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MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL TALES AND SKETCHES
BY
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
The intelligent reader of the following record cannot fail to notice
occasional inaccuracies in respect to persons, places, and dates; and,
as a matter of course, will make due allowance for the prevailing
prejudices and errors of the period to which it relates. That there are
passages indicative of a comparatively recent origin, and calculated to
cast a shade of doubt over the entire narrative, the Editor would be the
last to deny, notwithstanding its general accordance with historical
verities and probabilities. Its merit consists mainly in the fact that
it presents a tolerably lifelike picture of the Past, and introduces us
familiarly to the hearths and homes of New England in the seventeenth
century.
A full and accurate account of Secretary Rawson and his family is about
to be published by his descendants, to which the reader is referred who
wishes to know more of the personages who figure prominently in this
Journal.
1866.
MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL IN THE PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1678-9
TALES AND SKETCHES
MY SUMMER WITH DR. SINGLETARY: A FRAGMENT
THE LITTLE IRON SOLDIER
PASSACONAWAY
THE OPIUM EATER
THE PROSELYTES
DAVID MATSON
THE FISH I DID N'T CATCH
YANKEE GYPSIES
THE TRAINING
THE CITY OF A DAY
PATUCKET FALLS
FIRST DAY IN LOWELL
THE LIGHTING UP
TAKING COMFORT
CHARMS AND FAIRY FAITH
MAGICIANS AND WITCH FOLK
THE BEAUTIFUL
THE WORLD'S END
THE HEROINE OF LONG POINT
MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL
IN THE PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY
1678-9.
BOSTON, May 8, 1678.
I remember I did promise my kind Cousin Oliver (whom I pray God to have
always in his keeping), when I parted with him nigh unto three months
ago, at mine Uncle Grindall's, that, on coming to this new country,
I would, for his sake and perusal, keep a little journal of whatsoever
did happen both unto myself and unto those with whom I might sojourn;
as also, some account of the country and its marvels, and mine own
cogitations thereon. So I this day make a beginning of the same;
albeit, as my cousin well knoweth, not from any vanity of authorship,
or because of any undue confiding in my poor ability to edify one justly
held in repute among the learned, but because my heart tells me that
what I write, be it ever so faulty, will be read by the partial eye of
my kinsman, and not with the critical observance of the scholar, and
that his love will not find it difficult to excuse what offends his
clerkly judgment. And, to embolden me withal, I will never forget that
I am writing for mine old playmate at hide-and-seek in the farm-house at
Hilton,--the same who used to hunt after flowers for me in the spring,
and who did fill my apron with hazel-nuts in the autumn, and who was
then, I fear, little wiser than his still foolish cousin, who, if she
hath not since learned so many new things as himself, hath perhaps
remembered more of the old. Therefore, without other preface, I will
begin my record.
Of my voyage out I need not write, as I have spoken of it in my letters
already, and it greatly irks me to think of it. Oh, a very long, dismal
time of sickness and great discomforts, and many sad thoughts of all
I had left behind, and fears of all I was going to meet in the New
England! I can liken it only to an ugly dream. When we got at last
to Boston, the sight of the land and trees, albeit they were exceeding
bleak and bare (it being a late season, and nipping cold), was like unto
a vision of a better world. As we passed the small wooded islands,
which make the bay very pleasant, and entered close upon the town, and
saw the houses; and orchards, and meadows, and the hills beyond covered
with a great growth of wood, my brother, lifting up both of his hands,
cried out, "How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy habitations, O
Israel!" and for my part I did weep for joy and thankfulness of heart,
that God had brought us safely to so fair a haven. Uncle and Aunt
Rawson met us on the wharf, and made us very comfortable at their house,
which is about half a mile from the water-side, at the foot of a hill,
with an oaken forest behind it, to shelter it from the north wind, which
is here very piercing. Uncle is Secretary of the Massachusetts, and
spends a great part of his time in town; and his wife and family are
with him in the winter season, but they spend their summers at his
plantation on the Merrimac River, in Newbury. His daughter, Rebecca,
is just about my age, very tall and lady-looking; she is like her
brother John, who was at Uncle Hilton's last year. She hath, moreover,
a pleasant wit, and hath seen much goodly company, being greatly admired
by the young men of family and distinction in the Province. She hath
been very kind to me, telling me that she looked upon me as a sister.
I have been courteously entertained, moreover, by many of the principal
people, both of the reverend clergy and the magistracy. Nor must I
forbear to mention a visit which I paid with Uncle and Aunt Rawson at
the house of an aged magistrate of high esteem and influence in these
parts. He saluted me courteously, and made inquiries concerning our
family, and whether I had been admitted into the Church. On my telling
him that I had not, he knit his brows, and looked at me very sternly.
"Mr. Rawson," said he, "your niece, I fear me, has much more need of
spiritual adorning than of such gewgaws as these," and took hold of my
lace ruff so hard that I heard the stitches break; and then he pulled
out my sleeves, to see how wide they were, though they were only half an
ell. Madam ventured to speak a word to encourage me, for she saw I was
much abashed and flustered, yet he did not heed her, but went on talking
very loud against the folly and the wasteful wantonness of the times.
