ngrlsed and rusty pins purporting to be the \nIdentical ones vrlth which their forefathers \nplagued the witches; albeit. It Is said, the { \nfashion of these pins was not known at the \ntime when those poor wretches were tor- \nmented. Indeed to the stranger In the town \nof Salem this is the one thought ; he looks at \nthese people whom he meets upon the street, \nand they become to him curious subjeq^ of \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\n16 \n\n\n\nSALEM. \n\n\n\nconjecture as he reflects that intermarriage has \nobliterated the ancient feud and rancor, and \nwonders in what way it is that in these indi- \nviduals the blood of afflicted, persecutor, and \naccused, together, accommodates itself. One \nwould look for the birth of strong character- \nistics here, possibly for terrible developments, \nout of the opposition of such * material ; but \nnothing notable ever happens in the tranquil \ntown, and not a ripple of distinction brealLS its \nhistory since those first dreadfUl days, unless \nwe recaU the vanished figure of Hawthorne \nwalking all his life long in the shadow of that \nold witch-prosecuting ancestor, the Magistrate. \nBut much inheritance of a thing dies with the \nmemory of it, and when the scales dropped \nfrom the eyes of the persecutors of J^^M^nd \nthey saw themselves the shedders of Innocent \nblood, they destroyed all records that could he \nfound, reseated the church so that relatives of \nthe murderer and of the murdered sang their \nhymns side by side from the same book, and \nsince those who had borne the stain of the \nBcaflbld in their family were not likely to make \nit subject of conversation, those who inflicted \ntiiat stain were glad to let it be forgotten ; and \nit came to pass that, when the historian sought \nfor it, he found less tradition existing rela- \ntive to the occurrences of that dark and \nbloody period than of times of quadruple the \nantiquity. It reached him, though, from all \nunimaglned avenues, from church-records, from \nregistries of wills and deeds, from family pa- \npers, and we now have it in sufficient complete- \nness to make us detest. If not the people, at \nleast the liifluences that made the people \nactors in that tragedy. \n\nLike most things of magnitude, the Salem \nWitchcraft had its beginnings in small things — \nin so small a thing, indeed, as a circle of young \ngirls meeting together, on winter evenings, at \neach other's houses, to practice palmistry and \nsuch slelght-of-hand as parlor-magic had then \nattained. Perhaps it was as remarkable a \nthing as any in the whole occurrence'Erthat \nsuch meetings 'Were countenanced at all in \nthat place of the Puritan^ and more remark- \nable still, that no connection was suspected \nbetween these meetings and the subsequent \nantics. These young girls were ten in number ; \nthree of them were servants, and two of these \nare believed to have acted from malicious \nmotives against the families where they were \nemployed, one of them afterward admitting \nthat she did so ; and Mary Warren's guilt, as \ncapital witness securing the execution of seven \nInnocent persons, being — unless we accept the \nbjrpothesls of spiritualism — as evident as it is \nblack and damning. In addition to these there \nwere the negro-slaves of Mr. Parris, the min- \n• ister, in whose household all the first disturb- \nances made their appearance, Tituba and her \nhusband. \n\nIt is worthy of remark, as the historian \nurges, that Elizabeth Parris — a child of only \nnine years, but of extraordinary precocity, the \ndaughter of the minister, himself the foremost \nfomenter and agitator of the troubles — was \nearly removed by him flrom the scene, and \nplaced under shelter at safe distance. Of the \nremainder, the most prominent were Abigail \nWilliams, t^ged eleven, a niece of the minis- \nter's, and resident in his family ; Ann Putnam, \naged twelve ; Betty Hubbard and Mary Walcot, \nboth aged seventeen ; and Mercy Lewis, of the \n\n\n\nsame age, a servant in the fkmlly of Ann Pat- \nnam's mother ; Mrs. Ann Putnam, aged thirty, \nwho afterward became as prominent as any in \nthe matter of afflictions. There were a Mrs. \nPope and a Mrs. Bibber, who Joined the circle ; \nbut the one was only hysterical, and the latter \nwas detected in a trick, and their connection \nwith the phenomena was brief. It is not un- \nreasonable to suppose that Tituba was at the \nroot of the whole business. Brought by Mr. \nParris, who bad formerly been a merchant, from \nthe West Indies, and still but half-civilized, she \nwas fhU of her wild Obeah superstitions and \nincarnations, in which she had without doubt \nInterested l^e two children in her master's \nfamily, Elizabeth Parris and Abigail Williams. \nProbably they invited Ann Putnam, a child of \nnearly the same age as themselves, to witness \nwhat they found so entertaining; and she, \nconfiding in her mother's servant, Mercy Lewis, \nan ignorant girl of seventeen, Mercy in turn \ninterested her own companions in the matter. \nSitting over the wint<^r fires, after growing \ntired of their exercises in magic, it is likely \nthat they rehearsed to each other all the mar- \nvelous tales of the primeval settlements, stories \nfUU of sheeted ghosts, with wild hints of the \nIndian goblin Hobbomocko, till they shuddered \nand laughed at the shuddering, and their ter- \nrified imaginations and excited nerves were \nready for something beyond. Perfecting them- \nselves in all they could discover of legerdemain, \ntaught by Tituba the secret of a species of vol- \n*untary cataleptic fit, and improving on her \nteachings by means of their own superior in- \ntelligence, before the winter was over they \nhad become adepts in their arts, and were \nready for exhibition. It is likely that at firgt \ntheir object was merely to display their skill, \nto make amusement and arouse wonder, and, \npossibly, admiration, in iheir beholders, who \nsingularly failed to perceive that it was a con- \ncerted thing among them. Perhaps, too, they \nwere somewhat emulous of the fame of the \nGodwin children, whose exploits had lately \nbeen on every tongue. When the crowds, \nwho afterward flocked to see those whom min- \nisters and doctors had pronounced bewitched, \nwitnessed their appalling condition, they were \noverwhelmed with horror ; for, '' whatever \nopinion may be formed,\" says Mr. Upham, \"of \nthe mocal or mental condition of the afflicted \nchildren, as to their sanity and responsibility, \nthere can be no doubt that they were great \nactors. In mere Jugglery and sleight-of-hand, \nthey bear no mean comparison with the workers \nof wonders, in that line, of our own day. Long \npractice had given them complete control over \ntheir countenances, intonations of voice, and \nthe entire muscular and nervous org nizatlon \nof their bodies ; so that they could at will, and \noh the^ instant, go into fits and convulsions ; \nswoon and fall to the fioor ; put their frames \ninto strange contortions ; bring the blood to \nthe face and send it back again. They could \nbe deadly pale at one moment, at the next \nfinshed ; their hands would be clinched and \nheld together as with a vice ; their limbs stiff \nand rigid or wholly relaxed ; their teeth would \nbe set, they would go through the paroxysms \nof choking and strangulation, and gasp for \nbreath, bringing froth and blood firom the \nmouth ; they would utter all sorts of screams \nin unearthly tones: their eyes remain fixed, \nsometimes bereft of all Ugbt and expression, \n\n\n\ncold and Btonr, and B0ini>ttiDe8 kindled Into \nflamcB of paBsLon ; tbey would pus Into tbe \nBtate of BomDambuUEm, without aim or con- \nEcloiia direction la tbeir novementa, looking \nat Bome point where ■wta no apparent object of \nvision, with a wild, unmeaning glare. There \nsre some IndlcatlOBS that tbey bad acquired \nthe art of Tcntriloqnism ; or they bo wrought \nupon the Imaginations of tbe beholdem that \n(ba Bounds of the tnoUoDg and Tolcea of Invlst- \ntilo betcgs were believed to be beard. They \nwould Btart, tremble, and be pallid before ap- \nparitions seen, of coiiree, only by tbemanlTea ; \nbut their acting whs bo perfect that all pr^- \nBent thought thejr saw them, too. They would \naddress and bold colloquy with apectreB aad \n\n\n\nghosts, and the feaponses cf Ibe unseen beings \nwould be nn'^lble to tbe fancy of the bewildered \ncrowd. They wonld follow with their eyes tbe \nairy Tielona so that others Imagined they also \nbeheld them.\" \n\nM-. Cpham calls this a high dramaHo achieve- \nment ; bat he goes on to state that the Attor- \nney-Qeneral, a barrister tnsb from the Itma of \nCourt at London, was oftea present, together \nwith many othera who had seen the world, and \nwere competent to detect trickery ; and It Is, \nafler all, diCQcult to believe that thla parcel cf \nrude glrla could have acquired bo much dex- \nterity, and that no diseased condlilnn of mind \nand nerve assisted them, and that the fit', \nwhich were at first voluntary, did not at last \n\n\n\n18 \n\n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\nI: \n\n\n\nX .■ \n\n\n\nHA T.WM. \n\n\n\ntake control of tbemuund ftll their powers. \nNotwithstanding this doabt, it is plain that \ntheir magic came in on such occasions as the \npin-pricking; as, for instance, when one of \nthem, not wishing to reply, had a pin appa- \nrently mn through both her upper and lower \nlip, and no wound or festering following. On \nsuch occasions, too, as that when they were \nfound with their arms tied, and hung upon a \nhook, or their wrists bound fast with a cord, \nafter the manner of the Davenport Brothers of \nto-day ; as that, when an iron spindle, missing \nfor some time from a house in the village, was \nsuddenly snatched out of the air from the hand \nof an apparition ; or that, when one of them \nbeing afflicted by a spectre in a white sheet, in- \nvisible to other than herself, caught and tore \nthe comer of the sheet, and showed the real \ncloth in her band to the spectators, who received \nit undoubtingly. Their catalepsy, though, or \nwhatever it may \\)e called, was of use to them \nthroughout — whether they chewed soap till \nthey foamed at the mouth, and expertly twisted \ntheir supple bodies into' long-practiced contor- \ntions, or whether what was feigned at fir^t \ngrew real afterward, and they were seized by \nthe flame they had kindled, and became de- \nmented by the contagious delirium. It is well \nunderstood that the Sjiaker s of the present \nday are capable of produ<^g similar condi- \ntions — fits, distortions, trances in which visions \nare imagiued to be seen ; and something of \nthe same sort is frequent in the camp-meeting \nrevivals, while shrieking hysterics are now \nknown to be as voluntary as winklog ; and it \nhas even been discovered that fixing the eyes \nand the attention upon a bright spot at a short \ndistance away will induce a state of coma. \nWhether they had learned the possibility of \nsuch things, or merely simulated* them, it is \nalmost impossible to believe that these girls, \nin the depth of depravity to which they de- \nscended, were not victims of a temporary in- \nsanity. Their ready wit and make-shift would \nlend a color to this supposition, as being only \nthe cunning of the insane, if there had not \nbeen so much method in tnelr madness, and \nthere were not too much evidence of a direct- \ning hand behind them. \n\nHr. Upham thinks that they became intoxi- \ncated with the terrible success of their impos- \nture, and having sewed the wind, were swept \naway by the whirlwind; they appeared, he \nsays, as the prosecutors of every poor creature \nthat was tried, to such degree that their wick- \nedness seems to transcend the capabilities of \nhuman crime ; but he goes on to remark that \n^Uhere is, perhaps, a slumbering element in \nthe heart of . man that sleeps forever in the \nbosom of the innocent and §ood, and requires \nthe perpetration of a great sin to wake it into \naction ; but which, when once aroused, impels \nthe transgressor onward with increasing mo- \nmentum, as the descending ball is accelerated \nin its course. It may be that crime begets an \nappetite for crime, which, like all other appe- \ntites, is not quieted, but Inflamed by grati- \nfication.\" \n\nA large part of the difficulty in determining the \ntruth abiut these girls may vanish if we recall \nthe declaration of the British Judge, a few years \nsince, upon the case of Constance Kent, con- \nfessing the murder of her little half-brother, \nwhere he remarked it to be a fact that there \nwas a point in the existence of the young, when, \n\n\n\nJust coming to the fhll sense of life, and occu- \npied with that, and generally with a nervona \nsystem so delicately organized as easily to be \niDrown out of balance, they seem to be desti- \ntute of all natural feeling, of all moral percep- \ntion, and pliant to any wickedness. These young \ngirls of Salem Tillage, some of greater pre- \ncocity than others, were probably all of them \nwithin the scope of this decliutition, and at an \nage when they needed careful shielding and \nobservation, instead of being left, as they were, \nto the companionship of servants — servants \nwhose duller minds and lower breeding re- \nduced all difference of age to nothing ; and tbe \nwritten and signed confession of their rlii<;- \nleader still remains to render one very cautloas \nin assigning the explanation of their misdeeda \nto any preternatural or even abnormal cause. \nIt is known, at any rate, that they were several \ntimes discovered in deception ; once, on being \nreproved for it, they boldly answered that they \nmust have a Utile sport ; on another time, one \nof them was plainly seen to be practicing a trick \nwith pins ; and, again, one of them crying out \nthat she was being stabbed with a knife, a \nbroken piece of a kiidfe was found upon her, but \na young man in the audience immediately de- \nclarea that, on the day before, he had broken \nhis knife, this afflicted person being present, \nand thrown the broken part away, and he pro- \nduced the haft and remaining portion of the \nblade to prove it, and though the girl was repri- \nmanded, she was used. Just the same, for wit- \nness in other cases. \n\nThe suite of feeling in the Colonies and else- \nwhere could not have been more propitious to \ntheir undertaking than it was at the time when \nthey opened their drama. Cotton Mather, \nwhose mind was a seething caldron of supersti- \ntions, had Just published the accounS of the \nafflicted GoodvrtnchUdren ; Goody Morse was \nliving in her*w^ house at Newbury, under \nsentence of death, sentence pronounced in/ \nBoston, it having been found impossible hith- f \nerto to convict a person ^or witchcraft in Essex \nCounty; and Margaret Jones, and Mistress! \nAnne Hibbins, a sister of Governor Bellingham j \nand one of the figures of the '• Scarlet Letter,\" \nhad, n6t long before, been hung for practicing \nthe black art ; they were the free-thinkers of \nthat day who doubted the verity of witchcraft— \nAddison believed in it, Edmund Fahrfax, the \ntranslator of Tasso, believed in it. Sir Thomas \nBrowne gave in court his testimony in behalf of \nits reality ; Biackstone, the fountain of law, \nasserted that to deny the existence of witchcraft — -— ' \nwas to contradict the word of God ; King James | \n\nhad written diatribes on witches and had perse- \ncuted them ; Queen Elizabeth had persecuted \nthem ; William Penn^had presided at the trial \nof two women for witchcraft ; thirty years after \nthe executions In Salem, Dr. Watts expressed \nhis persuasion that there was much agency of \ntlie devil and some real witches in that affair ; \nand so deeply rooted and long in dying was tb« \nsuperstition, that in 1766 a Presbyterian synod \nin Scotland denounced, as a national sin, the \nrepeal of the penal laws against witchcraft ; in \n1808 women were abused for witches oy a \nvhole population within sixty miles of London, \nand so Utely as the beginning of this century \nFather Altizzo wtis imprisoned at Rome for \nsorcery, and thero were prosecutions for witch- \ncraft in some of the interior districts of our o^vn \nSouthern States, In the midst of such universal \n\n\n\n8ALEK. \n\n\n\n19 \n\n\n\ndarkneM, the people of Salem were not behind \nthe spirit of their age when fancying that their \nvillage had become the battle-ground of Anti- \nchriat; and possibly they recovered sooner \nfrovk their delusion than other communities of \nless sturdy and self-asserting habits of thought \nmight have done. The village, too, presented \n% an excellent field of operation, for it had for \n\\ many years been torn with dissensions ; there \n\\had been violent Jealoudies, wrangles and law- \nvuits over the acquisition of large property, \nthrough Industry and enterprise, by people \nonce In less prosperous circumstances, as for \nexample, the Nurses, and quarrels with the \n^' Topsfleld Men,\" connections of the Nu^es, in \nrelation to boundaries, resulting in fisticuff en- \ncounters and lasting enmities. There