A few days after the adventure in the woods, Lyford obtained leave
to visit his friends in Hadley. At that time such a journey was no
small affair; and the road was so new, so little travelled, and the
settlements on the way were so thinly scattered, that it required a
good deal of preparation, and was usually performed on horseback. There
were no inns on the road, except a small house in the settlement at
Worcester, and a log cabin in the neighborhood of Brookfield, where
food and lodging might be had.
The journey was undertaken in company with a friend, and the ride of
four days among the forests of New England was characterized by a
variety of romantic and pleasing incidents. It was not without peril
of life and limb, for the road was often precipitous, and though
sometimes travelled in sleighs and wheel carriages, these conveyances
were little adapted to its rugged surface, and afforded small comfort
to their riders. The road was perfectly known to Lyford, and the
scenery on the way was so picturesque and beautiful that he often
paused in admiration on some of the cliffs over which his path led
him, and gazed long and with lively interest at those wild and rugged
features of nature which the labor of man has since softened into
the calmer lineaments of pleasant meadows, flourishing gardens and
cultivated fields.
The village of Hadley had been the residence of the venerated Gen.
Goffe. Every incident in his grandfather's history, every spot which
the illustrious exile loved, was dear to the memory of Lyford. In their
early childhood, James and his sister were the solace of many a weary
hour, and threw around the aged patriot the last gleams of sunshine
which fell on his troubled career. Every one loved the old man; and
the mandate of the royal Stuart and his bribe of gold were of no force
among the peaceful villagers, who well knew the veteran's retreat,
and could never be persuaded, by promise or threat, to betray him.
The sympathies of the community in which he lived were wholly on his
side, and all those friendly offices which affection could suggest, or
kindness confer, were liberally bestowed. But the tyrannical Charles
was then in the zenith of his power, and the last days of Goffe were
imbittered by the tidings of his constant and successful aggressions
on the laws and liberties of England. Whatever were his errors in
pronouncing judgment upon the only Stuart who commands the sympathy
and affection of posterity, it is certain that Gen. Goffe deplored
the necessity of such a sacrifice, and acted under a strong, but
misguided sense of duty. His name is yet held in honored and grateful
remembrance; his ashes rest in a land where no kingly prerogative
tramples with its iron foot on the sacred rights of man, and where
the blessed vision that shone so brightly on his eye, is a living and
glorious reality.
During Lyford's absence, his sister returned to Salem, and Walter
applied himself with new vigor to his studies. Before Mary left Boston,
however, their mutual vows had been pledged, with the full consent
of Walter's parents, whose reply to his earnest request was as kind
and affectionate as he could desire. Strale had never requested Miss
Graham to explain the circumstances of Trellison's long interview
with her on his way home from Mr. Elliott's, but as she was aware of
the difficulties which occurred at Cambridge on the next day, and of
the singular and suspicious attitude in which Trellison's declaration
had placed her, she now thought it proper to make Walter acquainted
with all the facts in the case. It appeared that Mr. Trellison had
long persisted in a class of attentions which were exceedingly
annoying and disagreeable, and Miss Graham determined to accept his
offer to accompany her home, with a view to put a final end to his
importunities. On this occasion Trellison again renewed his request,
that she would so far permit his attentions as to allow him the hope of
a future union, declaring that his love was stronger than death, and
that no conceivable suffering could be equal to that which must follow
the abandonment of his hope. Miss Graham had long known the strength
of his attachment, and in reply assured him that in many points he
possessed her esteem and respect, but beyond that, she could give no
response to his feelings, and begged he would cease his attentions,
declaring once for all, that all hope and expectation on his part were
entirely groundless, and must terminate, as her affections were already
fixed upon another, and his duty to himself and to her required that
he should no longer molest her with such attentions as she could never
reciprocate.
The result of this interview accounted for the haggard and troubled
appearance of Trellison on his return to Cambridge. It was a fatal
blow to his hopes, it struck deeply at his pride, and aroused a train
of reflections and purposes which, under various disguises, were so
interwoven with the severity of his religious views, as to conceal
from him in part their real turpitude. He could not forgive Strale for
supplanting him, as he supposed, in Mary's love. He began to think Miss
Graham herself was not the angelic being his fancy had pictured, and a
feeling of bitterness against both soon passed over his mind, which he
chose to indulge, as furnishing some antidote to the disappointment and
shame which had nearly overwhelmed him.