Poor Madam is a quiet, sickly-looking woman, and seems not a little in
awe of her husband, at the which I do not marvel, for he hath a very
impatient, forbidding way with him, and, I must say, seemed to carry
himself harshly at times towards her. Uncle Rawson says he has had much
to try his temper; that there have been many and sore difficulties in
Church as well as State; and he hath bitter enemies, in some of the
members of the General Court, who count him too severe with the Quakers
and other disturbers and ranters. I told him it was no doubt true; but
that I thought it a bad use of the Lord's chastenings to abuse one's
best friends for the wrongs done by enemies; and, that to be made to
atone for what went ill in Church or State, was a kind of vicarious
suffering that, if I was in Madam's place, I should not bear with half
her patience and sweetness.
Ipswitch, near Agawam, May 12.
We set out day before yesterday on our journey to Newbury. There were
eight of us,--Rebecca Rawson and her sister, Thomas Broughton, his wife,
and their man-servant, my brother Leonard and myself, and young Robert
Pike, of Newbury, who had been to Boston on business, his father having
great fisheries in the river as well as the sea. He is, I can perceive,
a great admirer of my cousin, and indeed not without reason; for she
hath in mind and person, in her graceful carriage and pleasant
discourse, and a certain not unpleasing waywardness, as of a merry
child, that which makes her company sought of all. Our route the first
day lay through the woods and along the borders of great marshes and
meadows on the seashore. We came to Linne at night, and stopped at the
house of a kinsman of Robert Pike's,--a man of some substance and note
in that settlement. We were tired and hungry, and the supper of warm
Indian bread and sweet milk relished quite as well as any I ever ate in
the Old Country. The next day we went on over a rough road to Wenham,
through Salem, which is quite a pleasant town. Here we stopped until
this morning, when we again mounted our horses, and reached this place,
after a smart ride of three hours. The weather in the morning was warm
and soft as our summer days at home; and, as we rode through the woods,
where the young leaves were fluttering, and the white blossoms of the
wind-flowers, and the blue violets and the yellow blooming of the
cowslips in the low grounds, were seen on either hand, and the birds all
the time making a great and pleasing melody in the branches, I was glad
of heart as a child, and thought if my beloved friends and Cousin Oliver
were only with us, I could never wish to leave so fair a country.
Just before we reached Agawam, as I was riding a little before my
companions, I was startled greatly by the sight of an Indian. He was
standing close to the bridle-path, his half-naked body partly hidden by
a clump of white birches, through which he looked out on me with eyes
like two live coals. I cried for my brother and turned my horse, when
Robert Pike came up and bid me be of cheer, for he knew the savage, and
that he was friendly. Whereupon, he bade him come out of the bushes,
which he did, after a little parley. He was a tall man, of very fair
and comely make, and wore a red woollen blanket with beads and small
clam-shells jingling about it. His skin was swarthy, not black like a
Moor or Guinea-man, but of a color not unlike that of tarnished copper
coin. He spake but little, and that in his own tongue, very harsh and
strange-sounding to my ear. Robert Pike tells me that he is Chief of
the Agawams, once a great nation in these parts, but now quite small and
broken. As we rode on, and from the top of a hill got a fair view of
the great sea off at the east, Robert Pike bade me notice a little bay,
around which I could see four or five small, peaked huts or tents,
standing just where the white sands of the beach met the green line of
grass and bushes of the uplands.
"There," said he, "are their summer-houses, which they build near unto
their fishing-grounds and corn-fields. In the winter they go far back
into the wilderness, where game is plenty of all kinds, and there build
their wigwams in warm valleys thick with trees, which do serve to
shelter them from the winds."
"Let us look into them," said I to Cousin Rebecca; "it seems but a
stone's throw from our way."
She tried to dissuade me, by calling them a dirty, foul people; but
seeing I was not to be put off, she at last consented, and we rode aside
down the hill, the rest following. On our way we had the misfortune to
ride over their corn-field; at the which, two or three women and as many
boys set up a yell very hideous to hear; whereat Robert Pike came up,
and appeased them by giving them some money and a drink of Jamaica
spirits, with which they seemed vastly pleased. I looked into one of
their huts; it was made of poles like unto a tent, only it was covered
with the silver-colored bark of the birch, instead of hempen stuff. A
bark mat, braided of many exceeding brilliant colors, covered a goodly
part of the space inside; and from the poles we saw fishes hanging, and
strips of dried meat. On a pile of skins in the corner sat a young
woman with a child a-nursing; they both looked sadly wild and neglected;
yet had she withal a pleasant face, and as she bent over her little one,
her long, straight, and black hair falling over him, and murmuring a low
and very plaintive melody, I forgot everything save that she was a woman
and a mother, and I felt my heart greatly drawn towards her. So, giving
my horse in charge, I ventured in to her, speaking as kindly as I could,
and asking to see her child. She understood me, and with a smile held
up her little papoose, as she called him,--who, to say truth, I could
not call very pretty. He seemed to have a wild, shy look, like the
offspring of an untamed, animal. The woman wore a blanket, gaudily
fringed, and she had a string of beads on her neck. She took down a
basket, woven of white and red willows, and pressed me to taste of her
bread; which I did, that I might not offend her courtesy by refusing.