had, \nmoreover, been trouble in the parish in relation \nto the impossibility oi procuring a minister who \nshould please all parties. Mr. Bayley, Mr. Bur- \nroughs and Mr. Deodat Lawson having been \nobliged to leave, owing to the hostilities, and \nMr. Sam. Parris being settled in their place. \nMr. Parris, among several singular qualities, \nseems to have beeu almost destitute of sym- \npathy — ^he once told some men whose mother's \nexecution he had been instrumental in procur- \ning, that while they thought her innocent and \nhe thought her guilty, the matter between them \nwas merely a diffe ence of opinion ; he was \npossessed of great talent, and of an inordinate \nambiiion ; passionately fond of power, and con- \nstantly stirriDg up scenes that might lead to it, \nduring the whole time of his career he kept the \nparish in a broil ; he had at last grown so un- \npopular, that some bold stroke became necessary \nin order to regain lost ground, and when the \nchildren in his family commenced their per- \nformances, it is thought that he saw his ad- \nvantage, and used it, to the pulling down of \nthose who opposed him, and the setting-up of \nthe standard of the Church, in his person, over \nall other authority. Probably, as Cotton Mather \ndid, he aspired to be the chief champion ot \nChristiaQlty, and therefore the more exceed- \ningly he could inflame the people, and then \nthe more effectually quench the flame, the \ngreater glory most redound to him and hier \nministry ; and it is possible that neither he nor \nthe ^^ afflicted children \" had originally any Idea \nof the lengths to which the thing would go; but \nonce committed, there was no retreat. \n\nWhen now the girls began to exhibit their \nnew accomplishments at home, their frightened \nparents gave them medicine ; of course this \ndid not modify their symptoms, and presently \nthe physician was summoned. Finding that \nnone of his appliances changed their condition, \npr. Griggs took retiige in a common saying of \nthe time, which had sheltered the ignorance of \nmany another doctor, and declared that an evil \n4Und had been laid upon them. Then Mr. \nParris scented his prey in an Instant ; he kept \nthe children in an agitation, noised the affair \nabroad till it became the talk of town and \ncountryside, and the neighbors ran to see the \nconvulsions of the afflicted, shivered with awe \nwhen the Sabbath meetings were disturbed by \ntheir outbursts, believed they saw the yellow- \n' bird that Ann Putnam saw \" sitting on the min- \nister's hat as it hangs on the pli in the pulpit f \nthe families of the various affi.\\ i'3d ones fasted \nand prayed, and finally Mr. Parris called a con- \nvocation of the ministers to witness the pro- \nceedings of these crazy children, half rlseased, \n\n\n\nhalf evlL Upon this the children brought out \nall the scenes in their repertory at once, and \nthe ministers were astounded ; always ready \nfor combats with Satan, here they had him on \nopen ground ; they appointed a day of exhorta- \ntion over the afflicted, and Increased the excite- \nment of the people to mry, so that nothing was \nthought of but the sufferings of these victims of \nthe wrath of the Evil One, sufferings whose \nreality no one disbelieved ; all business became \nsuspended, all labor was left, and the whole \ncommunity was in a frenzy of fanaticism. A few \nindividuals did not Join the outcry : Martha \nCorey did not believe there were any witches — \npresently she was accused for one and hung ; \nthe Nurses and Cloyses and Joseph Putnam ob- \njected to the minister's allowing the children of \"^ \nhis family to disturb the meeting without so \nmuch as a rebuke, and withdrew flrom their \nattendance at the church — Rebecca Nurse was \nhung, Sarah Cloyse was imprisoned, and Joseph \nPutnam escaped only by arming every member \nof his faintly and keeping a horse under saddle \nnight and day for six months, determined, if the \nmarshal came for him with a small posse, to re- \nsist, but if with an overwhelming force, to fly, \nchoosing rather the mercies of the savage \nheathen of the forest than the barbarities of \nthese fhintic Christians. \n\nIt is a common error to suppose that the \nthree learned professions lead the people In \npoint of intelligence. On the contrary, trained \nin grooves not easy to leave, they remain as \nthey were in the beginning, and almost all ad- \nvance comes f^om the outside. This was never \nbetter exemplified than in the Witchcraft delu- \nsion. If the pnyslcians then had possessed \neither acuteness, skill, or candor, they would \nhave checked the girls in their first spasms ; If \nthe ministers' had been what they should have \nbeen ere daring to undertake the cure of souls, \ninstead of lending countenance to their preten- \nsions and praying over the girls, they would \nhave punished them and made them fear the \nconsequences of their manoeuvres ; if the law- \nyers had exercised any quality which a lawyer \nshould possess, they would have sifted their \ntestimony till it blew away In the wind, and \nwould have utterly cast out the evidence of \nspectres, instead of greedily receiving it and \nhounding on the poor wretches to their death. \nWhen Justices, deacons, doctors and gentry \nhurried to wonder over and sympathize with \nthe young impostors, when their leaders came \nto be mad, it Is no marvel that the people lost \ntheir head and followed after. In the faith \nthat the girls were bewitCiCd, and that Satan \nacted only through human agencies, they \nclamored to know who it was that had be- \nwitched them ; and thus beset, the girls, either \nat random or because there was no one to be- \nfriend her, or at Mr. Parris's half-hinted sugges- \ntion, timidly pronounced a name. ''Good,-' \nthey said, ** Good \" — cheating their consciences, \nperhaps, by making it only a surname ; they \nhad no such timidity by-and-by ; and Sarah \nGood was consequently apprehended. When \nshe was examined, two others had been named, \narrested, and were examined with her. \n\nSarah Good was a poor creature — ^homeless, \ndestitute, deserted « by her husband, with a \nfamily of children to support by odds and ends \nof work, by begging ft'om door to door, and \nscraping together in any way what little she \ncould. Doubtless she was a nuisance in the \n\n\n\nso \n\n\n\nSALEH. \n\n\n\nneighborhood, as moet Impecnnlons and shift- \nless people are, and her reputation was not \nsatisfactory. Her fate was certain firom the \nonset. The people — who were full of horror \nand of pity for the tortured girls; who had \nbeen told by the physicians that they were be- \nwitched ; who had seen the ministers oracularly \nconfirm this statement; who had heard Mr. \nParrls make It the subject of his vehement disk \ncourses Sunday after Sunday, while the distem- \nper of the Klrls alarmed the congregation ; who \nhad lately done nothing but look for the guilty \nauthor of this diabolism, drew a breath of re- \nlief wben at last the witch was named ; so plau- \nsible a person, a vagrant and ft'iendless ; and it \nmust be admitted that Sarah Good and Mrs. \n^ Osbume — an elderly person, sometimes bed- \nridden, sometimes distracted, who absented \nherself from meetinp: — and the slave Tituba, \nwere the best possible selections that the cun- \nning hussies could have made ; and the people \nwere satisfied. Mrs. Osbume died in prison \nnine months afterward ; Tituba conCessed — as \nshe sub equently averred, under stress of beat- \nings from Mr, Parris — and, lying in jail a year \nand a month, was finally sold for her fees ; but \nSarah Good drank her cup, bitter all her life \nlong, to the bitter dregs. The meeting-house \nwas thronged at her examination ; she was \nplaced on a platform In full sight of all there ; \nMr. Parris had excited every one with his im- \npassioned opening prayer ; the array of magis- \ntrates, marshal and constable were enough to \nstrike awe into her soul at any time, much \nmore when her life was at stake. Acquainted \nwith want, with sorrow and obloquy, her heart \nhad been hardened, and she gave back no mild \nanswers to the catechising. The Justices as- \nsumed her guilt to be already established, en- \ndeavored to make her Involve herself, gave \nleading questions to the witnesses, allowed all \nmanner of abominable interruptions, and brow- \nbeat and abused her. When the afflicted chil- \ndren were introduced, at a glancb of her eye \nthey straightway fainted and went into spasms, \ncried out that ihey were pinclied and pricked \nand throt.tled, and fell stiff as the dead. Upon \nbeing taken to her and touched by her, the \ncolor returned to their faces, their limbs re- \nlaxed, they immediately became calm and well ; \nso that it seemed to be demonstrated before the \neyes of the credulous audience that the malign \nmiasm had been received back again into the \nwttch. \n\nShe herself could not tell what to make \nof it, and never doubted the fact that the girls \nsuffered as they seemed to do ; she only de- \nclared that it was not she that caused it, and \nmust be the others — which simple exclamation \nthe justices used as a confession of her own \nguilt, and accusation and evidence against the \nothers. ^* What is it that you say,'' asked Ha- \nthorne, **when you go muttering away fi-om \npersons' houses ?\" \" If I must tell, I will tell,\" \nshe answers. \"Do tell us, then,\" he urges. \n^' If I must tell, I will tell : It Is the Command- \nments. I may say my Commandments, I hope.\" \n\" What' Commandment Is it ?\" Poor Sarah \nGood could not for the life of her remember a \nCommandment. \"If I must tell you, I will \ntell,\" she ays then — \" it is a psalm ;\" and after \na time she murmurs some fragment that she \nhas succeeded in recalling. Before long her \nhusband was brought in to testify against her. \nShe was sent to prison — ^thrice leaping off her \n\n\n\nhorse, railing against the magistrates, and \nessaying to take her own life — and afterward \nloaded down with Iron fetters and with cords, \nsince it was. supposed a witch needed doable \nfastenings, till led out, lour months later, to \nher execution. Meanwhile her child, five years \nold, was apprehended for a witch ; the marks \nof her little teeth were shown on Ann Putnam's \narm ; Mercy Lewis and the' others produced \npins with which she had pricked them ; she \nwas committed to prison and loaded with chains \nlike her mother. Outraged, oppressed, and \nfeeling there was no justice In the world unless \nthe Powers that rule it made her word true, \nwheuf upon the scaffold, the cruel minister, \nNicholas Noyes, told Sarah Good sMe was a \nwitch, and she knew she was a witch, she \nturned npon him and cried, ^' You are a liar ! \nand God shall give jou blood to drink !\" \nTwenty-five years afterward, and unrepenting, \nNicholas Noyes uledof an internal hemorrhage, \nthe vital torrent pouring from his mouth and \nstrangling him with his own blood. \n\nAfter the first three witches had been pro- \nclaimed, the business began in earnest, and the . \ngirls \"cried out upon\" enough to keep the \nmagistrates' hands fUU ; consternation and ter- \nror ran like wildfire through the community, \nwhich was unlettered and ignorant to a large \ndegree, the learning of the fathers having died \nwith them, and the scht/ols not being yet estab- \nlished ; presently everybody was either accused \nor accusing, there was a witch In every house, \nthe only safety for any was in suspecting \na neighbor. If o|ie expressed doubt of \nthe afflicted children, he was marked from \nthat moment. The Rev. Francis Dane sus- \npected them ; his family were cried oat \nupon, two of his children and many of his \ngrandchildren being Imprisoned, and some \nsentenced to death. The Rev. John Hlgglnson \n— of whom It was said, \"his very presence \nputs vice out of countenance, his conversation \nis a glimpse of heaven \" — disbelieved in them ; \nhis daughter Anna was committed as a witch. \nHusbands were made to criminate their wives, \nchildren, their parents ; when one of the ac- \ncusing girls fell away, she was herself accused, \nbut knowing what to do, was saved by a con- \nfession of impossibilities. Anything was taken \nfor evidence, the nightmares of this one, the \ndrunken fantasies of that, the hysterics of the \nother, and any careless gossip that never \nshould have been uttered at all. If a prisoner \ndared use any self- vindication, the vanity and \nanger of the magistrates were kindled against \nthat one in especial. Hundreds were under \narrest; hundrecs confessed to what they never \ndid, as the only means to save their lives, \nthough afterward frequently retracting their \nconfessions and going cheerfully to death ; \nthe prisons were full, and executions be- \ngan. The accusations of the afflicted ghrls \nmounted by degrees from simple witchcraft \nand writing in the Black Man's book, with the \nfamiliar of a yellow-bird, suckling the fingers, \nto that of a baptism and sacrament of blood \nadministered by the devil hlAself, and finally \nto that of fell and terrible murders. Thehr \nnarratives were all of the same character, their \nimaginations filthy and limited in flight, and \nthe only assertions in the*whole of their rodo- \nmontade of any brilliance was Tltuba's reply as \nto how they went to their place of meeting. \" We \nride upon sticks, and are there presently^\" and \n\n\n\nSALEM. \n\n\n\n21 \n\n\n\nthe description of Mr. Barrongbs^s trampet- \nstone to convene his witches — '*a sound tbat \nreached over the country far and wide, sending \nits blasts to Andover, and wakening its echoes \nalong the Merrimack to Cape Ann and the ut- \ntermost settlements everywhere/' Kindness \nhad no effect upon the girls ; when Mrs. Proc- \nter—three of whose children their representa- \ntions had cast into prison, and whom tbey had \ntorn away Arom her home, leaving her forlorn \n** little maid\" of four years old to come out \nand scan the passers-by, in hopes each one \nmight be her father or her mother, her brother \nor her sister come back — when Mrs. Procter \nmildly said to one of them, \" Dear child, it is \nnot so,\" and solemnly added, '^-There is an- \nother judgment, dear cl^illd,\" they redoubled \ntheir convulsions, and grew so outrageous that \nJohn Procter, protecting his wife from their \ninsults, was himself accused and hung. The \nprisoners, meanwhile, were crowded In such \nnoisome dungeons-, that many died and many \nlost their reason; some also were tortured to \nprocure confession — ^feet and head bound to- \ngether till the blood poured from eyes and \nnose. \n\nThe accusations were by no means con- \nfined to Salem; Andover, Beverly, Boston, \nwere ransacked to All them — ^the girls had \ntasted blood and were pitiless. A Mrs. Easty \nwas taken from the old Crownlngshield Farm \nin Topsfield (now owndd by Mr. Thomas W. \nFierce^, and brought to court; she was a wo- \nman of station and character ; even the magis- \ntrates were affected by her mien : and though \nAnn Putnam and others cried, ''Oh, Goody \nEasty, Goody Easty, you are the woman, you \nare the woman !\" she was discharged, having- \nendured several weeks' confinement ; but upon \nthat there arose such an uproar among the \ngirls, such fresh fits and tormeo tings, that, \nafter havmg enjoyed her home for only two \ndays, she was again arrested by the brutal Mar- \nshal Herrlck, and presently hung. But even \nIn her last hour this noble woman sent to the \nGovernor a petition in behalf of her fellow- \nprisoners, yet asking no favor for herself. Mr. \nUpham describes a scene at the trial of Sarah \nCloyse, taken every incident from the record, \nwhich perfectly Ulustrates the callousness of \nthese girls. \n\n\" Then Sarah Cloyse asked for water, and sat \ndown, as one seized with a dying fainting- \nfit ; and several of the afiaicted feU into fits, \nand some of them cried out, 'Oh, her spirit \nhas gone to prison to her sister Nurse V \n\n\" The audacious lying of the witnesses ; the \nhorrid monstrousness of their charges against \nSarah Cloyse, of having bitten the fiesh of the \nIndian brute, and drank herself and' distributed \nto others as deacon, at an infernal sacrament, \nthe blood of the wicked creatures making these \nfoul and devilish declarations, known by her to \nbe utterly and wickedly false; and the fact \nthai they were believed by the deputy, the \ncouncil, and the assembly, were n^ore than she \ncould bear. Her soul sickened at such unim- \naginable depravity and wrong ; her nervous \nsystem gav^ way ; she fainted and sank to the \nfloor. The manner in which the girls turned \nthe incident against her shows how they were \nhardened to all human feeling, and the cunning \ni^t which, on aU occasions, characterized their \nproceedings. Th:.t such an insolent interrup- \ntion and disturbance, on their part, was per- \n\n\n\nmitted without rebuke from the Court, is a \nperpetual dishonor to every member of it. The \nscene exhibited at this moment, in the meeting- \nhouse, is worthy of an attempt to imagine. \nThe most terrible sensation was naturally pro- \nduced by the swooning of the prisoner, the \nloi/dly uttered and savage mockery of the girls, \nand their going simultaneously into fits, scream- \ning at the top of their voices, twisting into all \npossible attitudes, stiffened as in death, or \ngasping with convulsive spasms of agony, and \ncrying out. at intervals* 'There is the Black \nMan whispering in Cloyse's ear.' ' There Is a \nyellow-bird flying round her head.' John In- \ndian, on such occasions, used to confine his \nachievements to tumbling and rolling his ugly \nbody about the floor. The deepest commisera- \ntion was lelt by all for the ' afiaicted,' and men \nand women rushed to hold and soothe them. \nThere was, no doubt, much loud screeching, \nand some miscellaneous faintiugs through the \nwhole crowd. At length, by bringing the suf- \nferers into contact with Goody Cloyse,* the dia- \nbolical fluid passed back into her, they were all \nrelieved, and the examination was resumed.