[Illustration: MERRICK RICHARDSON AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE.]
LOOKING BACK
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
_By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
AUTHOR OF
"JIM HALL AND THE RICHARDSONS", "EIGHT DAYS OUT", "MINA FAUST",
"ROSE LIND", "PERSONALITY OF THE SOUL", "CHICAGO'S
BLACK SHEEP", "TWILIGHT REFLECTIONS."
PRIVATELY PRINTED
CHICAGO: MCMXVII
_Copyright 1917
By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
PREFACE
My spare time, only, is occupied in literary efforts. I never allow
them to interfere with either my business or social life.
In composing, in a mysterious way, I comprehend the companionship of my
imaginary friends as vividly as I do the material associates of life.
To me imagination is the counterpart or result of inspiration, while
inspiration is light thrown upon the unrevealed. The image may be the
result of known or unknown cause, but the mystery does not blot out the
actual existence of the image. The material image we call sight, the
retained memory, and the unknown revelation, but all are comprehensive
images.
I see a bird, its form created a picture on my eye, the image of which
mysteriously remained after the object had disappeared. Now what or who
cognizes the primitive object, the formed picture or the retained image?
The materialist assumes he has solved the mystery when he says; The
appearance of the object formed an impression on your brain; omitting
the important part of who comprehends the impression.
These material and spiritual views are not the two extremes, there
is no midway, one is right and the other is wrong. Either man is a
spiritual, responsible being or he is just temporary mud.
Therefore imagination, to me is incomprehensible realization, while
materialism is the symbol of passing events. This explains how my
imaginary friends become so dear to me.
The ideas presented in my story of Mary Magdalene I gained through
descriptions conveyed to me by Jona while traveling across the Syrian
desert. He always began in the middle of his story and worked out both
ways, which made it difficult to take notes, besides at the best it was
but a legend, dim and indistinct.
In this work I have carefully avoided Oriental style, language or
customs for two reasons: First, there is not an Oriental scholar now,
who could do them justice, Second, one is perfectly safe in bringing
any people of any age right down to our times. For, the culture of
one tribe or race does not influence incoming souls for the next
generation. The human family enter life on about the same plane. A
child from the low tribes of the jungles or from the desert wild, if
brought up by a Chicago mother, might become as great as one of the
royal family. The feelings, aspirations, sorrows and love of Mary
Magdalene and Peter were similar to what ours would have been under the
same conditions. Therefore I bring the story of Magdalene right down to
yesterday.
I first constructed the story of Magdalene while in Jerusalem, then I
revised it in Egypt, and have been revising it at intervals ever since.
From Jona's continued reiteration regarding her prepossessing gifts,
spiritual and unwavering qualities, especially her firmness before
Caiaphas, I formed her personality in my mind and associated her with
bright women of today, then I let Magdalene talk for herself.
To me she was no exception from the women I associated with in
Chicago. There are not wanting women in Oak Park who under the same
circumstances would have followed Jesus to Jerusalem, disdained to
deny him and would have pleaded before the sanhedrim at the dead of
night to have saved their associate from the misguided servants of the
devil.
The reminiscenses of the pioneer Richardsons, Jim and Winnie, Sunshine
days around Wabbaquassett, John Brown, roving escapades of the
Richardson Brothers, my athletic exploits, my travels and other scenes
of my life are primitive truths copied from memory and set forth in my
original form of expression.
My attack on materialists or infidelic instructors stands on its own
feet and opposes a tendency that will create degeneracy if continued.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
MY ANCESTORS 9
WOBURN 10
TRADITIONS 12
RECORDS 15
OLD HOMESTEAD 17
JIM HALL 19
LOVE SPATS 20
JIM'S STORY 31
THE ARREST 35
THE MARTYRS 37
THE ESCAPE 38
STUBBS' STORE 40
SUSAN BEAVER 45
REVENGE 49
ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 51
HUNTING FOR BABY 54
MULDOON 57
OUR WABBAQUASSETT MOUNTAIN HOME 61
WOODCHUCK IN THE WALL 64
SUNDAY MORNING 69
HUSKING BEE 76
PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S 78
GOLDEN DAYS 81
THE WILD SEXTON STEER 83
SCHOOL DAYS 87
COUNTRY BOYS IN TOWN 89
AS A YANKEE TIN PEDDLER 94
THE THOMPSON FAMILY 97
JOHN BROWN 99
THE DEAD APPEAR 106
VIDA'S DARING EXPLOIT 108
OWEN BROWN'S STORY 110
AFTER THE MIST HAD CLEARED AWAY 115
YANKEE HORSEMEN GO WEST 117
MY RELATION 121
HORSE JOCKIES 123
LANDED IN CHICAGO 126
DR. THOMAS 128
EARLY CHICAGO 131
HORSE RACING IN CHICAGO 134
HOPEFUL AND RARUS 137
CHICAGO PIETY 141
PUBLIC CONVEYANCE 143
MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITS 146
MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUN 148
ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUN 151
THE FIRST CENTURY RACE 157
