UJ 
 
SALEM: 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 BY D. R. CASTLETON. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 I8 74 . 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 [HE requirements of literary con 
 ventionality seern to demand a 
 preface as a necessary adjunct of 
 a book we had nearly written a necessary 
 evil ; and as the beaten path is acknowl 
 edged to be the safest, we yield in cheerful 
 acquiescence although to call that a preface 
 which is usually written after the book is 
 completed, would seem to unassisted reason 
 very like a misnomer. 
 
 In giving the accompanying pages to the 
 public, we would only say that it has seemed 
 well to us that the widespread and terrible 
 delusion, which so nearly made shipwreck 
 of our infant colony at the close of the sev- 
 
 299 
 
i v PREFACE. 
 
 enteenth century, should not be suffered to 
 sink into oblivion. We know, indeed, that 
 the more practiced hand of an able and faith 
 ful historian has already put it upon record 
 in a masterly way, and in so doing has made 
 a rich and valuable contribution to our 
 national literature. But these books, though 
 deeply interesting, are too valuable and too 
 weighty to be found in free circulation 
 among general readers ; and we have been 
 surprised to find how very vague and incor 
 rect was the knowledge of this subject in 
 many cultivated persons who were well-in 
 formed on other matters of history. 
 
 We have endeavored with careful hand 
 to retouch the rapidly fading picture to 
 call up again to view the scenes and actors 
 of those terrible times ; and if in so doing 
 we have ventured " to twine round history s 
 legends dim the glowing roses of romance," 
 it was only to heighten the effect of the pict 
 ure, and to enable us to give a clearer idea 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 of the persons who composed the little com 
 munity as it then existed their habits, and 
 modes of life and thought. 
 
 In all that is purely historical we claim to 
 be strictly authentic : such portions being 
 either copies from the court records, or care 
 fully compiled from the most reliable histo 
 rians. Our own feet have trodden the pre 
 cincts of" Salern Village," of" Gallow s Hill," 
 and " Prison Lane ;" in our own hands we 
 have held the veritable " witch-pins ;" our 
 own eyes have searched the records, and 
 read one of the original death-warrants still 
 in preservation and therefore we claim to 
 know something of that of which we have 
 written. 
 
 It is a matter of regret to us that in a tale 
 so peculiarly New England in its character 
 we could not venture to introduce " the live 
 Yankee." 
 
 The quaint phraseology is easily hit off, 
 and the strange mixture of shrewd intelli- 
 
v j PREFACE. 
 
 gence and original comicality would have 
 served to give a perhaps needed sparkle to 
 our pages ; but historical exigences, to which 
 we felt bound to adhere, forbade the tempt 
 ing anachronism. 
 
 The Yankee is an amalgam which had 
 not then issued from the crucible of the 
 ages ; the strange ubiquitous creature, ever 
 upon his feet, ever ready with, hand and 
 speech, had not then asserted himself; and 
 we had no warrant for chipping the egg-shell 
 of Time, in which he was then fussily in 
 choating. 
 
 In conclusion, we will say, in the borrowed 
 words of an apocryphal writer, " If I have 
 done well, and as is fitting the story, it is 
 that which I desired ; but if slenderly and 
 meanly, it is that which I could attain unto." 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 "Hame ! hame ! hame ! 
 
 Oh ! it s hame, hame, I fam wad be ; 
 Hame hame hame 
 In my ain countrie !" 
 
 T was midwinter in New England, the 
 very commencement of the year 1679 
 a year made ever memorable to 
 the little colony settled along the 
 shores of the Massachusetts Bay, as one of 
 the coldest, hardest, and most disastrous 
 which the new dwellers on that rugged 
 and inhospitable coast had yet encountered. 
 Storm and shipwreck had walked in devas 
 tation upon the angry and tumultuous wa 
 ters, and cold, famine, and sickness had deso 
 lated the land, and threatened to depopulate 
 its shores. Many of the older settlers trem 
 bled for the success of their costly experi 
 ment, fearing the land was too sterile and 
 
SALEM. 
 
 inhospitable ever to give them a permanent 
 home ; and many among the more newly 
 arrived would gladly have returned to the 
 shores they had reluctantly parted from, had 
 not the wild and stormy main rolled as an 
 impassable barrier between them and the 
 sadly lamented homes they had deserted. 
 
 It was in the height of one of those long, 
 fierce, pitiless northeastern storms of mingled 
 rain, snow, sleet, cold, and tempest, which 
 even now smite with such bitter force upon 
 our bleak New England shores, sweeping the 
 shrieking seamen down to their unknown 
 graves, wrecking the hopes of our " merchant 
 princes," and making even the listening 
 landsmen shudder in their sheltered homes 
 clouds and darkness brooded over the 
 face of the seething deep, whose fierce bil 
 lows broke on the wide -resounding shore 
 with a reverberation like thunder. The day 
 had been cheerless enough, unvisited by a 
 single gleam of sunshine, and now, as night 
 began to close in over the sodden landscape, 
 the tempest seemed to gather more force, and 
 grow hour by hour more dreary and awful. 
 
 In a chamber of a small house, in the then 
 
HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 newly settled town of Salem, two persons, a 
 woman and a little child, sat alone, and list 
 ened in awe to the fierce blasts of wind, 
 which, rushing in from the angry sea, rocked 
 their dwelling to its very foundations. 
 
 They were new-comers, and had been pas 
 sengers in the latest vessel which came over 
 in the preceding autumn. They were evi 
 dently Scottish by birth the woman, who 
 might have been about fifty -five years of 
 age, was still an erect and handsome wom 
 an, though something of the sternness of 
 purpose which marked the old Scotch Cov 
 enanters might possibly have been traced in 
 her regular but strongly marked features. 
 She held upon her lap a struggling child of 
 six or seven years of age a beautiful girl, 
 in whose fair face, though now distorted by 
 passionate weeping, might be read much 
 of the beauty as well as the strong self- 
 will which marked the face of the grand 
 mother. 
 
 "Whist, Allie ; whist, my bonnie bairn! 
 
 weel ye ? dinna ye greet sae sair," said the 
 
 woman tenderly, folding the sobbing child 
 
 to her bosom. " Hush ! hush ! my ain pre- 
 
 A 2 
 
I0 SALEM. 
 
 cious pet ; dinna ye sab an greet sae, my ain 
 Allie s wee Allie whist, noo, whist !" 
 
 " Hame ! hame ! I will gae hame !" 
 sobbed the child passionately. " I maun 
 gae hame ; I will gae hame ; I winna bide 
 here. Let me gang hame, grannie." 
 
 " Whist ! whist ! noo, Allie, my ain son- 
 sie bairn, ye are na wiselike tae talk in 
 that fashion, for weel ye ken ye kinna gae 
 hame." 
 
 " But I will I will /" shouted the imperi 
 ous child. " I will gae hame I loill, I will; 
 an wha shall stay me ? Let me gang, gran 
 
 nie." 
 
 " Stop, stop ! my ain little lass ; my bon- 
 nie wee birdie ! stop, an hear till me ; ye 
 are at hame this is yer hame, Allie; ye 
 ha nae ither ; quit greetin noo, my sonsie 
 bairn, an listen tae me." 
 
 " I winna listen nor I winna stop grefct- 
 in till ye tak me hame ; hame ! grannie, 
 tak me hame /" 
 
 " Silly bairnie ; an do ye na ken this is 
 yer hame ?" 
 
 " Na , na it s ncC my hame ; I winna bide 
 here; I will gae hame to my ain bonny 
 
HOMESICKNESS. T r 
 
 Scotland ; tins is nae hame it is jist an aw- 
 fu gruesom kintra ! I hate it I liate it ! 
 I winna bide here it niaks me sair sick; 
 look there, an see if it is na awfu 2" and as 
 she spoke she put her little, strong arm 
 round her grandmother s neck, and forcibly 
 turned her head to the window to. which 
 she pointed. 
 
 The view from the window, thus indicated 
 by the impatient little hand, was certainly 
 lugubrious enough to warrant the child s 
 distaste. The house in \vhich the two 
 speakers were sitting was the very last one 
 in the row \vhich then constituted the strag 
 gling, narrow, crooked little Main (now Es 
 sex) Street of the small, irregular, and un 
 pretending little town of Salem, and stood, 
 consequently, nearest to the water ; and the 
 view from the window to which the childish 
 hand so impetuously pointed consisted of a 
 plain of discolored but untrodden snow, 
 stretching from the house down to the very 
 shore, where, piled up in wild and chaotic 
 confusion, were huge black rocks, coated on 
 one side with gathered snow and sleet, and 
 mingled with them massive cakes of shat- 
 
12 SALEM. 
 
 tered and jagged ice, which, broken up by 
 the combined force of wind and waves, had 
 been driven in and heaped up in ghastly 
 desolation upon the shore. Beyond these 
 was a dull margin of ice, and, still beyond, 
 sullen and fierce rolled the black waters, oc 
 casionally iridescent, with a pale, blue, phos 
 phoric light, and then settling down again 
 in inky blackness. 
 
 On either hand the prospect was bounded 
 by the dark masses of the forest fir-trees, 
 which crept down almost to the very water s 
 edge, and over all hung like a sable covering 
 the dull, gray, leaden clouds, rayless and 
 gloomy only changing when some fiercer 
 burst of wind tore them asunder, and tossed 
 them into wilder forms of gloom and portent. 
 
 "Luik! luik !" exclaimed the shivering 
 child, turning away in nervous terror as she 
 spoke. "It s gruesom it s awfu ! I said 
 sae ; it s a wicked Ian , an a hatefu ; I win- 
 na bide here." 
 
 " Whist ! Allie, darlin ! barken ye to me, 
 my bonnie queen, my ain precious wee bir 
 die !" said the woman, soothingly ; and as 
 she spoke she rose, and, going to the win- 
 
HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 dow, drew the curtain to shut out the sight 
 of the night and the tempest. " Harken to 
 me, my dawtit dearie ; wha do ye ken o the 
 Ian ? ye hae jist kim, ye ken nocht aboot it ; 
 it ha been a winter yet ; wait till ye see 
 the simmer." 
 
 "There is nae simmer here," said the 
 child ; " there canna be the simmer wad 
 na kim here; there are nae bonnie birdies 
 here to sit an sing in the trees, as they do 
 at hame, an nae pretty rowanberries for 
 them to eat, gin they wa ; an the trees 
 they are na like our ain trees they hae nae 
 leaves, they are black, an stiff, an awfu ; I 
 hate to luik at them; an aye whiles they 
 groan an skreigh like they were in pain. 
 Oh, grannie ! dear grannie ! tak me hame 
 to my ain dear Scotland. I maun, I will gae 
 back to the bonnie Hillside Farm !" 
 
 " An wha wad ye do, gin ye wa 7 there, 
 Allie? It wad be winter there too; dinna 
 ye mind that, my sonsie lassie ? hae ye forgot 
 that there is winter there too 2" 
 
 " Na ! na ! not winter like this ane it 
 wa niver sic a winter thar as this ane; it 
 wad na be too cauld to sit on th auld kirk 
 
SALEM. 
 
 steps, an sing wi th lave o them I hae nae 
 maties here, ye ken. I want auld Sawnie to 
 lap ine up in his plaidie, an 7 pit me on his 
 shoulder, an awa to the sheep walks wi 
 me ; an tak me to the tap o Ben Rimmon, 
 an let me gather the bonnie purple heather. 
 I want auld Tibbie to tak me by the han , 
 an I gae wi her to the byre, an see her 
 milk the coos, an pick up the dook s eggs, 
 an see wha the auld big goosie is sitting 
 ahint the mow oh ! I maun gae, I will gae." 
 
 " Harken ye to this, my dawtit lass : Saw 
 nie an auld Tib are na at the Hillside 
 Farm the noo ; they hae gaen awa ye wad 
 na fin them there noo." 
 
 "An wha for nae? whar shuld they be 
 gaen?" 
 
 " Dinna ye mind Sawnie ha gaen tae be 
 shepherd to Scott o" the Burn side ; an Tib 
 bie ha gaen to keep housie for her brither ? 
 They wad be baith awa ." 
 
 " Weel-a-weel !" said Alice, a little startled 
 at this intelligence ; " but they wad baith 
 win bock agin, grandmither, gin we were 
 there they wad." 
 
 na , Alice," said the grandmother, 
 
HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 sadly, for the child s persistence had roused 
 her own regrets; "they wad na kim bock 
 agin we sail see them nae mair." 
 
 " Weel, \ve could gae to the Hillside 
 Farm, ony way ; I want to rin doon the bra , 
 an crass the brig abune the little burn, an 
 pu the gowans I kin do tha ." 
 
 " Na , na , Alice, my bonnie bairn. Ye for 
 get I hae sold the Hillside Farm ; ye canna 
 gae bock there it is our hanie nae mair." 
 
 " Buy it bock agin, grannie buy it bock 
 agin ; I maun, I will gae bock." 
 
 " Na , my Alice ! I canna buy it bock ; it 
 wa for yer sak , dearie, that I left it, an 
 crossed the wide stormy waters, to fin a 
 safe name for ye; an noo ye maun bide 
 here !" 
 
 " Oh ! I winna ; I winna I w r ill gae name !" 
 
 " Haith ! Alice ; dinna say that agin ; ye 
 are as fou as a goshawk; ye mind nocht I 
 say till ye; I thought ye were mair sinsi- 
 ble an wiselike. Heck, sirs ! an kinna ye 
 mind hoo sick ye wa in the big ship, an 
 we comin here ; an hoo ye used to greet, 
 and skirl out that the ship wa gaen doon 
 doon an ye wad sure be droon d ; an ye 
 
SALEM. 
 
 fritting an fritting a the way? an wad ye 
 like to thry it agin, think ye ?" 
 
 " Deed, thin, an I wad; thry me, grannie ! 
 thry me ; on y tak ship an thry me ; I win- 
 na greet I winna frit I will be patient 
 I will be good ; on y tak me hame to my 
 ain bonnie Scotland." 
 
 " But, Alice, think ye ; there is niver a 
 way ye kin gang ; dinna ye ken- the last 
 ship ha sailed? there ll be nae mair until 
 the spring." 
 
 " Then throw me into the water, grannie, 
 and let my bodie float hame to Scotland." 
 