\" \n\nIn fact, neither age nor condition had any \neffect upon the prosecutors. Rebecca Jacobs, \npartially deranged, was snatched from her four \nyoung children, one of them an infant, and the \nothers who were able to walk following after \nher, crying bitterly. Martha Carrier, who the \nchildren said had promise from the Black Man \nof being Queen of Hell, and who had sternly \nrebuked the magistrates, and declared she had \nseen no man so black as themselves, was made \nto hear her children, seven or eight years \nold, confess themselves witches who had set \ntheir hands to the book, testify against her, and \nprocure her death. Bebecca Nurse, past three \nscore and ten, wife of a wealthy citizen, ven- \nerated by high and low, was brought to trial in \nher infirm condition, accused by the girls at the \nvery time when she was praying for them. On \nthe jury's bringing in a verdict of innocence, \nthey were reprimanded by the Chief-Justice, \nand remanded to confinement ^iH they brought \nin a verdict of guilty ; and though her neighbors \nmade afiSdavits and petitions in her behalf, she \nwas condemned ; after which Mr. Parrls, who \nhad long since gotten affairs into his own \nhands, had intimidated outsiders, and was \nhaving everything his own way, prepared one \nof his most solemn scenes to fhrther excite the \npeople ; and Mrs. Nurse, delicate, if not dying \nas it was. after her shameful trial, her cruel \nand indecent exposures, was brought Into \nchurch, covered with chains, and there excom- \nmunicated by her old pastor, Nicholas Noyes — \nthe crowd of spectators believing they saw a \nwoman not only lost for this life, but barred \nout from salvation in the life to come. She \nwas thrown, after death, into a hole beneath \nthe gallows ; but her husband and sons recov- \nered her body in the night, brought it home to \nher weeping daughters, and buried It in her \nown garden. \n\nWith that, the gfrls, grown bold, had flown \nat higher game than any, th^ Rev; George \nBurroughs, one of Mr. Parris's rivals and pre- \ndecessors. This person had suffered almost \neverything in Salem ere leaving it for Casco \nBay ; he had lost his wife and children there, \nhis salary had not been paid him, and he had \neven been arrested in his pulpit for the debt \nof his wife's ftmeral expenses, which he bad \n\n\n\n22 \n\n\n\nSALEM. \n\n\n\npreviously paid by an order on the clinrcli- \ntreasurer. The malignities that he now endured \nare only explicable by remembering his un- \npopularity In Salem ; be was cast into a black \ndungeon, accused of witchcraft on the eyidence \nof such feats of strength as holding out a gun \nby inserting the joint of a finger in the muzzle, \nand after that accused of the murder of hts two \nwives and of his children, of Mr. Lawson's wife \nand child, and of various others, covered with \nall abuses, and finally hung, and buried beneath \nthe gallows, with his chin and foot protruding \nfrom the ground. Mr. Upham gives a chapter \nIn his trial too graphically to escape quotation \nhere: \n\n\"The examination of Mr. Burroughs pre- \nsented a spectacle, all things considered, of \nrare interest and curiosity : the grave dignity \nof the magistrates ; the plain, dark figure of \nthe prisoner; the half-crazed, half-demoniac \naspect of .the girls ; the wild, excited crowd ; \nthe horror, rage, and pallid exasperation of \nLawson,' Goodman Fuller, and others, also of \nthe relatives and friends of Burroughs^s two \nformer wi^es, as the deep damnation of their \ntaking off and the secrets of their bloody graves \nwere being brought to light ; and the child on \nthe stand telling her awful tales of ghosts in \nwinding-sheets, with napkins round their heads, \npointing to their death-wounds, and saying that \n* their blood did cry for vengeance ' upon their \nmurderer. The prisoner stands alone : all were \nraving around him, while he is amazed, as- \ntounded at such folly and wrong In others, and \nhumbly sensible of his own unworthiness, bowed \ndown under the mysterious Providence that \npermitted such things for a season, yet strong \nand steadfast in conscious innocence and up- \nrightness.\" \n\nBut though such countless arrests and trials \nand condemnations were had, and so many \nexecutions, the most startling Incident among \nthem all was the death of old Giles Corey. \n\nGiles Corey was a man of marked traits, not \nthe least marked of which was an unbending \nwill and a heart that knew no fear. In the \ncourse of his long life he had never submitted \nto a wrong without retaliation, he had sufl'ered \nno encroachments on bis rights, he had cared \nnothing for the speech of other people, but had \nalways spoken his own mind, let who would \nstand at the door ; he had quarreled with his \nacquaintances, beaten his servants, sued his \nneighbors for slander, and, such experience \ntending toward small self-control, he had been \ninvolved in ceaseless litigation, and as often \nas not had been in the right. Late in life he \nmarried, for his third wife, Martha, a woman of \nintelligence beyond her time, and joined the \nChurch ; and he was eighty years old when the \nWitchcraft excitement began. With his ardent \nand eager temperament, nothing abated by \nage, he was immediately interested in the \nafillcted children, and soon as fanatical as the \nworst In regard to them. That his wife should \nlaugh at it all, should suppose those God-fear- \ning men, the magistrates, blind, should assert \nthere was no such thing as a witch at all, and, \nwhen he had seen their agonies with his own \neyes, that the afillcted children did but dissem- \nble, and should hide his saddle that he might \nstay at home, and no longer swell the press that \nurged the matter on, filled him with amazement \nand rage ; he exclaimed angrily that the devil \nwas In her, and, for all he knew, she might be \n\n\n\na witch herself ! When his wlf^ was arrested^ \nthese words of his were remembered ; he was \npiled in court with artful questions, whose re- \nplies must needs be unfavorable to her ; two of \nhis sons-in-law testified to his recent disagree- \nment with her, to his bewitched cattle, and \nother troubles, and he was obUged to give a \ndeposition against her. But he could not be \nforced to make the deposition amount to any- \nthing ; and, indlgnanl with him for that con- \ntumacy, his wife's accusers became his own, \nand he was cast into jail for a wizard. Once \nImprisoned, with leisure to reflect, conscious \nthat he had never used witchcraft In his life, \nhe began to believe that others might be as In- \nnocent as he, to be aware of the hallucination \nto which he had been subject, to see that his \nwife, by that time sentenced to execution, was \na guiltless martyr, to feel his old love and ten- \nderness for her return upon him, to be filled \nwith remorse for his anger with her, for his \ntestimony and deposition, and with his old hot \nwrath against his two sons-ln-laws, whose ^ord \nhad done her to deatn. \n\nHe comprehended the whole situation, that \nunless he confessed to a lie nothing could eave \nhim, that if he were tried he would certainly \nbe condemned, and his property would be con- \nfiscated under the attainder. He desired In \nhis extremity some punishment on his two un- \nfaithful sons-in-law, some reward for his two \nfaithful ones«^ He sent for the necessary instru- \nments and made his will, giving all his large \nproperty to his two faithftil sons-in-law, and \nguarding the gift with every careftil form of \nwords known to the law. That properly done \nand witnessed, his resolve was taken. He \ndetermined never to be tried. If he was not \ntried, he could not be condemned; if he was not \ncondemned, this disposition of his property \ncould not be altered. The only way to accom- \npilsh this was by refusing to plead either guilty \nor not guilty. And this he did. When taken \nInto court he maintained a stubborn silence, he \nrefused to open his lips ; and till the prisoner \nanswered \" guilty \" or \" not guilty,\" the trial \ncould not take place. For this, also, there was \nbut one remedy, and old Giles Corey knew it ; \nbut his mind was made up ; It was the least \natonement he could make his wife — to requite \nthe sons that had been loyal to her, and to meet \nhimself a harder fate than he had given her. \nPerhaps, too, he saw that It needed such a \nthing to awaken the people, and he was the \nvoluntary sacrifice. He received unflincltingly \nthe sentence of the Peine forte et dure, and from \nthat moment never uttered a syllable. This \nunspeakably dreadful torture condemned one \nto a dark cell, there, with only a strip of cloth- \ning, to be laid upon the fioor with an iron \nweight upon the chest, receiving the alternate \nfare of three mouthfuls of bread on one day, \nand on the next three draughts of the nearest \nstagnant water, till obstinacy yielded or death \narrived. In Giles Corey's case— excommunica- \ntion having been previously pronounced on a \nself-murderer by the inexorable church-mem- \nbers—the punishment was administered in the \noutside air, and the weights were of stone ; he \nwas strong, in spite of years ; the anguish was \nlong ; pressed by the burden, his tongue pro- \ntruded firom his mouth, a constable struck it \nback with his staff, but not a word came with \nit, and he died unflinching, never pleading \neither guilty or not guilty. With this beftoe \n\n\n\nSALEM. \n\n\n\ntmlieard-of Judicial murder in the Colonies, a \nuniversal horror shnddered through the people \nalready surfeited with horrors, and all at once \ntheir eyes opened to the enormity of these pro- \nceedings. Three days afterward, the last pro- \ncession of victims, once hooted and insulted as \nthey went. Jolted now in silence through the \nlong and tedious ways to the summit of Witch \nHill, and, taking their farewell look at the wide \npanorama of land and sea, the last witches were \nhanged. It was in vain for Cotton Mather to \nutter bis incendiary eloquence beneath the \ngallows and endeavor to rekindle the dying \nfires In the breasts of the sorry and silent \npeople; for Mr. Koyes to exclaim, as the bodies \nswung off, \" What a sad thing it is to see eight \nfirebrands of hell hanging tttere !\" The min- \nisters exhorted, the il-antic girls cried out on \none and another, and flew at so high a quarry \nas the wife of the Rev. John Hale, a woman of \nalmost perfect life; and though Mrs. Hale^s \nhusband had persecuted* others, when the \nthunderbolt fell on his own roof, he awoke to \nhis delirium : then the Commoners of Andover \ninstituted suits for slander, and with that the \nbubble burst, and not another witch was hung. \nThe whole Colony was sliaken with remorse, \nand the reaocibn from the excitement was like \ndeath. The accusing girls came out of their \nconvulsions unregarded ; one or two afterward \nmarried ; the rest, with the exception of Ann \nPutnam, led openly shameless Jives. Seven \nyears afterward, bereft of her father and \nmother, and with the care of a large family ot \nyoung brothers and sisters, and a constitution \nutterly broken down by her career of fits and \ncontortions, Ann Putnam read in the open \nchurch a confession of her crimes, partook of \nthe communion, and the tenth year following \nshe died. It is a brief and very strange confes- \nsion ; in it all the sin is laid upon Satan, and so \nartlessly that one can but give her innocence \nthe benefit of a doubt ; and whether the girl \nwas the subject of delusive trances or of wick- \nedness, must remain a mystery until the science \nof psychology has made further advances than \nit has done to-day. WheA the people had fUUy \ncome to their senses, the Jury that had passed \n▼erdict on the accused wrote and circulated an \n\n\n\navowal of their regret ; Judge Sewall rose in \nhis place in the Old South Church in Boston and \nmade a public acknowledgment; of his error, \nand supplication for forgiveness, and every year \nthereafter kept a day of humiliation and prayer; \nbut Chief-Justice Stoughton remained as infatu- \nated at the last as at the first ; and of the min- \nisters who had been active in the vile work, \nCotton Mather, Sam. Parrii<, Nicholas Noyei^, \nthere is not a particle of evidence that one of \nthem repented or regretted it. But Salem \nVillage was ruined, its farms were neglected, \nits roads broken up, its fences scattered, its \nbuildings out of order, industrial pursuits were \ndestroyed, famine came, taxes were due and \nlands were sold to meet them, whole families \nmoved away, and the place became almost \ndepopulated. One spot there, says the histo- \nrian, bears marks of the blight to-day — ^the old \nmeeting-honse road. ^^ The Surveyor of High- \nways ignores it. The old, gray, moss-covered \nstone walls are dilapidated and thrown out of \nline. Not a house is on either of its borders, \nand no gate opens or path leads to any. Neglect \nand desertion brood over the contiguous \nground. On both sides there are the remains \nof cellars, which declare that once it was lined \nby a considerable population, v Along this road \ncrowds thronged in 1692, lor weeks and months, \nto witness the examinations.\" \n\nIt Is a satisfaction to the vindictive reader of \nthe annals of this time to know that Sam. Parris \n— ^guilty of divination by his own judgment, since \nhe had plainly used the afflicted children for \nthat purpose — was dismissed ftom his pastorate, \nwhere he had played the part rather of wolf than \nof shepherd, and finished his days in ignominy \nand want. While every reader will be glad to \nknow that a good man, Joseph Green, came to \nsoothe the sorrows and bind up the wounds, \nand destroy as much as might be all memory of \nwrong and suffering in the place. But though, \nfor a few years, various Lt gislatiires passed \nsmall acts of acknowledgment and compensa- \ntloa, yet, wars and other troubles supervening, \nand possible shame at reopening the past, it so \nhappens that for several ot the murdered peo- \nple the attainder has never been taken off to \nthe present dajr. \n\n\n\nNEWBURYPORT, \n\n\n\nLrating Salem behind, the traveler pasfies \nbeauilftil Beverly, the home ot Lacy Larcom, \nand whose beach is neighbor of the wonderful \nnn^ng one where the sands make mystical \nmusic under foot., passes the little town which \nGail Hamilton renders interesting by living \nthere, passes Ipswich, the old Agawam, the \npicture of an English village, in a dimple be- \ntween hills, and with the tides of its quiet \nriver curving about it, passes ancient Rowley, \nand arrives at another historic and famous \ntown, whose rulers once changed Its name to \nPorMand, but whose people scorned to do so \nmuch as even to refuse the new name, but con- \ntinued to the present day to call it Newbury- \nport. / \n\nNewburyport Is in some external respects \nnot unlike the neighborino: towns of note, but \nin others she is a place by herself. Situated \non the Merrimack — the busiest river in the \nworld, and one of the loveliest, and whose \nbanks, owing to the configuration of the \ncoast, seem here, like the Nile banks, to run \nout and push back the sea that it may have the \ngreater room to expand its beauty in — ^the \ntown has both a scenic and a social isolation \nwhich has had a great deal to do with the \ncharacteristics of its population. These char- \nacteristics, with but one or two exceptions, \nhave been the same for all time, since time \nbegan for Newburyport. It is true that the \nmunicipality, which once petitioned General \nCourt to relieve it of the burden of the old \nwandering negress Juniper, has so far improved \nas now to be giving a pauper outside the alms- \nhouse an allowance outo£ which he has built him \na cottage in an adjoining town, and bought him \nsome shares of railroad stock ; but for the rest, \nthe place has known no change ; it has not \nvaried iVom its dullness since the Embargo laid \na heavy hand upon it and the Great Fire scat- \ntered ashes over it, and the people mind their \nown business to-day Just as thoughtlessly as \nthey did when they pronounced the verdict \nupon the body of Elizabeth Hunt in 1693, \"We \nJudge, according to our best light and contlents, \nthat the death of said Elizabeth Hunt was \n♦ * ♦ by some soden stoping of her breatn.