DEAD GLACIER 160
MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM A BEAR 168
MY EDUCATION 173
HAWAIIAN ISLANDS 176
SOUTH SEA ISLANDS AND AUSTRALIA 180
NEW GUINEA 183
COCHIN CHINA 190
MESOPOTAMIA 192
RUD HURNER 193
OFF FOR BABYLON 198
ON THE EUPHRATES 200
ON THE SHAT-EL-CHEBAR 201
KOOFA, ARABIA 203
THE SHEIK OF KOOFA 205
WILD, YET BEAUTIFUL 209
NAZZIP 211
THE MAN I HAD SEEN BEFORE 212
REAL BEDOUINS AFTER US 214
SUSPICION AROUSED 217
THE RECHABITES 221
SLEEPING BEAUTY OF THE DESERT 225
THE ABANDONED CASTLE 227
MARY MAGDALENE 229
DINA OF ENDOR 231
THE HOME OF MAGDALENE 235
JOHN AND MAGDALENE 237
RUTH 240
DARKNESS OVER GALILEE 242
SURPRISE FOR THE PHARISEES 248
COUNCIL OF THE DISCIPLES 251
TURN OF THE TIDE 253
MAGDALENE'S HEROIC PLEA 255
JESUS SPEAKS 261
THE EXODUS 262
WAITING BY THE JORDAN 265
IN COUNCIL AT JERICHO 267
ARRIVAL AT JERUSALEM 270
ADULTERY 272
MAGDALENE PLEADING WITH JESUS 278
AT THE HOME OF MARY AND MARTHA 280
A NAUGHTY MAID 282
LAZARUS RESTORED 285
CONSPIRACY TO MURDER JESUS 287
THE MOB FALL UPON JESUS 292
MAGDALENE BEFORE CAIAPHAS 295
JESUS BEFORE PILATE 300
THE CRUCIFIXION 302
ALONE ON OLIVET 304
MAGDALENE HERSELF AGAIN 307
RUTH COMES TO MEET MAGDALENE 311
JOSEPH'S LAST INTERVIEW 312
MAGDALENE'S LAST NIGHT WITH JOHN 315
LAST GOOD-BYE 321
THE PRICKETT HOME 324
OURSELVES 326
WILLIAM JAMES, OF HARVARD 328
GLADSTONE 335
EVENING OF MY LIFE DAY 340
FIFTY-FOUR MILES' HIKE 342
BACK HOME 348
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
MERRICK A. RICHARDSON i
CAMP OF THE STAFFORD PIONEERS 14
ANCIENT CEMETERY OF THE STAFFORD PIONEERS 16
WINNIE RICHARDSON 21
GOOD MORNING, MISS RICHARDSON 23
JIM IN THE WOODS 52
OUR MOUNTAIN HOME 61
CHASING FOR A KISS 76
PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S 80
WHEN THE FOLKS WERE AWAY 84
THE ABORN HOME 86
WABBAQUASSETT GIRLS 88
CHARMING OLD WABBAQUASSETT 90
ALBUM OF SUNNY DAYS 94
MARY JANE HOYT 96
JOHN BROWN, 1850 99
VIDA THOMPSON'S MIDNIGHT RIDE 109
NEAR JOHN BROWN'S ADIRONDACK HOME 115
YANKEE HORSEMEN 117
HORSE SALES 123
DR. THOMAS 128
EARLY CHICAGO 142
G. M. RICHARDSON AND FAMILY 144
SADDLE HORSE DAYS 148
CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK 150
NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE 152
THE FOX RIVER BICYCLE RACE 158
ARTHUR RICHARDSON AND FRIENDS 164
EASTER ISLAND 181
NEW GUINEA 187
MESOPOTAMIA SERVANTS 193
DESERT LIFE AMONG THE ARABS 209
RUINS OF TADMOR 227
MARY MAGDALENE 231
PRICKETT HOME 324
ARTHUR RICHARDSON AND HIS TWINS 336
OUR OAK PARK HOME 338
FANNIE PETERSON 342
VIDA 344
BARBARA BEAVER 346
MY CHILDREN 349
LOOKING BACK
MY ANCESTORS
Ezekiel Richardson, with his wife Susanna, joined the Protestant
Church in the Village of Charlestown, Mass.--now Boston--in 1630. The
following year Thomas and Samuel Richardson joined the same church; the
records of the will of Ezekiel prove them to have been his brothers.
When they came to New England, or where from, is unknown, but as about
thirty ships of British emigrants came into Boston Harbor about that
time, it is safe to assume that they came on one of these vessels, but
possibly they may have come on one of the boats which followed the
Mayflower nearly ten years previous.
It appears that there arose dissensions in the church and those good
Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers strove among themselves until 1634, when
the three Richardsons, with several other families, withdrew and
decided to start a colony and a church of their own, where they could
worship God in peace.
WOBURN
Through a swamp on the west, called Cat Bird Glen, ran a trout brook to
the meadows below. Beyond this woodland glen lay an upland plain, held
by the Indians as a camping ground, which the Richardsons concluded
they might, through the persuasion of powder and bullets, be able
to occupy and leave the parent church at Charlestown to mourn their
departure.
Accordingly about twenty families, including the Richardsons, took
possession of the site, dug their cellars, and built primitive homes
together with a log church and named the town Woburn.
Joy mingled with pride encouraged the men to subdue the soil, hunt,
snare and trap the game and fish, while the buxom dames hummed their
spinning wheels as they cooed their frolicsome babies beneath the
shadows of the great forest monarchs who seemed loath to give way to
the encroaching steps of the white man.
Contrary to the general rule, that rats and ministers advance hand in
hand with civilization, in this case the ministers failed to appear for
the reason that the home church of England refused to recognize the
seceders as children of God by turning down their supplication for a
regular ordained preacher.
Here the true spirit and determination which seems to tinge the veins
of the Richardsons made its first appearance. Ezekiel, by the grace of
God, took upon himself the leadership in all the praying and singing
of the independent church for about ten years. He officiated at all
weddings and funerals, besides established the whipping post for those
who did not appear in church, with clean shirts on, three Sundays each
month to hear him preach two long sermons, when it is said he often
preached so loud that he could be distinctly heard in the Charlestown
church two miles away, to the annoyance of his old-time associates.
