trot, until we came to the banks of the river, along which we went near
a mile before we found a suitable ford, and even there the water was so
deep that we only did escape a wetting by drawing our feet up to the
saddle-trees. About noon, we stopped at a farmer's house, in the hope
of getting a dinner; but the room was dirty as an Indian wigwam, with
two children in it, sick with the measles, and the woman herself in a
poor way, and we were glad to leave as soon as possible, and get into
the fresh air again. Aunt had provided me with some cakes, and Mr.
Easton, who is an old traveller, had with him a roasted fowl and a good
loaf of Indian bread; so, coming to a spring of excellent water, we got
off our horses, and, spreading our napkins on the grass and dry leaves,
had a comfortable dinner. John's sister is a widow, a lively, merry
woman, and proved rare company for me. Afterwards we rode until the sun
was nigh setting, when we came to a little hut on the shore of a broad
lake at a place called Massapog. It had been dwelt in by a white family
formerly, but it was now empty, and much decayed in the roof, and as we
did ride up to it we saw a wild animal of some sort leap out of one of
its windows, and run into the pines. Here Mr. Easton said we must make
shift to tarry through the night, as it was many miles to the house of a
white man. So, getting off our horses, we went into the hut, which had
but one room, with loose boards for a floor; and as we sat there in the
twilight, it looked dismal enough; but presently Mr. Easton, coming in
with a great load of dried boughs, struck a light in the stone
fireplace, and we soon had a roaring fire. His sister broke off some
hemlock boughs near the door, and made a broom of them, with which she
swept up the floor, so that when we sat down on blocks by the hearth,
eating our poor supper, we thought ourselves quite comfortable and tidy.
It was a wonderful clear night, the moon rising, as we judged, about
eight of the clock, over the tops of the hills on the easterly side of
the lake, and shining brightly on the water in a long line of light, as
if a silver bridge had been laid across it. Looking out into the
forest, we could see the beams of the moon, falling here and there
through the thick tops of the pines and hemlocks, and showing their tall
trunks, like so many pillars in a church or temple. There was a
westerly wind blowing, not steadily, but in long gusts, which, sounding
from a great distance through the pine leaves, did make a solemn and not
unpleasing music, to which I listened at the door until the cold drove
me in for shelter. Our horses having been fed with corn, which Mr.
Easton took with him, were tied at the back of the building, under the
cover of a thick growth of hemlocks, which served to break off the night
wind. The widow and I had a comfortable bed in the corner of the room,
which we made of small hemlock sprigs, having our cloaks to cover us,
and our saddlebags for pillows. My companions were soon asleep, but the
exceeding strangeness of my situation did keep me a long time awake.
For, as I lay there looking upward, I could see the stars shining down a
great hole in the roof, and the moonlight streaming through the seams of
the logs, and mingling with the red glow of the coals on the hearth. I
could hear the horses stamping, just outside, and the sound of the water
on the lake shore, the cry of wild animals in the depth of the woods,
and, over all, the long and very wonderful murmur of the pines in the
wind. At last, being sore weary, I fell asleep, and waked not until I
felt the warm sun shining in my face, and heard the voice of Mr. Easton
bidding me rise, as the horses were ready.
After riding about two hours we came upon an Indian camp, in the midst
of a thick wood of maples. Here were six spacious wigwams; but the men
were away, except two very old and infirm ones. There were five or six
women, and perhaps twice as many children, who all came out to see us.
They brought us some dried meat, as hard nigh upon as chips of wood, and
which, although hungry, I could feel no stomach for; but I bought of one
of the squaws two great cakes of sugar, made from the sap of the maples
which abound there, very pure and sweet, and which served me instead of
their unsavory meat and cakes of pounded corn, of which Mr. Easton and
his sister did not scruple to partake. Leaving them, we had a long and
hard ride to a place called Winnicinnit, where, to my great joy, we
found a comfortable house and Christian people, with whom we tarried.