\" \nStrangers come into town, stay a while, and de- \npart, leaving behind them some trail of ro- \nQiance or of misbehavior — the citizen takes \n\n\n\nsmall heed of them, and presently forgets tbeni ; \nso rarely do tliey assimilate themselves with \nthe population, that the name? there to-day are \nthe names to be found in the chronicles ol \n1635, and, unmixed with strange blood, genera- \ntions hand down a name till it comes to stand \nfor a trait. The people, too, have a singular \nintelligence for a community not metropoUtan, \npossibly because, being a seafaring tribe, their \nintercourse with foreign countries enlightens \nthem to an unusual degree. The town, except \nfor one religious revival that lasted forty \ndays, suspended business, drew up the shipping \nin the dock, and absorbed mast^ and mistress, \nman and maid, has seldom been disturbed by \nany undue contagion of popular feeling, has \nseldom followed a fashion In politics nnsug- \ngested by its own necessities, and has been in \nfact as sufficient to itself as the dew of Eden. \nThe dissimilarity of its population from that of \nother places is only illustrated by the story 'of a \nsailor, impressed into the British Navy too \nhurriedly to get the address of a friend, and \nwho, after tossing about the world for fiAy \nyears, returned home and advertised for ^^ an \nold shipmate whom he desired to share a for- \ntune with.\" Neither has the town ever been \na respecter of persons, but, democratic in the \ntrue acceptation of the term, wealth is but \nlittle accounted where almost every one is \ncomfortable, talent gives no more pre-eminence \nthan can be grasped by means of it, and if it \nwere the law now, as it was then, five leading \ncitizens would Just as easily be arretted and \nfined for being abseAt from town-meeting at \neight o'clock in the morning as they were in \n1638. United to all this there is an extremely \nindependent way of thinking hereditary among \nthe people. In 1649 Thomas Scott paid a fine \noften shillings rather than learn the catechism, \nand was allowed to do so ; a century later, Rich- \nard Bartlet reflised communion with a church \nwhose pastor wore a wig, asserting with assu- \nrance that all who wore wigs, unless repenting be- \nfore death, would certainly be damned ; not long \nbefore, the Rev. John Tufts here struck a \ndeath-blow at Puritanism by issuing a book of \ntwenty-seven psalm-tunes to be sung in public \nworship, five tunes only having previously been \nused ; an act so stoutly contested as an inroad \nof the Scarlet Woman — for, said his opponents, \n\n\n\nIJEWI.UEYPOET, \n\n\n\nIt 1b fliat ilnglng hj rale, tben praying b; rale, \nuid tben popery— that It was probably owing \nto the persecullooa of tlie long warKire tbat \nenbseqaentlf tbe Innovator lea bU parlsli In \ndadgeoD cnder a charge of Indecent bebarlor ; \nadJ' thongb none or the cburcbes reacbed the \npoint attained by one some dozen mllea away, \nwbich voted, \"Ibla meeilng, not baring nnlty \nTlth John CdlUns's teetimony, deslreB him to ba \nElICDt till the Lord Epeak by him to the satis- \niLtctlon of the meetlo^,\" yet there stands on \nthe record the Instruction to a committee ap- \npointed to deal with cettaln recnsanls, \"to Bee \nif BometblDg could not be said or done to draw \nthem to om commnnlon again, and if um can- \nnot draw them by fair means, then to (Mermine \nlahat means to lake with tiem.\" Some one \nonce sold that Newburyport waa fhmoas for Its \n\n\n\npiety and prlTateerlng, bat In tbeee instracUonB \nthe piety and prlrateerlng are oddly inter- \nminced. This same Independence of thought \nfound notable expression when. In the early \ndays, Boston and Salem, alarmed at the Incur- \nBlons of the Indians, proposed to the next aeU \ntlements the building of a stone wall eight \nfeet high to Inclose them all, as a rampart \nagaluEt the common foe ; wblch proposttlou \nMewbaryport sconted with disdain, and declared \nthe wall should be a living; one, made ot men, \nand fbrthwlth built a garTlson-honse on her bor- \nders. And It Is the same quality that after- \nward appeared when, some time previous \nto the Boston tea-party, the first act of the \nSevohitlon waa signalized In Newburyport by \ntbe confiscation of a cargo of tea under direc- \ntion of tbe town anthoritles: and that prompted \n\n\n\n\"3TAHDIN0 OH THB QITlItTBB-I1S(X, BB SCDDENLYIT \n\n\n\n:D TQB BBinsa FLldlO BE ETBUCI t\" \n\n\n\n26 \n\n\n\nNEWBUBYPOBT. \n\n\n\nthe Stamp Act Blots, an& made it a fact tbat \nnot a single Brltisli st&mp was ever paid for or \nused in Newbiiryport ; and that, duriag all the \nlong and trying struggle of the Bevolation, did \nnot allow a single town-echool to be suspended. \nThe old town has no trivial history, as these \ncircumstances might intimate. Long before \nthe Revolution, at the popular uprising and tlie \nimprisonment of Sir Edmund Ai^dros, old Sam \nBartlet galloped off, so eager fbr the fray, that \n^' his long rusty sword, trailing on the ground, \nleft, as it came m contact with the stones in the \nroad, a stream of fire all the way.\" It was Lieu- \ntenant Jacques, of Newburyport, who put an \nend to the war with the Norridgewook Indians, \nby killing their ally and inciter, the French \nJesuit, Sebastian Rall^. Here Arnold's expedi- \ntion against Quebec encamped and recruited ; \nand here were built and manned not only the \nprivateers, that the better feeling of to-day calls \npirates, which raked British commerce to the \nvalae of millions into this port, but the sloop \nWasp, which fought as fiercely as her namesake \nfights, in three months capturing thirteen mer- \nchantmen, engaging four shipsrof-the-line; and \nfinally, after a bitter struggle, going down with \nall her men at the guns and all her colors flying. \nIt is still interesting to read of her exploits, \ncopied in the Journad of the old Marine Insur- \nance rooms as the news came in day by day, \nand to fancy the ardor and spirit with which \nthose lines were penned by hands long since \nashes; ardor and spirit universally shared, \nsince, before that brief career of valor, New- \nburyport had on the 3Ist of May, anticipated \nthe Declaration of Independence, published on \nthe 19th of July following, by instructing the \nCongress at Philadelphia that, if the Colonies \nshould be declared Independent, ^Hhis town \nwill, with their lives and tortune3, support them \nin the measure.\" Here, too, was built the first \nship that ever displayed our flag upon the \n^ Thames, a broom at her peak that day, after \n* Van Tromp's fashion, to tell the story of how \nshe had swept the seas. Nor is the town unfa- \nmiliar with such daring deeds as that done, \nduring the Revolution, when a British trans- \nport of four guns was observed in the bay veer- \ning and tacking to and Iro through the fog, as \nif uncertain of her whereabouts, and, surmising \nthat she supposed herself in Boston Bay, Cap- \ntain Offin Boardman, with his n^en, went off in \nawhaleboat and offered his services to pilot her \nin, the offer being of course accepted, the siiip \nhove to, and Captain Offin Boardman presently \nstanding on the quarter-deck exchanging the \nusual greetings with the master of the trans- \nport while his companions mounted to his side; \ntiiat done, he suddenly turned and ordered the \nBritish flag to be struck, his order was exe- \ncuted, and, wholly overpowered in their sur- \nprise, the crew and the transport were safely \ncarried over the bar and moored at the wharves \nin Newburyport. Indeed, her history declares \nthe place to have been In other respects far In \nadvance of many of her contemporaries ; she \nhad, not only the first of our ships upon the \nThanies, but the first ch.in-bridge in America, \nas well as the first toll-bridge, initiated the first \ninsurance company, had the first incorporated \nwoolen mill, the first incorporated academy, \nthe first female high school, two of the first \nmembers of the Anti-Slavery Society, which \nnumbered twelve in all, the first volunteer \ncompany for the Revolution, the first volunteer \n\n\n\ncompany against the Rebellion, the first bishop, \nand the first graduate of Harvard — the last at a \ntime when sundry students guilty of misde- \nmeanors were publicly whipped by the presi- \ndent, a punishment, whether unfortunately or \notherwise, now out of date in that institution, to \nwhich Newburyport has given some presidents \nand many professors. Washingtop, Lafayette, \nTalleyrand, have all made some spot in the \ntown fiEtmous, one living here, one being enter- \ntained here, and one performing his great sleep- \ning-act in a bed in the old Pnnce House. From \nhere Brissot went back to France to die on the \nscaffold of the ' Girondists. Here White field \ndied and lies entombed. Here Parson Miltoo, \nthat son of thunder, used to make his evening^ \nfamily prayer a pattern for preachers: \"O \nLord ! keep us this night from the assassin, the \nincendiary, and the devil, for Christ's sake, \namen.\" Here the weighty jurist . Theophilus \nParsons was born and bred ; here John Quincy \nAdams and RufUs King studied law ; here \nCusbing rose, and Garrison, and Gough ; here \nthe ereat giver George Peabody once dwelt and \noften came; here John Pierrepoint wrote his \nbest verses ; here the artist Bricher first found \ninspiration; here Harriet Llvermore, that \nardent missionary of the East whom ^' Snow- \nbound \" celebrates, was born ; here the Lowells \nsprung; hardly more than a gunshot off, on \none side, is the ancestral home of the Longfel- \nows, and, on the other, Whittier lives and \nsings. Here, also, has been the home of vari- \nous inventors of renown ; the compressibility \nof water was here discovered ; here steel en- \ngraving by a simple and beautiful process was \nInvented ; here the machine for making nails, \nwhich had previously been painfully hammered \nout one by one ; here an instrument for mea- \nsuring the speed with which a ship goes through \nthe sea, and here a new span for timber bridges, \nused now on most of our larger rivers, bridging \nthe Merrimack, Kennebec, Connecticut, and' \nSchuylkill ; almost every mechanic, Indeed, has \nsome fancy on which he spends bis leisure, one \namusing himself with making the delicate cal- \nculations necessary, and then Just as delicately \nburnishing brazen reflectors for telescopes, be- \nfore his heart was broken by those refractors \nwith which Safford and Tuttle (both connected \nwith the town) have swept the sky ; another \noccupying himself, to the neglect of business, \nwith the model of a machine in which all his \nsoul was rapt, and which, unknown to him, an \nancient had invented a couple of thousand \nyears ago, while, others are busy with the \nmore useful, low-water reporters, and with \nthose improvements in the manufacture of \ntobacco which have all sprung from a son of \nthe town. It is in mechanics that Newbury- \nport has always excelled ; her shipyards once \nlined all the water-side there ; shortly after \nthe Revolution, wishing to export lumber, and \nhaving but few ships, she bound the, lumber \ntogether in firm rafts, with a cavity in the \ncentre for provisions and possible shelter, and \nfurnishing them with secure though rude sah- \ning apparatus, consigned them to the winds \nand waves, and after voyages of twenty-six \ndays they were registered in their ports on \nthe other side of the Atlantic ; but before that \nexperiment her ships were, and they still are, \nmodels to the whole world, for here were \nlaunched those fieetest clippers that ever cut \nthe wav.e, the Dreadnaught and the R^e& \n\n\n\nNEWBUETPOET- \n\n\n\n27 \n\n\n\nThey go out, Irat they never come back ; great \nEast Indiamen no longer ride at anchor in her \noffing as they used to do ; tbe bar of the Merri- \nmack, which once In about a hundred years \naccumulates into such an insuperable obstacle \nthat the waters find a new channel, is a foe \nthey do not care to face when once piloted safely \nover its white line ; and, though many things \nhave been done with piers, and buoys, and a \nbreakwater built by Government and crushed \nlike a toy by the next storm, it etill binds its \nspell abouit Newburyport commerce. Possibly \ni^ by any other magic, the town could ever \ngrow sufficiently to require the filling up of the \nflats, then the stream, inclosed in a narrower \nand deeper channel, would find sufficient force \nto drive before it the envious sands which now \nthe Gape Ann currents sweep Into its mouth. \n\nNevertheless, the bar alone is not adequate \nto account for the financial misfortunes of the \ntown ; ships go up to New Orleans over much \nmore dangerous waters ; and the Embargo of \ntbe early part of the century bears by far the \ngreater responsibility. Then the great hulks \nrotted at the wharves unused, with tar-barrels, \nwhich the angry sailors called Madison's Night- \ncaps, inverted over the topmasts to save tbe \nrigging, while their crews patrolled the streets \nla riotous and hungry bands, and observed the \nfirst anniversary of the Embargo Act with toll- \ning bells, minute-guns, flags at half-mast, and \na procession with muffled drams and crapes. \nPerhaps it was owing to this state of feeling in \nthe town that the old slanders of her showing \nblue-lights to the befogged enemy arose. To- \ngether with the Embargo came the Great Fire ; \nevery wooden town has suffered a conflagra- \ntion, and Newburyport has always been a prey \nto the Incendiary ; but her celebrated fire broke \nout on a spring night some sixty years ago, \nwhen nearly every one was wrapped in the \nfirst iflumber, and spread with the speed of the \nlightnings over a track of more than sixteen \nacres, in the most compact and wealthy portion \nof the town. Such an immense property was \ndestroyed that the whole place was impover- \nished ; many &milies were totally beggared ; \npeople hurried to the scene flrom a dozen \nmiles away ; women passed the buckets In tlie \nranks, and helpless crowds swung to and firo \nin tbe thoroughfares. The spectacle is de- \nscribed by an old chronicle as having been \nterribly sublime ; the wind, changing, blew \nstrongly, and drove the flames in fresh direc- \ntions, where they leaped in awfhl columns high \ninto the air, and stretched a sheet of fire from \nstreet to street ; the moon became obscured In \nthe murky atmosphere that bung above the \ntown, but the town itself was lighted as bril- \nliantly as by day, and the heat melted the \nglass in the windows of houses not destroyed ; \nwhile the crash of falling walls, the roaring of \nchimneys like distant thunder, the volumes of \nflames wallowing upward firom the ruins and \nfilling the air with a shower of fire Into which \nthe birds fiuttered and dropped, the weird re- \nflection in the river, the lowing of the cattle, \nthe cries of distress from the people, made the \nscene cruelly memorable ; and though after- \nward that portion of the town was rebuilt \nwith brick, Newburyport never recovered fi*om \nthe shock and loss. Some years subsequently \na boy of seventeen was convicted of another \narson, and in spite of much exertion to the \ncontrary^ expiated the penalty of the law. But \n\n\n\na fiaming Nemesis fen upon the town, perhaps \nfor having allowed the boy's execution, and \never since that time other incendiaries, emu- \nlous of his example, have constantly made it \ntheir victim ; one, in partlculai, being so fre- \nquent in his attempts, that on a windy or \nstormy nigllt the blaze was so sure to burst \nforth that the citizens could not sleep In their \nbeds ; he appeared to be the subiect of a mania \nfor burning churches, almost all of the sixteen \nin town having been fired, sometimes two to- \ngether, and on several occasion* successfully ; \nand no dweller in Newburyport will easily for- \nget the night on which the old Nortii Church \nwas burned, when every flake of tbe wild snow- \nstorm seemed to be a s^^ark of fire, and more \nthan one superstitious wretch, plunging out \ninto the gale, could find no centre to the uni- \nversal glare, and shuddered with l^igh^ in \nbelief that the Bay of Judgment had come at \nlast. \n\nBut one extraordinary thing or another is \nalways happening in Newburyport; if it is not \na fire, it is a gale ; and if it is not a gale, it is \nan earthquake. The situation of the town is \nvery fine. As you approach it by land, bleak \nfields and llchened boulders warn you of tbe \ninhospitable sea-coast ; but once past their bar- \nrier, and you are in the midst of gardens. The \ntown lies on a gentle hillside, with such slope \nand gravelly bottom that an hour after the \nheaviest rains its streets afford good walking. \nBebind it lies an excellent glacial moraine and \na champaign country, shut in by low hills, and \nonce, most probably, the bed of the river. Its \nadjacent territory is netted in rivers and rivu- \nlets ; the broad Merrimack, with its weird and \nstrange estuary, imprisoned by Plum Island ; \nthe Artichoke, a succession of pools lying In \nsoft, semi-shadows beneath tbe overhanging \ngrowth of beech and oak, and feathery elms \nlighting the darker masses, each pool enfolded \nin such wi'^e that one seds no outlet, but slides \nalong with the slow tide, lifts a bough, and \nslips into the next, where some white-stemmed \nbirch perhaps sends a perpetual rustle through \nthe slumberous air, a wild grape-vine climbs \nfi*om branch to branch, or an early reddening \ntupelo shakes its gay mantle in tbe scattered \nsun, and with its reflex in the dark trans- \nparency, wakens one firom half the sleepy spell \nof the enchantment there ; these streams, with \nthe Quascacucquen or Parker, the Little, Pow- \nwow, Back, and Eowley rivers, with their \nslender, but foaming black and white affluents, \nall make it a place of meadows ; and he who \ndesires to see a meadow in perfection, f^ill of \nemerald and golden tints, and claret shadows, \nwithdrawing into distance till lost in the spar- \nkle of the sea, must seek It here, where Heade \nfound material for his exquisite and 'dainty \nmarsh and meadow views. \n\nTbe scenery around the town, it may thus be \nimagined, Is something of unusual beauty ; on \none side are to be had the deciduous woods of \nthe Stackyard Gate, where the carriage-wheels \ncrackle through winding miles of firagrant \nbrake and fern, and on the other the stately \npines and hemlocks of FollymlU, the air sweet \nas an orange-grove with resinous perfUme, \nwhile the river-road to Haverhill, with West \nAmesbury swathed in azure mist upon the op- \nposite hill, and sapphire reaches. of the stream ^ \nunfolding one after another, is a series of rap- \ntures. The people, well acquainted with the \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\nNEWBUBYPOET. \n\n\n\nbeauty that surrounds tbem, are very fond of \ntheir chief river ; it is the scene of flrolicklng tbe \nsummer long, and in winter Its black and ice- \nedged tides seem to be the only pulses of the \nfrozen town. To some the life upon this river \nis only play, to others it is deadly earnest, for a \nlarge portion of those who live along the banks \non the Water street, the most picturesque of \nthe highways, are fishermen and their house- \nbolds, familiar with all the dangers of the seas \n— ^the babies there rocked in a dory, the men, \nsooner or lateV, wrecked upon the Georges ; \nmeanwhile the men mackerel all summer down \nIn the Bay of Ghaleurs, pilot off and on the \ncoast dark nights and dreary days, run the bar \nand the breakers with a storm following the \nkeel ; many of them, as they adyance in life, \nleave their seafaring and settle down at shoe- \nmaking, or buy a plot of land and farm it in \nan untaught way, but Just as many find their \nlast home in a grave rolled between two \nwaves. \n\nWhen a storm comes np, and the fog4>anks \nsweep in from sea, hiding the ray of the twin \nharbor-llghtp, and the rote upon tbe beach- \nwhich every night is heard through the qa^et \nstreets beating like a heart, BweUa into a sullen \nand unbroken roar— when the shipyards are \nafloat, the water running bieast-high across \nthe wharves, tbe angry tides rising knee-deep \nin the lower lanes, and the spray tossed over \nChe tops of the houses there whose foundations \nbegin to tremble and whose dwellers fly for \nsafety, then the well-sheltered people up in the \nremo'.e High street, where nothing is known of \nthe storm but the elms tossing their bou&rhs \n&bout, may have sorry fancies of some vessel \ndriving on Flnm Island, of parting decks and of \ntinpitied cries in the horror of blackness and \nbreaker — may even hear the minute-guns in \npauses of the gale ; but the stress of weather \nfalls upon the homes and hearts of these \nwatchers on the Watcf street, for to them each \nswell and burst of the blast means danger to \ntheir own roof and the life snatched from a \nhusband's or a father's lips. Mrs. £. Yale \nSmith in her history of Newburyport makes \nthrilling mention of these storms, with the \nwrecks of the Primrose, the Pocahontas, the \nArgus, and others, and every resident of the \nplace has had before his eyes the picture which \nshe draws of '^ tbe heavy moaning of the sea — \na bark vainly striving to clear tlie breakers — \nblinding snow — a slippery deck — stiff and \nglazed ropes— hoarse commands that the cruel \nwinds seize and carry far away firom the ear of \nthe sailor — a crash of tons of falling water \nbeating In the hatches — shrieks which no man \nheard, and ghastly corpses on the deceitful, \nshifting sands, and tne great ocean-cemetery \nstill holding iu awful silence the lost bodies of \nthe dead.'' Such things, of course, make the \nplace the home of romance, ani Mr. George \nLunt, a poet of no mean pretensions and a \nnative of the town, has founded his novel of \n^^Easiford\" on the incidents Its daily life \naffords. \n\nNewburyport has also known the effects of \nother convulsions of nature ; a hailstorm, with \na deposit twelve inches in depth, is still spiken \nof there, together with snow:4onns tunneled \nfrom door to door, a northeaster that blew the \nspray of the ^ea a dozen miles inland and \nloaded the orcnard boughs with salt crystals \n%nd whirlwinds mighty enough to blow dow \n\n\n\none meeting-house and to lift another with aU \nthe people in it and set it in a different spot — \nwhirlwinds coming a quarter of a century too \nsoon, as, if they had but moved a meeting-hoiise \nthere at a later day, a parish would not have \nbeen so divided on the question of location aa \nstraightway to become, one-half of them, Epis-, \ncopalians for whom Queen Anne endowed a* \nchapeL But worse than whirlwinds, storms, \nfires, or the devastating yeilow-fever that once \nnearly decimated the place, were the earth- \nquakes that for more than a hundred years, at \none period, held high carnival there, and are \nstia occasionally felt. The first of these oc- \ncurred in 1638, on the noon of a summer day, \nas the colonists, assembled In town-meetings, \nwere discussing their unfledged affairs. We \ncan well imagine their consternation, Just three \nyears established, their houses built, woods \nfelled, flelds largely cleared, and the June corn \nJust greenly springing up, to flnd that their en- \ncampment on this spot, bo rich in soil, so con- \nvenient to the sea, so well guarded firom the \nIndian, had left them the prey to an enemy \nwhose terrors were so much worse than aU \nothers in the degree in which they partook of \nthe dark, unknown, and inflnite. It was not \nlong before another earthquake followed the \nfirst, its trembling and vibration and sudden \nshocks preceded, as that had been, by a roar \nlike the bursting of great guns, while birds for- \nsook their nests, dogs bowled, and the whole \nbrute creation manifested the extreme of terror; \nby-and-by there came one that lasted a week, \nwith six or eight shocks a day, then one where \nthe shocks were repeated for half an hour with- \nout any cessation, and presently others where \nthe ground opened and left fissures a foot in \nwidth, where sailors on the coast supposed their \nvessels to have struck, the sea roared and \nswelled, flashes of Are ran along the ground, \namazing noises were heard like peals and claps \nof thunder, walls and chimneys fell, cellars \nopened, floating islands were formed, springs \nwere made dry in one site and burst out in an- \nother, and tons of fine white sand were thrown \nup, which, being cast upon the coals, burnt like \nbrimstone. Various causes have been assigned \nto these earthquakes, not the least absurd of \nwhich was the supposition of a cave reaching \nfrom the sea to the headwaters of the Merri- \nmack, filled with gases, into which the high \ntides rushing made the occurrence of the \nphenomeoa ; but as they have always appeared \nIn connection with more tremendous disturb- \nances in other pajts of the world. It is probable \nthat they are but the same pulsations of the \nold earth's arteries, felt in Vesuvius or Peru \nwith more terrible effect. Although there have \nbeen more than two hundred of these convul- \nsions, nobody was ever seriously injured by \ntheir means, and so used to tbem did the peo- \nple become, that finally they are spoken of In \ntheir records merely as ^^the earttiquake,\" as \none would speak of any natural event, of the \ntide or ot the moon. For the last century, \nhowever, their outbursts have been of very In- \nfrequent occurrence, and have nowise marred \nthe repose of the sweet old place, which now \nand then awakens to storm or fever sufilcient \nto prevent stagnation, but for the most part \nslumbers on serenely by Its riverside, the Ideal \nof a large and ancient country-town, peaceful \nenough, and almost beautiful enough, lor Par- \nadise. \n\n\n\nDOVER. \n\n\n\nA DOZEN miles above Portsmontb lies the old \ntown of Dover, on the route to the White \nMonntalns, which hills, as It has been said, were \nfirst explored by a party ft'om the place, and \nalways previously believed (both by the Indians \nand many of the settlers) to be haunted by \npowerful and splendid spirits. Dover is the old- \nest town in the State, and though Portsmouth \nmay have the first church-organ, Dover has the \nhonor of having possessed the first church- \n•^dlfice, strongly palisaded in the days of primi- \ntive worship there. This town is the Cocheco \nof the early settlers, and is situated upon a \n8tr<^am of that name, a branch of the Pisca- \ntaqua, which by its cascades — one of more than \nthirty-two feet — offiered good opportunity of \nmill sites to the first fellers of the forest, allow- \ning them to clear their ground and manufacture \ntheir lumber at once. Of these opportunities \nlater generations have not been slow to take \nadvantage, and the fiow of water now turns the \nponderous machinery of multitudes of looms, \nthe yards of whose manufacture are numbered \nonly by millions, while an enormous backwater \nexists in the reserve of the neighboring town of \nStrafford, suflicient at any time to drown out a \ndrouth. \n\nOf all the manufacturing towns of New Eng- \nland, Dover Is one of the most picturesque, and, \nfrom some of the loftier points within its \nlimits, meadow, lake, river and phantom \nmountain-ranges combine to make a varied \nview of pastoral beauty. But there are other \nviews to the flill as Interesting for the lover of \nhumanity, when at night all the mill-windows \nblaze out and are repeated in the river, or \nwhen at noon the thousands of operatives pour \nforth fjrom the fiftctory-gates, and busy Peace \neeems half disguised. Still it Is Peace, and \nProsperity beside her; and much it would \namaze some ghost of the dead and gone could \nhe, without losing his thin and impalpable \nessence altogether, obtain a noonday glimpse \nof the scene of his old troubles. For the place \nhas not been in the past a haunt of Peace — from \nthe time, dnring the last war with England, \nwhen the ships, kept f^om going to sea by the \nAmerican powers, were drawn up the river to \nDo^^er le^t they should be destroyed at the \n^^harves of Portsmouth by the British powers, \nto the lime, a hundred and seventy-five years \n\n\n\nbefore, when the followers of Mrs. Ann Hutch- \ninson, with their Antlnomlan heresies, starred \nup sedition among a people for whose preserva- \ntion ttom English tyranny on the one hand, \nand Indian cruelty on the other, perfect unan- \nimity of heart and mind was necessary — with \nall the troubles in the meantime occasioned \nby Mason, who made claim, by royal grant, to \nthe land the settlers had purchased of the \nAborigines and all the troubles with the Abori- \ngines themselves. \n\nDover is more peculiarly the scene of the old \nIndian outrages than any other New England \ntown can be considered, inasmuch as it was not \nonly there that the £&mou8 Waldron Massacre \noccurred, but the place was also the stage of \nmost of. the events that, during a dozen years, \nled up to that terrific night's work, and that \nconstitute a bit of interesilng history never \nfaithfully written out, and which now probably \nnever will be, several of the links being lost, \nand remaining only to be conjectured from \ntheir probabilities. \n\nIn 1640 there were four distinct settlements \non the Piscataqua and its confluent streams; \nbut each having an individual and voluntary \nmanagement, and all of them being too much \ndivided in opinion to establish a government \nof mutual concessions among themselves, and \nhope of any protection from the King, then in \nsorry plight himself, being out of the question, \nthe four settlements agreed in one thing, and \nunanimously requested permission to come \nunder the jurisdiction of the Massachusetts \nColony — a request very gladly granted, as, \nwhile reserving rights of property to the \nowners, it afibrded that Colony better oppor- \ntunity to establish the boundaries, three miles \nnorth of the Merrimack and any branch thereof, \nwhich she had 'always claimed ; and in return \nfor this opportunity she allowed deputies who \nwore not Church-members to sit in the General \nCourt— a privilege she had not given her own \npeople, but which was perhaps necessary where \nbut few, as in New Hampshire, were of the \nPuritan persuasion. Under this arrangement, \nRichard Waldron was for more than twenty \nyears a deputy, and several years Speaker of \nthe Assembly ; he was also a Justice, and the \nScrgeant-Major of the Militia in that part of \nthe coonti'y; and when the conn^ectlon with \n\n\n\n2K) \n\n\n\nDOVER, \n\n\n\nICassachnRetts hftd been eeyered, he was, for a \ntime, the Chief Magtetrate of the E^roTlnce. \nHe tiad married in England ; and, being a \nperson of some wealth, on his arrival here he \nhad bought large tracts of land, received large \ngrants for improvement, had built the first \nsaw-mill on the Gocheco, followed it with \nothers* and established a trading-post with the \nIndians. He was evidently a man of remark- \nable character, respected by his neighbors \nfor his uprightness, and everywhere for his \nability. \n\nWhatever he did was done with a will ; as a \nmagistrate he persecuted the Quakers to the \nextent of the law, though he was known to \nshed tears when passing sentence of death \nupon an offender ; as a landlord he fought the \nclaims of Mason and his minions persistently, \nbeing thrice suspended Arom the Council, and \ntwice sentenced to fines which he paid only \nafter an arrest of his body ; while as a soldier \nhe was no less zealous in behalf of the public \nInterest than in private capacity he had proved \nhimself in behalf of his own. He appears to \nhave exercised a certain fascination on the \nIndians of the locality, being able for many \nyears to do with them as he would, and Cocheco \nhaving long been spared by them when the \nwar-whoop resounded over almost every other \nsettlement in the land — a circumstance aptly \nillustrating the adage that things are what you \nmake them, since, so long as the Indians were \ntreated like brothers, they iUlfllled the law ot \nlove, in rude but faith ml manner; but once \ntrapped like wild beasts, and wild beasts they \nbecame. \n\nThese Indians were chiefly the Pennacooks, \na tribe belonging to the region of the Merri- \nmack and its tilbutaries, who traded their \npelts at Waldron's post for ammun'tion, blan- \nkets, fineries, and such articles as they were \nallowed to have, and who on more than one \noccasion showed their capability tor gratitude \nJust as strongly as they subsequently showed it \nfor revenge. They sometimes took advantage \nof Waldron^s absence to procure firom his part- \nner the liquor which he would not sell to \nthem ; but in the main they seemed to have a \nwDolesome fear of him, not unmixed with \naffection and trust in his honor. This tribe \nhad been almost annihilated by the Mohawks, \nor Men-eaters, of whom they mtertained a \n(leadly terror, and by an ensuing pestilence ; \nand being once accused of unfriendly inten- \ntions, by messengers sent Arom the settlements, \nthey did not scruple to disarm suspicion by be- \ntraying their own weakness, and averring that \nthey consisted of only twenty-foui warriors, \nwith their squaws and pappooses ; while their \nwise old sachem, Passaconaway, whose people \nbelieved that he could make water burn, raise \na green leaf from the ashes of a dry one, and \nmetamorphose himself into a living flame, had \nearly seen the tutllity of attempts upon the \nEnglish, had always advised his subjects to \npeace, and had imbued his son, Wonnelancet, \nso strongly with his opinions, that the latter \nnever varied his rule from that whidi his \nfather's had been. When the war with King \nPhilip of the Wampanoags broke out, a body \nof soldiery was sent to the Pennacooks to as- \ncertain the part they intended to play ; but \nseeing so large a company approaching, the \nIndians, who had had no idea of joining the \nwar, concealed themselves; upon which, in \n\n\n\nmere wantonness, the soldiery burned their \nwigwams and provisions. Instead of reveng- \ning this injury, they only withdrew further \naway, to the headwaters of the Connecticut, \nand passed a quiet winter in their usual pur- \nsuits. In the meanwhile, however, the other \ntribes — ^Tarratines, Ossipees, and Pequawketa — \nbecame restless, and presently commenced hos- \ntilities upon the ouilying points ; and Fal- \nmouth, Saco Scarborough, Wells, Woolwich, \nEittery, Durham, Salmon Falls, and other spots, \nwere red with slaughters, and in three months \neighty men were killed between the Piscataqua \nand the Kennebec. With the winter there \ncame a tremendous fall of snow, and that, to- \ngether with the severity oi the season and the \nSimine that distressed them, occasioned these \nIndians to sue lor peace ; and, coming to \nMajor Waldron, they expressed sorrow for \ntheir conduct, and made repeated promises of \nbetter behavior for the future. But, this being \ndone, the survivors among King Philip's men, \nwho, at his death, fearing total extirpation, \nhad fled flrom their own forests and dissemi- \nnated themselves among the nortiiern tribes^ \ninflamed them anew with memory of wrong \nand outrage, endured doubtless, as well as com- \nmitted, and the hostijitles began again by a de- \nmonstration at Falmouth, and were continued, \nthe savages burning the homesteads as the \ndwellers abandoned them, till between Casco \nBay and the Penobscot not a single EngUsh \nSettlement was left. At this time, the Penna- \ncooks, who had not been concerned in the' \nbutcheries at all, seem to have been used ,by \nMajor Waldron to secure a peace which he \nalmost despaired of obtaining In any other \nway ; and it was through their agency, it may \nbe supposed, that some four hundred of the \nEastern Indians, of all tribes, with their women \nand children, assembled in Cocheco, on the \n6th of September, 1676, to sign a full treaty \nof peace with Ms^or Waldron, whom, the his- \ntorian Belknap says, they looked upon as a \nfriend and father. \n\nAt this instant a body of soldiery, that had \nbeen dispatched to the northward, with orders \nto report to Major Waldron, the various settle- \nments on theii way being directed to reinforce \nthem as they might be able, arrived at Cocheco; \nand, obediently to the instructions which they \nbrought. Major Waldron had no choice but to \nsurround and seize the whole four hundred of \nthe confldlng Indians. \n\nTo Major Waldron this most have been an \nexceedingly trying moment : his plighted word, \nhis honor, his friendship for this poor people \nwhom he knew so well, all his sentiments as a \nman and a Christian, must have drawn him one \nway, while his duty as a soldier compelled him \nthe other To resign his command in the face \nof the enemy and under such instructions \nwould doubtless have involved him in most \nserious difflculties ; to disobey these instruc- \ntions imposed upon him a too fearfhl responsi- \nbility in case of Aiture depredations by those \nwhom he should hare spared against his or- \nders ; he was a soldier, and bis first duty was \nobedience ; and, for the rest, the young cap- \ntains of the force sent by the Governor were \non fire with eagerness, and it was with difli- \nculty he could restrain theii martial spirit \nwhile he took counsel with himseit In this \nstrait the Major unfortunately thought of -9* \nstratagem that might be uaedi and having, It ia \n\n\n\nDOVER. \n\n\n\n31 \n\n\n\npaid, assured the Indians, who had been a little \nalarmed by the arrival of the soldiery, that they \nhad nothing to apprehend, be proposed to them \na sham fight with powder, but without balls, \nand on the signal of the discharge of their guns \n— making that a pretext for considering that \nthe Indians had violated the understanding — \nthe soldiery surrounded them, by an artfiil mili- \ntary movement, and with one or two exceptions \nmade prisoners of the whole body. One of \nthese exceptions was a young Indian who, \nescaping, sought and found refUge with Mrs. \nElizabeth Heard, and in his thankfulness pro- \nmised hei a recompense of ftiture safety, and \none day redeemed the pledge. \n\nAlthough the Pennacooks were immediately \nseparated from the other prisoners and dis- \ncharged, upon which Major Waldroir had per- \nhaps relied for his own exculpation with them, \nand only half of the whole number were sent \nto Boston, where some six or eight, being con- \nvicted of old murders, were hanged, and the \nrest Bold into foreign slavery, yet they, together \nwith all other Indians both &r and near, re- \ngarded it as a treachery upon Major Waldron's \npart that absolved them from all ties and de- \nmanded a bitter reparation. It is said that \nthere is no sufficient evidence of their having \nbeen ' invited to treat for more definite peace, \nand that they had no guarantee of protection in \ntheir assemblage at Cocheco ; but the mere tact \nof their quiet presence in that number, an un- \nusual if not unprecedented thing with them, \nimplies that the occasion was a special one, \nand that they must have had Major Waldron's \nverbal promise of safety at least, while, if it had \nbeen otherwise, it would have been absurd and \nimpossible for them to regard the affair as so \nsignal and abominable a treachery of liis, \nworthy to be remembered with such undying \nhatred and expiated in his own person with \nsuch torture. This view of the facts is forti- \nfied, moreover, by the subsequent action of the \nPennacooks. That they should* have fancied \nthemselves so peculiarly aggrieved as they did, \nshould so long in all their wanderings have \ncherished their rancor, and should at last have \nexecuted vengeance through their own tribe, \nin itself testifies snfiaciem'y that they had been \nused by Major Waldron to allure the other In- \ndians into the treaty under promises of protec- \ntion, and felt the course which they pursued to \nbe a necessary vindication of their honor as \nwell as a gratification of their passions. \n\nThey were not, however, in any situation to \npay their debt at once, and on being set at \nliberty they withdrew to their hunting-grounds, \nand as season after season rolled away had \napparently forgotten all about it. A grandson \nof old Passaconaway at last ruled them—Kan- \ncamagus, sometimes called John Hagkins. He \nwas a chief of diflferent spirit from the previous \nsachems, and the injuries his people had re- \nceived i^om the English rankled in his remem- \nbrance ; his thinned and sufiTering tribe, his \nstolen lands, his old wrongs, were perpetual \nstings ; and when finally the English, dispatch- \ning emissaries to the Mohawks, engaged their \nco-operation against the Eastern Indians, no- \nthing but impotence restrained his wrath. It \nis possible that even then, by reason of his dis- \ntresses, he might have been appeased, if the \nEnglish could ever have been brought to con- \nsider that the Indian's nature was human \nnatuTBi and to tieat tiim with anything but \n\n\n\nviolence when he was strong and contempt \nwhen he was weak. Several letters which \nEancamagus sent to the Governor of New \nHampshire, and which are curiosities, are ad- \nduced to prove his amenable disposition at thia \ntime: \n\n''Mat 16th, 1686. \n\n\" Honor Governor my Aiend You my friend. \nI desire your worship and your power, because \nI hope you can do some great matters — ^this \none. I am poor and naked and I have no men \nat my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he \nwill kill me every day and night. If your wor- \nship when please pray help me you no let \nMohogs kill me at my place at Malamake \nBever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will \nsubmit your worship and your power.— And \nnow I want ponder and such alminishun, shatt \nand guns, because I have forth at my home and \nI plant theare. \n\n\" This all Indian hand, but pray you do con- \nsider your humble servant, John Haokins.\" \n\nThis letteir was written for Eancamagus by an \nIndian teacher, who signed it, together with \nKing Hary, Old Robin, Mr. Jorge Rodunno- \nnukgus, and some dozen others, by making their \nrespective marks. The next letter is a much \nmore complicated aflTair In style ; it is dated on \nthe same day. \n\n** Honor Mr. Governor : \n\n\" Now this day I com your house, I want se \nyou, and I bring my hand at before you I want \nshake hand to you if your worship when please \nthen you receive my hand then shake your \nhand mid my hand. You my friend because I \nremember at old time when live my grant \nfather and grant mother then Englishmen com \nthis country, then my grant father and English- \nmen they make a good govenant, they friend \nallwayes, my grant father loving at place called \nMalamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog \nand Panukkog, that one rever great many \nnames, and I bring you this few skins at this \nfirst time I will give you my friend. This all \nIndian hand« John Hawkins, Sagamore.'* \n\nThese letters winning no notice from the \ncontemptuous official, on the same day were \nfollowed by another : \n\n\"Please your Worship— I will intreat you \nmatther, you my friend now ; this, if my Indian \nhe do you long, pray you no put your law, be- \ncause Bom my Indians fooll, some men much \nlove drunk then he no know what he do,'maybe \nhe do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you' \nmust let me know what he done because I will \nponis him what have done, you, you my friend, \nif you desire my business then sent me I will \nhelp you if I can. Mr. John Hogkins.\" \n\nNone of these letters having produced any \nefiTect, the sachem abandoned the one-sided cor- \nrespondence, and on the next morning indited \nanother epistle to Mr. Mason, the claimant of \nthe Province, \n\n\"Mr. Mason— Pray I want speake you a few \nwords if your worship when please, because I \nCQffi parfas. I will speake this governor but \nhe go away so he say at last night, and so far \nI understand this governor his power that your \npower now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray 11 \nyou take what I want pray come to me because \nI want go hom at this day. \n\n'♦Your humble servant, \n\n' John Hagsins, Indian Sogmon.\" \n\n\n\n«ss \n\n\n\nDOVER, \n\n\n\nThere was somethlDg toncbing In these le^ \nten, to any bat an eady settler; but appa- \nrently they were quite disregarded, and Kan- \ncamagns had every right to feel Ill-used by \nthe neglect which his petition for protection \nfh>m the Mohawks met, and It is probable that \nthis waiting at rich men's gates only deepened \nthe old grudge. At the close of the summer \nvarious aflyonts were put upon the settlers at \nSaco, and their dogs were killed ; after which \nthe Indians gathered tUeli own corn and re- \nmoved their families to some unknown place. \nThis resembling a warlike menace, messengers \nwere sent, to discover Its meaning, who were \nInformed that the Pennacooks had received \nthreats from the Mohawks, and had withdrawn \nfrom the settlements that the English might \nnot suffer on their account — ^&r too plausible a \nreply and too magnanimous action for the \ntruth. But an agreement of flrierdshlp was \nthen made, and was signed, . among the rest, \nby Eancamagus anu another chief named \nMesandouit. \n\nEancamagus had no intention of making this \nanything but a brief truce, and he improved \nthe time to gather around himself the little \nband of the sullen Pennacooks, and to strike \nhands with the Pequawkets, and the rem- \nnant of the more northerly tribes, while several \nof the Strange Indians, who were among the \nfour hundred prisoners of that 6th of Sep- \ntember, escaped from their slavery, returned \nto New England, found their way to the haunts \nof the Pennacooks and Ossipees. and with the \nrecital of their sufferings assisted him in fan- \nning the steadily smeldering ^res of lf!ite to a \nfury against their betrayer on that unforgotten \nday. \n\nNor had Major Waldron endeavored at all to \npacify the Indians, in the meantime. His \nprominent position alone would have kei't his \njjrreat misdeed fresh in their remembrance, \neven without his accustomed hot-headed en- \nergy of action. No little act of his that could \nembitter one savage remained untold by an- \nother ; tliey fancied deceit In all his dealings \nnow, and used to tell ttiat in buying their peltry \nhe would say his ^wn hand weighed a pound, \nand would lay it on the other scale. He had \nbren in command, too, on a frontier expedition, \nwhere, a conference being held with arms laid \naside, Waldron, suspecting foul play, seized \nthe point of a lance which he espied hid be- \nneath a board, and, drawing it forth, advanced \nbrandishing it toward the other party, who \nhad probably concealed it there to be used \nonly in case of a second act of treachery on \nhis own part, and the conference broke up in \na skirmish, in which several of the Indians, \nincluding a powerful chieftain, were killed, a \ncanoe-full drowned, and five were captured, \ntogether with a thousand pounds of dried beef \n— and another mark was made on the great \nscore which at some time the Indians meant to \ncross out. \n\nSir Edmund Andros was the Governor of \nNew England now, and in the spring of 1688, \nfired with ambitious projects or with cupidity, \nhe sailed down the coast In a man-of-war, and \nfailing to achieve any other doughty action, \nplundered, in the absence of its master, the \nhouse of the Baron d<^ St. Castlne, a French \nofficer, who had married the danghter of the \ngreat Tarratine chief, Modokawando. Castlne, \nburning with indignation, immediately used all \n\n\n\nhis influence, and It was great, to excite the \nIndians to avenge the injury and Insult; and \nftt)m unheeded complaints that their fisheries \nwere obstructed, their com devoured by cattle, \ntheir lands patented without consent, and their \ntrading accounts tampered with, they pro- \nceeded to reprisal, and the old difficulties \nbroke out afresh. They were all at an end, \nhowever, before the next summer. The crops \nwere m. the Indians went peaceably to and fro \nthrough the settlements, their wrongs seemed \nto be righted, their wounds to be healed ; thir- \nteen^ years had elapsed since the capture of \nthe four hundred, the settlers no longer re- \nmembered it, the Indians themselves never \nmade allusion to It; Waldron, now nearly \neighty years old, but fUll of vigor, relied \nsecurely on his power over the savages, his \nacqualhtance with their character, and his \nlong-acknowledged superiority ; the village, \nwith its five gariison-houses, into which tiie \nneighboring fomilies withdrew at night, but \nkept no watch, feeling safe behind the bolted \ngates of the great timber walls, reposed In aa \natmosphere of tranquillity and contentment, \nand no one suspected any guile. \n\nIt was while affairs were In, this comfort- \nable condition that, on t e 27th of June, 1689, \nthe Indians were observed rambling through \nthe town, on one errand and another. In \nfar more frequent numbers than usual or than \nseemed necessary for trade. Many strange \nlaces were amonft them ; and it was noticed \nthat their sidelong glances scrutinized the de- \nfenses very closely. To more than one house- \nwife a kindly squaw muttered hints of mischief, \nbut so darkly as to give only a vague sense of \ndanger. As night drew near, one or two of \nthe people, a little alarmed, whispered to \nMajor Waldron a fear that evil was in the air. \nWaldron laughed at them, told them to go and \nplant their pumpkins, and he would let them \nknow when the Indians were going to break \nout ; and being warned again at a later hour \nby a young man, who assured him there was \ngreat uneasiness In the settlement, he said iie \nknew the Indians perfectly, and there was not \ntlTe least occasion for concern. That night \nthe sachem, Mesandouit, was hospitably enter- \ntained at Waldron's table. \" Brother Waldron,\" \nsaid he, *^what would you do if the Strange \nIndians were to come now ?