It was not of ill taste, although so hard one could scarcely bite it,
and was made of corn meal unleavened, mixed with a dried berry, which
gives it a sweet flavor. She told me, in her broken way, that the whole
tribe now numbered only twenty-five men and women, counting out the
number very fast with yellow grains of corn, on the corner of her
blanket. She was, she said, the youngest woman in the tribe; and her
husband, Peckanaminet, was the Indian we had met in the bridlepath. I
gave her a pretty piece of ribbon, and an apron for the child; and she
thanked me in her manner, going with us on our return to the path; and
when I had ridden a little onward, I saw her husband running towards us;
so, stopping my horse, I awaited until he came up, when he offered me a
fine large fish, which he had just caught, in acknowledgment, as I
judged, of my gift to his wife. Rebecca and Mistress Broughton laughed,
and bid him take the thing away; but I would not suffer it, and so
Robert Pike took it, and brought it on to our present tarrying place,
where truly it hath made a fair supper for us all. These poor heathen
people seem not so exceeding bad as they have been reported; they be
like unto ourselves, only lacking our knowledge and opportunities,
which, indeed, are not our own to boast of, but gifts of God, calling
for humble thankfulness, and daily prayer and watchfulness, that they be
rightly improved.
Newbery on the Merrimac, May 14, 1678.
We were hardly on our way yesterday, from Agawam, when a dashing young
gallant rode up very fast behind us. He was fairly clad in rich stuffs,
and rode a nag of good mettle. He saluted us with much ease and
courtliness, offering especial compliments to Rebecca, to whom he seemed
well known, and who I thought was both glad and surprised at his coming.
As I rode near, she said it gave her great joy to bring to each other's
acquaintance, Sir Thomas Hale, a good friend of her father's, and her
cousin Margaret, who, like himself, was a new-comer. He replied, that
he should look with favor on any one who was near to her in friendship
or kindred; and, on learning my father's name, said he had seen him at
his uncle's, Sir Matthew Hale's, many years ago, and could vouch for him
as a worthy man. After some pleasant and merry discoursing with us, he
and my brother fell into converse upon the state of affairs in the
Colony, the late lamentable war with the Narragansett and Pequod
Indians, together with the growth of heresy and schism in the churches,
which latter he did not scruple to charge upon the wicked policy of the
home government in checking the wholesome severity of the laws here
enacted against the schemers and ranters. "I quite agree," said he,
"with Mr. Rawson, that they should have hanged ten where they did one."
Cousin Rebecca here said she was sure her father was now glad the laws
were changed, and that he had often told her that, although the
condemned deserved their punishment, he was not sure that it was the
best way to put down the heresy. If she was ruler, she continued, in
her merry way, she would send all the schemers and ranters, and all the
sour, crabbed, busybodies in the churches, off to Rhode Island, where
all kinds of folly, in spirituals as well as temporals, were permitted,
and one crazy head could not reproach another.
Falling back a little, and waiting for Robert Pike and Cousin Broughton
to come up, I found them marvelling at the coming of the young
gentleman, who it did seem had no special concernment in these parts,
other than his acquaintance with Rebecca, and his desire of her company.
Robert Pike, as is natural, looks upon him with no great partiality, yet
he doth admit him to be wellbred, and of much and varied knowledge,
acquired by far travel as well as study. I must say, I like not his
confident and bold manner and bearing toward my fair cousin; and he hath
more the likeness of a cast-off dangler at the court, than of a modest
and seemly country gentleman, of a staid and well-ordered house.
Mistress Broughton says he was not at first accredited in Boston, but
that her father, and Mr. Atkinson, and the chief people there now, did
hold him to be not only what he professeth, as respecteth his
gentlemanly lineage, but also learned and ingenious, and well-versed in
the Scriptures, and the works of godly writers, both of ancient and
modern time. I noted that Robert was very silent during the rest of our
journey, and seemed abashed and troubled in the presence of the gay
gentleman; for, although a fair and comely youth, and of good family and
estate, and accounted solid and judicious beyond his years, he does,
nevertheless, much lack the ease and ready wit with which the latter
commendeth himself to my sweet kinswoman. We crossed about noon a broad
stream near to the sea, very deep and miry, so that we wetted our hose
and skirts somewhat; and soon, to our great joy, beheld the pleasant
cleared fields and dwellings of the settlement, stretching along for a
goodly distance; while, beyond all, the great ocean rolled, blue and
cold, under an high easterly wind. Passing through a broad path, with
well-tilled fields on each hand, where men were busy planting corn, and
young maids dropping the seed, we came at length to Uncle Rawson's
plantation, looking wellnigh as fair and broad as the lands of Hilton
Grange, with a good frame house, and large barns thereon. Turning up
the lane, we were met by the housekeeper, a respectable kinswoman, who
received us with great civility. Sir Thomas, although pressed to stay,
excused himself for the time, promising to call on the morrow, and rode
on to the ordinary. I was sadly tired with my journey, and was glad to
be shown to a chamber and a comfortable bed.