 " Whist ! Allie ; my sonsie dochter ! I aye 
 thought ye wa mair cannie an douce ; ye 
 are. jist fou , Allie ; dinna ye think the fish 
 wad ate you; dinna ye mind hoo yer wad 
 cry out in yer sleep, and say ye harkit the 
 big fishes rubbin their heads agin the ship s 
 sides, an wad pray me na to let them bite 
 ye?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! I mind it a ; but I wad na 
 care noo; they might swallow me if they 
 wad, like as they did the auld prophet mon, 
 if aiblins they wad bring me to my ain dear 
 land, and pit me out there. Oh ! I m sair 
 
HOMESICKNESS, 1 7 
 
 sick at heart, an I ll dee here, grandnrither, 
 gin ye dinna tak me hame." 
 
 " Oh ! wae is me ! wae is me !" cried the 
 wearied and discouraged woman, whose own 
 heart was homesick in longings for her na 
 tive land, to which she was bound by many 
 ties far stronger than any little Alice knew. 
 " Wae s me, wae s me ! what iver will I do ? 
 I hae nabodie in aw the wide world but 
 this ane ; my ain bonuie dochter, that luved 
 me true, is in her cauld grave, an 7 the mools 
 abune her head ; an her little wee Allie, my 
 ain bonnie wee Allie, that I hae carried in 
 my bosom sin the day her puir mither deed 
 she dinna care for me noo. Oh ! wae s 
 the day ! I hae nathing left to luve." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I do care for ye, grannie ! an 
 I do luve ye," said the child, turning im 
 patiently away from her as she spoke. 
 " But I want to gae hame I maun gae 
 hame I will gae hame !" 
 
 " Gae, then," said the grandmother, her 
 own impatient spirit fairly overtasked by 
 the obstinate persistency of the child. " Gae 
 yer ways then I hae dune wi ye." And, as 
 she spoke, she removed the child from her 
 
1 8 SALEM. 
 
 knees, and, setting her down upon her feet 
 in the middle of the floor, she turned away 
 from her. " Gae ye, then do as ye choose; 
 gae where ye loike, an leave me my lane ; I 
 kin but dee; mak yer way hame to Scot 
 land, if ye will and whin they ask for the 
 auld grandmither that fed ye an bred ye, 
 ye kin tell them ye lef her her lane to dee. 
 Tell them her on y ain child, her bonnie 
 Alice, wa dead ; an her on y gran child, her 
 Alice s wee Allie, rinned awa fra her. Oh, 
 haith ! dinna ye greet for me somebodie 
 will lay me in the grave, an in heaven 
 abune I ll maybe happen fin my ain true 
 Alice ; guid-bye to ye ye Tdn gae" 
 
 Had the old woman calculated nicely the 
 effect of her words (which she certainly did 
 not, for she was scarcely less impulsive and 
 passionate than the child herself), she could 
 not have chosen any more effectual for her 
 purpose. The stubborn and self-willed 
 spirit, that could not be subdued by opposi 
 tion, or reached by reason or argument, was 
 conquered by affection, and yielded to a 
 quick burst of repentant love and feeling. 
 
 " Oh ! I winna gae an leave ye ; I win- 
 
HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 na! I winna! I do luve ye I do care 
 for ye an I will stay wi ye, grannie !" 
 she sobbed out in broken words, striving 
 to regain her place upon her grandmother s 
 lap. 
 
 But the woman saw her advantage, and 
 
 with true Scottish shrewdness she hastened 
 
 to improve it. " Na ! na !" she said, coldly 
 
 putting aside the little clinging arms that 
 
 tried to clasp her neck, although she felt her 
 
 whole soul melting in tenderness within her 
 
 " na , na ! dinna heed me ; dinna tak tent 
 
 o me; gae ye yer ain gate, an leave me to 
 
 mine I ll do weel enou ; gae yer ways an 
 
 fareweel." 
 
 " Na , na ! dinna say fareweel ; see, I am 
 na gangin ; I loinna gae; I am yer ain wee 
 lassie tak me in yer lap agin kiss me an 
 luve me, as ye used to do; an ca me yer 
 ain dear Alice s wee Allie, an I will be bid- 
 able, an do jist wha ye tell me I will, I 
 will. There, noo, there !" she said, as she 
 effected her lodgment within the fondly wel 
 coming arms that tenderly embraced her, 
 and hid her little tear-stained cheek upon 
 the faithful bosom that had pillowed her in- 
 
20 SALEM. 
 
 fancy. " Noo say, God bless my darlin ! 
 an kiss me, an sing me to sleep, an I ll luve 
 ye foriver, an niver leave ye." 
 
 Gladly did the loving arms close round 
 the little repentant one, and long after the 
 little quivering bosom had ceased to sob 
 and sigh, the grandmother sat rocking her 
 to and fro, sadly listening to the voices of 
 the stormy night, and crooning over a low, 
 sweet lullaby the burden of which was 
 still, " Oh ! my ain precious ane ! my ain 
 bairn s bairnie ! my darlin ; my ain Alice s 
 wee Allie !" 
 
 Long into the night she sat thus; and 
 sadder longing for her forsaken home than 
 little Allie ever knew came thronging thick 
 about her; alone in a strange, wild land 
 the little creature, sobbing in its sleep upon 
 her breast, her only tie to earth. But she 
 was a woman of resolute spirit she would 
 not look back repiningly; and she set her 
 face as a flint to meet and bear the destiny 
 which her own action had drawn upon her 
 self. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 With hand and fancy active ever 
 
 Devising, doing, striving still; 
 Defeated oft despairing never, 
 
 Upspringiug strong in hope and will." 
 
 UT time rolled on in its resistless 
 course; the night, the storm, and 
 the winter had passed gradually 
 away ; and little Alice, whose im 
 pressible temperament was like an air-harp, 
 which lends a responsive vibration to every 
 varying breeze that may sweep across it 
 now swelling out gayly and cheerily as a 
 marriage - bell, now sinking to the minor 
 chords of wailing and sadness had passed 
 from gloom to gladness. As in the storm 
 and darkness she had been nervously de 
 pressed and miserable, so in due proportion 
 did her elastic and buoyant young spirit 
 rise to the full enjoyment of brighter days 
 
22 SALEM. 
 
 and milder airs; perhaps all the more joy 
 ously for the very gloom which had pre 
 ceded them. 
 
 The spring, with its abundant promise of 
 buds and blossoms, its halcyon skies and 
 fragrant breezes, seemed mirrored in her 
 clear, sweet blue eyes; and summer itself 
 the glorious summer of our New England 
 climate with its compensating beauty, its 
 myriad-hued blossoms, its gayly-plumaged 
 and sweet-songed birds, drove her nearly 
 wild with excitement and admiration. She 
 fairly reveled in the universal beauty all 
 around her : the clear, pure air ; the fresh, 
 tremulous beauty of the tender morning 
 light, that flushed the eastern skies at new 
 born day ; the glorious sunsets, which barred 
 the west with floods of crimson and gold, 
 had for her ardent and poetic nature an ex 
 hilaration she had never known before. 
 
 There was now no longer any talk of re 
 turning to Scotland; the heather and the 
 go wans of her native hills, once so fondly 
 remembered, had shrunk in comparison with 
 the wide-flung blossoms of our woods and 
 wilds; her heart was weaned from her early 
 
CHILDHOOD. 23 
 
 home even the beloved "Hillside Farm" 
 was forgotten; she dropped the Scottish 
 dialect which her grandmother still retained, 
 and the little Highland lassie was fast 
 changing into a fair New England maiden. 
 She lived a simple, happy, healthful, wood 
 land life; out upon the hills or by the 
 ocean s shore, or deep in the dim forest 
 glades, making free acquaintance with benefi 
 cent nature, and gaining health and strength 
 and beauty from the invigorating breezes. 
 
 One day she fairly startled her grand 
 mother as she darted in at the open door, 
 like some bright-winged tropical bird ; her 
 long, fair hair twined with the pale purple 
 flowers of the wild aster, and her neck and 
 arms encircled with chains of bright crimson 
 berries, whose coral hue set off their dazzling 
 whiteness. 
 
 " Luke at me ! hike at me, grannie ! am I 
 not bonnie T she said, as she danced in her 
 childish glee and pretty vanity before the 
 eyes of her grandmother. " Am I not your 
 sonsie Allie now \ say, luke at me !" 
 
 " Oh, my bairn ! my bairn !" cried the 
 grandmother, shuddering as she looked at 
 
24 SALEM. 
 
 her. "Pu them aff pu them aff! the 
 pawky flowers. I dinna loike to see ye sae, 
 my child! Oh! pu them aff pu them aff, 
 I say." 
 
 "No, no!" said little Alice, decidedly ; "I 
 loike them they are pretty. Why dinna 
 ye loike them ?" 
 
 " Oh !" sighed the poor woman, " ye luke 
 sae loike yer puir mither, it breaks my 
 heart ; oh ! do go an tak them aff." And 
 she turned sadly away. 
 
 "Luke loike my mither! and why not? 
 why would nt I luke loike her ? Tell me," she 
 said, persistently following her grandmother 
 with glances of mingled curiosity and an 
 ger. "Why do you talk that way for? Ye 
 call my mither yer dear Alice yer ain dear 
 child; I thought ye luved my mither I 
 thought you wanted me to be loike her." 
 
 " An * so she wa an sae I did an sae I 
 do," cried the grandmother, catching the 
 child in her arms in a passionate embrace. 
 " But ye kin na onderstan , Allie darling ! 
 ye are too young; but ye do ken this ye 
 ken yer mither is deed, an when ye kim in, 
 lukin sae loike her, ye took me too sudden, 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
 2 5 
 
 an gave me a turn loike as if it wa her 
 varry sel . All ! ye dinna ken, an lang 
 may it be before ye do, wha the heart s 
 sorrow is for them it ha luved an lost; an 
 now, my bairnie, rin awa an play, an dinna 
 think I meant to speak cross to ye, my on y 
 treasure." 
 
 And little Alice went back to her birds 
 and her flowers without another word, but 
 with a vague impression upon her mind that 
 there was something about the memory of 
 her mother that she was not permitted to 
 know and must not question. But youth is 
 sanguine, and the cloud, if unforgotten, did 
 not cast a heavy shadow. And so Alice grew 
 up among all the kindly influences of nature; 
 her young life as pure and sweet, and nearly 
 as uncultivated, as the wild flowers she loved. 
 
 Of education, in its popular sense (as un 
 derstood to mean book learning), she had 
 very little, and of accomplishments she knew 
 nothing. Her grandmother was a fairly 
 educated woman, for the times she lived 
 in; she could read and write and keep her 
 simple accounts, and that was all that was 
 then judged important for a woman to 
 B 
 
26 SALEM. 
 
 know; and this limited amount of knowl 
 edge she had taught to her grandchild, who 
 was a quick and retentive pupil ; and though 
 she went to school occasionally when oppor 
 tunity offered, there was little to be gained 
 there, and possibly neither Alice nor her 
 grandmother dreamed there was more for 
 them to know. 
 
 The girl was contented she had no am 
 bitious imaginings, she knew no lot more 
 favored than her own; she had few ac 
 quaintances her position did not admit of 
 it but she had one friend, her constant 
 companion and welcome attendant in all 
 her wanderings : this was Pashernet, a young 
 Indian lad some years older than herself. 
 
 Pashemet belonged to the tribe of the 
 Naumkeags, once a powerful and prosperous 
 race, whose hunting-grounds had included 
 the site of the present town. He was the 
 son of one of the Sagamores, or chiefs, who 
 had embraced Christianity, and had always 
 maintained friendly relations with the white 
 settlers. No two beings could have been 
 imagined less alike than the calm, grave, 
 self-contained Indian lad, and the quick, im- 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
 pulsive, demonstrative daughter of the white 
 race ; and yet, in spite of this contrast (or, 
 possibly, in consequence of it), a warm and 
 tender friendship had sprung up between 
 them, and drew them strongly together. 
 
 Pashemet was six or seven years older 
 than Alice, and while she looked up to him 
 in loving confidence and warm admiration, 
 he watched over her steps with the tender 
 affection of an elder brother and the careful 
 guardianship of a loving father. 
 
 He taught to his delighted listener much 
 of the fanciful lore of his own people; his 
 memory was rich in legends of the rocks and 
 the hills ; every brook had its story, every 
 forest its memories ; and in return Alice im- 
 parted to him the limited education she had 
 received from her grandmother. He taught 
 her to use the Indian bow with an almost 
 unerring aim, to feather the arrows, to 
 weave the nets, to climb the hills, to walk 
 on snow-shoes. He procured her a light In 
 dian canoe, and taught her to guide it over 
 the water with a skill and dexterity scarcely 
 less than his own. He led her to the haunts 
 of the fairest flowers and the earliest fruits. 
 
2 8 SALEM. 
 
 Seated side by side on some breezy hill, or 
 rocking on the calm blue waters, he told 
 her long legends of the past history of his 
 once widespread but now rapidly diminish 
 ing people. He rowed with her over to 
 Castle Hill, and told her of his grandfather 
 Nanepashemet, whose fort was on that hill, 
 and who was killed there, on his own rocky 
 eminence, by the cowardly and treacherous 
 Tarrentines. And when the boy s savage 
 and but half-restrained nature kindled at 
 the remembrance, and the wild desire for 
 vengeance seemed breathing in his swelling 
 veins and trembling on his eager lips, Alice 
 would lay her little, gentle white hand soft 
 ly upon his tawny one, and tell him of the 
 love of the great "Good Father," and of- 
 the happy hunting-grounds reserved for the 
 meek and forgiving ; or, seated side by side 
 in some quiet spot, she would teach him to 
 read it for himself. 
 
 " Listen ! daughter of the pale faces," he 
 said to her one day, as they stood together 
 upon the ^pebbly margin of a clear, blue 
 pond, whose quiet waters were starred all 
 over with the pure and fragrant blossoms 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
 of the white water-lily " Listen ! Pashemet 
 has no sister, and his mother has gone long 
 ago to the Spirit Land. Pashemet is alone 
 in his wigwam he has no mother, no sister." 
 
 "And I, too," said Alice, answering him 
 in his own strain " I, too, am the last of my 
 people. I have no father, no brother I, too, 
 am alone. But see," she said kindly, " I will 
 be your sister, and I will choose you for my 
 brother." Stooping to the cool water which 
 rippled at her feet, she dipped her hand in 
 it, and laid it on the dusky brow of the 
 youth beside her. " Oh, Pashemet ! my 
 brother, I baptize you the Fir-tree. r 
 
 Calm, grave, and unsmiling, the Indian 
 boy imitated her graceful action, and as he 
 sprinkled the bright drops over her long, 
 flowing, chestnut curls, he murmured grave 
 ly " Oh, Alice ! my sister, pure and beau 
 tiful ! I baptize thee < the Water-lily. " 
 
 Laughingly Alice s flower-like head bent 
 beneath the mimic shower, but from that 
 moment, as if by tacit consent, they always 
 recognized the assumed bond, and addressed 
 each other by these endearing or fanciful 
 names. 
 
