"There has been too much cause to observe that the Christians that
were driven into the American desert which is now called New
England, have, to their sorrow, seen Azahel dwelling and raging
there in very tragical instances."
COTTON MATHER.
The delusion that passed through our country in 1692 has left a dark
chapter in the history of New England. But it was not alone in New
England that this fearful delusion influenced the minds and actions of
men. It was believed all over Europe, in the seventeenth century, that
evil spirits mingled in the concerns of mortals, and that compacts were
made with them, and sealed with the blood of many of the most eminent
persons of the age.
The desire to penetrate the mysteries of the spiritual natures that we
believe every where to surround us, has taken different forms in
different states of society. In New England, it seems to have begun in
the wicked fancies of some nervous or really diseased children, who were
permitted, at last, to accuse and persecute persons who were remarkable
for goodness or intellect, and especially females who were distinguished
for any excellence of mind or person.
An historian of the time says, "In the present world, it is no wonder
that the operations of evil angels are more sensible than that of the
good; nevertheless 'tis very certain that the good angels fly about in
our infected atmosphere to minister to the good of those who are to be
the heirs of salvation. Children and ignorant persons first complained
of being tormented and affected in divers manners. They then accused
some persons eminent for their virtues and standing in society."
We have seen that Edith was disposed to think lightly of the subject at
first, although she rejoiced that the old woman of the cliff had escaped
suspicion by a timely death. But when she found that some of her own
neighbors had been suspected, and that one old woman, in another
village, for denying all knowledge of evil spirits, had been executed,
she was filled with consternation; and when others, to save themselves
from the same dreadful fate, increased the delusion of the times by
confessing a compact with the evil one, her pity was mingled with
indignation. With so much clearness of intellect, and simplicity of
heart, she could not persuade herself that it was any thing but wilful
blindness, and a wicked lie.
But Edith began soon to feel much anxiety for her faithful Dinah.
Persons in any way distinguished for any peculiarity were most likely to
be accused, and she had secretly made arrangements to send her away, and
conceal her, should the smallest indication of suspicion fall upon her.
For herself Edith had no fears. It would have been hard to make this
pure and simple-minded creature believe that she had an enemy in the
world. She had not read the French maxim, that there may be such a
weight of obligation that we can only be released from it by
ingratitude.
Dinah had remarked, for several days, in the little Phoebe most strange
and unnatural contortions, and writhings of the body, startings and
tremblings, turning up her eyes and distorting her mouth; and also that
she took little food, and often was absent from home; but, with her
usual tenderness, and fear of giving anxiety to Edith, she had forborne
to mention it.
Indeed, the child had always been wayward and strange, and especially
indocile to Edith's instructions, although she seemed at times to have a
strong affection for her. She was fond of long rambles in the woods, and
of basking in the sun alone on the beach, and retained all her love for
those vagrant habits she had learned from her grandmother. Edith had too
much tenderness and indulgence to restrain what appeared a harmless and
perhaps healthful propensity.
She had tried, however, to civilize the poor, neglected child, and had
taught her to say her prayers every night, kneeling at her side.
It was a cold, chilly evening in our tardy spring: the little family had
drawn around the cheerful evening fire, and the evening meal was just
finished: Edith felt happy, for she had been reading a cheerful letter
from Seymore. The shutters were closed, and she had indulged the little
Phoebe, as she often did at this hour, with a noisy game. Edith was
already tired: she looked at the clock: it was the bed hour for the
child.
"Come, my child, be serious for a moment, and say your evening prayer."
Phoebe kneeled: the prayer was short, but whenever she came to the word
God, or Savior, she cried out that she could not say it.
Edith concealed her fears, and said, very quietly, "I will say it for
you; and now, my child, go peaceably to bed, and pray to God to keep you
from telling falsehoods." Phoebe was awed by her calm, decided manner,
and, without further disturbance, went quietly to bed.
Full of anxiety, and even terror, Edith sought her humble friend, told
her the circumstance, and besought her to fly and conceal herself. She
had provided the means for flight and concealment, and entreated her to
use them before it was too late.
"I do not fear for myself, my dear mistress," said Dinah. "If the child
has such design, she has already formed her plan and already accused us;
and she will not be content with accusing me; you are not safe. You do
not know her hard and stubborn temper. She is like the young hawk in the
nest of the dove."