I was awakened this morning by the pleasant voice of my cousin, who
shared my bed. She had arisen and thrown open the window looking
towards the sunrising, and the air came in soft and warm, and laden with
the sweets of flowers and green-growing things. And when I had gotten
myself ready, I sat with her at the window, and I think I may say it was
with a feeling of praise and thanksgiving that mine eyes wandered up and
down over the green meadows, and corn-fields, and orchards of my new
home. Where, thought I, foolish one, be the terrors of the wilderness,
which troubled thy daily thoughts and thy nightly dreams! Where be the
gloomy shades, and desolate mountains, and the wild beasts, with their
dismal howlings and rages! Here all looked peaceful, and bespoke
comfort and contentedness. Even the great woods which climbed up the
hills in the distance looked thin and soft, with their faint young
leaves a yellowish-gray, intermingled with pale, silvery shades,
indicating, as my cousin saith, the different kinds of trees, some of
which, like the willow, do put on their leaves early, and others late,
like the oak, with which the whole region aboundeth. A sweet, quiet
picture it was, with a warm sun, very bright and clear, shining over it,
and the great sea, glistening with the exceeding light, bounding the
view of mine eyes, but bearing my thoughts, like swift ships, to the
land of my birth, and so uniting, as it were, the New World with the
Old. Oh, thought I, the merciful God, who reneweth the earth and maketh
it glad and brave with greenery and flowers of various hues and smells,
and causeth his south winds to blow and his rains to fall, that seed-
time may not fail, doth even here, in the ends of his creation, prank
and beautify the work of his hands, making the desert places to rejoice,
and the wilderness to blossom as the rose. Verily his love is over
all,--the Indian heathen as well as the English Christian. And what
abundant cause for thanks have I, that I have been safely landed on a
shore so fair and pleasant, and enabled to open mine eyes in peace and
love on so sweet a May morning! And I was minded of a verse which I
learned from my dear and honored mother when a child,--
"Teach me, my God, thy love to know,
That this new light, which now I see,
May both the work and workman show;
Then by the sunbeams I will climb to thee."
When we went below, we found on the window seat which looketh to the
roadway, a great bunch of flowers of many kinds, such as I had never
seen in mine own country, very fresh, and glistening with the dew. Now,
when Rebecca took them up, her sister said, "Nay, they are not Sir
Thomas's gift, for young Pike hath just left them." Whereat, as I
thought, she looked vexed, and ill at ease. "They are yours, then,
Cousin Margaret," said she, rallying, "for Robert and you did ride aside
all the way from Agawam, and he scarce spake to me the day long. I see
I have lost mine old lover, and my little cousin hath found a new one.
I shall write Cousin Oliver all about it."
"Nay," said I, "old lovers are better than new; but I fear my sweet
cousin hath not so considered It." She blushed, and looked aside, and
for some space of time I did miss her smile, and she spake little.
May 20.
We had scarcely breakfasted, when him they Call Sir Thomas called on us,
and with him came also a Mr. Sewall, and the minister of the church, Mr.
Richardson, both of whom did cordially welcome home my cousins, and were
civil to my brother and myself. Mr. Richardson and Leonard fell to
conversing about the state of the Church; and Sir Thomas discoursed us
in his lively way. After some little tarry, Mr. Sewall asked us to go
with him to Deer's Island, a small way up the river, where he and Robert
Pike had some men splitting staves for the Bermuda market. As the day
was clear and warm, we did readily agree to go, and forthwith set out
for the river, passing through the woods for nearly a half mile. When
we came to the Merrimac, we found it a great and broad stream. We took
a boat, and were rowed up the river, enjoying the pleasing view of the
green banks, and the rocks hanging over the water, covered with bright
mosses, and besprinkled with pale, white flowers. Mr. Sewall pointed
out to us the different kinds of trees, and their nature and uses, and
especially the sugar-tree, which is very beautiful in its leaf and
shape, and from which the people of this country do draw a sap wellnigh
as sweet as the juice of the Indian cane, making good treacle and sugar.
Deer's Island hath rough, rocky shores, very high and steep, and is well
covered with a great growth of trees, mostly evergreen pines and
hemlocks which looked exceeding old. We found a good seat on the mossy
trunk of one of these great trees, which had fallen from its extreme
age, or from some violent blast of wind, from whence we could see the
water breaking into white foam on the rocks, and hear the melodious
sound of the wind in the leaves of the pines, and the singing of birds
ever and anon; and lest this should seem too sad and lonely, we could
also hear the sounds of the axes and beetles of the workmen, cleaving
the timber not far off. It was not long before Robert Pike came up and
joined us. He was in his working dress, and his face and hands were
much discolored by the smut of the burnt logs, which Rebecca playfully
remarking, he said there were no mirrors in the woods, and that must be
his apology; that, besides, it did not become a plain man, like himself,
who had to make his own fortune in the world, to try to imitate those
who had only to open their mouths, to be fed like young robins, without
trouble or toil. Such might go as brave as they would, if they would
only excuse his necessity. I thought he spoke with some bitterness,
which, indeed, was not without the excuse, that the manner of our gay
young gentleman towards him savored much of pride and contemptuousness.
My beloved cousin, who hath a good heart, and who, I must think, apart
from the wealth and family of Sir Thomas, rather inclineth to her old
friend and neighbor, spake cheerily and kindly to him, and besought me
privately to do somewhat to help her remove his vexation. So we did
discourse of many things very pleasantly. Mr. Richardson, on hearing
Rebecca say that the Indians did take the melancholy noises of the
pinetrees in the winds to be the voices of the Spirits of the woods,
said that they always called to his mind the sounds in the mulberry-
trees which the Prophet spake of. Hereupon Rebecca, who hath her memory
well provided with divers readings, both of the poets and other writers,
did cite very opportunely some ingenious lines, touching what the
heathens do relate of the Sacred Tree of Dodona, the rustling of whose
leaves the negro priestesses did hold to be the language of the gods.