3 o SALEM. 
 
 But we are lingering too long over these 
 trivial incidents of our heroine s childhood, 
 and we must ask the indulgence of our read 
 ers to skip over a period of a dozen years. 
 A period, indeed, of much importance in the 
 advancement of the little colony, which had, 
 of course, gained much in numbers in that 
 time, partly by natural increase, and still 
 more by new and important arrivals. Much 
 had, of course, been accomplished in a dozen 
 years to improve the little settlement; the 
 town was better organized and better gov 
 erned; new streets had been laid out; new 
 buildings, and of a better class, had been 
 erected; new sources of industry opened; 
 and a new impetus given to education, com 
 merce, and agriculture. 
 
 But as for the dramatis persons of our 
 story Mrs. Campbell (Alice s grandmother) 
 was little changed; she was still a hale, 
 handsome, and resolute, though now an el 
 derly woman. But she did not show her 
 years, if she felt them ; she had reached that 
 stand-point in life where nature seems to 
 pause and rest herself awhile; the growth 
 and progress of her Spring had long passed 
 
CHILDHOOD. 3 r 
 
 by, but the withering desolation of her Win 
 ter had not yet begun : for her, it was per 
 haps the mellow Indian summer of life, se 
 rene and beautiful; the busy labors of life 
 gone by, its burden not yet assumed. 
 
 But Alice had changed far more; hers 
 was still the season of growth and develop 
 ment. The rich promise of her childhood 
 was more than fulfilled ; the Water-lily had 
 bloomed out in all its pure, perfected beau 
 ty. She was gloriously fair, but with 
 cheeks and lips vermeil with the fresh hues 
 of health. A figure full and free as Hebe, 
 yet with the light grace of the wild gazelle ; 
 with long, dancing, chestnut curls, just touch 
 ed with gold when the light wind tossed 
 them into the sun s golden rays; and clear 
 blue eyes, in which youth, health, and sum 
 mer held innocent merriment. As gay and 
 guileless as a child, yet as gentle and loving 
 as a woman she was the idol of her grand 
 mother, with whom she still lived in the 
 humble home in which we first found her. 
 
 But Pashemet, her adopted brother, had 
 gone ; his people had removed farther to 
 the West, and the young warrior, who was 
 
32 SALEM. 
 
 one day to succeed his father as Sagamore, 
 had of course gone with them. And though 
 Alice remembered him with tender interest, 
 and had once or twice received kindly mes 
 sages or simple tokens of remembrance from 
 him, brought to her by some wandering In 
 dian of his tribe, who had come back, per 
 haps, only to look upon the graves of his 
 people, she had not seen him for more than 
 six years. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 NURSE S FARM. 
 
 Twas that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
 Like the light upon autumn s soft shadowy days; 
 Now .here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
 From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes ; 
 And where it most sparkled no glance could discover 
 In lip, cheek, or eyes for she brightened all over." 
 
 ( HE exquisite beauty of one of 
 the long Spring twilights of New 
 England was slowly fading ; the 
 glowing west was still a sea of 
 dazzling light and brilliancy ; but the amber 
 and gold which had flushed the pure blue of 
 the western sky was gradually turning to pur 
 ple and crimson, and streaming up in long 
 penciled rays to the zenith, when Goodwife 
 Campbell sat at the front window of her 
 quiet home, silent, and thoughtfully knitting. 
 But though her active and experienced 
 hands were thus busy, her mind and eyes were 
 not given to the monotonous work which, 
 B 2 
 
34 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 still turning and lengthening, grew under 
 her restless fingers ; mind and eyes were not 
 requisite to the familiar and mechanical task, 
 else would the stocking she was skillfully 
 fashioning have been an utter failure ; for 
 her whole attention was given to the view 
 up the street which her window commanded. 
 
 The little room in which she sat, although 
 in every way comfortable, according to the 
 very limited requirement of the times, was 
 very simple in its appointments, and would 
 have looked meagre even to bareness to 
 modern eyes; but it was neatness itself, 
 and surely that is in itself a beauty. The 
 bare, whitewashed walls were spotless in 
 their purity ; no carpet covered the unpaint- 
 ed floor, but it had been scrubbed white as 
 snow, had been carefully sanded, and the 
 sand freshly " streaked," or brushed into 
 wavy lines and curves of beauty. 
 
 The graceful streaking of a sanded floor 
 in this fashion was an accomplishment upon 
 which thrifty housewives greatly prided 
 themselves in those days, and taught its 
 mysteries as an important branch of woman 
 ly education to their young daughters. The 
 
NURSE S FARM. 
 
 practice was marked by certain rules, the 
 sand being at first dropped about the newly 
 washed floor in small conical heaps of uni 
 form size and at regular distances this was 
 expected to last for a certain number of 
 days ; then, when busy, passing feet had 
 trampled and scattered it, it was to be care 
 fully streaked, or swept in wavy parallel 
 lines ; and when these had in their turn been 
 obliterated, a third fashion of brushing it 
 across in checker- work was admissible : this 
 was expected to close the weekly wear, and 
 bring it round to scrubbing-day again. 
 
 The white half-curtains which shaded the 
 spotlessly clean but coarse, knobby glass 
 windows, hung white, fresh, and untumbled 
 in their crisp starchiness ; but, besides its 
 crowning grace of neatness, the little room 
 was beautified by slight but decided marks 
 of delicate womanly taste and refinement. 
 Round the tall, narrow looking-glass, on the 
 surface edge of which an ornamental bor 
 der had been cut in the manufacture of the 
 glass itself, a skillful hand had fastened a 
 thick wreath of shining, dark-green leaves, 
 which, wholly concealing the quaint black 
 
3 6 SALEM. 
 
 frame, made the little mirror look like a 
 cool, quiet lake, smiling out amid the green 
 woods. 
 
 On the many -twisted -legged little table 
 under the glass stood a large flat dish of 
 water, its whole surface covered with the 
 sweet pink buds and graceful leaves of the 
 May-flower first herald of the spring 
 sending out the perfume of its breath to fill 
 the room ; and over the wide mantel-piece 
 stood small, high glasses of dark-green leaves 
 and scarlet berries, arranged with the ar 
 tistic taste which speaks a loving hand ; 
 while in a rude, clumsy -made cage in the 
 side window hung a tame robin, piping his 
 farewell to the day, and coquettishly pick 
 ing at the fresh chickweed that ornamented 
 his cage. But the little presiding deity of 
 the place she whose innocent taste had so 
 impressed itself upon these minor arrange 
 ments was not present ; and it was in 
 search of her that the grandmother s loving 
 eyes were so often turned to the window. 
 
 " Haint she kirn yet ? Wall ! I clare I 
 niver see notting to beat dat are !" said old 
 Winny, the colored woman, who was the 
 
NURSE S FARM. 
 
 only help employed in this primitive little 
 household. Two or three times already had 
 she been in on the errand of inquiry, and 
 returned without satisfaction. " I clare to 
 yer now, I tink she orter be in ; I duuno ! 
 but I tink it haint nowuz safe for her to be 
 out, its got so late, and sich a young ting 
 as she is." 
 
 " Ye may gang doon to the gate, Winny, 
 an glint up the street ava , an see if she s 
 na kimmin doon the toun." 
 
 Winny obeyed ; she went to the gate, 
 shaded her eyes from the dazzling western 
 brightness, stood at least five minutes gaz 
 ing persistently up the straggling and ir 
 regular street, and then returning, she an 
 nounced gravely, " She s not comin . I didn t 
 see a bit of her not one bit !" 
 
 " Weel, weel !" said her mistress, smiling ; 
 " I m gey glad o that, Winny ; I wad na 1 
 wish my bairnie to kim hame in bits, ony 
 way." 
 
 The astute Winny meditated for a min 
 ute or two in silence over this seemingly 
 strange answer, and then a loud cachinnation 
 told that the point of her mistress s wit had 
 
SALEM. 
 
 reached her comprehension. " But would 
 it not be more respectabler like, if I was to 
 run up the street and meet her, and fotch 
 her home say ? 
 
 "Na , na !" said the grandmother, smil 
 ing ; " I dinna think ye ha need to do that. 
 She ll win hame her lane afore the neet fa s, 
 I m thinkin ." 
 
 " Well, if yer say so, I s pose she will. 
 Of course yer knows best ;" and Winny re 
 turned to the kitchen. 
 
 Another quarter of an hour " dragged its 
 slow length along," and just as the grand 
 mother, beginning to grow really anxious, 
 had risen to lay aside her knitting, in order, 
 probably, to give herself up more fully to 
 the indulgence of her nameless fears, the 
 tramp of a horse s feet at the gate, and a 
 low, sweet burst of ringing, girlish laughter, 
 dispelled them altogether, and she reached 
 the door just in time to see her darling care 
 fully lifted from the pillion by an honest- 
 looking young man, who, with a gay " Good 
 night to you," rode laughingly away. 
 
 " Weel-a-weel ! Allie," she said, meeting 
 her at the door ; " ye hae bin lang awa , 
 
NURSE S FARM. 
 
 dearie. An wha s keepin ye sae late, my 
 bonnie lassie ?" 
 
 " Oh, I have been a good ways, grandmoth 
 er, dear. Just let me get my things off, 
 and Til tell you all." 
 
 " But where awa hae ye bin, lassie ? Tell 
 me?" 
 
 "I have been up to Nurse s Farm, gran 
 
 nie." 
 
 "Nurse s Farm? Wha ! na up to the 
 village, lassie ? Sure, ye dinna mean that ?" 
 
 " I do, then ; I mean just that, grannie." 
 
 " My certies ! An wha for did ye na 
 tell me, Allie ? I hae been sair fashed aboot 
 ye. An why wa na ye tellin me gin ye 
 wa goin there ?" 
 
 " I did not know it myself, grandmother ; 
 but I sent you word though. Did not little 
 Mary English come in and tell you where 
 I was ?" 
 
 " Mver a whit. I hae na seen Mary En 
 glish the day." 
 
 " The careless little gipsy ! And she 
 promised me so fair, too ! Well, never mind ; 
 I am sorry if you fretted, though ;" and, as 
 she spoke, the girl threw her soft arms 
 
SALEM. 
 
 round the old woman s neck, and pressed 
 her sweet, rosy lips to the withered cheek. 
 " I am not worth half the trouble you take 
 about me, grandmother ; but you see I am 
 all safe, and I have had such a pleasant 
 time." 
 
 " Weel-a-weel ! an ye maun tell me a 
 aboot it, my lassie." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I will ; but, grannie, have 
 you not had your supper yet ?" 
 
 "Nae deed; I wa waitin for ye. Ye 
 hae na had yours, hae you ? 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; I had mine oh, two hours 
 ago. I m so sorry you waited. Sit down 
 now and take yours, and I ll sit here, close 
 by you, and tell you all I ve heard and 
 seen. You see, I meant to go up only as far 
 as Salem Corner ; but it was so pleasant, 
 I kept on just for a walk ; when who should 
 come up behind me but Rebecca Preston and 
 Mary Tarbell, Landlord Nurse s two mar 
 ried daughters, and with them their young 
 est sister, Sarah Nurse. Well, I knew them 
 all, and Sarah Nurse I used to go to school 
 with ; and so we walked along talking to 
 gether, and when I would have turned back 
 
NURSE S FARM. 4I 
 
 they would not hear of it : I must go home 
 with them, and stay to supper, and see 
 their mother. And when I said I could 
 not walk back in the evening, Mary Tarbell 
 said her husband was coming over, and 
 would bring me on a pillion. You know, 
 grannie, I don t get a ride very often, and 
 I did want to go with them ; but I said, 
 i No ; I couldn t leave you alone. Not know 
 ing where I was, you might be anxious. 
 And just then John English came down the 
 road, with his little Mary on behind him ; 
 and they stopped them, and Mary said she 
 was coming straight home, and she would 
 run over and tell you where I was, and so 
 I felt easy about that ; but I shall give her 
 a bit of a scolding for forgetting it. And, 
 grandmother, it was lovely over- there, and 
 they were all so pleasant !" 
 
 " An how wa Goody Nurse ?" inquired 
 the listener. 
 
 " Well, she said she was pretty bad with 
 the rheumatism, but she was as bright and 
 cheery as a bird. She asked how you was, 
 and if you had your rheumatism now ; and 
 I told her you did last winter, but you was 
 
42 SALEM. 
 
 a great deal better now. I m glad to hear 
 it, says she ; but your grandmother is only 
 a child to me. Why, I m threescore and 
 ten, and five over, says she. Only think, 
 grannie ; did you think she was as much as 
 that?" 
 
 " An did ye bide till the supper, Allie V 
 
 "Yes, indeed, and there was a tableful. 
 There was Landlord Nurse and Goody, and 
 two of their sons ; and there was Thomas 
 Preston and Rebecca, and Mary and John 
 Tarbell, and Elizabeth Russel and her hus 
 band, and Sarah Nurse and her bachelor 
 from Marblehead, and I. Only think, what 
 a family thirteen of us to sit down to sup 
 per!" 
 
 " Thirteen ! Oh, my bairnie ! tha s an un 
 canny number I dread tha s an unlucky 
 thing. We wad say at hame one of the 
 number wad be deed afore anither year. I 
 dinna like the thirteen." 
 
 " Oh ! well, grannie, I guess I did not 
 count them right ; and, besides, there were 
 ever so many of the little grandchildren run 
 ning in and out all the time. I guess that 
 won t hurt us; and we were as gay as larks." 
 
NURSE S FARM. 43 
 
 " An tell me, wha had ye for the supper, 
 lassie ? It rnaun tak a deal to feed sae 
 inony." 
 
 " My goodness ! you d think so. There 
 was every thing : fried bacon and eggs, and 
 cold boiled beef, and baked beans, and minced 
 salt fish, and roasted potatoes, and pickles, 
 and hot Indian bread, and white bread, and 
 cake, and pies, and preserved barberries, 
 and honey, and milk, and cider. Oh ! and, 
 by the way, that makes me think Goody 
 Nurse asked me how your barberries kept 
 this year, and I told her they did not keep 
 well at all, for I eat them all up before New- 
 year ; and then she laughed, and told me 
 to tell you she had more on hand than she 
 could use till they come round again, and 
 that she would send you a crock of them 
 the first chance she could find." 
 