It was now the clear sunshine of happiness with Walter. His long
cherished object had been attained, and he looked forward with pride
and pleasure to the day when he could call Miss Graham his own, and
present her to his parents as the object of his warmest love.
Mary, too, was happy; but there was one blot in the beautiful picture
she was contemplating. Strale was not decidedly religious. His
principles were firm, his views of religion serious and respectful;
but this was not sufficient or satisfactory. She was desirous most of
all, that he might possess that inestimable pearl, which he who obtains
will never give up, and he who refuses to seek will never obtain. Her
conversations with Walter on religious subjects were frequent and
serious; and every day, while they were together, she had the happiness
to find him more deeply interested, and more determined that his future
well being should become a matter of personal concern and solicitude.
On the last evening before Mary left Boston, the conversation was more
than usually interesting. The day had been clear and cold--there was
little snow on the ground, but it presented a smooth surface of ice
over which they found a pleasant walk on the borders of the forest
which then occupied, in the wildness of its original growth, the
present site of the Boston common. The moonlight was falling among the
trees, and was also reflected from the ice and snow, whose beautiful
expanse was visible on the south. The subject of conversation was the
character of New-England piety. Walter had serious objections to its
general features, which he thought were unnatural and unwarranted
by the scriptures. He objected to its harshness and severity, its
alliance to bigotry and superstition, its restraint upon the buoyancy
and cheerfulness of youth, and its rigid demands upon the time and
attention of its professors.
'These, Mary,' said he, 'are difficulties which I cannot get over.
Surely religion was never intended to strip the world of its beauty
and clothe it in unnatural gloom. It must animate all our joyous
sensibilities, and not suppress them--it must give us bright pictures
of the future life, and not such as will cast shadows and gloom over
the present.'
'Religion, Walter,' replied Mary, 'must strip the world of its false
beauty, and present it in its true light. It must frown upon every
sensibility, however joyous, which is sinful. It claims our supreme
regard, and demands the first place in our pursuits, the first in
our affections. The beauty and color of the richest wine are often
heightened by the poisonous drug--shall we therefore press the chalice
to our lips? Will you not agree with me that most of that which charms
the youthful mind is false and illusive?'
'I have often found it so. But on the other hand, is there no excess
in religious sensibility? Do not insanity and despair sometimes follow
in the train of excited apprehensions of future wrath, and is not the
imagination often terrified and distracted by groundless alarms?'
'This excess of sensibility is not peculiar to religious subjects. The
intense application of the mind to any subject of absorbing interest
will often destroy its balance, and unfit it for usefulness and
happiness. How is it with the men of pleasure, of wealth, of talent
and fame? Are they not overthrown sometimes by the excitement of their
several vocations? And can religion, Walter, which is of all themes the
most exciting, be always contemplated with such calmness as never to
distract the mind?'
'It is not religion, dear Mary, that I object to; but to those
distorted and unnatural shapes which it seems to wear in the
community. Look now at the strange delusion which prevails at Salem.
Under color of religion, several innocent persons have been imprisoned,
charged with crimes which they cannot commit if they would; and yet we
are told the interests of true religion require their punishment.'
'These are the excrescences of religion,' replied Mary, 'not the
thing itself. As to the witch stories, and the proceedings of the
magistrates, there is folly enough about them; but I am quite sure no
part of it is to be laid to religion. Superstition affects all minds
more or less. It has a most powerful agency in the papal church, and
is an important part of the machinery by which that evil system is
supported. I believe there is less of it here than elsewhere; and yet
if its elements are once in commotion, there is no absolute protection
against its power. Not many years since several persons were punished
in England for witchcraft, and it is unfortunate that the relations
between the physical and mental states are not better understood. The
ignorant and credulous too often mistake the disorders of their minds
for the influence of mysterious spirits and malignant demons, and
for want of a just discrimination, the most disastrous results will
sometimes follow.'
'I am ashamed to confess, Mary, that my own experience goes to confirm
the truth of your remarks. I am not wholly free from superstitious
feelings. There have been times in my life when I was ready to start
at the fall of a leaf, and have felt an undefinable and mysterious
awe, for which I could trace no sufficient cause. I have been at times
almost ready to sympathize with those who look at the blooming of a
flower out of its season, or the sudden blighting of blossoms on the
tree, as intimations of death or some other calamity. I remember a
family of six brothers in Virginia, the youngest ten years of age,
and all of them in sound and vigorous health. A number of peach trees
in fine condition were growing in front of the house. They were very
remarkable for the abundance and excellence of their fruit. Early in
the spring before I left, those trees were observed to be full of
blossoms, when suddenly, and without apparent cause, the bloom of
three of them was blighted, and in a few weeks they died. Soon after I
reached Boston I was informed by letter, that three of those brothers
were successively seized with fever and died. Was not this, Mary, a
shadow of things to come, a significant token of the desolation which
so soon fell upon the family? Was it not at least remarkable in its
circumstances?'
