That beautiful spot, now known as Mount Auburn, was formerly covered
by a forest, which in the early days of New England was the scene of
many a startling incident and wild adventure; the wolf howled in its
thickets, and the wild cat issuing from its borders, found an easy
prey among the flocks of the neighboring farmers: on this account, the
utmost skill and energy of the colonists were often taxed, to save
their property from pillage and destruction. The young men of those
times were bold and expert in the chase, and stimulated by rewards
offered by the colony, they often pursued their game many miles from
Boston, and seldom returned without trophies of their skill and
success. In this way, the vicinity of the town was soon cleared of
these scourges of newer and less populous settlements. At the period of
our narrative, however, the race of wild animals was not extinct, and
the chase was kept up as one of the most agreeable and salutary sports
which the austerity of those days would permit.
It was a fine evening in September, 1691, when two young men, who
had been engaged all day with a company of sportsmen, were returning
leisurely home on horseback. They were both members of Harvard college,
room mates and intimate friends. They lingered a mile or two behind
their associates, and though travelling after dark was not very safe in
those days, yet the beauty of the evening tempted them to loiter, and
possibly they were not unwilling to encounter some little adventure,
to make up for a dull and unsuccessful chase. At any rate, their
conversation was sufficiently interesting to detain them awhile on the
road.
'Have you heard from your cousin Mary of late?' said James Lyford to
his companion.
'Why do you ask that question? I have no such cousin as you refer to,'
replied his friend.
'I have heard you call her cousin Mary,' said James, 'and it was fair
to judge from your manner of speaking, that she bore this relation to
you.'
'Cousin,' replied Walter, 'is a name that belongs to every body or
nobody, as the case may be. It is a very convenient term, and affords
a good house to shelter in, when you are bored with questions. I have
forty such cousins as Mary.'
'Then you have forty such houses to shelter in,' said Lyford. 'Verily,
Walter, you will have no want of inns on the road to matrimony.'
'Forty inns are none too many for a road that promises to be so long,
as the one you think I am travelling. To be serious, Lyford, I wish
you would let me alone about Mary. She is beautiful and good, but I
dare not marry in this Puritan land. I must not reside here; and much
as I love Mary Graham, I can never take her to the lighter habits and
frivolous scenes of licentious France. You are aware that my parents
have left Virginia for Paris; that city must be my home. I must grapple
with its temptations, perhaps fall under their power; but duty, honor,
nay love itself forbid me to take Mary to its blighting influences.
But why talk of such subjects? I am but twenty-one years old and this
passion of love, the wise heads say, is not to be depended on; my own
feelings may change. And now, Lyford, you have the reasons why Mary
Graham must still be my cousin.'
'You speak like a philosopher, nay like a Christian too. I hope your
practice will correspond with your precepts, and that you will be
careful not to overact the cousin, in your intercourse with Mary. If
the cousin in speech becomes the lover in practice and example, it may
wake a responsive affection in her own heart, and if so, she cannot
quench it, as you may, among the gayeties of Paris. It may fade the
bloom on her cheek and quench the light in her eye; but it cannot, like
yours, be overcome by excitement abroad, or change at home.'
'Your remarks are very just,' said Walter; 'but why speak in this tone
of warning? think you, Lyford, I would trifle with her feelings? I have
no evidence that she returns my love; and do you pretend to see ought
that is reprehensible in my conduct?'
'Yes, Walter; and if your purposes are not serious in the matter, you
ought not to persist in those attentions, which clearly indicate your
love to her, and may produce similar feelings on her part. You deceive
yourself in this affair, and, it may be, you are deceiving her also.
Love is always in advance of the judgment, and you speak like one
little acquainted with its snares.'
'And what right have you,' replied Walter, 'to catechise me after this
fashion? It is one of your worst faults, Lyford, that you see every
thing in a dark and suspicious form. As to Mary, she never suspected me
of anything but friendship and good will. She does not love me. Would
to heaven she did! Were it not for the fatal dislike of my parents to
this Puritan race, I would rather live with Mary Graham on a mountain
fastness, or in the solitude of the desert, than to occupy, without
her, the throne of England or France; but my filial duties interpose,
and the stern demands of such parents as mine must not be disregarded.'