 " Weel ! an , indeed, that s varry good uy 
 her. I ll be beholden to her for that same. 
 She is varry kind." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, she is; she is just as kind 
 as she can be. Oh, they live so pleasantly, 
 grandmother ; they have every thing on that 
 great farm, that heart can desire ; and they 
 
44 SALEM. 
 
 are just like one great family. Old Land 
 lord Nurse lie seemed just like one of the 
 old patriarchs when he stood up to bless 
 the table, with his long, white hair floating 
 over his shoulders dear old man ! 
 
 "But, grandmother, I have got some queer 
 news to tell you. Don t you remember 
 what we heard about those children and 
 girls at Mr. Parris s house how they had 
 meetings there to try tricks and charms, and 
 practice all sorts of black arts ? Don t you 
 remember hearing of it ?" 
 
 " Yes, Allie ; I mind it. An I thought it 
 wa unco strange doings at the Manse, 
 too!" 
 
 " Yes, I know. Well, they have gone on 
 worse and worse they behave awfully now. 
 The people don t know what to make of it 
 some say they are crazy, and some think 
 they make it up. Oh ! and they have (or 
 pretend to have, I don t know which it is) 
 terrible fits ; and they will scream and rave, 
 and foam at the mouth, and bleed at the 
 nose, and drop down to the floor as if they 
 were dead, and be cold and stiif ; and they ll 
 declare they see and hear things that no 
 
NURSE S FARM. 
 
 one else can hear or see, and, oh ! I can t 
 tell you what they don t do. The neighbors 
 are called in ; but no one can do any thing 
 with them. They call them the afflicted 
 children. 
 
 " Well, we were talking of it at the ta 
 ble. Afflicted children ! indeed ! afflicted 
 fiddlesticks, I say, quoth Goody Nurse ; 1 1 
 don t believe a word of it ; I believe it s all 
 shamming. If either of my little maids had 
 trained on so at their age, I guess I would 
 have afflicted them with the end of my 
 broomstick. I would have whipped it out 
 of them, I know. They have been left to go 
 with them pagan slaves, she says, till their 
 heads are half cracked ; and Parson Parris, 
 he just allows and encourages it. If he d 
 box their ears for them, all round, three 
 times a day, I guess it would cure them, 
 says she. 
 
 "Then Thomas Preston spoke up, and 
 he says : 1 1 think, Goody, you are too hard 
 on the children. Maybe, if you had seen 
 them, you would feel differently. I have, 
 and it is just awful to behold their fits ; and 
 I believe every word of it. 
 
46 SALEM. 
 
 " Well, I don t, son Thomas ; says Goody, 
 and that is where you and I differ. If 
 they are sick, I pity them, with all my heart, 
 I m sure ; for nobody knows better than I 
 do what a dreadful thing it is to have fits. 
 I had them once when one of my children 
 was born. But that is no excuse for letting 
 them disturb the whole meeting-house. If 
 they can t behave, let them stay ^at home, I 
 say. I believe that Mr. Parris is at the bot 
 tom of it all ; I don t think much of him, 
 and I never did. 
 
 " Tut! tut! Goody, said Landlord Nurse. 
 Bridle in that unruly little member of thine; 
 it is no use talking of these things, and 
 it is not well to talk against your minister. 
 
 " He aint my minister, says she, again ; 
 he never was, and never will be, and I m 
 glad of it. I belong to the Old Church, 
 and I never separated from it, as you know ; 
 and I only go to the village church when 
 I can t go to town. I never did like Mr. 
 Parris, even when you, father, and the old 
 committee first gave him a call ; and I m 
 sure, son Tarbell, when you and the young 
 men took the matter into your own hands, 
 
NURSE S FARM. 
 
 and gave l^m a second call, I always thought 
 you had better have left it where it was, in 
 the hands of your elders. I don t like the 
 man. I won t say he s a bad man, but I 
 don t say he s a good one ; and I, for one, 
 won t go to meeting again while those sau 
 cy, impudent girls are allowed to interrupt 
 the worship of the Lord. If it is not silly, it 
 is wicked ; and if it is not wicked, it is silly ; 
 and, any way, I won t go to hear it, I know. 
 
 " Oh, grandmother, I could not but laugh 
 to hear how she did run on ; but Elizabeth, 
 who sat next to me, pulled my sleeve, and 
 whispered me, 1 1 do wish mother would 
 not talk so ; I feel sure she will get into 
 trouble if she does. 
 
 " l How so ? says I. 
 
 " Why, she says, this is no time to be 
 making enemies ; and somebody may repeat 
 what she says. 
 
 " l Well, said I, l there s nobody here but 
 your own family and me. 
 
 " i Oh ! I did not mean, the present com 
 pany, says she, laughing ; but it is just so 
 always. Mother is a dear, good woman as 
 ever lived she would not hurt a fly ; but 
 
48 SALEM. 
 
 she is very outspoken, and there is. always an 
 ill bird in the air to catch up such thought 
 less words and make the worst of them ; 
 and mother is too free I wish she was not. 
 
 " But, grannie, the girls have got so bold, 
 it seems they don t mind any body ; and 
 last Sabbath-day, it seems, they spoke right 
 out in meeting." 
 
 " Spoke in meetin ? What, them chil 
 dren spoke in prayer an exhortation ? 
 Gude save us ; did I ever !" 
 
 " No, no, grannie ; far worse than that. 
 Prayer ? no, indeed ! Mr. Law^son was 
 to preach that day, and Abigail Williams 
 spoke right out in meeting, and spoke im 
 pudently to him. Before he had time to be 
 gin, she cried out, i Come ! stand up, and 
 name your text ; and when he had given 
 it, * That s a long text, cries she. And then, 
 while he was preaching, another cries out, 
 Come ! there s enough of that, and more 
 like that. Was it not shameful ? And 
 they said Ann Putnam was so rude that 
 the people next her in the seatings had to 
 hold her down by main force. Goody Nurse 
 said it was shameful that Mr. Parris did not 
 
NUXSE S FARM. 49 
 
 interfere and stop them, and I think so. too. 
 But, as she said, if the minister allowed it, 
 who could venture to do any thing to stop 
 them ? 
 
 " So then they sent for Dr. Griggs (his 
 niece, Elizabeth Hubbard, is one of them), 
 and he could not make out what ailed 
 them ; and he said he thought they must 
 be bewitched ! 
 
 "And Mr. Parris has had a meeting of 
 all the neighboring ministers at his own 
 
 o o 
 
 house ; and they talked to the children, and 
 prayed over them ; but they did not get 
 any satisfaction. And now they all say the 
 children are bewitched. Goody Nurse says 
 she don t believe a word of it, and that Mr. 
 Parris ought to have stopped it at once, in 
 the first of it, as he might easily have done. 
 She said he was not her minister, and she 
 was glad he was not ; but if he had been, 
 she would not go, to have such a shameful 
 disturbance. 
 
 " And now, grannie, they all believe the 
 
 children are bewitched ; and every one is 
 
 asking, Who can it be ? Who are the 
 
 witches that make all this trouble ? And 
 
 C 
 
SALEM. 
 
 nobody knows. Why, is it not an awful 
 thing ? Grandmother, do you believe it ?" 
 
 Whist, Allie, I canna tell ; the De il is 
 fu of a subtlety." 
 
 " But are there really any witches now, 
 grannie ?" 
 
 " I dinna ken, lassie. I mind me at name, 
 I used to hear tell o fairies an kelpies an 
 warlocks ; an wha for nae witches ? Gude 
 be betune us an harm ! Dinna talk of sic 
 things, my bairn ; it s nae good to be nam 
 ing them. Gude be aroun us this night an 
 foriver! Get ye out the Bible, my lassie, 
 an read us the prayers." 
 
 " Not yet, grandmother ; it s early yet." 
 "Niver ye mind if it is, Allie. Yer 
 tongue ha rin on sae fast syne ye come in 
 that my old head is fairly* upset, and I d 
 fain gae to my bed ; an I m sure ye maun 
 be weel tired with yer lang walk yersel . 
 Sae bring the guid book, an ca in Winny." 
 And Allie brought out the big Bible, 
 summoned old Winny, and reverently read 
 the service for the day, the prayers, a hymn, 
 and a chapter from the New Testament; 
 and so closed the, to her, eventful day. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 
 
 Men spake in whispers each one feared to meet another s eye; 
 As iron seemed the sterile earth, as brass the sullen sky. 
 But patience had her perfect work, abundant faith was given ; 
 Oh ! who shall say the scourge of earth doth not bear fruit 
 for heaven?" 
 
 S the occurrences at Salem village, 
 of which mention has been made 
 in a previous chapter, and of 
 which Alice Campbell, on her 
 return from Nurse s Farm, had brought 
 
 7 o 
 
 the first tidings to her grandmother, were 
 destined to assume an importance far more 
 than commensurate with their apparently 
 trivial beginning ; and as " the little cloud 
 scarcely bigger than a man s hand " was 
 afterward to spread and deepen, until its 
 baneful influence overwhelmed for a time 
 the powers of truth, reason, and justice, and 
 the whole land sat trembling in the horror 
 
2 2 SALEM. 
 
 of great darkness, it becomes necessary to 
 tlie course of our narrative that we should 
 turn back and learn what the pages of his 
 tory and the voices of tradition have pre 
 served of the commencement of the strange 
 and terrible delusion which, under the name 
 of the " Salem Witchcraft," has made itself 
 known and recognized over more than half 
 the world. 
 
 Salem village, subsequently known as 
 Danvers, where the first outbreak of this 
 fearful scourge had its rise, was not in those 
 early days a distinct and independent town : 
 it was then the suburbs, the outgrowth, and 
 the more rural portion of the town of Salem. 
 
 It had been the sagacious policy of the 
 infant colony, as soon as possible, to issue 
 grants of large tracts of land to influential 
 men, of independent means, enterprising spir 
 it, and liberal views such men as Winthrop, 
 Dudley, Browne, Endicott, Bishop, Ingersoll, 
 and others; men who had the power, as 
 well as the will, to lay out roads, subdue 
 the forest, clear the ground, and by introduc 
 ing the desirable arts of husbandry, call out 
 the productive power of the soil. 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 53 
 
 Afterward, when these large tracts of land 
 were broken up and subdivided, either 
 among the heirs of the original grantees, or 
 sold in portions to other smaller landown 
 ers, the people of " Salem village," or " Salem. 
 Farms," as it was often termed, continued to 
 retain and support the character of intelli 
 gence, stability, and enterprise which had 
 been acquired from the influence of these 
 early founders and leading minds. 
 
 In the course of progressive years, as their 
 population naturally and widely increased, 
 they formed a new parish, being a branch 
 of the mother church at Salem ; but their 
 ministerial or parochial affairs do not appear 
 to have been happy. 
 
 Their first preacher, the Rev. James Bay- 
 ley, came to the village church in the year 
 1671 ; but his call was not a unanimous 
 one, and much bitter disaffection and rancor 
 ous discussion followed it, until Mr. Bayley, 
 despairing of ever conciliating the affections 
 of his contentious flock, left them, and, with 
 drawing from the ministry, studied the pro 
 fession of medicine. 
 
 His successor in the church, the Rev. 
 
54 SALEM. 
 
 George Burroughs, entered upon his duties 
 in 1680; but he found the parish in a most 
 unsettled and irritable state of feeling. The 
 personal friends of Mr. Bayley for he had 
 many strong partisans concentrated all their 
 bitterness and hostility upon the head of his 
 innocent successor; added to this were the 
 troubled pecuniary relations between him 
 and his parish, which were never clearly ad 
 justed, and, in sheer despair of ever obtaining 
 an impartial and fair settlement with his de 
 moralized people, he, too, resigned his situa 
 tion and left the village. 
 
 The Rev. Deodat Lawson was the next in 
 cumbent. He commenced his ministry in 
 1684 how long he held it is uncertain; but 
 he, too, finding it impossible to evoke any 
 harmony out of the discord in the parish, re 
 linquished the situation and removed back 
 to Boston, being afterward settled at Scitu- 
 ate, New England. 
 
 The next minister (and this brings us to 
 the period of the witchcraft delusion) was 
 the Rev. Samuel Parris. Possibly warned 
 by the fate of his three predecessors, he was 
 very strict and exacting in making his terms 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 55 
 
 of settlement. His first call, made by the 
 committee of the church in November, 1688, 
 he held in suspense, failing to respond to it 
 for some months; until the young men of 
 the parish, feeling that their elders were 
 making no advance, took the matter into 
 their own hands, and gave him a second call 
 in April, 1689 ; and he commenced his duties 
 as their preacher from that time, although 
 not regularly ordained until the close of the 
 year. 
 
 Whether owing to the unauthorized inter 
 ference of the young men, which settled him 
 thus prematurely, or by some intentional 
 and overreaching misconception on the part 
 of Mr. Parris, there sprung up a constant 
 and imbittered discussion as to the terms of 
 his settlement he maintaining himself to be 
 entitled by the terms of his agreement to 
 the parsonage house and the glebe lands; 
 which the other party maintained to be their 
 inalienable church property, which they had 
 neither the intention nor the power to con 
 vey away. 
 
 This sharp mercantile spirit, which he 
 constantly betrayed in his perpetual "hig- 
 
5 6 SALEM. 
 
 gling" about the terms of his salary, and 
 the harsh and exasperating manner in which 
 he upon all occasions magnified his office, 
 checking and restraining the usual powers 
 of his deacons and elders, had rendered him 
 thoroughly repugnant to all the preconceived 
 ideas and feelings of the sensible and inde 
 pendent farmers of Salem village; and he, 
 on his part, seems to have entertained no 
 pleasant or friendly feelings toward his 
 people. 
 
 It was under these peculiarly irritating 
 feelings and circumstances, when ill-temper 
 and acrimonious discontent and discussion 
 prevailed on all sides, that the first swell of 
 the great tidal-wave became perceptible, 
 which afterward beat down the barriers 
 of common - sense, and engulfed so many 
 happy homes in fatal and irremediable woe. 
 
 During the winter of 1691 and 92, a par 
 ty of young girls, about a dozen in number, 
 were in the habit of meeting together at 
 Mr. Parris s house ; their names, as they have 
 come down to us, are : 
 
 Elizabeth Parris, aged 9 the daughter of 
 the minister. 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 57 
 
 Abigail Williams, aged 11 a niece of Mr. 
 Parris, and residing in his family. 
 
 Ann Putnam, aged 12 daughter of Thom 
 as Putnam, the parish clerk. 
 
 Mary Walcott, aged 17 daughter of Dea 
 con Jonathan Walcott. 
 