Seeing Edith was dreadfully alarmed, Dinah added, "Do not fear; we are
in _his_ hand who feeds the young ravens, and numbers the hairs of our
heads."
Edith began to be a little more composed, when a loud knocking was
heard at the door. Two men entered, well known to Edith; the officials
in all occasions of this nature. One was the deacon of the church, a
heated fanatic, full of religious bigotry, whose head was too weak to
govern the passionate and blind motions of his heart. While he had been
under the restraint of Mr. Grafton's calm, enlightened reason, he had
been only a zealous and useful officer of the church; but now, that he
considered his own light as no longer hidden under a bushel, his zeal
burned out with more violence, and he lent himself to all the wild
fanaticism of the time. The other was an old man, an elder in the
church; with much tenderness of heart; but he was timid, and relied
little on his own judgment, which was so little enlightened that he
easily yielded to what he afterwards, when the delusion passed away,
bewailed with bitter tears.
Edith was perfectly acquainted with the characters of both. When she saw
them enter, she turned deadly pale; but she pointed courteously to a
seat, and placed herself instinctively between them and Dinah, to shield
her, for she knew too well that there was no escape for her humble
friend if once in their power. She felt, therefore, a sensible relief
when she found that she was herself the object of their visit.
Edith had had time to recover a little from her first consternation,
and, with much self-possession, she asked who were her accusers, and
demanded the right of being confronted with them.
The men informed her that she would be taken in the morning to the
meeting-house for examination, and then it would be time enough to know
her accusers: in the mean time they should leave a guard in the house,
to prevent all attempts to escape.
Escape! ah, there was none for her. But Edith answered that she wished
not to escape; that she should demand an examination. Alas! she knew not
yet the spirit of the times. She was deluded by her own consciousness of
innocence, and she thought fanaticism itself could not attach a
suspicion to harmlessness like hers.
Not so Dinah. She was seized with a terror and grief that, for one
moment, shook her faith in God, and took away all self-possession. She
knew that innocence, youth, piety, beauty, had been of no avail against
the demoniac fury of the accusers. She besought, on her knees, and with
floods of tears, her dear child--as, in her agitation, she called
her--to avail herself of flight. She convinced Edith that they could
easily elude the vigilance of their guard; that they could escape by
water. Paul was an excellent boatman, the sea smooth as a mirror, the
moon nearly full; they could reach Boston without suspicion. Or she
would hide her in the woods: she herself knew a place where she could
bring her food and clothing, and form a shelter for her, and keep her
safe till all suspicion had ceased.
It would have been better for Edith had she yielded; but her own clear
reason, free from the mists of fanaticism, deluded her into the
persuasion that, as nothing could appear against her, it would confirm
the suspicions against her if she were to avoid by flight a full and
open examination.
Before they retired for the night, they kneeled down to pray. Dinah
could not subdue her sobs; but Edith's voice was calm and firm as she
asked the protection of the Father of the fatherless, and committed her
poor friend to him who is no respector of persons.
Dinah entreated her mistress to allow her to sit by her all night and
watch, while she tried to sleep. This Edith refused: she wished to be
alone. She had much to do to prepare herself for to-morrow, and she
justly feared that Dinah's distress would soften her heart, and shake
her firmness too much.
As they passed through the chamber, Dinah bearing the candle, the little
Phoebe, restless in her sleep, had nearly thrown herself out of bed.
Edith stopped, and, bending over, replaced the bedclothes, and said
softly to Dinah, "If to-morrow should be fatal, if I should not live to
keep my promise to the old woman, I can trust her to you: you will be to
her, as you have been to me, a mother; O, more than a mother?"
She stopped; her voice choked. She removed the thick hair from the brow
of the sleeping child, but even in sleep her face wore the frown that so
often marred its beauty. "Dinah," she said, "she is yours; you will love
her as you have me."
"That I can never promise; but I will do my duty," said Dinah.
Edith pressed her lips--thirsting as they ever did for a return of
love--on the fair brow, and then, taking the candle from Dinah, entered
her own room. Her heart was oppressed with apprehension, and she would
not trust herself to say good night to her faithful servants.