And a late writer, she said, had something in one of his pieces, which
might well be spoken of the aged and dead tree-trunk, upon which we were
sitting. And when we did all desire to know their import, she repeated
them thus:--
"Sure thou didst flourish once, and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living towers."
"And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thriveth at their root."
These lines, she said, were written by one Vaughn, a Brecknockshire
Welsh Doctor of Medicine, who had printed a little book not many years
ago. Mr. Richardson said the lines were good, but that he did hold the
reading of ballads and the conceits of rhymers a waste of time, to say
nothing worse. Sir Thomas hereat said that, as far as he could judge,
the worthy folk of New England had no great temptation to that sin from
their own poets, and did then, in a drolling tone, repeat some verses of
the 137th Psalm, which he said were the best he had seen in the
Cambridge Psalm Book:--
"The rivers of Babylon,
There when we did sit down,
Yea, even then we mourned when
We remembered Sion.
Our harp we did hang it amid
Upon the willow-tree;
Because there they that us away
Led to captivity!
Required of us a song, and thus
Asked mirth us waste who laid,
Sing us among a Sion's song
Unto us as then they said."
"Nay, Sir Thomas," quoth Mr. Richardson, "it is not seemly to jest over
the Word of God. The writers of our Book of Psalms in metre held
rightly, that God's altar needs no polishing; and truly they have
rendered the words of David into English verse with great fidelity."
Our young gentleman, not willing to displeasure a man so esteemed as Mr.
Richardson, here made an apology for his jesting, and said that, as to
the Cambridge version, it was indeed faithful; and that it was no blame
to uninspired men, that they did fall short of the beauties and richness
of the Lord's Psalmist. It being now near noon, we crossed over the
river, to where was a sweet spring of water, very clear and bright,
running out upon the green bank. Now, as we stood thirsty, having no
cup to drink from, seeing some people near, we called to them, and
presently there came running to us a young and modest woman, with a
bright pewter tankard, which she filled and gave us. I thought her
sweet and beautiful, as Rebecca of old, at her father's fountain. She
was about leaving, when Mr. Richardson said to her, it was a foul shame
for one like her to give heed to the ranting of the Quakers, and bade
her be a good girl, and come to the meeting.
"Nay," said she, "I have been there often, to small profit. The spirit
which thou persecutest testifieth against thee and thy meeting."
Sir Thomas jestingly asked her if the spirit she spoke of was not such
an one as possessed Mary Magdalen.
"Or the swine of the Gadarenes?" asked Mr. Richardson.
I did smile with the others, but was presently sorry for it; for the
young maid answered not a word to this, but turning to Rebecca, she
said, "Thy father hath been hard with us, but thou seemest kind and
gentle, and I have heard of thy charities to the poor. The Lord keep
thee, for thou walkest in slippery places; there is danger, and thou
seest it not; thou trustest to the hearing of the ear and the seeing of
the eye; the Lord alone seeth the deceitfulness and the guile of man;
and if thou wilt cry mightily to Him, He can direct thee rightly."
Her voice and manner were very weighty and solemn. I felt an awe come
upon me, and Rebecca's countenance was troubled. As the maiden left us,
the minister, looking after said, "There is a deal of poison under the
fair outside of yonder vessel, which I fear is fitted for destruction."
"Peggy Brewster is indeed under a delusion," answered Robert Pike, "but
I know no harm of her. She is kind to all, even to them who evil
entreat her."
"Robert, Robert!" cried the minister, "I fear me you will follow your
honored father, who has made himself of ill repute, by favoring these
people."--"The Quaker hath bewitched him with her bright eyes, perhaps,"
quoth Sir Thomas. "I would she had laid a spell on an uncivil tongue I
wot of," answered Robert, angrily. Hereupon, Mr. Sewall proposed that
we should return, and in making ready and getting to the boat, the
matter was dropped.
NEWBURY, June 1, 1678.
To-day Sir Thomas took his leave of us, being about to go back to
Boston. Cousin Rebecca is, I can see, much taken with his outside
bravery and courtliness, yet she hath confessed to me that her sober
judgment doth greatly incline her towards her old friend and neighbor,
Robert Pike. She hath even said that she doubted not she could live a
quieter and happier life with him than with such an one as Sir Thomas;
and that the words of the Quaker maid, whom we met at the spring on the
river side, had disquieted her not a little, inasmuch as they did seem
to confirm her own fears and misgivings. But her fancy is so bedazzled
with the goodly show of her suitor, that I much fear he can have her for
the asking, especially as her father, to my knowledge, doth greatly
favor him. And, indeed, by reason of her gracious manner, witty and
pleasant discoursing, excellent breeding, and dignity, she would do no
discredit to the choice of one far higher than this young gentleman in
estate and rank.
June 10.