 Mercy Lewis, aged 17 servant in the 
 family of John Putnam, constable. 
 
 Elizabeth Hubbard, aged 17 niece of 
 Mrs. Dr. Griggs, and living in her family. 
 
 Elizabeth Booth, aged 18. 
 
 Susannah Sheldon, aged 18. 
 
 Mary Warren, aged 20 servant in the 
 family of John Proctor. 
 
 Sarah Churchill, aged 20 servant to 
 George Jacobs, Senior. 
 
 Three young married women Mrs. Ann 
 Putnam, mother of the above-named girl, a 
 Mrs. Pope, and Mrs. Bibber ; to these must 
 be added the names of John Indian and 
 Tituba, his wife, slaves in the family of Mr. 
 Parris, and brought by him from the Spanish 
 West Indies, where he had been engaged in 
 trade before entering the ministry. 
 
 For what definite and avowed purpose 
 these meetings at the house of the pastor 
 C 2 
 
SALEM. 
 
 had originally been intended, we have no in 
 formation ; but their ultimate purpose seems 
 to have been to practice sleight of hand, leger 
 demain, fortune-telling, sorcery, magic, pal 
 mistry, necromancy, ventriloquism, or what 
 ever in more modern times is classed under 
 the general name of Spiritualism. 
 
 During the course of the winter, they had 
 become very skillful and expert in these 
 unholy arts. They could throw themselves^ 
 into strange and unnatural attitudes ; use 
 strange exclamations, contortions, and gri 
 maces ; utter incoherent and unintelligible 
 speech. They would be seized with fearful 
 spasms or fits, and drop as if lifeless to the 
 ground ; or, writhing as if in agony of in 
 sufferable tortures, utter loud screams and 
 fearful shrieks, foaming at the mouth or bleed- 
 ing from the nose. 
 
 It should be borne in mind that the act 
 ors in these terrible scenes were for the 
 most part young girls, at the most nervous 
 and impressible period of life a period when 
 a too rapid growth, over -study, over -exer 
 tion, or various other predisposing causes, 
 are often productive of hysteria, hypochon- 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 59 
 
 dria, and nervous debility, which, if not met 
 and counteracted by judicious care, has oft 
 en tended to insanity, and 
 
 " The delicate chain 
 Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again." 
 
 Let it be remembered, too, that these mis 
 guided young persons had been engaged 
 for long months in studies of the most wild 
 and exciting nature, unlawful and unholy, 
 and in the practice of all forbidden arts- 
 studies and practices under the unhallowed 
 influences of which the strongest and most 
 stolid of maturer minds might well have 
 been expected to break down ; that they 
 had been in daily and hourly communication 
 with John Indian and Tituba, the two Span 
 ish West Indian slaves creatures of the 
 lowest type, coarse, sensual, and ignorant 
 who had been their companions, teachers, 
 and leaders, indoctrinating them in all the 
 pagan lore, hideous superstitions, and revolt 
 ing ceremonials of their own idolatrous faith, 
 and is it to be wondered at if their weak 
 reason tottered and reeled in the fearful tri 
 al ? If they were not mad would be the 
 greater wonder. 
 
60 SALEM. 
 
 But these things could not be enacted in 
 a little quiet village and not be known ; nor 
 was it intended they should be. And, at 
 tention being called to their strange condi 
 tion and unaccountable behavior, the whole 
 wondering neighborhood was filled with 
 consternation and pity at the unwonted pro 
 ceedings ; from house to house the strange 
 
 o / o 
 
 tidings spread with wonderful rapidity, and 
 gaining doubtless at every repetition ; and 
 no attempt at concealment being made, but, 
 on the contrary, rather an ostentatious dis 
 play of the affair, crowds flocked together 
 from every quarter to see and listen and 
 wonder in horror and amazement. 
 
 No explanation of the mystery was given, 
 and, excited by the attention they received 
 and the wonder they attracted, the children, 
 emulating each other in their strange ac 
 complishments, grew worse and worse, until 
 the whole community became excited and 
 aroused to a most intense degree. Every 
 thing else was forgotten or set aside, and 
 there was no other topic of thought or con 
 versation ; and finding themselves the objects 
 of universal attention, " the observed of all 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 61 
 
 observers," the girls were roused by ambi 
 tion to new manifestations of the extraor 
 dinary power they were influenced by, and 
 outdid all they had done before. 
 
 At last, as no change for the better oc 
 curred, Dr. Grigg, the village physician, was 
 sent for. He was the uncle by marriage of 
 one of the girls, and possibly not quite an 
 impartial judge in the matter, and after an 
 examination or we might better say an 
 exhibition on the part of the girls he de 
 clared his medical skill at fault, and pro 
 nounced his grave and deliberate opinion 
 that the children were bewitched. 
 
 This was not an uncommon conclusion in 
 those days ; for a superstitious belief in de- 
 monology was a commonly received thing, 
 and any symptoms not common, or not re 
 ferable to commonly understood natural 
 causes, were usually attributed to the influ 
 ence of " an evil eye." Finding (possibly 
 to their own surprise) that their magical 
 pretensions were thus gravely indorsed and 
 upheld by medical science, "the afflicted chil 
 dren," as they were now termed, grew more 
 bold and proceeded to greater lengths oft- 
 
62 SALEM. 
 
 en disturbing the exercises of prayer -meet 
 ings and the services of the sanctuary. 
 
 On one Sabbath-day, when Mr. Lawson 
 was to preach, before he had time to com 
 mence, one of the girls, Abigail Williams, 
 the niece of Mr. Parris, rudely called out to 
 him, " Come, stand up, and name your text ;" 
 and when he had given it, she insolently 
 replied, " That is a long text." And during 
 the sermon, another of them impudently call 
 ed out, " Come, there is enough of that." And 
 again, as the no doubt .disconcerted speak 
 er referred to the point of doctrine he had 
 been endeavoring to expound, the same in 
 solent voice called out to him, "I did not 
 know you had any doctrine; if you did, I 
 have forgotten it." While yet another be 
 came so riotous and noisy that the persons 
 near her in the " seatings," as they were 
 termed, had to hold her down to prevent 
 the services being wholly broken up. 
 
 As the girls were regarded with mingled 
 pity ancl consternation, as being the help 
 less victims of some terrible and supernat 
 ural power, they were not punished or rep 
 rimanded ; and as they were some of them 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 63 
 
 members of the minister s own family, and 
 lie did not seem to dare to check or blame 
 them, it was of course to be understood that 
 he countenanced and believed in the strange 
 influence under which they professed to be 
 suffering, and of course his belief governed 
 that of many of his congregation. 
 
 But all were not SQ compliant of faith. 
 Several members of the Nurse family and 
 others openly manifested their strong disap 
 probation of such desecration of the Lord s 
 house and the Lord s day, and declared their 
 intention of absenting themselves from at 
 tendance on the Sabbath services while such 
 a state of things was allowed ; and it was 
 afterward noticed that whosoever did this 
 was sure to be marked out as an object of 
 revenge. 
 
 In the mean time fasts and prayer-meet 
 ings were resorted to in private families for 
 the restoration of the afflicted ones and the 
 subjugation of the power of the Evil Spirit, 
 who, as the great enemy of souls, was be- 
 lieved to have come amon^ them. All this 
 
 o 
 
 heightened and helped on the terrible pop 
 ular excitement, and Mr. Parris convened an 
 
64 SALEM. 
 
 assemblage of all the neighboring ministers 
 to meet at his own house, and devote the 
 day to solemn supplication to the Divine 
 Power to rescue them from the power of 
 Satan. 
 
 This reverend body of the clergy came, 
 saw the children, questioned them, and wit 
 nessed their unaccountable behavior, and, 
 struck dumb with astonishment at what 
 they heard and saw, declared their belief 
 that it must be and was the power of the 
 Evil One. 
 
 This clerical opinion was at once made 
 known, and, as it coincided with the medical 
 opinion of Dr. Grigg, it was considered con 
 clusive. No doubt could withstand such an 
 irresistible array of talent, and horror and 
 dire fanaticism ruled the hour. Society was 
 broken up, business was suspended, men 
 looked at each other in unspoken suspicion, 
 and excited crowds gathered to witness the 
 awful workings of the devil, or bear the ex 
 aggerated tidings from house to house. 
 
 Up to this time it is possible nay, even 
 more, it seems probable that the miserable 
 authors of this terrible excitement had -had 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 65 
 
 no clearly defined intention or even percep 
 tion of the awful sin to the commission of 
 which their deeds were rapidly leading 
 them ; they had begun in sport, or at best 
 without consideration in a spirit, it might 
 be, of unholy curiosity and merry malice ; 
 possibly the widespread notoriety they had 
 attracted would, at the first, have more than 
 satisfied their ambition. It is doubtful to 
 what extent they had learned to believe in 
 their own pretensions; but they had gone 
 too far to retrace their steps, even if they 
 had wished to do so; the feverish excite 
 ment around them carried them along with 
 it ; they had " sowed the whirlwind, and 
 they must reap the storm." If they had 
 any misgivings, any doubts of their own 
 demoniac power, the full, free faith in it ex 
 pressed by all around them may have con 
 firmed their own wavering belief, called out 
 into force their unholy ambition, and over 
 whelmed every better and more human feel 
 
 ing. 
 
 Up to this time they had accused no one 
 as the author of their sufferings; but it 
 was the common and universally received 
 
66 SALEM. 
 
 doctrine or belief that the devil could not 
 act upon mortals, or in mortal affairs, by his 
 own immediate and direct power, but only 
 through the agency of human beings who 
 were in confederacy with him ; and now the 
 question naturally arose on all sides, " Who 
 are the devil s agents in this work? who is 
 it thus afflicting these children ? There must 
 be some one among us who is thus acting 
 and who is it ?" 
 
 No one could tell. Men looked around 
 them with hungry eyes, eager to trace the 
 devil s agents ; and the question was pressed 
 home upon the girls by every one, " If you 
 are thus tormented if you are pricked with 
 pins, and pinched, and beaten, and choked, 
 and strangled tell us who it is that does it ; 
 surely you must know tell us, then, who it 
 is that has thus bewitched you." 
 
 Thus importuned on every hand, they 
 could no longer withstand the pressure; 
 their power was at stake, and their sinful 
 ambition forbade them to recant. 
 
 Timidly at first they breathed out their 
 terrible accusations; unconscious it may be 
 then of the death-dealing nature of their 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 67 
 
 words, they named three persons Sarah 
 Good, Sarah Osburn, and the slave woman 
 Tituba as the persons who thus afflicted 
 them. 
 
 The children were inimitable actors ; they 
 were well trained, and had studied their 
 parts carefully ; their acting was perfect, but 
 it would seem there must have been a mas 
 ter-mind acting as prompter and stage-man 
 ager; had there been no other evidence of 
 this concealed, maturer mind, the wonderful 
 sagacity with which they selected these first 
 victims must have forced the conviction 
 upon us. 
 
 Sarah Good was an object of prejudice in 
 the village ; her husband had deserted her ; 
 she was a poor, forlorn, destitute creature of 
 ill-repute, without any regular home, begging 
 her way from door to door ; one for whom 
 no one cared, and whom no one would regret. 
 Sarah Osburn was a poor, sick creature; 
 she, too, was unhappy in her domestic rela 
 tions ; care and grief had worn her ; she was 
 bedridden, and depressed in mind, if not act 
 ually distracted ; she, too, was an easy vic 
 tim. The third, Tituba, was the master- 
 
68 SALEM. 
 
 stroke of the policy as her having been one 
 of their own number would disarm suspicion, 
 while it could be so arranged at the exami 
 nation as to confirm their power. 
 
 Warrants were immediately made out and 
 issued against the persons thus named, for 
 by this time a conviction of the reality of 
 the sufferings of the girls, and that they were 
 the result of witchcraft, was nearly universal 
 among the people. 
 
 Great pains were taken to give notoriety 
 and scenic effect to these first examinations ; 
 possibly it was thought that by taking up 
 the matter with a high hand they should 
 strike terror to the Evil One and his confed 
 erates, and stamp out the power of Satan at 
 once and forever. 
 
 A special court was therefore at once con 
 vened to meet and hold its first session at 
 Salem village on the first of March, for the 
 trial of the persons thus accused of this 
 strange and monstrous crime ; and in the 
 mean time the unhappy prisoners were 
 lodged in jail, loaded with fetters and chains 
 (it being the commonly received opinion 
 that mere mortal hemp had not sufficient 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 
 
 69 
 
 power to bind a witch), there to abide " in 
 durance vile" the sitting of the court which 
 was to investigate the strange charges 
 brought against them, and to decide the 
 question of their guilt or innocence. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IDOL WORSHIP. 
 
 "As the Greegree holds his Fetish from the white man s gaze 
 apart." 
 
 T was just at the close of a sultry and 
 oppressive day, when the heavily 
 lowering clouds, the deep, low mut 
 tering of the distant thunder, and 
 the sharp, but infrequent flashes of lightning, 
 told of the gathering tempest which was 
 slowly rolling up the darkening heavens, 
 that a man, issuing from the back door of 
 the Rev. Mr. Parris s house, made his way 
 silently and under cover of the deepening 
 twilight through the straggling street of 
 Salem village. 
 
 This man was " Indian John," as he was 
 usually called, a domestic slave in the serv 
 ice of Mr. Parris, then minister of the little 
 church gathered at the village. 
 
 We have said that the man was a slave, 
 
IDOL WORSHIP. 
 
 but he was not an African slave; he was 
 supposed to be from one of the Spanish 
 West India Islands, or the adjacent main 
 lands of Central or South America ; he and 
 his wife Tituba having been brought to the 
 colony by Mr. Parris, who had been engaged 
 in commercial traffic in Barbadoes before he 
 entered the ministry and became pastor of 
 the village church. 
 
 The early church records show that Mr. 
 Parris was not a universally popular in 
 cumbent of the office which he held ; the 
 mercenary and haggling bargain he had 
 driven with the church committee, in regard 
 to the terms of his salary, represents him to 
 us as having more of the spirit of the sharp 
 and overreaching trader than the urbane 
 gentleman or zealous Christian ; but at pres 
 ent we have little to do with the character 
 of the master it is with the movements of 
 the slave that we are now concerned. 
 