After Ezekiel's thrifty swarm had become greater than the parent
hive at Charlestown and the hand of time began pressing heavily upon
his shoulders, a regularly ordained preacher was sent in, which the
parishioners did not like as well as they did Ezekiel, for he could not
clothe and feed himself as Ezekiel had done, but he stayed until he
died, and here is a sample of primitive piety in our grandfather's days:
"The Reverend Mr. Carter of the Woburn Episcopal Church died, and being
a good man, our forefathers decided to turn out in mass, give him a
Christian burial and charge the expenses to the town. Of the itemized
bill--coffin, shroud, grave-digging, and stimulants,--the latter, the
liquor bill, exceeded all the other expenses."
See Woburn Town Records, Volume 3, page 68.
Thus while we find traces of weakness in our ancestors, a principle
seems to have been involved which made New England a hot-bed for vags
and tramps. No wonder we sigh for the good old days when respectable
citizens did not have to lock their doors on Sunday, for all the
thieves were in church.
TRADITIONS
Through the first appearance of the Richardsons in Charlestown we have
an unbroken line of nine generations through Ezekiel of Woburn 1630 to
Marvin of Chicago 1917.
Ezekiel of Woburn.
Theopolis of Woburn.
John of Stafford Street.
Uriah of Stafford Street.
John of Devil's Hop Yard.
Warren of Wabbaquassett Lake.
Merrick of Chicago.
Arthur of Chicago.
Marvin of Chicago.
Of course, my brothers and cousins perpetuate this name, the same as I
do. Collins and Gordon, my brothers, with Orino, the son of my Uncle
Orson, alone have raised about twenty boys.
The living male descendants of Ezekiel, Samuel and Thomas, who carry
our name, must now be more than one hundred thousand Richardsons,
and I presume few of them trace back their relation more than three
generations, but they could if they would.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY
My grandmother, Judith Burroughs Richardson, who died in 1859, age 94,
seemed in the evening of her life-day to think, dream and commune with
her ancestors and friends, who long since entered Paradise, and now
seemed to be throwing back kisses to loved ones approaching that land
of delight.
From her experience and traditional reminiscences I here give a
condensed sketch of her apparent and vivid memories:
James Burroughs, her grandfather, was the son of the minister, George
Burroughs, her great-grandfather, who was hanged at Salem, Mass.,
August 19, 1692, for being in league with the devil.
James was arrested soon after, but escaped from Salem jail and,
under the name of Jim Hall, lived in Connecticut for several years.
Later, under his right name, he married Winnie Richardson, a Stafford
Street girl, and they settled near Brattleborough, Vermont, where
grandmother's father, Amos Burroughs, was born.
After James died, her grandmother Winnie came to West Stafford to live
with them. She died before grandma was born and was buried in the
family lot near their house. Her gravestone was still standing when my
father was old enough to go with his grandfather Amos Burroughs and see
them.
The homestead where Winnie died and grandmother was born and married
can be found by following the south road out of West Stafford and
turning the first road to the right, across the brook and up the hill
to the first farm scene.
Winnie's father, Theopolis, son of Ezekiel, and several other men
with their families, came West when she was a little girl and took
possession, or squat, on the northern rise of a highland plain, where a
grand view of the far-away Western mountains can be seen. They called
their camp Stafford.
John, Winnie's brother, who was conducting an Indian trading post at
Medford came on later, with his two brothers, Gershom and Paul, and
opened up the famous Stafford Street, which was laid out twenty rods
wide and about two miles long, the southern terminus being about one
mile northeast of Stafford Springs.
John Richardson took up the first farm at the north entrance on the
west side and Silas Dean took the first on the left, or east, side from
the old campus on the hill at the north end of the street.
All between the walls, which was later changed to sixteen rods, was
commons. The church in the center was used for spiritual devotion,
recorder office and court of justice.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE WOBURN PIONEERS AT STAFFORD STREET WHEN
WINNIE RICHARDSON WAS TEN YEARS OF AGE. RECENT VIEW OF THE WESTERN
HILLS FROM THE ORIGINAL CAMP.]
RECORDS
The records of those New England pioneers are dim, as the Puritans
considered church members only, as persons.
Boston records (Woburn), as we have seen, seem to extol Ezekiel.
Theopolis according to his will, must have been a financial success.
The Stafford Street records, I was informed by Mrs. Larned, who
now lives on the old homestead, were kept in their family from the
beginning until lately, when they became such a source of annoyance
from ancestor seekers, like myself, that they sent them to the
recorder's office at Stafford Springs.
At the recorder's office at Stafford Springs I found that John
Richardson from Medford came to Stafford Street in 1726, this, though
meager, acts as the official connecting link between Woburn and
Stafford.
Another scrap I found was that Paul Richardson had taken land adjoining
his brother, John Richardson, this identifies both John and Paul.
Regarding Gershom, the other one of the three brothers, I found this:
"Gershom Richardson, son of Gershom and Abigail, born in 1761."
This would make the elder Gershom Richardson contemporary with John and
Paul.
E. Y. Fisk, an early settler, told me that a part of the early church
records have been burned.
In the old graveyard just south of the brook which crosses Stafford
Street still remains the headstone of Lot Dean, who died in 1818.
Lot would be of the next generation from Silas Dean, who took the farm
opposite John Richardson.
Near the grave of Lot are the headstones of Uriah Richardson and his
wife Miriam, who died October 18, 1785, at the age of 75. Uriah must
have been all right, for Miriam, who died twenty years later, had had
inscribed on his headstone:
"The memory of the just is blessed."
Grandmother remembered Uriah, the son of John and the father of John,
her husband.
Now while the traditions, records and gravestones may prove each in
themselves to be weak evidence, together they form an unbroken chain
from Ezekiel down to our times.