'Just now, Walter, you seemed to warn me against superstition, and then
suggested a train of thought which could not fail to awaken it, if I
had any. Indeed, Walter, I have no belief in its being a wonder, even
as you state it. What is more common than for a peach tree to be full
of blossoms, and then suddenly die. A worm at the root, a thousand
blighting influences, are constantly at work to undermine its little
life; and if the incident contains an impressive lesson, it does not
warrant us in believing it the design of Providence to reveal thereby
the deaths which soon after occurred.'
'You are not so credulous even, as I am,' said Walter, 'and I certainly
am not so religious as you are. This would seem to prove there is no
tendency in your religion to blend itself with superstition. It is
therefore but reasonable that I should give up this point. Yet that
superstition now reigns to an alarming degree in this very religious
community is not to be denied. The singular antics and wild fancies of
those who are so strangely affected, will easily satisfy the multitude
of the presence and power of evil spirits; and where shall we look
for a remedy? Now, strange as it may seem to you, it is my belief, if
public amusements were introduced, assemblies for dancing, and even
theatrical exhibitions, these would do more to banish the delusion than
any thing else. The truth is, I hear so many strange things, so well
accredited from sources so respectable, that I half believe Satan has
been let loose upon the community, and is moulding the opinions and
conduct of men according to his own will.'
'The measures you propose, to drive him off,' said Mary, laughing,
'would rather induce him to stay. He is said to be very much at home
in places where these amusements abound. Nevertheless, if I were sure
he would be so well satisfied with the means you propose, as to let go
his hold upon the fancies of the community, I think we might be gainers
by the exchange. It would be substituting the lesser for the greater
evil.'
'What surprises me most,' said Walter, 'is the ready credence which
is given to those who say they are affected by witches. Judge Sewall,
who is certainly a wise and cool tempered man, Gov. Stoughton, and
other distinguished men, are firm believers in the reality of these
affections; and there is even now an appeal to the Mosaic scriptures
to punish witches with death. One of its commands, 'Thou shalt not
suffer a witch to live,' is quoted as a divine warrant for judicial
proceedings; and such is the zeal manifested in the cause, I fear it
will lead to the death of those individuals who are now in prison.'
'Well, Walter, whatever comes of it, do not, I pray you, impute it to
religion. It has nothing to do with it. Some of the most pious in the
land are doing all in their power to divert the public feeling into a
different channel. There is Mr. Higginson, my own minister, of Salem,
venerable and beloved by all; Mr. Willard, here, Mr. Brattle and Mr.
Leverett, the latter your own tutor at Cambridge; all these, and many
others, though to some extent believers in witchcraft, are entirely
opposed to the interference of the law, and think the evil will soon
cure itself. Let us trust in Providence that all will come right. And
for you, dear Walter, I dread the thought that this mental epidemic
should lead you to distrust for a moment the efficacy and power of
the gospel. Believe it, Walter, for it is assuredly true: the gospel,
received and trusted, is the best remedy for every mental and moral
disorder.'
'It would be happy for me, dear Mary, could the same christian graces
which adorn your character, shine forth in mine. I know that true piety
towards God is my only safeguard from the ills of life, my only hope
for the life to come. I believe in the great truths you profess. I long
to experience their power in my own heart, and whatever sacrifice of
the world it may cost, I hope through the mercy of a Redeemer, I shall
be his willing and obedient disciple.'
The conversation closed as they reached the door of Mr. Hallam, with
whose family Mary was to spend the last night of her stay in Boston.
It was not surprising that a superstition so unwarrantable should give
to a mind like Strale's, false and unfavorable notions of religion. He
imputed the delusion to what he thought the sternness and severity of
the popular religious feeling, not considering that a simple analysis
of the mind will develope a multitude of causes, upon which the
imputation may far more justly rest. The conversation we have related
tended very much to dispel this error, and in the painful scenes which
were soon to be developed, he was enabled to distinguish with great
accuracy between the religious principle and the wild and dreadful
fanaticism with which it was attended.