 We have already stated that John and 
 Tituba were not Africans, and the difference 
 which marked them from the few African 
 slaves then in the colony was much to the 
 disadvantage of the Spaniards. The real 
 
72 SALEM. 
 
 African is usually gentle in temperament, 
 and even in his lowest type of development 
 has almost always an honest face; there is 
 no look of concealment or hidden purpose in 
 the large, confiding, open eye open almost 
 too far for comeliness, but still reassuring in 
 its absence of all latent treachery. The 
 dusky face of the African bears usually one 
 of two several expressions either a patient 
 look of infinite and hopeless sadness, or a 
 frank, reckless lightheartedness, breaking out 
 into thoughtless jollity. 
 
 The faces of the two West Indian slaves 
 were full as dusky, but far more repellent ; 
 traces of their fierce Spanish blood and 
 temperament lurked in their long, narrow, 
 vicious, half-shut eyes, which flashed their 
 keen, malignant glances from beneath the 
 heavy hanging eyelids ; the swarthy lower 
 ing brow was narrow and retreating, and 
 the whole lower portion of the face was sen 
 suous in the extreme, the coarse, heavy, pow 
 erful jaws having the ferocity of the beast 
 of prey, united to the low cunning of the 
 monkey. 
 
 Having passed down the street to the 
 
IDOL WORSHIP. 
 
 73 
 
 very extremity of the village, ostentatiously 
 speaking to several persons on his way, as if 
 to enable him to prove an alibi if his fut 
 ure course should be traced, John suddenly 
 turned aside, and, doubling on his track like 
 a hunted hare, he made his escape by tortu 
 ous windings from the village, and proceeded 
 at a rapid sort of dog-trot to the woods, 
 where the unbroken forest stretched its 
 primeval shade nearest to the infant settle 
 ment. 
 
 Hurrying along beneath the starless, lead 
 en skies, with the unerring instinct of a 
 brute nature, he made his way over hill 
 and dale, over bushes, rocks, briars, and 
 quaking morass, until, having entered the 
 intricacies of the forest, he reached a lonely 
 spot, where a spur of the low, wooded hills 
 lay between him and the little settlement he 
 had just quitted. 
 
 Here he paused for a moment, and took a 
 rapid but keen survey of the place. Appar 
 ently he was right his memory or his in 
 stinct had not been at fault ; he measured 
 the space with earnest gaze, then silently, 
 in the dim light, he walked up to a small 
 D 
 
74 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 group of trees, and passed his hand up the 
 smooth trunks, one by one, as high as his 
 hand could reach one two three he has 
 felt, and passed them by ; at the fourth he 
 halted ah ! he has found it his hand had 
 encountered the " blaze," or notch, cut in 
 the bark of the tree ; this was the place he 
 sought. 
 
 Hastily scraping away the fallen leaves 
 and dead branches of a former year from the 
 roots of the tree, he drew from his pocket a 
 small spaddle, or trowel, and commenced to 
 dig an oblong cavity about the shape and 
 size of an infant s grave. Evidently the 
 ground had been dug before, for it offered 
 little resistance to his efforts ; but still the 
 labor was sufficiently exhaustive, ^combined 
 with the close, sultry breathlessness of the 
 night, to bring large drops of perspiration 
 from his dusky brow. But the heavy beads 
 of moisture dropped unheeded to the ground ; 
 he never for them remitted his absorbing 
 labor. 
 
 A slight rustle of the brushwood, and 
 beneath the black shadow of the trees a 
 stealthy step is furtively approaching; but 
 
IDOL WORSHIP. 
 
 it does not startle him lie was expecting it. 
 It was Tituba, his wife, who like himself 
 had been baffling observation to join him at 
 the rendezvous. They looked at each other, 
 but no word passed between them. On her 
 dark face was expressed inquiry ; on his, as 
 he looked down at his work, she read the 
 answer. 
 
 Then Tituba began busily gathering to 
 gether small dry twigs of wood, bits of bark, 
 and fir cones, and built them up, placing 
 them in order as for a small fire, rejecting 
 all larger wood as unsuitable for her pur 
 pose; and when this was done, she came to 
 her husband s side, squatting down, like a 
 hideous toad, by the brink of the hole which 
 he was digging sitting upon her haunches, 
 with her knees drawn up, her elbows rest 
 ing upon them, and her spread hands sup 
 porting her heavy jaws on either side. So 
 she sat, motionless but intent, her snaky eyes 
 never moving from the spot, until John, hav 
 ing reached the object of his search, lifted 
 out something wrapped up in coarse for 
 eign mats. 
 
 Removing the coverings, he brought to 
 
7 6 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 view a hideous wooden figure an idol, prob 
 ably bearing a mocking and frightful re 
 semblance to a human being. This figure 
 was about two feet high, of ghastly ugliness, 
 and coarsely bedaubed with red and blue 
 paint. 
 
 Freeing the figure from its mats, John 
 proceeded to set it up before the face of the 
 rock, and behind the little bonfire w^hich 
 Tituba had heaped up ; and then, rubbing 
 some bits of dry wood rapidly together, he 
 procured a fire, and lighted a blaze. Join 
 ing their hands together to form a ring, the 
 two next danced silently round the slowly 
 igniting fire, with mad leaps and strange, 
 savage contortions of limb and features, un 
 til the whole mass was in a blaze, and the 
 red flames threatened to consume them. Then 
 they unclasped their hands, and Tituba drew 
 forth from the bosom of her dress some gums, 
 herbs, and spices of pungent, acrid odor, 
 and flung them onto the fire, and, making a 
 rude sort of besom of broken green branch 
 es, she fanned the rising smoke and curling 
 flames into the grinning face of the idol ; 
 while John took from his bosom a small 
 
IDOL WORSHIP. 
 
 77 
 
 new-born pup, and, coolly severing the head 
 of the blind and unresisting little victim, 
 held the body above the flames, and let the 
 blood drip over the hissing embers. Next 
 the woman (forgive me, oh ! ye of the softer 
 sex) drew from the folds of her dress some 
 rough wooden puppets, or effigies, bearing as 
 much resemblance to human beings as do our 
 modern clothes-pins ; one by one she held 
 them up silently before her husband s face, 
 who regarded them gravely, and nodded to 
 each one in succession, as if he had recognized 
 or named it, and r as he did so, she thrust 
 them one by one into the circling flames. 
 
 By this time it was nearly dark ; a low, 
 sobbing wind began to sweep among the 
 branches, and the first great heavy drops of 
 the approaching thunder-shower fell at dis 
 tant intervals. 
 
 Then they both simultaneously threw them 
 selves upon their knees, resting their fore 
 heads upon the ground, while their hands 
 were clasped, and extended upon the earth 
 far beyond their heads much as in pictures 
 of the Syrian deserts we see pilgrims pros 
 trating themselves before the terrible siroc- 
 
SALEM. 
 
 co ; and now for the first time they broke 
 silence by giving utterance to a wild, low in 
 cantation. 
 
 It \vas a rude sort of rhythmical recita 
 tive, of alternate parts first one and then 
 the .other, rising upon their knees and sit 
 ting back upon their heels, with brawny 
 arms held out to the frowning heavens, would 
 utter their fiendish jargon in some strange 
 pagan tongue, to which the deep bass of the 
 prolonged and rolling thunder lent a fearful 
 accompaniment ; and still, at the close of 
 every thunder-peal, the demon-like perform 
 ers answered it with fierce peals of mocking, 
 idiot laughter. 
 
 But at length the unhallowed fiame has 
 burned itself out, and the devil worship is 
 ended. John Indian enveloped the image in 
 its mats, and laid it back into its grave ; 
 and, while he covered it up again with earth, 
 Tituba stamped out the remaining embers 
 and scattered them. With infinite care, the 
 two performers in these awful rites gathered 
 up twigs and branches and scattered them 
 about, so as to conceal all traces of their 
 presence, and then together they began their 
 homeward way. 
 
IDOL WORSHIP. 79 
 
 By this time the storm was down upon 
 them in all its awful fury : great trees creak 
 ed and groaned beneath the biting blasts of 
 the wind ; huge branches, torn off, obstruct 
 ed their way ; hail and rain smote their un 
 covered heads and wet their shivering bod 
 ies to the skin ; the rattling thunder leaped 
 from hill to hill, and sheets of blue, fiery light 
 ning blazed around them ; but they never 
 wavered, never swerved from their direct way. 
 
 Plunging on in the same blind instinct 
 which enables the dull ox to find his own 
 er s crib, or the ravenous beast of prey to 
 reach its lair, they made their unseen way 
 to the village ; and when, half an hour later, 
 the Rev. Mr. Parris returned from the pray 
 er-meeting which he had convened for the 
 benefit of " the afflicted children," John was 
 ready at his post to take his master s horse, 
 and Tituba opened the door for him as usual. 
 
 Whether the demon rites of the avowed 
 Pagan or the prayers of the professing Chris 
 tian were more acceptable to the dread 
 powers to which they were severally ad 
 dressed is a question which Time may in 
 deed ask, but which Eternity alone can an 
 swer. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 "A place in thy memory, dearest, 
 
 Is all that I claim ; 
 
 To pause and look back when thou hearest 
 The sound of my name. 
 
 "As the young bride remembers her mother, 
 
 Whom she loves, though she never may see; 
 As the sister remembers her brother 
 So, dear one ! remember thou me." 
 
 fine spring day, shortly after 
 Alice s visit to Nurse s Farm, she 
 had wandered in the early after 
 noon down to the sea-shore, and 
 stood awhile idly looking out over the 
 quiet water. Alice, who still retained all 
 the impulsiveness of her childish days, and 
 was still, as then, influenced by every atmos 
 pheric change, and sensitively affected by 
 every modification of the many phases of 
 Nature (with whom she lived in terms of 
 the closest intimacy), grew buoyant with 
 delight at the perfect beauty of the day, and 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 81 
 
 drew in with every breath of the pure, sweet 
 air a positive enjoyment from the very sense 
 of life, youth, and health. 
 
 There was not breeze enough to ruffle the 
 surface of the sea ; and the calm water lay, 
 softly pulsating at her feet, so still and clear 
 that the intense lapis-lazuli blue of the sky, 
 and its soft garniture of fleecy white clouds, 
 was repeated upon its unbroken surface as 
 clearly as in a mirror. 
 
 As Alice stood and gazed, her spirits ris 
 ing within her at the profuse beauty show 
 ered all around her, she experienced that 
 almost universal desire for rapid motion 
 which is oftenest expressed in the common 
 words " wanted to fly ;" but as that kind of 
 locomotion was then, as now, out of the 
 question, her next thought was naturally of 
 her little boat, which was moored close by. 
 
 In a moment, without pause or reflection, 
 she had embarked and rowed gayly from 
 the shore. 
 
 Those who love the water are accustomed 
 
 to speak in ardent terms of the thrilling en- 
 
 jqyment they find in being upon it;- it may 
 
 be in the exultant sense of superiority that 
 
 D2 
 
8 2 SALEM. 
 
 they are thus enabled to ride and rule 
 triumphant over an element so limitless, 
 and of a power so immeasurably vast; for 
 the love of dominion is a deep-seated prin 
 ciple in human nature. But, whatever the 
 cause, Alice enjoyed her trip exceedingly ; 
 her spirits rose with the accustomed exer 
 cise, from which she had been debarred all 
 the winter ; and as she plied her oars vig 
 orously and skillfully, bursts of glad girlish 
 laughter, and snatches of sweet old songs 
 ballads learned far away in the Scottish 
 home of "her infancy floated after her. 
 
 She had meant but to take a short pull, 
 just to practice her arms ; but the beauty of 
 the day tempted her on farther and farther, 
 and she scarcely paused until she had 
 reached the shore of Marblehead. She did 
 not land there, but turning toward home, 
 rowed a little way, and then, resigning 
 her oars, she reclined lazily in the boat, suf 
 fering it to drift slowly homeward on the 
 incoming tide; while she lay building cas 
 tles in the air, such as youth and idleness 
 are wont to make pleasure-houses of. * 
 
 But at last a gleam of western brightness 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 83 
 
 recalled her to the fact that the day was 
 spending ; and she suddenly remembered 
 that her grandmother might be uneasy at 
 her prolonged and unexplained absence, and, 
 resuming her oars, she rowed steadily and 
 rapidly back to shore. 
 
 As Alice rounded the little headland of 
 Salem Neck, she noticed a small canoe, rowed 
 by two persons, which was hovering afar 
 off on the outer verge of the harbor, and 
 apparently making for the same point as 
 herself. 
 
 The little skiff was yet too far distant for 
 even Alice s bright eyes to discern who were 
 its occupants; nor did she give the matter 
 more than a passing thought, for boats and 
 canoes were then the more common mode of 
 transportation almost every householder 
 owned one, and her own little craft had al 
 ready been hailed by half a dozen of her 
 towns-people in the course of her afternoon s 
 trip. So, wholly occupied with her own 
 busy thoughts and pleasant fancies, she 
 rowed on, making her way straight to the 
 little landing-place, wholly unobservant that 
 the other boat, propelled by its two rowers, 
 
84 SALEM. 
 
 had gained rapidly upon her, and was just 
 in her wake. 
 
 Springing lightly on shore, Alice proceed 
 ed to fasten her little bark at its usual moor- 
 ing-place, heedless of the approach of the 
 stranger, until, as she turned round, she 
 suddenly found herself face to face with a 
 stalwart Indian warrior, decked out in all 
 the imposing pomp of his feathers, arms, 
 and war-paint. 
 
 For one moment Alice was startled, and 
 doubtless most modern young ladies would 
 have shrieked or fainted at such an appalling 
 encounter but Alice did neither. She was 
 aware of no enmities, and consequently felt 
 no fear, and she had grown up in friendly 
 acquaintance with many of the better and 
 most civilized of their Indian neighbors ; so, 
 although the color did indeed deepen on her 
 transparent cheek, it was less from fear than 
 surprise and maiden modesty at finding her 
 self thus suddenly confronted by a young 
 stranger of the other sex ; but, before she 
 had time to analyze her own feelings, the 
 young warrior had spoken. 
 
 "Are the memories of the pale faces 
 
f THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP, 85 
 
 indeed so short," he said, in grave, low 
 tones, which, though sad, awakened in Alice 
 dim, pleasant memories of the past, "that 
 the sister does not remember the brother? 
 that the Water-lily has forgotten the Fir- 
 tree?" 
 
 " Oh ! Pashemet, Pashemet ! my brother ! 
 welcome, welcome !" cried Alice, impulsive 
 ly. " Forget ? Oh, no ! never, never !" and 
 springing forward with extended hands, she 
 placed them both in the hands of the young 
 warrior, and looked up into his face with 
 the sweet, frank, confiding smile of her child 
 hood. " I am so glad ! Oh, my brother ! I 
 have looked for you so long I have so 
 longed to see you." 
 