[Illustration: ANCIENT CEMETERY OF THE STAFFORD STREET PIONEERS WHERE
MOST OF THE GRAVE STONES ARE FOUND BROKEN AND IN THE WALL WHICH IS
BUILT AROUND THE LOT.
LEFT TO RIGHT. M. A. RICHARDSON. WALTER SKINNER. LUCIUS ABORN.]
OLD HOMESTEAD
With my interesting nieces, Joe and Lina Newell, one bright summer day,
I visited the ancient homes of the Stafford Street, Conn., Richardsons.
E. Y. Fisk and his son now possess the historical property. The son
from Springfield, who was haying there at the time, invited us and all
the other Richardson tribe to come and camp on the homestead grounds,
sit on the old walls, gaze over the western mountains and even coquet
with the star Venus evenings, all of which look now the same as when
our ancestors saw them 200 years ago.
That day, July 19, 1916, with those girls, viewing the scenes and
taking pictures of the surroundings, imprinted on my mind an oasis of
beauty ever awaiting recall as I journey over the trackless sands of
time.
The present seemed to pass away as the past unfolded its charms while
we were reminded of the long ago.
Sacredly we listened to the voice of Mother Mary calling Winnie from
the kitchen door, saw the men in homespun shirts and trousers coming up
from the meadow below. Heard the careless boy whistling while unyoking
the lazy oxen. Saw old dog Towser sleeping in the shade. And in the
pasture far away we seemed to hear the faint tinkling of the cow bell
on the brindle steer.
Day dreams, says one.
Imagination, says another.
May it not be that when death removes this earthly garment, we will
again realize that the past, present, and future are one.
If the image of the face before me now is the retention of the face
I saw yesterday, may not all fiction, invention and imagination be
retention of occurences we can only recall in parts?
The power of recall is mysterious. If we dream of the dead as living
when we know that they are dead, but we cannot recall that which we
know, may we not know of pre-existence but lack the power to recall?
Thus Lina, Joe and myself spent a happy summer day on the New England
hills, which we will pleasantly recall when the cold winds of winter
rattle the doors and windows and we are hugging the radiators.
JIM HALL
During the days of the New England pioneers our early church had more
trouble in evolutionizing Christianity from bigotry than in driving
the red man from his native lair. Therefore, as the records show my
ancestors to have been entangled in this muss, I have arranged, in this
family record, and the story of my life, the story of Winnie and Jim.
One warm May evening, in 1693, a stranger, who said his name was James
Hall, appeared at the door of Deacon Felker's home in Stafford, Conn.,
and applied for a job. His face betokened firmness, his speech was
clear and distinct, while a tinge of sadness seemed to pervade his
distant smile.
He claimed to be a good chopper and, as the deacon was now clearing up
his future home in the New England wilderness, he soon bargained with
Jim for all the season.
Hall soon became a favorite in the colony, broke all the unruly steers,
saddled the ugly colts, collared Bill Jones, the terror of the town,
and thrashed him soundly; but did not attend church until the influence
of Winnie Richardson changed hatred to forgiveness.
LOVE SPATS
For some weeks the Felkers had had many callers, who sympathized deeply
with the poor broken-hearted mother over her lost Juda among the
Indians, but time, the blessed obliterator of all earthly troubles,
soon brought forward other scenes and changes, and people laughed,
joked and enjoyed themselves at Stafford as usual.
Winnie Richardson and her father were over to see the Felkers almost
every day and Mr. Richardson would hear nothing about the pay for the
colt which the Indians had stolen from Jim while searching for Juda,
saying he had another one as nice, which, if Jim would come over and
break, so Winnie could ride it, he would call it square.
One evening Winnie came over and, as was her custom, fluttered around
and fussed over Jim, bandaging up his sore foot, which he had hurt
during the hunt for Juda. Then she made tea for Mrs. Felker and slicked
up the room, while Jim lay back in the chair and watched all her
movements.
Jim felt almost like crying, he was so worn out and heart-broken over
the loss of little Juda. Everyone knows how sweet home and friends seem
under such circumstances; but here was Winnie, who had won his heart,
and he wanted to tell her so, but she would not let him.
"Winnie," he said, in as a careless a manner as he was capable of, "you
do not know how much that new gown becomes you."
[Illustration: WINNIE RICHARDSON, WAITING ON THE EASTERN BLUFFS OF OLD
WABBAQUASSETT.]
"Thanks, Jim, I'm glad you like it; do you know I have worked on it
ever since you went away? I was so worried about you I had to work or
ride old Dan, to keep from going wild. Several times I rode down to
the Springs, followed the trail around the west bend way up to old
Wabbaquassett, around to the eastern highlands from where I gazed
across the pretty waves, hoping to see you coming, but saw only Nipmunk
maidens sporting in their canoes."
"Then, if I had never come back, Winnie, I suppose you would have
worked on that gown and ridden to Wabbaquassett Lake all the remainder
of your life."
"I do not know. I know I wanted you to come home."
Jim was encouraged. This was more than she had ever said before, so he
ventured to say, "Winnie, come here and give me your hand."
She came forward, and placing her hand in his, said, laughingly, "Well,
Jim, what?"
"Now, Winnie, why were you worried for fear I would not come home and
what did you want me to come back for?"
"Why, Jim, are you so simple as all that? You know that father expects
you to break his colts in the spring, besides he thinks he cannot get
along without your opinion on cabbages and turnips, then why would it
not worry me? Now, Jim, I'm going home, and I want you to limp over
tomorrow and see me, and stay all day, and we will have a good visit.
But, really, Jim, you must not talk serious to me; you must give up
that." Both were silent a moment and then she continued: "There, James
Hall, has that little lecture almost killed you? I see you have the
dumps. That will never do. Look up here, Mr. Hall, have you forgotten
that Miss Richardson is present?"