The next day we got to the Plantations; and about noon, from the top of
a hill, Mr. Easton pointed out the settlement where my brother dwelt,--
a fair, pleasant valley, through which ran a small river, with the
houses of the planters on either side. Shortly after, we came to a new
frame house, with a great oak-tree left standing on each side of the
gate, and a broad meadow before it, stretching down to the water. Here
Mr. Easton stopped; and now, who should come hastening down to us but my
new sister, Margaret, in her plain but comely dress, kindly welcoming
me; and soon my brother came up from the meadow, where he was busy with
his men. It was indeed a joyful meeting.
The next day being the Sabhath, I went with my brother and his wife to
the meeting, which was held in a large house of one of their Quaker
neighbors. About a score of grave, decent people did meet there,
sitting still and quiet for a pretty while, when one of their number,
a venerable man, spake a few words, mostly Scripture; then a young
woman, who, I did afterwards learn, had been hardly treated by the
Plymouth people, did offer a few words of encouragement and exhortation
from this portion of the 34th Psalm: "The angel of the Lord encampeth
round about them that fear him, and delivereth them." When the meeting
was over, some of the ancient women came and spake kindly to me,
inviting me to their houses. In the evening certain of these people
came to my brother's, and were kind and loving towards me. There was,
nevertheless, a gravity and a certain staidness of deportment which I
could but ill conform unto, and I was not sorry when they took leave.
My Uncle Rawson need not fear my joining with them; for, although I do
judge them to be a worthy and pious people, I like not their manner of
worship, and their great gravity and soberness do little accord with my
natural temper and spirits.
May 16.
This place is in what is called the Narragansett country, and about
twenty miles from Mr. Williams's town of Providence, a place of no small
note. Mr. Williams, who is now an aged man, more than fourscore, was
the founder of the Province, and is held in great esteem by the people,
who be of all sects and persuasions, as the Government doth not molest
any in worshipping according to conscience; and hence you will see in
the same neighborhood Anabaptists, Quakers, New Lights, Brownists,
Antinomians, and Socinians,--nay, I am told there be Papists also. Mr.
Williams is a Baptist, and holdeth mainly with Calvin and Beza, as
respects the decrees, and hath been a bitter reviler of the Quakers,
although he hath ofttimes sheltered them from the rigor of the
Massachusetts Bay magistrates, who he saith have no warrant to deal in
matters of conscience and religion, as they have done.
Yesterday came the Governor of the Rhode Island, Nicholas Easton, the
father of John, with his youngest daughter Mary, as fair and as ladylike
a person as I have seen for many a day. Both her father and herself do
meet with the "Friends," as they call themselves, at their great house
on the Island, and the Governor sometimes speaks therein, having, as one
of the elders here saith of him, "a pretty gift in the ministry." Mary,
who is about the age of my brother's wife, would fain persuade us to go
back with them on the morrow to the Island, but Leonard's business will
not allow it, and I would by no means lose his company while I tarry in
these parts, as I am so soon to depart for home, where a great ocean
will separate us, it may be for many years. Margaret, who hath been to
the Island, saith that the Governor's house is open to all new-comers,
who are there entertained with rare courtesy, he being a man of
substance, having a great plantation, with orchards and gardens, and
a stately house on an hill over-looking the sea on either hand, where,
six years ago, when the famous George Fox was on the Island, he did
entertain and lodge no less than fourscore persons, beside his own
family and servants.
Governor Easton, who is a pleasant talker, told a story of a magistrate
who had been a great persecutor of his people. On one occasion, after
he had cast a worthy Friend into jail, he dreamed a dream in this wise:
He thought he was in a fair, delightsome place, where were sweet springs
of water and green meadows, and rare fruit-trees and vines with ripe
clusters thereon, and in the midst thereof flowed a river whose waters
were clearer than crystal. Moreover, he did behold a great multitude
walking on the river's bank, or sitting lovingly in the shade of the
trees which grew thereby. Now, while he stood marvelling at all this,
he beheld in his dream the man he had cast into prison sitting with his
hat on, side by side with a minister then dead, whom the magistrate had
held in great esteem while living; whereat, feeling his anger stirred
within him, he went straight and bade the man take off his hat in the
presence of his betters. Howbeit the twain did give no heed to his
words, but did continue to talk lovingly together as before; whereupon
he waxed exceeding wroth, and would have laid hands upon the man. But,
hearing a voice calling upon him to forbear, he did look about him, and
behold one, with a shining countenance, and clad in raiment so white
that it did dazzle his eyes to look upon it, stood before him. And the
shape said, "Dost thou well to be angry?" Then said the magistrate,
"Yonder is a Quaker with his hat on talking to a godly minister."