 " That is well that is good !" said the 
 young warrior, gravely, though a flush of 
 gratified feeling rose up even to his dark 
 brow. " The words of the young pale face 
 are good ; I, too, have wished* to look upon 
 my sweet Water-lily again. Listen to me, 
 my sister the people of my tribe hold their 
 council-fire not far from this, and I was bid 
 den to it. I came but I have come more 
 than twenty miles out of my way to look 
 
86 SALEM. 
 
 once more upon the face of my little sister; 
 and see I have brought something to show 
 her." 
 
 Turning, even while he spoke, toward the 
 little boat, which was rocking on the water s 
 brim, Pashemet uttered a low, sweet cry, re 
 sembling the note of the wood-pigeon, and 
 in quick obedience to his summons, from 
 among the gaudy blankets and glossy furs, 
 which were heaped in gay confusion in one 
 end of the boat, arose a dusky but beautiful 
 young Indian woman. Tall, straight, and 
 supple as a young forest tree, she leaped 
 lightly on shore, and stepping with the free 
 grace of a gazelle to his side, she glided with 
 quiet motion just before him, resting her 
 slight form against his shoulder, and, fold 
 ing her arms, stood in an attitude of shy yet 
 proud repose ; her great, eloquent black 
 eyes, bright as diamonds, stealing quick fur 
 tive glances of curiosity and admiration 
 from beneath their drooping, long-lashed 
 lids at the fair young daughter of the pale 
 faces. 
 
 " Behold, my sister !" Pashemet said, in a 
 voice of inexpressible tenderness, as he took 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 87 
 
 the little dusky hand of his bride in his, 
 and held it out to Alice. "This is the 
 Silver Fawn; she dwells in your brother s 
 
 wigwam ; she makes his nets ; she trims his 
 
 ~ > 
 
 arrows ; she weaves his wampum ; she is his 
 sunshine. Will not my sister give her a 
 welcome too ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, indeed !" said Alice, cordially. 
 " She is my brother s wife she is my sister, 
 then. I will love her;" and, taking the of 
 fered hand kindly in hers, she bent forward, 
 and pressed a warm, sisterly kiss upon the 
 smooth, round cheek of the dark but beau 
 tiful stranger. 
 
 " Good !" said the young husband, lacon 
 ically. " The words of my sister are pleas 
 ant. See !" and as he spo ke he took their 
 united hands in both of his own " See, my 
 sister ! we are three, and yet we are but one." 
 
 Then, as the two graceful heads bent be 
 fore him, Pashemet took a small strand of 
 Alice s golden curls, and a strand of his 
 wife s long, raven-black locks, and with 
 quick, dexterous fingers braided them to 
 gether, and severing the united braid with 
 his hunting-knife, he held it up to Alice, 
 
88 SALEM. 
 
 saying, "Behold, my token !" and hid it in 
 the folds of his blanket. " Yet listen again, 
 my sister," he said. "The Great Spirit 
 has smiled in love upon my little Water-lily, 
 and it has blossomed very fair ; but my sister 
 has neither father nor brother to take care of 
 her; but see, Pashemet is a boy no longer- 
 he is a man ;" he drew himself up proudly 
 as he spoke. "My father is dead. Pashe 
 met is a warrior and a Sagamore now; his 
 arm is strong; his arrows are swift; his 
 young men are braves they do his bid 
 ding. Take this, then," and he slipped a 
 small chain of wampum from the wrist of 
 the Silver Fawn, and held it out to Alice. 
 " If my sister should ever need the aid of 
 Pashemet, let her send him this by a sure 
 hand by the hand of a Naumkeag and 
 the heart and the arm of her brother shall 
 not fail her. And now, farewell !" 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! not farewell. Pashemet, do 
 not go yet do not leave me yet, my broth 
 er. I have so much to say to you. Come 
 up to the house with me do not go yet. 
 Stay, oh, stay !" 
 
 " Farewell !" repeated the Indian, in a 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 89 
 
 sweet but inflexible tone. " I can not stay. 
 The day is fading fast ; soon night will be 
 upon the waters. We have far to row, and 
 the Silver Fawn is with me. Farewell !" 
 and, catching his young bride in his strong 
 arms, he sprang into the little canoe with 
 out apparent effort, and with one vigorous 
 push sent it whirling from the shore; and 
 while Alice stood, holding the little wampum 
 chain in her hands, feeling that that was 
 the only proof that the whole visit was not 
 a day-dream, the little boat had passed 
 round the headland, and was already lost to 
 her sight. 
 
 Half an hour later, and Alice came into 
 her grandmother s presence, bright and 
 glowing, and flushed with health, exercise, 
 and excitement. 
 
 "Why, Alice! my bairn," said the grand 
 mother, glancing up with ill-concealed admi 
 ration at the sweet, blooming young face 
 that bent caressingly over her. "Ye hae 
 been lang awa , my bonnie lassie. I mis 
 trust ye are gettin to be jist a ne er-do-weel 
 gad-about. I hae missed ye sadly ; an 
 where hae ye been the noo ?" 
 
SALEM. 
 
 " Guess, grannie, guess. I will give you 
 three chances. See if you can guess." 
 
 " Na , na , Allie, my lass, I kin na guess ; 
 I am na guid at the guessin . Sure ye wad 
 na 7 hae been to Nurse s Farm agin sa sune 
 wad ye ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, grandmother! Of course I 
 would not go so soon ; but I have been 
 quite as far, I think. Ah ! you will never 
 guess; I shall have to tell you. I have 
 been out on the water." 
 
 " My darlin , an is that sae ?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I have. I went down to 
 the shore just for a walk, and the water 
 looked so calm and blue, and our boat was 
 so nice (you know Winny cleaned it out for 
 me last week), that I felt as if I must have 
 a little row. You know I have not been 
 out all winter in her, and I meant only to 
 take a little pull, just to limber my arms a 
 little; but the boat was so trim and nice, 
 the day was so fine and still, and the water 
 was so calm, I went on and rowed across to 
 Marbleheacl." 
 
 "To Marblehead? My certies, that wa 
 a lang pull for the first ane, I m thinkin . 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Are ye na tired, an did ye gae ashore at 
 Marblehead ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I only wanted the exercise, 
 and I got it. My arms ache I arn so out 
 of practice of late. It is full time I began 
 again ;" and as she spoke Alice pushed up 
 her loose sleeves, and laughingly rubbed her 
 firm, round, white arms. 
 
 " But, grandmother, dear, I have a great 
 adventure to tell you. I have seen Pashe- 
 met ! only think !" 
 
 " Seen Pashemet ? Lord save us ! Is the 
 lassie wad or fou ? An 7 where wad ye hae 
 seen him ?" 
 
 Then Alice told her little story of the 
 visit, adding, laughingly, "And, oh, grand 
 mother, grandmother! only think he is 
 married ! Pashemet is married." 
 
 " Weel, an why should na he be ?" And 
 the matron glanced anxiously in her dar 
 ling s face, as if she half feared to read a 
 disappointment there. " He wa a braw 
 chiel an a bonnie laddie; an I m gey glad 
 to hear t, giv he ha gotten a guid, sinsible 
 lassie for his wife." 
 
 " Oh, she is a beauty !" said Alice, warm- 
 
SALEM. 
 
 ly; "and he seemed so fond of her; and 
 was it not kind in him to bring her here for 
 me to see her ? Oh ! my dear old friend ; 
 Pashemet, my brother. Oh, I am so glad he 
 has got somebody to love him !" And the 
 clear, smiling, truthful blue eyes, looking 
 full into her own, satisfied the grandmother 
 that her unowned fear was misplaced. 
 
 "Allie," she said, laughing, "an do ye 
 mind the day an ye wa but an idle wean, 
 an he fished ye up out o the water, an 
 brought ye hame to me on his bock ?" 
 
 " Do I remember it ? To be sure I do. I 
 should be ungrateful indeed if I could ever 
 forget it. It was all my own carelessness 
 too. I remember it as well as if it were but 
 yesterday it happened. I reached too far 
 over the boat to get a water-lily I wanted ; 
 and I not only went over myself, but I up 
 set the boat. I shall never forget how I 
 went down, down, down it seemed as if I 
 should never reach the bottom ; and then I 
 saw Pashemet coming down after me, like a 
 great fish-hawk ; and he picked me up, and 
 swam ashore with me. I was thoroughly 
 frightened for once in my life ; and then the 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 93 
 
 question was how I should get home, for 
 my clothes were so wet I could not move in 
 them ; and at last the great, strong, kind 
 fellow set me on his shoulder, and marched 
 home with me, as if I had been only a wild 
 turkey. Oh ! I ll never forget that." 
 
 " An I ll never forgit the droll figure ye 
 made, the twa o ye, all drouket an drip- 
 pin , an the varry life half scart out of ye ! 
 An he scart half to death aboot ye." 
 
 " Well ! he saved my life dear, kind, 
 brave old Pashemet ! I ll never forget it 
 while that life remains." 
 
 " An noo, Alice, hear to me : I hae had a 
 visitor too, a my lane," said Mistress Camp 
 bell. 
 
 " You don t say so ! Have you, indeed ? 
 And who was it ? John English s wife ? 
 
 " Na , na ! not a bit o it ; mine wa a 
 young mon, too. Ye kinna hae them a tq 
 yersel it wa jist Thomas Preston fra the 
 Farm. He came to bring the pot o barber 
 ries that Goody Nurse promised ye she d 
 send ; an a big pot it is. She s a free han 
 at the givin , I m thinkin . An he brought 
 ye some flowers that his wife sint ye them 
 
94 SALEM. 
 
 yellow daffy- do wn-dillies ye wa speakin 
 aboot. I jist pu them in a beaker of water 
 out yander, till ye could settle them ; I am 
 nae hand at it, ye ken." 
 
 " How kind they are. I never saw such 
 people ; they remember every thing, and 
 seem to love to give." 
 
 " I d think sae indeed ! an there s mair 
 yet. Goody Nurse sint her luve to ye, an 
 bid him say ye wa pleased wi her fowl ; 
 an she d a rooster an three hins for ye, if 
 ye could manage to fix a place to keep them 
 in ; an I said I wa thinkin ye could." 
 
 " My goodness ! find a place for them ? I 
 guess I will, if they have to roost in my own 
 chamber. I guess Winny and I can fix up 
 a coop for them somewhere and won t it 
 be splendid ? Oh ! such dear little, fluffy, 
 yellow chicks as she had. Why, there s no 
 end to the pleasure I ll have in them. Dear, 
 kind, generous old Goody ! Is she not just 
 as good and kind as she can be ?" 
 
 " Whist ! Alice, whist ! or I ll be gettin 
 half jealous o her mysel ." 
 
 "You have no need to be," said the girl, 
 fondly kissing her. " But I do think she is 
 too kind to me." 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 95 
 
 " She is unco ginerous, surely ; an 7 sae I 
 telled Goodman Preston mysel . She ha a 
 free han at the givin 7 , 7 quo I. Deed ha 
 she, 7 says he. i I dinna think, he says, the 
 Lord ever made a better or kinder woman 
 than Mother Nurse. An as to givin , he 
 says, Why, we say at hame she d give awa 7 
 the varry ears fra 7 her head, gin they wad 
 kirn off, an 7 any bodie wanted them. 
 
 " I almost think she would," said Alice, 
 laughing. " But is he not pleasant ? I am 
 sorry I missed him." 
 
 "Varry pleasant an unco nice young mon. 
 I wanted him to bide here till ye kim hame, 
 but he said he could na . He had business 
 in the toon, he said, an 7 he must awa 7 . But 
 he sat an hour or so, I think, an 7 he telled 
 me mair about the terrible doin 7 s at the vil 
 lage. Hey, sirs ! but it 7 s jist awfu 7 !" 
 
 " What did he tell you about it, grand 
 mother ? Do tell me what he said. 77 
 
 " Oh ! Lord save us ! he says it s dread- 
 fa . He ha been to see the childer, an he 
 says that he believes in them, though most 
 of the family o er at the Farm doubt them. 
 But he says they hae na 7 been to see them, 
 
9 6 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 an they kinna be judge. He says they 
 wi fa to the floor, as if they were deed, 
 jist ; an then they wi hae sich awfu fits. 
 They wi foam an bleed at the mou , and 
 they wi be a knotted up, as it were ; an 
 whiles their han s are clenched sae tight, nae 
 ane kin open them ; an other whiles they 
 are open, an stretched out sae stiff nabodie 
 kin bend them ; an he says it s jist grue- 
 som an awfu to hear how they ll groan an 
 scriech. An sometime they ll be struck wi 1 
 blindness a o a sudden, an grope aboot, 
 an their eyes wide open too. An again 
 they ll cry out they are tormentit ; that some 
 ane is stabbin them wi pins, or bitin , or 
 pinchin , or chockin them ; an they ll gasp 
 for breath, maybe, an turn black in the face, 
 an ye d say they wa deeing jist. Oh ! 
 Lord s sake ! it wa jist dreadfu to hear him 
 tellin it, let alone seein it. An the folks 
 say they maun be bewitched." 
 
 " And do you believe they are, grannie ?" 
 " Gude sake ! an how should I ken ? I 
 hae na seen them, na mair than yersel ." 
 
 " But, if they are bewitched, grannie, who 
 do tliey think it is that bewitches them ?" 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 97 
 
 " Ah ! tha is what every bodie is spierin 
 at them, to tell who it is." 
 
 " But surely they must know ; if any one 
 pinches them, or sticks pins into thep, they 
 must know who does it." 
 
 " True for ye, Alice ! an I put it to him 
 mysel that way; an he said there were twa 
 persons who were suspectit ; twa who they 
 hae named an who do ye think is ane o 
 them ?" 
 
 " I am sure I can not guess. Nobody we 
 know, of course." 
 
 " Deed thin, an it is too. Alice, do you 
 mind Sarah Good 2" 
 
 " Sarah Good ? No, I think not. I do 
 not remember ever to have heard of her." 
 
 " Yes, ye do ; certies ! Dinna ye mind 
 the puir creature tha kim beggin wi her 
 child, an ye gave her yer fustian gown an 
 petticoat, an I gave her my old shawl an 
 my black cardinal. Ye mind her, Alice, 
 surely ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! I remember the woman 
 
 and the child ; but I had forgotten the name. 
 