Jim looked up and endeavored to catch her eye, but no use. When she saw
how pitiful he looked she burst out laughing and walked away with her
chin way up high, then came back with a smile, bade him good-night, and
she was gone.
Jim was in trouble. Mrs. Felker was delirious with grief. Little Juda,
the sunshine of the home, was gone, and Winnie had told him plainly
he must abandon all serious thoughts. He lay awake way into the night
and formed his plans thus: "I will not go over to Richardsons in the
morning, nor the next day nor the next, and perhaps never. I will take
my axe and go up among the old hickory trees and work from sun to sun
and try to banish little Juda from my mind, and also try to forget what
a fool I am; fool--fool--of course I am, tossing around here all night
over a girl that does not care for me. The idea of my consulting with
her father over a cabbage patch. I think Jim Hall is not quite dead
gone yet--no, I will not show my face there again very soon, of course
not. Now I will turn over and go to sleep." But poor Jim, like many
others, would like to forget his Winnie, but could not. Winnie had won
his heart. She had come to stay.
Morning came and as the sun banished the dew from the grass, so
daylight had upset all of Jim's plans concerning the hickory logs. He
did not want to see Winnie in particular--no, but then he must not
treat Mr. Richardson shabbily because Winnie had misused him. "Oh, I'll
go over, of course I will, and visit the old folks, and if I see her I
will pass the time of day to her--that is all."
[Illustration: GOOD MORNING, MISS RICHARDSON!]
He found the old gent out feeding pigs and soon they were engaged in
a friendly conversation. When they turned into the house, Aunt Mary
came briskly forward to greet him and asked many questions concerning
his long hunt for Juda among the Indians, which he could have answered
more sensibly had he not been expecting Winnie. Of course, he was not
anxious to see her, but he wondered where she was.
"Jim," said Mr. Richardson, "you will find plenty of those early apples
down in the orchard if you care for them." So Mr. Hall started through
the orchard and came spat upon Winnie by the wild rose bush, on the
orchard wall.
"Good morning, Miss Richardson," he said, as he extended his hand in a
cold businesslike manner.
Winnie paid no attention to his good morning, but brushing aside his
extended hand she began fixing a white rose in the buttonhole of his
coat as she said in a soft tone: "Jim, how would you feel if you were
a girl and had gone and primed yourself all up nice so as to look
sweet as possible, waiting for your fellow to come and say, 'Hello,
Winnie, how sweet you look this morning!' but instead to see him come
stalking through the trees as though he was monarch of all he surveyed,
saying 'good morning, Miss Richardson.' Now, own up, Jim, that you
deliberately planned that scheme to frighten me."
"Well, but you see, my dear."
"Yes, Jim, I see. I know all about it. You have been nerving yourself
up to show that you did not care for me. You did it nicely. I thought
you could not hold out more than a minute, but I think you did about
two. And now you're smiling, calling me dear, and will not let go of
my hand. You did not sleep well last night, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"Was Mrs. Felker nervous?"
"Yes, she did not sleep a wink before two o'clock."
"And how about Frank?"
"Oh, he always sleeps like a log."
"Say, Jim, why do you take such an interest in Frank; where did the
Felkers get him?"
"Boston, or somewhere East."
"What is his name?"
"Burroughs, they say."
"Burroughs--Burroughs--he did not come from Salem, did he?"
Winnie, noticing Jim's emotion, turned back to the original theme and
continued: "And I suppose Juda was on your mind?"
"Yes, she was, and still I know it is wrong to worry about her, but I
shall never cease to love that little angel. You know, I have lots of
love letters she wrote me? She used to bring them over into the lot
herself and then turn her back while I read them. She said she could
not bear to see a man read a love letter. She was like her mother,
artful as she could be. She used to enjoy our love spats, as she called
them; she would pretend to get mad and go pouting around all day and
expect me to come and make up with her, and sometimes it required lots
of coaxing, but, of course, she always gave in at last. You see, now
she is gone, I cannot help thinking about those things, and that is not
all the trouble with me, either."
"That is enough, Jim. You need not tell your other troubles. Come
along to the grove, I want to talk with you."
Following the cart path they entered the woods, when she turned quickly
and said: "Jim, I have something on my mind which I wish to unload, and
you will not think me silly even if I am wrong?"
"No, no," he replied with a searching look. "I like to have you confide
in me."
"Do you know, Jim, that I think there is a possible chance yet to find
Juda alive."
He sprang to his feet as he exclaimed, "Tell me, Winnie, tell me all
you know!"
"Do not get excited; I have no proof. Tell, me, Jim, all about the
first day you were out hunting for Juda, who you saw and what they
said?"
After he had gone through with the particulars she asked: "How many
Indians camped at Wabbaquassett Lake that first night?"
"Only four, besides those regular lake dwellers."
"Did you see them all at one time?"
"Yes, we saw the four and talked with them. They came from the West."
"Were they Mohawks?"
"No, they were Narragansetts."
"Well, if Juda had been with the camp when you and Frank came upon
them, could they have concealed her?"
"Certainly, but I do not think she was there."
"I do not think, Jim, she was killed by the wolves," said Winnie, as
she frowned thoughtfully while looking on the ground. "If she is dead
the Indians killed her."
"Did not you and all the neighbors, after we had gone, find the place
where the wolves had killed her?"
"Oh, yes, Jim, I was there, but those Indians are so cunning. You see
they broke camp about noon and that must have been about the time she
would have arrived there. Now, if she arrived at the camp after they
had gone, she could have come back home, but if lost, why did she not
hear the calls for her, for the wolves disturb no one until after dark."
"Suppose your theory is true, Winnie, what steps would you take to find
her?"