'Your purposes on this point must be settled,' said Lyford, 'and I must
catechise you till they are. I know not that Mary loves you. I hope she
never will, until you are so fully sensible of her value and your duty,
as to consult her interests in the case, as much at least as your own.
If you seek to gratify your vanity, by securing her love, when the
obstacles to your union are not to be overcome; then your principles
are not firm enough for me, and your friendship is no longer of any
value.'
'Ought I to deny myself the pleasure of her society,' returned Walter,
'because the severity of Puritan habits imposes so many restraints, and
is so rigid in its inquiries, and exact in its demands? I hope this
people, in the march of improvement, will learn to be a little more
liberal. You are too severe yourself, Lyford, and all the innocent
gayeties of life look to you, as so many clouds between us and heaven.'
'Religion is not severe in her demands,' said Lyford, 'and if she
appears so to you, Walter, it is because you invest her with false
attributes, and view her through a false medium. Mary Graham is a
sincere Christian; her cheerfulness of character you will readily
admit; it is a thing of nature, and never runs into excess. She has
often had occasion to rebuke the frivolous and turn back the current of
levity and folly, and she never shrinks from her duty in this respect,
as you well know. I should be sorry to believe any one could command
her love, who is not governed by a principle of true religion; and
I must add, Walter, if you fail in this point, I hope you will never
possess her love.'
'Whence, Lyford, pray tell me, whence this strange interest on
your part in Mary? do you mean to stand between us and tell her I
am unworthy of her love? You well know I believe in the reality of
religion, and reverence it too; you know my character, and cannot
suspect me of dishonor. What does all this mean?'
'I mean to put you on your guard, Walter. I can only repeat what I have
already said, that your present position and prospects do not warrant
you in lavishing upon Mary so many proofs of your love. The course you
are pursuing is unjust to her and unjust to yourself. I think you now
understand me.'
'I do not understand,' said Walter, 'by what right you prescribe my
duties, and undertake to regulate my social intercourse. It would seem
to me, to be more wise to mind your own affairs, and let mine alone.'
'And why should I let yours alone, when they interfere with mine? Is it
your privilege alone, Walter, to love Mary? Why may I not love her as
well as you? She is not less the object of my regard than yours. Mary
Graham is more dear to me than I can express. There is no one on earth
I love so well. Moreover, she returns my love, and of this I can give
you the most unequivocal proofs.'
'Now, I have it,' replied the indignant Walter; 'you mean to supplant
me in Mary's love, and all this parade of friendship and religion is
a mere artifice to cover your own selfish designs. Lyford, you are
playing the hypocrite and the villain.'
'Tell me not thus,' said Lyford calmly. 'Much as I love Mary, I shall
not stand in your way. Could I see, Walter, that to all your other
virtues, you added that of sincere piety towards God, I should rejoice
to see you together at the nuptial altar, and my prayers would go up
with yours, that it might be a blessed union.'
'I do not understand you, Lyford: you say I must desist from my
attentions to Mary, till my purposes are settled. When I ask why
you interfere, you tell me, it is on account of your own love, and
then, with strange inconsistency, you add, that, if I was a sincere
Christian, you would rejoice in our union. Why do you thus perplex and
mislead me?'
'All I have said is true, Walter: the lady you have known by the
name of Mary Graham, is the beloved sister of your friend Lyford. It
must remain a secret, and you must, on no account, divulge it. Do you
now wonder at my love? do you object to my counsels and cautions?
This dear sister is not the relative of Mr. Ellerson, with whom she
resides. She is my only sister, the grand-child of Gen. Goffe, and was
the little companion and solace of his last days. At his death, it was
deemed expedient that, under this assumed name, she should reside with
her friends at Salem. You have now the cause of my suggestions and
warnings. Will you not say they are reasonable and right?'
'You have indeed opened my eyes. Pardon me, oh Lyford! that angry burst
of passion which denounced my best friend. It was love to your sister
that prompted my wrath; and I must have the forgiveness of her brother,
before I can quietly rest.'
'It is forgiven,' said Lyford, seizing the hand of his friend, and
together, in silence and tears, they dismounted at the college gate and
entered the hall just at the commencement of evening prayers.