\" and Waldron \ncarelessly answered that he could assemble a \nhundred men by the lifting of his finger. It is \nnot said whether Mesandouit remained in the \ngarrison- house or not ; but on the same even- \ning a couple of squaws requested a night's \nlodging on the hearth, telling the Major that \na company of Indians were encamped a few \nmiles off, who were coming to trade tlieir \nbeaver on the next day. Several of the house- \nhold objected to the society of the squaws that \nnight, but it being dull weather, Waldron com- \npassionately said, ^*Liet the poor creatures \nlodge by the fire ;\" and by-and-by, in total im- \nsuspicion, setting no watch, and thinking no \nharm, the family retired to bed, while at three \nof the remaining garrison-houses other squaws \nhad obtained entrance and shelter on a similar \npretense. \n\nFive days before. Major Hlnchman, of Chelms- \nford, having heard from two friendly Indians \na strange story of hostile intentions against \nCocheco, had dispatched an urgent letter to \nthe Governor acquainting him with tne rumor. \n\n\n\nJ.t I'-.e pamo time, he wrote to Mr. Dinforth of \nllie Ciuncll, anj Ur. Da^rcilli iostaoLly for- \niTMiJi-iJ the letter, a:i<l l)og3ea the Governor to \nlus« no time, but to Bead to Cocheco \" on pur- \nI)os« ratbd than not at all ;\" yot for Boiue \nnneiplalned reason — wTietbor the Governor re- \ni;;irded the rumor as Idle, or could do nottilng \ntin bla Council' could be gathered — altliouRti \nUajor EiDCbman's letter waa dated on tne ild \nof June— It waa not till the !7th that aajr \nLttempt waa made to aitprUe Waldron of bla \ndanger. \n\n\"Boston, 27th Jane, 1689. \n\"Honorable Sir — Ibe Governor and Council \nhaving thU daj received a K-tler from UaJor \nTllncbman, of Cbelmerord, tliat some Indians \nare come Into tbeiu, wbo report tbat there Is a \nfathering of lodlans la or about Pennacooli, \n\n\n\nwith dcaljTiofpitschlof tatlioEnsllEh. Among \ntbe Buid loClaos 01.0 l.aiv^lns Is B..ld to bo ft \npr'nelpal destguer, and that they have a par- \nticular de^a agiiiost yoursplf and Mr, Pe^er \nCofBn, which the Coundl thougb t It neceBsary \nprewntlj to dispalch a Ivlce thereof, to glv« \njaa notice, thet you take care of jour own eafe- \ngiigrd, tliej iQtcnillng to endeavor to betray \nyou on A pretenelon of tr:ide. \n\n\"FlcasefurthwlthtoslgDl^tbelniDortbereof \n\nto Hr. CoSin and others, as yon shall tblnk ne- \n\ncessary, and advise of what Information yon \n\nmay at anytime receive of the Indiana' motions. \n\n\" By order in Council, \n\n\"Isi ADDDiaTON, Sec'y. \n\"To Major Rli^hard Waldroa and Mr. Peter \n\nCoffin, or either of them, at Cocbeeo ; these \n\nwith aU possible speed.\" \n\n\n\n,» PP» IN TTB WTIHDIO ITTO LEPT VBK I.I \n\n\n\nK avA'^TiJiVomef n \n\n\n\n9^ \n\n\n\nDOYEB. \n\n\n\nThe speed, however, came too late. When \nMr. Weare, the hearer of this agitated and 111- \nVFitten letter, on the night of Its date reached \nNewbury, a freshet had swollen the stream so \nthat it was impassable ; and while he was rid- \ning up and down the bank the squaws had been \nadmitted into the garrison-houses and had \nstretched themselves before the fires. These \nsquaws .hcid asked in an incidental way to be \ntold how to go out if they should wish to leave \nthe place after the others were asleep, and had \nwillingly been shown the way; and accordingly \nin the dead of the night, noiselessly as lie com- \ning of darkness itself, the bolts were withdrawn \nby them, and a low whistle crept out into the \nthickets and the ambush of the river-banks, \nand sounding their dreadfiil war-whoop In re- \nply, the Indians leaped within the gates. The \nsquaws, who had faithfOlly Informed themselves, \nhurriedly signified the number of people in each \napartment, and the invaders divided in every \ndirection, and missed none of those they sought. \nWaldron himself lodged in an inner room, and, \nwakened by the noise, he leaped out of bed \ncrying, \" What now I what now !\" and, seizing \nonly his sword, met the Indians, and,. old as he \nwas, with his white wrath blazing loftily over \nthe fierce devils, he drove them before him \nfrom door to door till he had passed the third. \nAs he sprung back then for other weapons, the \nIndians rushed up behind him and stunned him \nwith their hatchets, felled him, and dragged \nhim to the hall, where they seated him Ui an \narmchair placed on the top of a table, and, \ntauntingly asking him, <<Who shall Judge In- \ndians now ?\" left him to recover his senses \nwhile they compelled such of the famUy as they \nhad spared to prepare them some food. Their \nhunger being appeased, they returned to Major \nWaldron, had his books, in which their trade \nhad been registered, brought forth, and as each \nIndian's turn came, he stepped up, crying, '^ I \ncross out my account 1\" and with his knife drew \na deep gash across the breast of the old hero. \nTradition adds that, cutting off the hand whose \nweight they had so often felt, they tossed it into \nthe scales to discover for themselves If Indeed \nit weighed a pound, and were struck with con- \nsternation on finding that it did. It is not re- \ncorded that Waldron uttered a cry of pain or \nan entreaty for their mercy. \" Oh, Lord P he \nsaid, '' oh, Lord P and, spent with anguish and \nloss of blood f^om the shocking mutilation to \nwhich he was farther subjected, he fell forward \non his sword, which one of the tormentors held \nready to receive him, and the vengeance that \nhad brooded and waited thirteen years was sat- \nisfied. \n\nThat night Mrs. Elizabeth Heard, coming up \nthe river with her sons, from Strawberry Bank, \nwas alarmed by the turmoil and the light, and \nsought protection at \\^aldron's garrison ; but, \ndiscovering the terrible state of things there, \nMrs Heard was so prostrated that she had no \npower to fiy, and her children were obliged to \nleave her— though it would seem as if the three \nsons might, at least, have dragged her into the \nshelter of the bashes, where afterward she \ncontrived to crawl. With the daylight an Li- \ndian got a glimpse of her. and hastened' to part \nthe bushes, pistol In hand, but, looking at her \nan instant, turned about and left her ; he had \ntaken only a stride away when, as if a doubt \ncrossed his mind, he came back, gave her an- \nother glance, and with a yell departed. It was \n\n\n\nprobably the Indian whom she had protected \non the day of which this day was the result. \nMrs. Heard's own garrison had been saved by \nthe barking of a dog, which wakening WilJlam \nWeniworth^the ancestor of all the Went- \nworths in this country— he pushed the door to, \nand, throwing himself on his back, held it with \nhis feet till assistance came, various bullets \npiercing the oak meanwhile, but missing its \nvaliant and determined old defender. But in \ntwo other garrisons the Indians had worked \ntheir bloody will'; and, having been refused en- \ntrance into that of Mr. Coffin's son, they \nbrought out the father, captured at an earlier \nhour, and threatened the old man's murder \nbefore the son's eyes, upon which he also sur- \nrendered ; but while the house was being \nplundered, all the Coffins escaped together. \nAfter this, setting fire to the miUs and houses*, \nthe Indians, having killed twenty-two persons \nand made prisoners of twenty-nine, retreated \nby the light of the blaze, so rapidly as to be be- \nyond danger before any of the other settlers \nwere aroused to a sense of what had been \ndone. \n\nBut in their fiight the Indians inaugurated a \nsystem that for years continued to plague the \nsettlers-^alleviate, though It did, the previous \nhorrors of Indian warfare— and, sparing the \nlives of their prisoners, they sold them to the \nFrench. Among the captives of that night was \na little granddaughter of Major Waldron's, \nwho, having been sent by the Indians, while at \ntheir dark work in the garrison-house, to bid \nforth those hiding in another room, had crept \ninto a bed and drawn the clothes about her ; \nshe had been found again, though, and had \nbeen forced to undertake the march with them, \nhalf-clad and on her little bare feet. She was \nonly seven years old, and her trials were \nbitter. \n\nAt one time her master made her stand \nagainst a tree while he charged his. gun and \ntook aim at her ; again, an Indian girl pushed \nher off a precipice into the river, and, having \nclambered out, she dared not tell, when ques- \ntioned, the reason of her being so wet ; once \nthe Indians stole off in the morning and left \nher, covered by the snow, alone In the woods \nwith the wild beasts and hunger, and, tracing \nthem by their foot-prints, the poor little thing \nwent crying after them through the wilder- \nness ; and at another time, building a great fire, \nthey told her she was to be roi^sted, whereupon \nbursting Into tears she ran and threw her arms \nround her master's neck, begging him to save \nher, which, on the condition that she would \nbehave well, he promised her to do. Another \ncapture of more subsequent importance was \nthe wife of Bichard Otis, the ancestress of Hon. \nJohn Wentworth, of Illinois, and of Mr. Charles \nTuttle, late of the Cambridge Observatory. \nThe unhappy Mrs. Otis had seen her husband \nkilled as he rose in bed, a son share his father's \nfate, a daughter's brains beaten out against the \nstairs, and with her little daughter Judith, who \n.was subsequently rescued, and her baby of \nthree months old, she was led up through the \nWhite Mountain Notch to Canada. This Infant \nof three months became a personage of great \nInterest in her day. Baptized by the French \npriests and given the name of Ghrlstln^, and \nintended by them for conventual life, on reach- \ning maturity she declined taking the vail, \nand wt*: married to a Frenchman by the \n\n\n\nDOVEIL \n\n\n\n85 \n\n\n\nUpon her husband's death \n\n\n\niaextingulBhable desire to see her native \n\n\n\nname of Le Beau, \nan \n\nland took control of her, and not being permitted \nto carry her ctilldren ^itb her, she left tbem in \nthe hands of irlends, upon the liberation of \nprisoners, and at the loss of all her estate, \nwhich was not Inconsiderable, as she herself \nsays, journi-yed back to Dover. A few years \nafterward she returned to Canada, where she \nappears to have been greatly valued, made an \nunsuccessful effort to recover her children, and \nagain underwent the hardships of the perilous \nptigrimage home. She must have been a wo- \nman of rather remarkable nature to prefer the \nNew England wilds with their discomforts to \nthe comparatively sumptuous life of the French \nin Canada ; but she was still young, and whether \nfrom pure preference, or because she formed \nanother attachment there at an early date, she \nremained In New England and married the ad- \nventurous Captain Thomas Baker, who had \nhimself been a captive of the Indians some \n, years previously, and who had accompanied \nher on the voyage home ; and, abjuring the re- \nligion of hei baptism, she embraced the Pro- \ntestant faith. Her apostasy appeared greatly \nto distress the priest whose especial charge she \nhad been, and more than a dozen years after \nher return led to quite a controversial tilt be- \ntween representatives of the two forms of be- \nlief—Father Beguenot addressing her a long \nand affectionate letter. In which he made her \nand her husband handsome promises if they \nwould go to Montreal, wVought upon her feel- \nings in dcscribinsT the death of her daughter, \nset forth quite ably the distinctive doctrmes \nof his Church and besought her to return \nto It: \n\n** Let us add, dear Christina,\" said he, \" that \nthe strange land in which you are does not af- \nford you the Paschal Lamb, the true and \nheavenly manna, the bread of angels ; I mean \nJesus Cbnsti contained really within the holy \n\n\n\nEucharist, which is only to be found in the \nCatholic Church ; so that you are in that place, \nlike the prodigal son, reduced to feed on- im- \nproper and insipid food, which cannot give you \nlife, after haviog fed here on the most exqui- \nsite, most savory, and most deiiclous food of \nHeaven — I mean the adorable oody and precious \nblood of Jesus Christ at the holy sacratnent of the \naltar.'' By this letter, written in a crabbed and \nalmost illegible hand, but m the language of \nher childhood and of countless dear associa- \ntions, Christind seems to have been unshaken, \nand Goverfior Burnett made a learned and \nmasterly reply to it, among other things de- \nclaring, in reference to the passage quoted, \nthat the upholders of this interpretation of the \nEucharist did, in St. Paul's words, *' cnicify to \nthemselves the Son of God afresh and put him \nto an open shame.\" These letters attracted \nmuch attention throughout the Colonies, and \nrendered Christina a person of Importance dur- \ning all her life of nearly ninety years, and she \nreceived many favors and several grants of \nland, one of five hundred acres under the \nguardianship of Colonel William PepperrelU \n\nBut though the greater part of that long \nterm of life was passed in Dover, it was un- \ntroubled by any foray of (the Indians who once \nhad desolated her fHends' and father's dwell- \nings. For, having glutted their vengeance, the \nPennacooks were content to pay the penalty, \nto fly f^om tl.eir old hunting-grounds, to aban- \ndon their territory and their name, to find re- \nfuge in Canada and lose themselves among \nthe Indians of the St. Francis, and, except \nwhen some solitary wanderer roamed alone by \nthe graves of his fathers, the Pennacooks never \nagain were seen on the pleasant banks of the \n\"winding water\" And no one who surveys \nthe busy, bustling town of Dover co-day, would \nthink that less than two hundred years ago It \nwas the scene of such a tragedy a^ Waldron's \nMassacre. \n\n\n\nPORTSMOUin. \n\n\n\nAn hour aftPT leaving Newbnryport, having \nerossed th3 Merrimack, no longeron the bridge \nthat Blondin reftised to walk, the traveler is in \nPortsmouth, a town which, without possessing \nthe vitality of Newburyport or the world-known \ntraditions of Salem, is in some regards as inter- \nesting as either. Few spots in the ^hole \ncountry can boast the primeval grandeur of \nwhich it was the possessor, and traces of \nwhich are still to be found both in place and \npeople. Being the only seaport of an inde- \npendent State — for, before our present confe<i- \neratlon, New Hampshire was a little Rf^public, \ngoverned by a President and two Houses of Con- \ngress — much home wealth naturally centred \nthere, much foreign wealth and many ^i<;nitaries \nwere drawn there ; and being a provincial cap- \nital, for so long a time the home of Presidents \nand Governors, and afterward a garrisoned and \nnaval place of the United States, its society has \nalways been of the choicest description, and its \nhomes and habits sumptuous. The greater part \nof the old families have died out or have left \nthe place, but many of their dwellings remain \nto tell of the degree of splendor which charac- \nterized not only their hospitality, but their \ncommon life. \n\nThe town lies very prettily upon land between \nseveral creeks, just where the Piscataqua \nwidens— to meet the sea three miles below — \ninto a harbor of extraordinary but placid pictur- \nesqueness. Martin Pring was its first visitor, \nand after him John Smith, and it was originally \npart of the Mapon and Gorges graut, although \nMason bought out Sir Ferdinando's interest, \nbuilt a great house, and established the settle- \nment here himself, sending from Dover an ex- \nplor ng party to the White Mountains, or Crystal \nHills, as they were then called, in the hope of \nadding diamond koines to his possessions. In \nthe first days the central part of the 4;own was \nknown as Strawberry Bank, and so many an \naged resident still speaks of it ; and by a singu- \nlar circumstance it happens that nearly all this \nportion of Portsmouth, containing public build- \nings, banks, offices, stores and dwellings, is \nowued in fee by the old North Church, being \nsome twelve acres in the centre of the city, to- \ngether with thirty-eight acres through which \nruns the Islington Road, all of it constituting \nglebe land leased to the present holders for \n\n\n\nnine hundred and ninety-nine years, and at the \nexpiration of that little term to fall back wi b \nall it8 improvements into the hands of the \nChurch, if the Church be still in existence — a- \nprospective wealth bearing favorable compari- \nson with the present wealth of Trinity Church \nin New York. \n\nThe place still does a very fkir business for \none of its size, Portsmouth lawns and hosiery be- \ning known the country over, and its principal \nrope-walk furnishing nearly all the rlgg^nt;: of \nthe Maine and Massactiusetts marine. Many of \nthe well-shaded streets are paved, and there \nare library and athenaeum, fine schools and \nchurches; among the latter, St. John's, suo- \nceeding that to which Caroline, the Queen of \nGeorge the Second, gave altar and pulpit books, \ncommunion service, chancel furniture and a \nsilver christening-basin — a stately and interest- \ning edifice, with Its mural tablets and the \nporphyry font taken at the capture of an Aft*ican \ncity. \n\nAlthough Portsmouth probably shared the \nprevailing sentiment of New England to some \nextent, she was never thoroughly Puritan, \nhaving been planted more for mercantile than \nreligious ends, aad she is still a young settle- \nment when we read of the' profane game of \nshovel-board being openly played there, and \nthe character of its banquetins and merrymak- \ning has at all times more of the Cavalier than \nthe Roundhead. In 1711 she built an almshouse \nat an expense of nearly four thousand pounds, \na thing contrary to the genius of all Puritanism; \nand to the honor of Portsmouth be it known \nthat this was not only the first almshouse in \nthis country, but in the whole civilized world. \nIt was in Portsmouth, too, that there was made \nperhaps the earliest attack on African slavery, \nby a decision of the local court that it