"Will you do what I want you to do about it?"
"Yes, Winnie, I feel like Queen Esther, when risking her life for her
people."
"Queen Esther? Jim Hall, who taught you the Bible?"
He studied a moment and then said: "Go on about Juda, please."
Winnie scrutinized him keenly, then turned from the painful subject
and continued about Juda. "I want you to wait several months until the
Indians think we have given her up, then go quietly among the tribes;
you know you talk all their tongues, and if you find her, Jim, I will
love you for your bravery, and if you do not, the endeavor ought to
count some. Now I suppose you want to go in and visit with papa and
mamma."
"Y-e-s."
"What makes you drag out that 'yes' so long?"
"I thought you might like to take a walk in the grove."
"If you had not been so cross to me this morning."
"Well--but, I really did think--"
"What has changed your mind, Mr. Hall?"
"Well, Winnie."
"Well, Jim, say, do you really want to make up? Oh, catch me, Jim, my
heart--my heart!"
Jim sprang and saved her from falling into the brook, as she pushed him
from her and began laughing.
"Oh, Winnie, you do not know how you did frighten me, you are a roguish
girl, but I like you and think you a perfect pet."
"Perfect pet--get out. Did you know John Bragg was over to see me?"
"John Bragg?"
"Yes, John Bragg."
"I thought you had given him up?"
"Oh, no. I did think when you and I came home from church on the black
colt, it would give him a shock, but he is all the more attentive.
Think of it, all the fathers and mothers have had their daughters
cooing around him for the last three years and he does not bite, but is
in great agony over me. Now, what can I do? I will have to marry him to
get rid of him, won't I?"
"To get rid of him?"
"Oh, Jim, but his father is rich. You see, it is dignified to have such
a beau. He came over last night after I left you and said his father
had bought of Mr. Converse a beautiful saddle horse and he wanted me
to take a ride on it, but when I told him I was engaged he looked
downcast. He proposed to bring over his sister Lydia and, if it pleased
you, we would all go up to the west bend fishing together and have a
fish fry. What do you thing of that?"
"I would be delighted to go."
"Yes, but he will expect to escort me and leave you to attend to Lydia."
"That is all right; I like Lydia."
"You do?"
"Of course, I do."
"But, Jim, you are older than Lydia."
"I do not think she cares for that by what she said."
"What she said? When was all this talk?"
"Oh, not long ago."
"Not long ago? Look around here, James Hall!" At this he smiled and she
said, "There, now, you were fooling me--own up that it was not true."
"It may not be exactly true, but bordering on the truth."
"What do you mean by bordering on the truth?"
"I actually saw her."
"Did you talk that way to her?"
"Oh, no; we did not speak."
"There, Jim, now I like you just a little bit; sort of sisterly love,
you know. That is all, Jim--do you hear?"
"No," he said, drawing her to him. "I did not catch that last sentence.
Come a little nearer, Winnie."
"Never! Never! James Hall," she said, withdrawing with a flushed face.
"You are holding a secret from me and unless you confide all, Winnie
Richardson will die an old maid."
"Thank God," he replied, with irony, "That cuts off John Bragg."
"John is already cut off. I love the tracks you make in the dust more
than I do him, but no girl should allow herself to follow a love trail
into a snare. You may be all right. I think you are, but do not advance
another shade until I know all."
Jim dried her falling tears as caressingly as he dared, but the mystery
still remained.
Winnie turned and gazed to the far away hills, but she did not see
them, for her soul was silently summoning courage for the trying
ordeal. Jim could but see in her the model of pure virtue and
loveliness, as she turned to him, saying:
"Is your name James Hall?"
"No."
"Were you ever married?"
"Yes."
"Is your wife alive?"
"No."
"What is your name?"
"James Burroughs."
"Is your father alive?"
"No."
"What was his name?"
"George Burroughs."
"Where did he die?"
"Salem."
"When?"
"August 19, 1692."
"Was he that George Burroughs?" Here Winnie's voice failed, and Jim
answered, "He was."
Winnie stepped back while her thin lips parted and seemed to look as
white as the ivories between them.
"Was your wife that beautiful Fanny Shepherd, who died with a broken
heart at Casco Bay, after the report of your death?"
"She was."
Winnie stood a moment as if to satisfy herself that the world was real
and she was not dreaming, then coming softly forward she sat on his
knee and putting her arm around his neck began kissing him, while she
said: "Mother is to have hot biscuits, butter and honey for supper,
and we must go now, and after that I will give her a hint of what has
happened, and we will take to the parlor and you must tell me the
story of your life, and you may talk just as serious as you please.
Now, Jim, I want you to hug and kiss me for keeps."
Father and mother were puzzled to conjecture what had caused the turn
in the tide, for the distance between Winnie and Jim had suddenly
disappeared, and Winnie began bossing him around, just like regular
married folks.
"Jim," said Winnie, as they entered the parlor. "Your clothes do not
fit, your boots are too big, and your hair is too long. Oh, dear me,
after we are married what a time I will have fixing you up. What makes
you smile?"
"Who has said anything about marrying, Winnie?"
"I did."
"When is all this to take place?"
"Oh, it will be several months yet. You know, papa and mamma will want
me to look nice and I will have to make all my new clothes. Now begin
your story."
"Will you promise not to cry, Winnie?"
"Really, I will try. But think of it, it seems to me something like one
rising from the dead; and still, believe me, dear, something of this
kind impressed me from the day you arrived in Stafford, nearly eight
years ago. If I should tell you my dreams you would call me visionary,
but I will tell that some other time. Now begin and I will be good
except when I want to pet you."