I went this morning with Rebecca to visit Elnathan Stone, a, young
neighbor, who has been lying sorely ill for a long time. He was a
playmate of my cousin when a boy, and was thought to be of great promise
as he grew up to manhood; but, engaging in the war with the heathen, he
was wounded and taken captive by them, and after much suffering was
brought back to his home a few months ago. On entering the house where
he lay, we found his mother, a careworn and sad woman, spinning in the
room by his bedside. A very great and bitter sorrow was depicted on her
features; it was the anxious, unreconciled, and restless look of one who
did feel herself tried beyond her patience, and might not be comforted.
For, as I learned, she was a poor widow, who had seen her young daughter
tomahawked by the Indians; and now her only son, the hope of her old
age, was on his death-bed. She received us with small civility, telling
Rebecca that it was all along of the neglect of the men in authority
that her son had got his death in the wars, inasmuch as it was the want
of suitable diet and clothing, rather than his wounds, which had brought
him into his present condition. Now, as Uncle Rawson is one of the
principal magistrates, my sweet cousin knew that the poor afflicted
creature meant to reproach him; but her good heart did excuse and
forgive the rudeness and distemper of one whom the Lord had sorely
chastened. So she spake kindly and lovingly, and gave her sundry nice
dainty fruits and comforting cordials, which she had got from Boston for
the sick man. Then, as she came to his bedside, and took his hand
lovingly in her own, he thanked her for her many kindnesses, and prayed
God to bless her. He must have been a handsome lad in health, for he
had a fair, smooth forehead, shaded with brown, curling hair, and large,
blue eyes, very sweet and gentle in their look. He told us that he felt
himself growing weaker, and that at times his bodily suffering was
great. But through the mercy of his Saviour he had much peace of mind.
He was content to leave all things in His hand. For his poor mother's
sake, he said, more than for his own, he would like to get about once
more; there were many things he would like to do for her, and for all
who had befriended him; but he knew his Heavenly Father could do more
and better for them, and he felt resigned to His will. He had, he said,
forgiven all who ever wronged him, and he had now no feeling of anger or
unkindness left towards any one, for all seemed kind to him beyond his
deserts, and like brothers and sisters. He had much pity for the poor
savages even, although he had suffered sorely at their hands; for he did
believe that they had been often ill-used, and cheated, and otherwise
provoked to take up arms against us. Hereupon, Goodwife Stone twirled
her spindle very spitefully, and said she would as soon pity the Devil
as his children. The thought of her mangled little girl, and of her
dying son, did seem to overcome her, and she dropped her thread, and
cried out with an exceeding bitter cry,--"Oh, the bloody heathen! Oh,
my poor murdered Molly! Oh, my son, my son!"--"Nay, mother," said the
sick man, reaching out his hand and taking hold of his mother's, with a
sweet smile on his pale face,--"what does Christ tell us about loving
our enemies, and doing good to them that do injure us? Let us forgive
our fellow-creatures, for we have all need of God's forgiveness. I used
to feel as mother does," he said, turning to us; "for I went into the
war with a design to spare neither young nor old of the enemy.
"But I thank God that even in that dark season my heart relented at the
sight of the poor starving women and children, chased from place to
place like partridges. Even the Indian fighters, I found, had sorrows
of their own, and grievous wrongs to avenge; and I do believe, if we had
from the first treated them as poor blinded brethren, and striven as
hard to give them light and knowledge, as we have to cheat them in
trade, and to get away their lands, we should have escaped many bloody
wars, and won many precious souls to Christ."
I inquired of him concerning his captivity. He was wounded, he told me,
in a fight with the Sokokis Indians two years before. It was a hot
skirmish in the woods; the English and the Indians now running forward,
and then falling back, firing at each other from behind the trees. He
had shot off all his powder, and, being ready to faint by reason of a
wound in his knee, he was fain to sit down against an oak, from whence
he did behold, with great sorrow and heaviness of heart, his companions
overpowered by the number of their enemies, fleeing away and leaving him
to his fate. The savages soon came to him with dreadful whoopings,
brandishing their hatchets and their scalping-knives. He thereupon
closed his eyes, expecting to be knocked in the head, and killed
outright. But just then a noted chief coming up in great haste, bade
him be of good cheer, for he was his prisoner, and should not be slain.
He proved to be the famous Sagamore Squando, the chief man of the
Sokokis.
"And were you kindly treated by this chief?" asked Rebecca.
"I suffered much in moving with him to the Sebago Lake, owing to my
wound," he replied; "but the chief did all in his power to give me
comfort, and he often shared with me his scant fare, choosing rather to
endure hunger himself, than to see his son, as he called me, in want of
food. And one night, when I did marvel at this kindness on his part, he
told me that I had once done him a great service; asking me if I was not
at Black Point, in a fishing vessel, the summer before? I told him I
was. He then bade me remember the bad sailors who upset the canoe of a
squaw, and wellnigh drowned her little child, and that I had threatened
and beat them for it; and also how I gave the squaw a warm coat to wrap
up the poor wet papoose. It was his squaw and child that I had
befriended; and he told me that be had often tried to speak to me, and
make known his gratitude therefor; and that he came once to the garrison
at Sheepscot, where he saw me; but being fired at, notwithstanding his
signs of peace and friendship, he was obliged to flee into the woods.
He said the child died a few days after its evil treatment, and the
thought of it made his heart bitter; that he had tried to live peaceably
with the white men, but they had driven him into the war.