"Nay," quoth the shape, "thou seest but after the manner of the world
and with the eyes of flesh. Look yonder, and tell me what thou seest."
So he looked again, and lo! two men in shining raiment, like him who
talked with him, sat under the tree. "Tell me," said the shape, "if thou
canst, which of the twain is the Quaker and which is the Priest?" And
when he could not, but stood in amazement confessing he did see neither
of them, the shape said, "Thou sayest well, for here be neither Priest
nor Quaker, Jew nor Gentile, but all are one in the Lord." Then he
awoke, and pondered long upon his dream, and when it was morning he went
straightway to the jail, and ordered the man to be set free, and hath
ever since carried himself lovingly towards the Quakers.
My brother's lines have indeed fallen unto him in a pleasant, place.
His house is on a warm slope of a hill, looking to the southeast, with a
great wood of oaks and walnuts behind it, and before it many acres of
open land, where formerly the Indians did plant their corn, much of
which is now ploughed and seeded. From the top of the hill one can see
the waters of the great Bay; at the foot of it runs a small river
noisily over the rocks, making a continual murmur. Going thither this
morning, I found a great rock hanging over the water, on which I sat
down, listening to the noise of the stream and the merriment of the
birds in the trees, and admiring the green banks, which were besprinkled
with white and yellow flowers. I call to mind that sweet fancy of the
lamented Anne Broadstreet, the wife of the new Governor of
Massachusetts, in a little piece which she nameth "Contemplations,"
being written on the banks of a stream, like unto the one whereby I was
then sitting, in which the writer first describeth the beauties of the
wood, and the flowing water, with the bright fishes therein, and then
the songs of birds in the boughs over her head, in this sweet and
pleasing verse, which I have often heard repeated by Cousin Rebecca:--
"While musing thus, with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,
A sweet-tongued songster perched above my head,
And chanted forth her most melodious strain;
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,
I judged my hearing better than my sight,
And wished me wings with her a while to take my flight.
"O merry bird! said I, that fears no snares,
That neither toils nor hoards up in the barn,
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares,
To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm.
Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear,
Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.
"The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And, warbling out the old, begins the new.
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee unto a better region,
Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion."
Now, while I did ponder these lines, hearing a step in the leaves, I
looked up, and behold there was an old Indian close beside me; and,
being much affrighted, I gave a loud cry, and ran towards the house.
The old man laughed at this, and, calling after me, said he would not
harm me; and Leonard, hearing my cries, now coming up, bade me never
fear the Indian, for he was a harmless creature, who was well known to
him. So he kindly saluted the old man, asking me to shake hands with
him, which I did, when he struck across the field to a little cleared
spot on the side of the hill. My brother bidding me note his actions,
I saw him stoop down on his knees, with his head to the ground, for some
space of time, and then, getting up, he stretched out his hands towards
the southwest, as if imploring some one whom I could not see. This he
repeated for nigh upon half an hour, when he came back to the house,
where he got some beer and bread to eat, and a great loaf to carry away.
He said but little until he rose to depart, when he told my brother that
he had been to see the graves of his father and his mother, and that he
was glad to find them as he did leave them the last year; for he knew
that the spirits of the dead would be sore grieved, if the white man's
hoe touched their bones.
My brother promised him that the burial-place of his people should not
be disturbed, and that he would find it as now, when he did again visit
it.
"Me never come again," said the old Indian. "No. Umpachee is very old.
He has no squaw; he has no young men who call him father. Umpachee is
like that tree;" and he pointed, as he spoke, to a birch, which stood
apart in the field, from which the bark had fallen, and which did show
no leaf nor bud.