was a \nthing not to be tolerated, although, having \neased their consciences by the declaration and \nthe law — a famous habit not confined to Port»> \nmouth — ^the good people went on keeping such \nproperty in slaves as they chose. \n\nThe rank of the early population there was of \na much higher social type than could be found \nin other settlements. There were the Parkers, \nthe gravestone of whose ancestress was re- \ncently uncovered. Lady Zerviah Stanley, who \nmade a love-match and escaped to this country \n\n\n\nPOBTSMOUTH. \n\n\n\nfrom tbe wratli ol\" h,r fitter, tha Earl of Derby. \nTbeTe are tlie CUnuDutijra, immigranu Qere \nttiroLish the persecutiuas oi Aicub^Qop Laud, \nsprung oCCtuuDcefdeCQauncey, from UlIau□ct^; \nnear Amiens in Frauoa, wbo eulered Kuglaud \nirlttk tbe Conqueror i their head In CaU couuiry \ncould trace Ms noble dtiBoeat back to Charlti- \nmague, aad back to Egbert In tbe ;ear sod, \nUnease not excelled by Queea Victoria's own. \nm«te were tlie tlniulllea oCPepperrell aad Weut- \n\n\n\nKortb, baroneted for UlnBtrloiu deeds ; and \nthere are (o be found the flrsl mention of tbe \nold names of LaDgdon, Frost, Kewmaroh, Cnsli- \nlug, Bbe.fe, Penliallow, names whlcb revlre \ntue tradltluDB of a masuUieent hospitality. \nHere was born Tobias Lear, the blend and \nsecretary of Wasblugloa, and bis bonse t(»- \nm^na to-day Ml of mementoes of bis cblef; \nthere Ured Jobn Langdon, first President of tbe \nUnited States ISenate ; the bandBome tace ol \n\n\n\n88 \n\n\n\nPORTSMOUTH. \n\n\n\nMadame Scott, the widow of Jolin Hancock, has \nmany a time looked oat of that window ; there \nftands the house In which successively lived \nJeremiah Mason and Daniel Webster ; there the \nhandsome dwelling of Levi Woodbury, and \nthere were born the Blunts, whose charts to- \nday define the courses of all modern com- \nmerce. \n\nMany other mansions of note are still stand- \ning. Here on the corner of Daniel and Ghafiel \nstreets, with* its gambrel-roof and luthem- \nllghts, Is the old Warner House, the first brick \nhouse of the place, and whose material was \nbrought firom Holland ; there are stiU preserved \nin it ^he gigantic pair of elk-horns presented to \nthe head of the house by the Indians with whom \nhe traded, and who, out of their skUlfblly- \npainted portraits, still look down at the guest \nwho mounts the staircase ; there are paintings \nby Copley hanging In another place within, and \non repapering its hall, a few years since, four \ncoatings of paper being removed, a fhll-length \nlikenesH of Governor Phlpps on his charger was \ndiscovered, together with other life-sized fres- \ncoes, of more or less value, of whose existence \npeople of eighty years had never heard ; this \nhouse ought to be as secure from the fires of \nHeaven as a person vaccinated by Jenner ought \nto be from disease, for it has a lightning-rod \nput up under Dr. Franklin's personal inspec- \ntion, and the first one used in tliC State^ Fire \nhas destroyed the spacious house where, a hun- \ndred years ago, in the midst of guests assem- \nbled with all the il'nmination and cheer of the \ntimes, the beautiful Miss Sheafe sat in her \nbridal-dress waiting for the bridegroom who \nnever came, but who left his great wealth, his \nlove, and his good name, left his bride to her \ndestiny of alternating doubt and terror, and \ndisappeared out of the world for ever. This \nsame fire, or another, has left no mark of the \nhouse to which High Sheriff Parker once hur- \nried BO hungrily with Ruth Blay's blood upon \nhis hands— a young girl condemned for murder- \ning her child, though afterward found to be In- \nnocent, and her reprieve sent forward to arrive \nonly two minutes too late, for she had been \ndriven to the scaffold, clothed in silk and filling \nthe air with her cries, and hurried out of life \nbefore the appointed hour because the sheriff \nfeared lest his dinner should cool by waiting. \nBut there still stands the old '< Earl of Halifax^ \ninn, shabby enough now, but once a place of \nToiy revelry and Rebel riot ; a house that has \nhad famous guests in its day, for, not to men- \ntion the platitude of Washington's and Lafay- \nette's entertainment, here John Hancock had \nbis headquarters, with Elbridge Gerry, Rut- \nledge, and General Knox ; here General Sul'l- \nvan, President of New Hampshire, convened \nhis council; and here, something later, Louis \nPhilippe and his two brothers of Orleans were \noared for. On an island in the harbor, whence \nis seen the wide view of fort and field and light- \nbouse, and the sea stretching away till the Isles \nof Shoals and Agamentlcus lie in the horizon \nlike clouds, stands the old Prescott mansion, \nwhere the Legislature was wont to be enter- \ntained, but whose wide-doored hospitality has \ngiven place to that of the State, since it is now \nanother almshouse. In Eittery, a sort of sub- \nurb of Portsmouth, the garrison-house, two \nhundred years old, is still shown, and Sir Wil- \nliam Pepperrell's residence by the water, with \nits once deer-stocked park and avenues of \n\n\n\nmighty, elms ; and, on the other side of the \nriver, in Little Harbor, two miles from the \nbusiness centre, the old house erected by Gov- \nernor Benning Wentworth, but now passed out \nof the hands of hi^ family, remains to delight \nthe antiquary. This house, built around three \nsides of a square, though only two stories in \nheight, contains fifty-two rooms, and looks like \nan agglomeration of buildings of various dates \nand styles ; in its cellars a troop of horse could \nbe accommodated in time of danger, and here \nare still kept in order the council-chamber and \nthe billiard-room, with the spinet and buffet \nand gun-rack of their time, and the halls, fin- \nished in oak and exquisitely carved with the \nyear's work of a chisel, are lined with ancient \nportraits. Here lived and kept a famous table \nthe old Governor Benning Wentworth, as head- \nstrong and self-willed and passionate as any \nWentworth of them all. It is told of him that, \nwhen long past his sixtieth year, he lost what \nwas left of his heart to pretty Patty Hilton, his \nmaid-servant ; and, ai^sembling a great dinner- \nparty round his bo rd, with the Rev. Arthur \nBrown, when the walnuts and the wine were \non, he rung for Patty, who came and stood, \nblushlngly beside him, and then, as Governor \nof Ne«v Hampshire, he commanded the clergy- \nman, who had hesitated at his request as a pri- \nvate gentleman, to marry him ; and Patty \nstraightway became Lady Wentworth, in the \nparlance of the day, and carried things with a \nhigh hand ever afterward, until, the old Gov- \nernor dying, she married Colonel Michael Went- \nworth, who ran through the property and then \nkilled himself, leaving the legacy of his last \nwords : '' I have had my cake, and ate it.\" \n\nThese Wentworths were a powerflil and hot^ \nblooded race— nothing but the rigor of the law \never stood between them and a purpose ; their \ntalent' made New Hampshire a power, and for \nsixty years they ftarnished her with Governors. \nOn Pleasaut street, at the head of Washington, \nis still to be found the house of Governor John \nWentworth, a successor of Benning ; old as it \nIf, the plush upon its walls is as fresh as newly- \npressed velvet, and valuable portraits of the \nGovernors and their kin a few years since stiU \nhung upon them. Into this house, with its \npleasant garden running down to the river, \nonce came a bride under circumstances that \nthe customs of to-day would cause us to con- \nsider peculiar. It was Frances Deerlng, the \npet and darling of old Sam Wentwcrih of \nBoston, and for whom the pretty villages of \nFrancestown and Deering were named. When \nvery young, she was in love with her cousin * \nJohn, who, on leaving Harvard, went to Eng- \nland, no positive ple«ige of marriage passing \nbetween them ; as he delayed there some years, \nbefore bis return she had married another \ncousin, Theodore Atkinson by name. Some \nyears subsequently to their marriage, and after \na lingering illness, Theodore died. But John \nhad, in the meantime, returned, clothed with \nhonor and with the regalia of Governor, and, \nfinding his cousin a woman of far lovelier ap- \npearance than even her lovely youth had' pro- \nmised, had not hesitated to pay her his devoirs, \nwhich, the gossips said, she had not hesltnted \nto accept, hanging out many a signal from her \nwindow for the Governor to read across the \nopen space between their dwellings. On one \nday Theodore breathed his last. His burial \ntook place on the following Wednesday; by \n\n\n\nPOETSMOTJTH. \n\n\n\nthe Governor's order all the bells In town, were \ntolled, flags were hnng at half-mast, and ininute- \nguns were fired from the fort and firom the \nships-of-war in the harbor. On Sunday the \nweeping widow, clad in crapes, listened in \nchurch to the Aineral eulogies ; on Monday \nher affliction was mitigated ; on Tuesday all \nthe fingers of all the seamstresses of the country \nroundabout were fiying ; and on the next Sun- \nday, In the white satins and Jewels and far- \ndingales of a bride, she walked up the aisle the \nwife of Governor wentworth. When the Revo- \nlution came, the Governor, a Tory, had to fly ; \nbut his wife's beauty won favor at the Court, \nshe was appointed a lady-in-walting there, ana \nher husband was rewarded for his loyalty to \nthe Crown by the governorship of Nova Scotia, \nwhere he held his state till death humbled it. \n\nPortsmouth, it may be seen, abounds in such \ntraditions as these of the Wentworths. Of \nanother sort is the story of Captain Samuel \nCntts. He had sent out his vessel to the Span- \nish coasts, and his clerk, young William Ben- \nnett, who had been reared in his counting-room, \nand who, after the old-fashioned way, made \nhis master's interests bis own, went supercargo ; \nthe vessel fell among thieves, but thieves who \nconsented to restore their booty upon receipt \nof several thousand dollars, a sum of much less \nvalue than the. vessel and cargo. Captain \nL<^igh, of course, had not the money with him, \nnor did it seem practicable tn keep the vessel \non fUll expense while a messenger was sent \nhome for it; but upon condition of leaving \nhostages he was suffered to sail away, young \nBennett and a friend remaining. The terms \nwere carefully impressed on Captain Leigh's \nmemory : so many days and It would be time \nfor the money — till then the hostages were to \nbe well treated ; the money not forthcoming, \nthe hostages were to be imprisoned on bread \nand water ; so many days more, and they were \nto be left unfed till they starved to death. Cap- \ntain Leigh, to whom Bennett was dear as a \nson, crowded on all sail for home, arrived, \ntold his story, and, on sacred promise that the \nmoney should Instantly be paid, delivered the \nship that still belonged to her captors Into the \nhands of Captain Samuel Cutts, and waited \nbreathlessly for the promise to be kept. Mean- \nwhile the friend of Bennett had escaped, Ben- \nnett himself trusting so in his master's faith \nthat he refused to go. Captain Leigh waited \nsilently a while, but, seeing no prospect of the \nransom's being paid, he began to urge the \nmatter— precious time was passing ;• then Ben- \nnetts parents urged, and were assured that \nthe money had been sent. But when, if the \nmoney had been sent, it was time for Bennett's \nreturn and yet he did not come, anxiety \nmounted again to fever-heat ; ther*) were agon- \nized prayers offered in church by the parents, \nand Captain Leigh heard them ringing in his \nears ; he could think of nothing else ; he knew \nthe gradations of the cruel days apportioned \nto Bennett : on such a day he went into soli- \ntary confinement ; on such a day he was de- \nprived of food ; on such a day he must have \nceased to live. When that day came, Bennett \nhad truly undergone all his sentence and was \ndead, and Captain Leigh was mad. \n\nBut all the traditions of splendor are not \nconfined to the gentility of Portsmouth. A \ncolored man, steward of a ship sailing ftom the \nPiscataqua, went into loftier society than many \n\n\n\nof his betters ever saw. He was in a Rosslan \nport, during a review held by the Emperor tn \nperson, and went on shore, only to attract as \nmuch attention as the Emperor himself, for a \nblack skin was rarer than black diamonds \nthere. The next day officials came on board \nthe ship, to learn if the black man's services \ncould be had for the imperial family, and the \nfortunate fellow left his smoky caboose, hard \nfare and half-contemptuous companions, to \nbecome an object of admiration behind an Em- \nperor's chair ; and, being allowed to return to \nPortsmouth for his wife and children, had the \nsadsfaotion of parading his gold-laced grandeiir \nbefore the humbler citizens to his heart's con- \ntent. \n\nIt is not only in legends of the elegancies of \ncolonial life, however, that Portsmouth Is rich. \nShe had her valiant part in all the old French \nand Indian wars, and the only ship-of-the-Une \nowned by the Continental Government was \nhere constructed, on Badger's Island, where a \nhundred ships had been built before. Congress \nhaving in 1776 ordered her agents to procure, \namong others, three seventy-four-gun ships, \nthe America was begun, being the heaviest \nship that had ever been laid down on the conti- \nnent. Little was done about her, though, till \nnearly three years afterward, when John Paul \nJones, was ordered to command her. Jones \ncame to Portsmouth, found the ship only a \nskeleton, and, without material or money and \nin the face of countless obstacles, pushed for- \nward her construction, though declaring it the \nmost tedious and distasteful service he was \never charged with. As soon as the British \nheard of the progress the ship W£*s making, \nthey devised a thousand plans to destroy her, \nintelligence of which was constantly furnished \nto Jones, in cipher ; and at last, on an alarm \nsent by General Washington himself, falling to \nobtain a guard f^om New Hampshire, he pre- \nvailed upon the carpenters to keep watch by \nnight, and paid them from bis own purse ; and \nthey were otherwise rewarded by the sight of \nlarge whaleboats stealing into the river on \nmuffled oars, and creeping, with their armed \ncompanies, up and down by the America, without \ndaring to board her. At the birth of the \nFrench Dauphin, Jones mounted artillery in \nthe ship, decorated her with the flags of all na- \ntions, fired salutes, gaye a great entertainment \non board, and after dark illuminated her firom \ntruck to keelson, kept up a ;eu (2e joU till mid- \nnight, and on the anniversary of Independence \nrepeated his rejoicings. The Am^erica was su- \nperbly builtr— both stem and bows made so \nstrong that the men might always be under \ncover. Her sculpture, also, is said to have \nbeen of a noble* order: America, at the head,, \ncrowned with laurels, one arm raised to heaven,- \nand the other supporting a buckler with thirteen \nsilver stars on a blue ground, while the rest \nof the person was enveloped in the smoke of \nwar. Other large figures in relief were at the \nstern and elsewhere, representing Tyranny \nand Oppression, Neptune, and Mars, and Wis- \ndom surrounded by the lightnings. Jones, \nhowever, was destined never to command this \nship on which he had lavished so much. The \nMagu'fjquey a seventy-four-gun ship of the \nFrench, having just been wrecked in Boston \nHarbor, Congress magnanimously presented to \nFrance theonlyship-of-the-linein the American \npossession, and for the tenth time Jones was \n\n\n\n4) \n\n\n\nPOBTSMOUTR \n\n\n\ndeprived of a cmnmancl. Nevertbeleai, he com- \npleted the ship, and at last launched her ; the \nlaunching being no easy tAsk in that little bay, \nwith the bluff of the oppoaite shore but a hun- \ndred fothoms distant, and ledges of rock and \nconflicting cnrrents everywhere between. But, \nletting her elide precisely at high water, drop- \nping the bow anchors and slipping the cable \nfastened to the gftY)und on the Island, at a sig- \nnal she was off and afloat in safe water, and \n^yen over to the late commander of the \n\n\n\nMagniflqw, It was not long, though, before \nthe Br.tlsh captured her— admiring her atruc- \nture a.d ornament so much, that they added to \nher carvings the crest of the Prince of Wales, \nand considered her peerless in all their fine \nnavy. \n\nDuring the last war with England she did \nsprvice against her builders, and is still afloat, a \nflfty-gun ship of the Queen^s, ^^ an honor,'' says \nMr. Brewster in his Rambles, ^Ho Plscataqna \nshipwrights and to our coast oak.** \n\n\n\n","title":"New-England Legends","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:41.622023Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:new-england-legends","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:new-england-legends","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item newenglandlegen00spofgoog","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:41.924362Z","version":1}]}