JIM'S STORY
I was born in Boston, May 1, 1670. My father, George Burroughs, then
an ordained minister, was traveling on a circuit, preaching in stores,
schoolhouses or any place where it was convenient, as most preachers
did at that time. When I was four years old we moved to Salem, where
father had charge of the Salem Mission, and when I was twelve years of
age my mother died.
Father's liberal views did not please Samuel Harris and several other
officials of the church, and they petitioned the presiding elder that
he be removed.
Soon father learned that a settlement at Casco Bay, Maine, a landing
on the coast nearly 100 miles north of Salem, had no preacher, so
accordingly, one morning after a friend had given us our lodging,
breakfast and two dollars in money, we started on foot for Casco Bay.
The evening before leaving, we had spent several hours fixing up
mother's grave, and as we passed by the yard the next morning we went
in and knelt, and I remember how father thanked God that our angel
mother had passed to the land of dreams, "Where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest."
On our way along the north shore road, father preached several times,
for which the people lodged, fed and gave us some money. On arriving at
our destination, father announced that he would preach next morning,
Sunday, in Gordon Richardson's barn. Well do I remember the text,
"Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
ye rest." I noticed all paid close attention and some shed tears, and
when we sang, all joined in and it seems to me I have never heard
such voices since. It was a bright, clear summer day, all the little
settlement was quiet, and when those standing outside joined in the
chorus the peaceful strains seemed to waft my soul far away and make me
think that I was with my mother.
After it was over Lucius Aborn, when shaking hands, said, "Your talk
suits me, Mr. Burroughs, and although I'm not a church-going man, here
is my dollar, and I want you and the boy to come right up to my house
and stay six or eight weeks, and we will all pitch in and find you a
place to live and preach."
CASCO BAY
Oh, how well we prospered in that little one-horse town, where there
was little money, but the fields, orchards and gardens brought forth
their fruit abundantly, while fish and game were plenty. The business
center consisted of one large grocery and notion store, a sawmill,
gristmill, fish and game market, and several large storehouses. I soon
found employment in the store which was kept by Obadiah Stubbs, where I
worked while I was not in school as long as I lived there.
At the end of one year, father had ninety members in his flock, and
was still preaching in the schoolhouse. Eight years after our arrival,
the congregation had built a commodious log and plastered church and
father was receiving four hundred dollars salary, while I had saved two
hundred dollars. With this and father's savings, we bought the Dimmick
place, a comfortable village home.
On my twenty-first birthday I married Fanny Shepherd, a beautiful
blue-eyed girl of eighteen, when we, with father, moved into our new
quarters, and as Mr. Stubbs had proposed taking me in as a partner, we
looked forward to a happy and prosperous life.
Father's affectionate acts and words to Fanny caused her to love him
and, when we were blessed with a little baby boy, our happiness was
complete, but, oh, how little did I dream of the dark storm that was
gathering on yonder horizon, whose distant thunder I could not hear,
and angry lightning I could not see, but whose dark mantle, when spread
over, would cause me to bow down in grief, such as few ever realize.
DEACON HOBBS
Deacon Hobbs, returning in March, from Salem, stated in open church
that he had learned that George Burroughs was not a regularly ordained
minister, even if he once had been, and if he received spiritual aid,
as he claimed, it was not the spirit of God, but that of the devil. He
advised all members to beware of wolves in sheep clothing.
Father replied: "'An evil tree cannot bring forth good fruit.' Look
to the right and left, Deacon Hobbs, and view the two hundred members
working in the Master's vineyard. Compare my life of the past few years
with yours. I, with my son's assistance, and the liberality of my
flock, have saved enough to buy a modest home, while you have sponged
up nearly half the wealth of this town. Your barns, storehouses, and
pockets are full. I have not charged usury for money, cheated the
red man out of his honest dues or trampled upon the rights of widows
and orphans; all these things you have done. I think I divine your
purpose; but now listen, you steeple of soulless piety, neither
insinuations nor acts will intimidate me. Not for an extension of this
momentary life would I budge one hair to the right or left from the
path my Master has laid out for me. He knows it all, and why should I
fear?" At this point Hobbs left the church.
THE ARREST
On May 4, 1692, father, Fanny and myself were at the table with the
baby boy in father's arms, he saying that it did not seem to him that
the whole family was there unless he had the baby on his knee. As dear
Fanny was joking him about feeding a baby two weeks old, two officers
stepped into the room and read a warrant to him. It was for the arrest
of George Burroughs as being suspected of being in complicity with the
Devil. The warrant was dated Boston, April 30th, 1692. (See Boston
Records.)
Without permission to bid us privately good-bye, his hands were
shackled, he was placed on a horse, and they rode away at full gallop.
Fanny was in no condition to be left alone, but she urged me to saddle
her father's horse at once and follow on. Soon the horse was waiting
for me, but she could not let me go, she wept so bitterly while she
flung her lovely arms around my neck, but at last with one sweet kiss
she bade me hasten and said she would go home to Father Shepherd's
until I returned.
Fanny, oh, Fanny! How little did I think the heart which loved me
so fondly would soon be silent in the grave and I a fugitive and a
wanderer--no friends, no home, and no one to love me.
Twenty miles away I caught up with them, when we rode nearly three
days, with father's hands unnecessarily shackled, most of the time.
The second day he said: "Jimmy, this is my last earthly ride. The
church is in error and will continue its injustice until some tragedy
awakens the people, then it will be restrained. I may as well suffer as
another. Jesus intends righteousness to eventually govern His church,
but his professed followers are often blind to truth and righteousness,
and will be until some great wrong is committed whereby they can place
right against wrong for compromise. Do not weep, my boy, soon, in a
moment as it were, you and I will stand before the judge, and who will
this judge be? Our lives, just the plain record of our lives. There and
then we can easily forgive those who have wronged us, but if we have
wronged others, will their forgiveness to us set us free? Not unless
a higher power steps in. Oh, this will be all right, my son, when the
sunlight of Jesus shall awaken us to the new born day. I was thinking
last night how glad I was that Jesus had already pleaded my cause. Oh,
yes, the cause of poor unworthy me. Pray, pray, humbly my brave boy.