My brother hereupon spake to him of the great Father of both white and
red men, and of his love towards them, and of the measure of light which
he had given unto all men, whereby they might know good from evil, and
by living in obedience to which they might be happy in this life and in
that to come; exhorting him to put his trust in God, who was able to
comfort and sustain him in his old age, and not to follow after lying
Powahs, who did deceive and mislead him.
"My young brother's talk is good," said the old man. "The Great Father
sees that his skin is white, and that mine is red. He sees my young
brother when he sits in his praying-house, and me when me offer him corn
and deer's flesh in the woods, and he says good. Umpachee's people have
all gone to one place. If Umpachee go to a praying-house, the Great
Father will send him to the white man's place, and his father and his
mother and his sons will never see him in their hunting-ground. No.
Umpachee is an old beaver that sits in his own house, and swims in his
own pond. He will stay where he is, until his Father calls him."
Saying this, the old savage went on his way. As he passed out of the
valley, and got to the top of the hill on the other side, we, looking
after him, beheld him standing still a moment, as if bidding farewell to
the graves of his people.
May 24.
My brother goes with me to-morrow on my way to Boston. I am not a
little loath to leave my dear sister Margaret, who hath greatly won upon
me by her gentleness and loving deportment, and who doth at all times,
even when at work in ordering her household affairs, and amidst the
cares and perplexities of her new life, show forth that sweetness of
temper and that simplicity wherewith I was charmed when I first saw her.
She hath naturally an ingenious mind, and, since her acquaintance with
my brother, hath dipped into such of his studies and readings as she had
leisure and freedom to engage in, so that her conversation is in no wise
beneath her station. Nor doth she, like some of her people, especially
the more simple and unlearned, affect a painful and melancholy look and
a canting tone of discourse, but lacketh not for cheerfulness and a
certain natural ease and grace of demeanor; and the warmth and goodness
of her heart doth at times break the usual quiet of her countenance,
like to sunshine and wind on a still water, and she hath the sweetest
smile I ever saw. I have often thought, since I have been with her,
that if Uncle Rawson could see and hear her as I do for a single day,
he would confess that my brother might have done worse than to take a
Quaker to wife.
BOSTON, May 28, 1679.
Through God's mercy, I got here safe and well, saving great weariness,
and grief at parting with my brother and his wife. The first day we
went as far as a place they call Rehoboth, where we tarried over night,
finding but small comfort therein; for the house was so filled, that
Leonard and a friend who came with us were fain to lie all night in the
barn, on the mow before their horses; and, for mine own part, I had to
choose between lying in the large room, where the man of the house and
his wife and two sons, grown men, did lodge, or to climb into the dark
loft, where was barely space for a bed,--which last I did make choice
of, although the woman thought it strange, and marvelled not a little at
my unwillingness to sleep in the same room with her husband and boys,
as she called them. In the evening, hearing loud voices in a house near
by, we inquired what it meant, and were told that some people from
Providence were holding a meeting there, the owner of the house being
accounted a Quaker. Whereupon, I went thither with Leonard, and found
nigh upon a score of people gathered, and a man with loose hair and
beard speaking to them. My brother whispered to me that he was no
Friend, but a noted ranter, a noisy, unsettled man. He screamed
exceeding loud, and stamped with his feet, and foamed at the mouth, like
one possessed with an evil spirit, crying against all order in State or
Church, and declaring that the Lord had a controversy with Priests and
Magistrates, the prophets who prophesy falsely, and the priests who bear
rule by their means, and the people who love to have it so. He spake of
the Quakers as a tender and hopeful people in their beginning, and while
the arm of the wicked was heavy upon them; but now he said that they,
even as the rest, were settled down into a dead order, and heaping up
worldly goods, and speaking evil of the Lord's messengers. They were a
part of Babylon, and would perish with their idols; they should drink of
the wine of God's wrath; the day of their visitation was at hand. After
going on thus for a while, up gets a tall, wild-looking woman, as pale
as a ghost, and trembling from head to foot, who, stretching out her
long arms towards the man who had spoken, bade the people take notice
that this was the angel spoken of in Revelation, flying through the
midst of heaven, and crying, Woe! woe! to the inhabitants of the earth!
with more of the like wicked rant, whereat I was not a little
discomposed, and, beckoning my brother, left them to foam out their
shame to themselves.