"On one occasion," said the sick soldier, "as we lay side by side in his
hut, on the shore of the Sebago Lake, Squando, about midnight, began to
pray to his God very earnestly. And on my querying with him about it,
he said he was greatly in doubt what to do, and had prayed for some sign
of the Great Spirit's will concerning him. He then told me that some
years ago, near the place where we then lay, he left his wigwam at
night, being unable to sleep, by reason of great heaviness and distemper
of mind. It was a full moon, and as he did walk to and fro, he saw a
fair, tall man in a long black dress, standing in the light on the
lake's shore, who spake to him and called him by name.
"'Squando,' he said, and his voice was deep and solemn, like the wind in
the hill pines, 'the God of the white man is the God of the Indian, and
He is angry with his red children. He alone is able to make the corn
grow before the frost, and to lead the fish up the rivers in the spring,
and to fill the woods with deer and other game, and the ponds and
meadows with beavers. Pray to Him always. Do not hunt on His day, nor
let the squaws hoe the corn. Never taste of the strong fire-water, but
drink only from the springs. It, is because the Indians do not worship
Him, that He has brought the white men among them; but if they will pray
like the white men, they will grow very great and strong, and their
children born in this moon will live to see the English sail back in
their great canoes, and leave the Indians all their fishing-places and
hunting-grounds.'
"When the strange man had thus spoken, Squando told me that he went
straightway up to him, but found where he had stood only the shadow of
a broken tree, which lay in the moon across the white sand of the shore.
Then he knew it was a spirit, and he trembled, but was glad. Ever
since, he told nee, he had prayed daily to the Great Spirit, had drank
no rum, nor hunted on the Sabbath.
"He said he did for a long time refuse to dig up his hatchet, and make
war upon the whites, but that he could not sit idle in his wigwam, while
his young men were gone upon their war-path. The spirit of his dead
child did moreover speak to him from the land of souls, and chide him
for not seeking revenge. Once, he told me, he had in a dream seen the
child crying and moaning bitterly, and that when he inquired the cause
of its grief, he was told that the Great Spirit was angry with its
father, and would destroy him and his people unless he did join with the
Eastern Indians to cut off the English."
"I remember," said Rebecca, "of hearing my father speak of this
Squando's kindness to a young maid taken captive some years ago at
Presumpscot."
"I saw her at Cocheco," said the sick man. "Squando found her in a sad
plight, and scarcely alive, took her to his wigwam, where his squaw did
lovingly nurse and comfort her; and when she was able to travel, he
brought her to Major Waldron's, asking no ransom for her. He might have
been made the fast friend of the English at that time, but he scarcely
got civil treatment."
"My father says that many friendly Indians, by the ill conduct of the
traders, have been made our worst enemies," said Rebecca. "He thought
the bringing in of the Mohawks to help us a sin comparable to that of
the Jews, who looked for deliverance from the King of Babylon at the
hands of the Egyptians."
"They did nothing but mischief," said Elnathan Stone; "they killed our
friends at Newichawannock, Blind Will and his family."
Rebecca here asked him if he ever heard the verses writ by Mr. Sewall
concerning the killing of Blind Will. And when he told her he had not,
and would like to have her repeat them, if she could remember, she did
recite them thus:--
"Blind Will of Newiehawannock!
He never will whoop again,
For his wigwam's burnt above him,
And his old, gray scalp is ta'en!
"Blind Will was the friend of white men,
On their errands his young men ran,
And he got him a coat and breeches,
And looked like a Christian man.
"Poor Will of Newiehawannock!
They slew him unawares,
Where he lived among his people,
Keeping Sabhath and saying prayers.
"Now his fields will know no harvest,
And his pipe is clean put out,
And his fine, brave coat and breeches
The Mohog wears about.
"Woe the day our rulers listened
To Sir Edmund's wicked plan,
Bringing down the cruel Mohogs
Who killed the poor old man.
"Oh! the Lord He will requite us;
For the evil we have done,
There'll be many a fair scalp drying
In the wind and in the sun!
"There'll be many a captive sighing,
In a bondage long and dire;
There'll be blood in many a corn-field,
And many a house a-fire.
"And the Papist priests the tidings
Unto all the tribes will send;
They'll point to Newiehawannock,--
'So the English treat their friend!'
"Let the Lord's anointed servants
Cry aloud against this wrong,
Till Sir Edmund take his Mohogs
Back again where they belong.
"Let the maiden and the mother
In the nightly watching share,
While the young men guard the block-house,
And the old men kneel in prayer.
"Poor Will of Newiehawannock!
For thy sad and cruel fall,
And the bringing in of the Mohogs,
May the Lord forgive us all!"
A young woman entered the house just as Rebecca finished the verses.
She bore in her hands a pail of milk and a fowl neatly dressed, which
she gave to Elnathan's mother, and, seeing strangers by his bedside, was
about to go out, when he called to her and besought her to stay. As she
came up and spoke to him, I knew her to be the maid we had met at the
spring. The young man, with tears in his eyes, acknowledged her great
kindness to him, at which she seemed troubled and abashed. A pure,
sweet complexion she hath, and a gentle and loving look, full of
innocence and sincerity. Rebecca seemed greatly disturbed, for she no
doubt thought of the warning words of this maiden, when we were at the
spring. After she had left, Goodwife Stone said she was sure she could
not tell what brought that Quaker girl to her house so much, unless she
meant to inveigle Elnathan; but, for her part, she would rather see him
dead than live to bring reproach upon his family and the Church by
following after the blasphemers. I ventured to tell her that I did look
upon it as sheer kindness and love on the young woman's part; at which
Elnathan seemed pleased, and said he could not doubt it, and that he did
believe Peggy Brewster to be a good Christian, although sadly led astray
by the Quakers. His mother said that, with all her meek looks, and kind
words, she was full of all manner of pestilent heresies, and did remind
her always of Satan in the shape of an angel of light.