Pray that you enter not into temptation and seek revenge. Do not forget
that your Heavenly Father knows your inmost secret thoughts, and when
you pray ask Jesus to forgive my tormentors, for as he said on Calvary,
'They know not what they do.'"
I will omit the bitter experience I passed through during father's sham
trial and cruel execution.
THE MARTYRS
The public records of the execution of the Salem martyrs were:
_June 10, 1692._
Bridget Bishop.
_July 19, 1692._
Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes, Lizzie Howe, Rebecca Nurse, Susanna Martin.
_August 19, 1692._
George Burroughs, John Proctor, George Jacobs, John Willard, Martha
Carrier.
_September 19, 1692._
Giles Corey.
_September 22, 1692._
Martha Corey, Mary Easty, Alice Parker, Ann Pudeator, Margaret Scott,
Wilmot Reed, Samuel Wardwell, Mary Parker.
Abel Pike, John Richardson, Mary Parsons, Annie Hibbins, Margaret
Jones, and others were known to have been executed, but there is no
record of their arrest or trial at Salem. On the gallows, Richardson
said: "Go on with your hanging, I do not want to live in a world with
such fools."
THE ESCAPE
The evening after father's execution I started for Casco Bay, and on
arriving at a tavern about ten miles out, I found two officers awaiting
me. I was at once taken back to the same prison and placed in a cell to
await my turn on gallows hill.
The jailer, whom I had know when a boy, said his orders were to give
me bread and water once a day. He was a man about my size, but I knew
that I was stronger than he; besides in a struggle for life, I believed
my guardian angel would increase my power. I concluded that if once
outside the jail, with ten minutes the start, I could reach the woods
and make my way to some far-away Indian tribe and in time come and take
Fanny and the baby to live with me among the natives, who, now, to me,
seemed angels.
Accordingly, when he came about noon the third day, I pointed to the
wall back of him, saying, "What is that?" and when he turned, I slipped
my hand under his arm and seized him by the throat, and with the other
in his long hair I broke him backwards over my knee to the ground,
continuing my deadly grip until he ceased to struggle and lay like one
dead. Then, quickly, before he revived, I slipped on his official garb
and drawing his hat over my face started for the door, which I passed
through and slammed behind me. Then lazily locking it and dangling the
bunch of keys I had taken from him I walked towards Cotton Mather, who
was standing, his back to me, and unlocked one of the cells. Then,
as he did not notice me, I passed him, and on turning towards the
outer door I saw the jailer's assistant, who was talking to a female
prisoner, whom I also passed without interruption. Stepping into the
free world, I locked the door behind me, leaving the keys in the door,
and walked down the road, to a woodshed, where I threw off the official
garb and ran to the woods for dear life.
I now worked my way to Casco Bay with great difficulty. I could not
travel nights, for fear of the wolves, so I crept cautiously along in
the daytime through the woods and came down and slept in barns nights,
where I usually found milk or eggs; and on the fifth day, as the sun
was setting, I arrived in an opening on what we called Chestnut Hill,
and looked down on the village of Casco Bay.
STUBBS' STORE
Oh, I wanted to see Fanny so badly, but I knew I was on dangerous
ground, as officers would surely be waiting for me, and probably at
Father Shepherd's was where they would expect to find me. Accordingly I
decided to wait until midnight and then go down to Mr. Stubbs' store,
where I had worked so many years, and could easily gain entrance,
and hide among the boxes and lie there through the day to learn from
overhearing what was going on about the village. So after breaking into
the store and eating my fill of Stubbs' crackers and cheese, I fixed my
nest under the dirty old front counter and fell asleep.
In the morning I heard the boy unlock the store, which reminded me of
the times I first came there. He walked directly on the brown sugar
hogshead and stood and ate for about three minutes, and then began to
hunt for the broom while with his mouth full of cheese he tried to
whistle a lively tune.
Soon another boy came in and I heard him say, "Hello, Ralph, did you
hear about the 'tectives?"
"'Tectives--what is a 'tective?"
"Why, don't you know, Ralph? I have always known that. Besides father
told us all about it this morning. They are officers with their coats
buttoned up, and you would think they were real men until they catch
you and take you to jail and hang you; so father says."
"Gracious alive! Have you seen a live one, Bill?"
"No, I never have, but father has. He said there were two hanging
around Uncle William's last night. He thinks they are the same ones
which carried off our minister, and he says he don't know who they are
after unless it is Jim Burroughs, and it can't be him, either, for he
is dead, they say the Indians or wolves have eat him up."
"Golly, that's strange, Bill. Maybe they're after Jim's wife. You know
them pleggy ministers at Salem kill lots of good folks."
"Oh, no, Ralph, no 'tectives haven't touched her, because she's got a
baby, besides she is awful sick. When she heard Jim was dead she went
right into spazumbs or something, and she is going to die. Why, she
moans so loud we can hear her clear over to our house. Mother said she
was crazy all day and thought that Jim was at the foot of the bed and
would not take her in his arms. She kept saying, 'Oh, Jim, Jim, don't
you love me any more, won't you let me put my arms around your neck and
kiss you once more before I die?'"
Here the conversation ended, and I could see Ralph with his arm on
Bill's shoulder both sobbing and wiping the tears with their dirty
sleeve and I bowed my face down and moaned until Ralph said, "What was
that noise?"
Stubbs came in and said, "Ralph, why have you not swept the floor?"