The next morning, we got upon our horses at an early hour, and after a
hard and long ride reached Mr. Torrey's at Weymouth, about an hour after
dark. Here we found Cousin Torrey in bed with her second child, a boy,
whereat her husband is not a little rejoiced. My brother here took his
leave of me, going back to the Plantations. My heart is truly sad and
heavy with the great grief of parting.
May 30.
Went to the South meeting to-day, to hear the sermon preached before the
worshipful Governor, Mr. Broadstreet, and his Majesty's Council, it
being the election day. It was a long sermon, from Esther x. 3. Had
much to say concerning the duty of Magistrates to support the Gospel and
its ministers, and to put an end to schism and heresy. Very pointed,
also, against time-serving Magistrates.
June 1.
Mr. Michael Wigglesworth, the Malden minister, at uncle's house last
night. Mr. Wigglesworth told aunt that he had preached a sermon against
the wearing of long hair and other like vanities, which he hoped, with
God's blessing, might do good. It was from Isaiah iii. 16, and so on
to the end of the chapter. Now, while he was speaking of the sermon,
I whispered Rebecca that I would like to ask him a question, which he
overhearing, turned to me, and bade me never heed, but speak out. So I
told him that I was but a child in years and knowledge, and he a wise
and learned man; but if he would not deem it forward in me, I would fain
know whether the Scripture did anywhere lay down the particular fashion
of wearing the hair.
Mr. Wigglesworth said that there were certain general rules laid down,
from which we might make a right application to particular cases. The
wearing of long hair by men is expressly forbidden in 1 Corinthians xi.
14, 15; and there is a special word for women, also, in 1 Tim. ii. 9.
Hereupon Aunt Rawson told me she thought I was well answered; but I
(foolish one that I was), being unwilling to give up the matter so,
ventured further to say that there were the Nazarites, spoken of in
Numbers vi. 5, upon whose heads, by the appointment of God, no razor
was to come.
"Nay," said Mr. Wigglesworth, "that was by a special appointment only,
and proveth the general rule and practice."
Uncle Rawson said that long hair might, he judged, be lawfully worn,
where the bodily health did require it, to guard the necks of weakly
people from the cold.
"Where there seems plainly a call of nature for it," said Mr.
Wigglesworth, "as a matter of bodily comfort, and for the warmth of the
head and neck, it is nowise unlawful. But for healthy, sturdy young
people to make this excuse for their sinful vanity doth but add to their
condemnation. If a man go any whit beyond God's appointment and the
comfort of nature, I know not where he will stop, until he grows to be
the veriest ruffian in the world. It is a wanton and shameful thing for
a man to liken himself to a woman, by suffering his hair to grow, and
curling and parting it in a seam, as is the manner of too many. It
betokeneth pride and vanity, and causeth no small offence to godly,
sober people.
"The time hath been," continued Mr. Wigglesworth, "when God's people
were ashamed of such vanities, both in the home country and in these
parts; but since the Bishops and the Papists have had their way, and
such as feared God are put down from authority, to give place to
scorners and wantons, there hath been a sad change."
He furthermore spake of the gay apparel of the young women of Boston,
and their lack of plainness and modesty in the manner of wearing and
ordering their hair; and said he could in no wise agree with some of his
brethren in the ministry that this was a light matter, inasmuch as it
did most plainly appear from Scripture that the pride and haughtiness of
the daughters of Zion did provoke the judgments of the Lord, not only
upon them, but upon the men also. Now, the special sin of women is
pride and haughtiness, and that because they be generally more ignorant,
being the weaker vessel; and this sin venteth itself in their gesture,
their hair and apparel. Now, God abhors all pride, especially pride in
base things; and hence the conduct of the daughters of Zion does greatly
provoke his wrath, first against themselves, secondly their fathers and
husbands, and thirdly against the land they do inhabit.
Rebecca here roguishly pinched my arm, saying apart that, after all, we
weaker vessels did seem to be of great consequence, and nobody could
tell but that our head-dresses would yet prove the ruin of the country.
June 4