We went away ourselves soon after this, the sick man thanking us for our
visit, and hoping that he should see us again. "Poor Elnathan," said
Rebecca, as we walked home, "he will never go abroad again; but he is in
such a good and loving frame of mind, that he needs not our pity, as one
who is without hope."
"He reminds me," I said, "of the comforting promise of Scripture, 'Thou
wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.'"
June 30, 1678.
Mr. Rawson and Sir Thomas Hale came yesterday from Boston. I was
rejoiced to see mine uncle, more especially as he brought for me a
package of letters, and presents and tokens of remembrance from my
friends on the other side of the water. As soon as I got them, I went
up to my chamber, and, as I read of the health of those who are very
dear to me, and who did still regard me with unchanged love, I wept in
my great joy, and my heart overflowed in thankfulness. I read the 22d
Psalm, and it did seem to express mine own feelings in view of the great
mercies and blessings vouchsafed to me. "My head is anointed with oil;
my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the
days of my life."
This morning, Sir Thomas and Uncle Rawson rode over to Hampton, where
they will tarry all night. Last evening, Rebecca had a long talk with
her father concerning Sir Thomas, who hath asked her of him. She came
to bed very late, and lay restless and sobbing; whereupon I pressed her
to know the cause of her grief, when she told me she had consented to
marry Sir Thomas, but that her heart was sorely troubled and full of
misgivings. On my querying whether she did really love the young
gentleman, she said she sometimes feared she did not; and that when her
fancy had made a fair picture of the life of a great lady in England,
there did often come a dark cloud over it like the shade of some heavy
disappointment or sorrow. "Sir Thomas," she said, "was a handsome and
witty young man, and had demeaned himself to the satisfaction and good
repute of her father and the principal people of the Colony; and his
manner towards her had been exceeding delicate and modest, inasmuch as
he had presumed nothing upon his family or estate, but had sought her
with much entreaty and humility, although he did well know that some of
the most admired and wealthy Young women in Boston did esteem him not a
little, even to the annoying of herself, as one whom he especially
favored."
"This will be heavy news to Robert Pike," said I; "and I am sorry for
him, for he is indeed a worthy man."
"That he is," quoth she; "but he hath never spoken to me of aught beyond
that friendliness which, as neighbors and school companions, we do
innocently cherish for each other."
"Nay," said I, "my sweet cousin knows full well that he entertaineth so
strong an affection for her, that there needeth no words to reveal it."
"Alas!" she answered, "it is too true. When I am with him, I sometimes
wish I had never seen Sir Thomas. But my choice is made, and I pray God
I may not have reason to repent of it."
We said no more, but I fear she slept little, for on waking about the
break of day, I saw her sitting in her night-dress by the window.
Whereupon I entreated her to return to her bed, which she at length did,
and folding me in her arms, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she
besought me to pity her, for it was no light thing which she had done,
and she scarcely knew her own mind, nor whether to rejoice or weep over
it. I strove to comfort her, and, after a time, she did, to my great
joy, fall into a quiet sleep.
This afternoon, Robert Pike came in, and had a long talk with Cousin
Broughton, who told him how matters stood between her sister and Sir
Thomas, at which he was vehemently troubled, and would fain have gone to
seek Rebecca at once, and expostulate with her, but was hindered on
being told that it could only grieve and discomfort her, inasmuch as the
thing was well settled, and could not be broken off. He said he had
known and loved her from a child; that for her sake he had toiled hard
by day and studied by night; and that in all his travels and voyages,
her sweet image had always gone with him. He would bring no accusation
against her, for she had all along treated him rather as a brother than
as a suitor: to which last condition he had indeed not felt himself at
liberty to venture, after her honored father, some months ago, had given
him to understand that he did design an alliance of his daughter with a
gentleman of estate and family. For himself, he would bear himself
manfully, and endure his sorrow with patience and fortitude. His only
fear was, that his beloved friend had been too hasty in deciding the
matter; and that he who was her choice might not be worthy of the great
gift of her affection. Cousin Broughton, who has hitherto greatly
favored the pretensions of Sir Thomas, told me that she wellnigh changed
her mind in view of the manly and noble bearing of Robert Pike; and that
if her sister were to live in this land, she would rather see her the
wife of him than of any other man therein.
July 3.
Sir Thomas took his leave to-day. Robert Pike hath been here to wish
Rebecca great joy and happiness in her prospect, which he did in so kind
and gentle a manner, that she was fain to turn away her head to hide her
tears. When Robert saw this, he turned the discourse, and did endeavor
to divert her mind in such sort that the shade of melancholy soon left
her sweet face, and the twain talked together cheerfully as had been
their wont, and as became their years and conditions.
July 6.