 But, grandmother, she can not be a witch, 
 
 I m sure ; I do not believe a word of it not 
 
 E 
 
9 8 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 a single word. A poor, sick, miserable creat- 
 ure a < ne er-do-weel/ as you may call her, I 
 dare say she might be a poor, half-crazy, 
 homeless beggar ; but I guess she was noth 
 ing worse. And what power can that poor 
 creature have? If she had any, I think she 
 would have used it to clothe herself and that 
 poor, half-starved child. Should not you ?" 
 
 I dinna ken. He said the gals charged 
 it upon her, ony way." 
 
 " I don t believe it. But who was the 
 other ? You said there were two." 
 
 " I guess ye dinna ken o the ither. It is 
 
 ane Sarah Osburn. I hae heard tell o her : 
 
 she wa the Widow Prince, a woman o some 
 
 substance here once, an she married her ain 
 
 farmer mon. He wa a Redemptions, I think 
 
 they ca them. He an her sons had trouble 
 
 atween them, an he left her, an she ha 
 
 been half dementit ever sin . I thought 
 
 sure an certain she wa deed long ago ; I 
 
 dinna hear o her this mony a day ; an noo 
 
 it turns up she is charged wi bein a witch. 
 
 The gals cry out on her, an say she is the 
 
 ane that torments them. I dinna see how 
 
 it can be* a puir, feckless old bodie ; what 
 
 power ha she ?" 
 
7WE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " But did Goodman Preston believe it ?" 
 
 " Weel ! he did na jist say ; he thinks the 
 sufferings of the gals is real ; but he did na 
 let out his min aboot the ithers." 
 
 "And what are they going to do about it, 
 grandmother ?" 
 
 " There s a deal to be done aboot it. He 
 said the folks is goin to get out warrants,- 
 an hae the twa arrested for bein witches ; 
 an there s to be a court held at the village 
 a special court, I think he ca d it (what 
 soever that may be, I dinna ken) an he 
 says they wi be tried for their lives for it." 
 
 " And what will be done to them if they 
 are found guilty ?" 
 
 " Gude sake ! I dinna ken ; an I did na 
 ask him. He says the folks at the village 
 are all up in arms like aboot it. They say 
 the devil ha broken out upon them, an the 
 people are half beside themselves wi the ter 
 ror runnin hither an yon, an crowds coin- 
 in to see the gals terrible actions ; an iv- 
 ery bodie talkin an spierin aboot it, an 
 spreadin it fra house to house. But, he 
 says, happen the court kin get to the bot 
 tom o it ; an he hopes it will, an he prays 
 
SALEM. 
 
 they may know, an be able to put an end 
 to it ; for there s nae doin ony business, iv- 
 ery bodie is so cast up about it. Is na it 
 awfu ?" 
 
 " But I wonder if sensible people there be 
 lieve in it ? Did he say ?" 
 
 " He did, then. He said Nathaniel Inger- 
 soll, Mr. Parris, an Joseph Hutchinson, an 
 Edward an Thomas Putnam, they all be 
 lieved in it. Oh ! wae is me ! wae is me ! 
 Deed, but I think it s jist awfu ! awfu !" 
 
 "And you believe it too, then do yon, 
 grandmother ?" 
 
 " I dinna ken what to believe, lassie ! I 
 kinna say I do believe in it, an yet, as folks 
 say, Where there s sae much smoke, there 
 maun be some fire. 
 
 " I know. But then, these two poor old 
 creatures what power can they possibly 
 have ? Grandmother, I don t think I believe 
 one word of it." 
 
 " Weel-a-weel ! I kinna say. But there, 
 lassie, rin awa noo ; an dinna fash ony mair 
 aboot it, for it makes me sick wi fear." 
 
 " But stay a moment, grannie, and tell me 
 just this one thing : If the devil hath such 
 
THE PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP. IO i 
 
 power, hath not the Lord our God the great 
 er power ?" 
 
 " True for ye, lassie ! Ye are right ; I be 
 lieve that ; an 7 sure we inaun put our trust 
 in Him. But dinna talk mair aboot it noo, 
 for it makes me sair sick at heart ; an I wad 
 fain try to forget it." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 "Oh! what were we, 
 If the All Merciful should mete to us 
 With the same rigorous measure wherewithal 
 Sinner to sinner metes? But God beholds 
 The secrets of the heart therefore His name 
 Is Merciful." 
 
 S this does not purport to be % defi 
 nitely a work upon Witchcraft, 
 it is not our intention to weary 
 the patience or harrow up the 
 feelings of the reader unnecessarily by por 
 traying the painful details of the several tri 
 als, except in so far as they have a connection 
 with or a bearing upon the several person 
 ages of our story. 
 
 The terrible episode of poor Giles Corey 
 we have therefore intentionally omitted his 
 brave "contumacy" as it was then called 
 the constancy with which he maintained his 
 pertinacious silence, steadfastly refusing to 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 103 
 
 plead, that he might thus preserve to his un 
 fortunate family the little patrimony which 
 he well knew his attainder as a wizard would 
 surely confiscate his indomitable fortitude 
 under his terrible sufferings, and his heroic 
 death, are !1 too painful and revolting in their 
 details for admission into such a work as 
 this. If such information is desired, it is 
 matter of history, and may easily be obtained 
 from reliable sources. 
 
 But we have thought that by presenting 
 a few passages, taken from the records of the 
 preliminary examination of the persons first 
 accused, and brought up for trial, the reader 
 would gain a clearer realization of the unfair 
 ness of the whole proceedings ; and see how, 
 owing to the inflamed state of the popular 
 mind, and the preconceived prejudices of all 
 classes of people, clearly including judges and 
 jurors, against the accused, the unhappy pris 
 oners were, in fact, already judged and con 
 demned even before they were brought to 
 trial. 
 
 Great pains had been taken to give pub 
 licity and eclat to the coming event: the 
 session of the court was made the universal 
 
104 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 subject of thought and conversation ; "the 
 news was industriously spread far and wide ; 
 and persons from all directions flocked to 
 gether to witness and share in the unfamil 
 iar and exciting scenes. 
 
 The strange nature of the" whole proceed 
 ings the monstrous and supernatural crime 
 which was to be the object of inquiry and 
 judgment had roused the people to the 
 wildest curiosity, and this curiosity was 
 heightened and intensified by the universal 
 terror. 
 
 There was a solemn romance, a fascination 
 about this great and unfamiliar crime, which 
 lesser and more common offenses, such as ar 
 son and petty larceny, could not boast ; and 
 then crime of all kinds was less common than 
 now. 
 
 We, who live in an age when the public 
 journals collect and daily serve up to us all 
 the crimes of all the world (a very doubt 
 ful good, certainly!) we, to whom murder 
 and suicide seem almost the common road 
 out of life to whom fatal accidents and 
 wholesale manslaughter are such constantly 
 recurring trivialities that a whole page of 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINA TIONS. 
 
 them does not destroy our appetite for break 
 fast can perhaps form no adequate idea of 
 the mingled awe and curiosity with which 
 our unsophisticated predecessors looked for 
 ward to this great event. 
 
 The quiet village was therefore thronged 
 with eager strangers, in addition to its own 
 excited population, when, in the morning of 
 the first of March, 1692, the two leading and 
 most distinguished magistrates of the neigh 
 borhood, Justices John Hathorne and Jona 
 than Corwin who are described as "men of 
 note and influence, whose fathers had been 
 among the first founders of the settlement, 
 and who were assistants, that is, members 
 of the highest legislative and judicial body in 
 the colony, combining the functions of a 
 senate with those of a court of last resort, 
 with most comprehensive jurisdiction " en 
 tered the village. There is no doubt that these 
 distinguished men magnified their office 
 no doubt it was their purpose and intention 
 so to do; their object undoubtedly was to 
 make the prestige of their authority felt and 
 recognized as a terror to evil-doers ; and we 
 may imagine the mighty stir and excitement 
 E 2 
 
Io6 SALEM. 
 
 their arrival was calculated to produce in the 
 primitive little community as they rode into 
 the village with great pomp and ceremony, 
 adorned with all the imposing regalia of their 
 high office, and followed by the long train of, 
 their subordinates and satellites aids, mar 
 shals, and constables in full force. 
 
 Dismounting, they at once proceeded, with 
 such slow haste as the nature of the case 
 called for with grave severity of counte 
 nance, and ominous dignity of step and ac 
 tion, availing themselves of all the awe-in 
 spiring forms of the law, then even more 
 cumbersome in its ceremonial observances 
 than now to the meeting-house, which was 
 already crowded to its utmost capacity by a 
 dense and excited multitude, who were filled 
 at once with mingled horror of the accused, 
 pity for the accusers, awe of the judges, and 
 curiosity to behold the strange and intensely 
 interesting proceedings of the court. 
 
 Here arrangements had already been made 
 to render the meeting-house suitable for the 
 great occasion to which it was now to be 
 put ; a raised platform or staging had been 
 erected, on which to place the prisoners in 
 
THE FIRS T EXAMTNA TIONS. i o 7 
 
 full view, but removed from contact with the 
 spectators; a separate place had been set 
 apart for the accusers, and seats had been 
 placed for the magistrates in front of the 
 pulpit, and facing the people. After the 
 magistrates had with much ceremony been 
 ushered in and taken their appointed seats, 
 the formal announcement was made that the 
 court was now open, and ready to com 
 mence the examinations at once. 
 
 After prayer had been offered by one of 
 the attending ministers, the constable pro 
 duced the body of Mrs. Sarah Good, and 
 placed her upon the stand. 
 
 If the case had not been such a solemn 
 one, involving life or death, there must have 
 been something almost laughably absurd in 
 the palpable disproportion between the piti 
 ful prisoner, on the one hand, and the array 
 of learning, law, and evidence gathered 
 against her upon the other. 
 
 She was a small, weak, miserable creature; 
 a poor, helpless, friendless woman worn 
 down by a life of want and misery ; a home 
 less vagrant, without character or subsist 
 ence ; one for whom no one cared, whose 
 
I0 8 SALEM. 
 
 perennial pauperism had outworn the pa 
 tience of nearly all her benefactors, and whose 
 name, if not positively evil, was not respect 
 able an abject thing to be pitied, not per 
 secuted. 
 
 We shall endeavor to give her examination 
 according to the minutes which have been 
 preserved ; but let it be remembered that this 
 examination was in the form of questions 
 put to her by Justice Hathorne, evidently ex 
 pressive of his belief in her guilt, and in the 
 truth of the evidence brought by " the afflict 
 ed girls " against her ; that no friend or coun 
 sel was allowed her; that she was very ig 
 norant, wholly unused to such a cross-exam 
 ination as she was subjected to, totally un 
 aware of the danger of being entrapped in 
 her unguarded answers, or that what she 
 might say in her wild, random replies was 
 liable to be misunderstood or misrepresented. 
 
 Justice Hathorne commenced the exami 
 nation as follows: 
 
 " Sarah Good, what evil spirit have you 
 familiarity with ?" 
 
 To which the prisoner responded, " None !" 
 
 " Have you made no contracts with the 
 devil ?" 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINA TIONS. 1 09 
 
 " No ! I have not ; I never did." 
 "Why do you hurt these children?" 
 " I do not hurt them ; I scorn it." 
 " Who do you employ, then, to do it ?" 
 " I employ nobody." 
 " What creature do you employ then ?" 
 " No creature ; but I am falsely accused." 
 "Why did you go away muttering from 
 Mr. Parris his door 2" 
 
 " I did not mutter ; but I thanked him for 
 what he gave my child." 
 
 " Have you made no contract with the 
 devil?" 
 
 "No! I have not." 
 
 Then Justice Hathorne requested the af 
 flicted children all to look at her, and see if 
 this was the one that hurt them ; and they 
 all did look, and said she was one of them 
 that did hurt them. 
 
 Then the children were all tormented, 
 and Hathorne recommenced : 
 
 " Sarah Good, do you not see now what 
 you have done ? Why do you not tell the 
 truth? Why do you thus torment these 
 poor children ?" 
 
 " I do not torment them." 
 
IIO SALEM. 
 
 " Who do you employ, then ?" 
 
 " I employ nobody ; I scorn it." 
 
 " How came they thus tormented, then ?" 
 
 "What do I know? You bring others 
 here, and now you charge me with it." 
 
 " Why, who was it, then ?" 
 
 " It might be some one you brought into 
 the meeting-house with you." 
 
 "We brought you into the meeting-house." 
 
 " Yes ; but you brought in two more." 
 
 "Who was it, then, that tormented the 
 children T 
 
 " It might be Osburn." 
 
 " What is it you say when you go mutter 
 ing away from people s houses?" 
 
 " If I must tell, I will tell." 
 
 " Do tell us, then. What is it ?" 
 
 " If I must tell, I will it is the command 
 ments. I may say them, I hope." 
 
 " What commandment is it ?" 
 
 "If I must tell you, I will tell it is a 
 psalm." 
 
 " What psalm is it ?" 
 
 After a long while she muttered part of 
 a psalm. 
 
 " Who do you serve ?" 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 " I serve God." 
 
 "What God do you serve?" 
 
 " The God that made heaven and earth." 
 
 As there was little to be gained by fur 
 ther examination of this prisoner, the consta 
 ble was ordered to remove her, and Sarah 
 Osburn was brought in and placed upon 
 the stand. 
 
 This poor creature was, if any thing, more 
 pitiable than the other. She had been a 
 woman of respectable character, and of some 
 standing in the community. Her first hus 
 band had died, leaving her a comfortable 
 fortune, and two or more sons. She after 
 ward married Osburn, who was much be 
 neath her in social position. He had squan 
 dered her money, quarreled with her chil 
 dren, and deserted her ; and she was sick in 
 body and almost imbecile in mind. 
 
 Her examination was as follows : 
 
 "What evil spirit have you familiarity 
 with F 
 
 " Not any." 
 
 " Have you made no contract with the 
 devil ?" 
 
 " No ; I never saw the devil in my life." 
 
112 SALEM. 
 
 " Why do you hurt these children ?" 
 
 " I do not hurt them." 
 
 " Who do you employ, then, to hurt them?" 
 
 " I employ nobody." 
 
 " What familiarity have you with Sarah 
 Good ?" 
 
 "None. I have not seen her for these 
 two years." 
 
 " Where did you see her then ?" 
 
 " One day, going to town." 
 
 " What communication had you with 
 her?" 
 
 " I had only, How do you do ? or so. I 
 do riot know her by name." 
 
 " What did you call her then ?" 
 
 Osburn made a stand at that, but at last 
 she said she called her " Sarah." 
 
 " Sarah Good saith it was you that hurt 
 the children." 
 
 " I do not know that the devil goes about 
 in my likeness to do any hurt." 
 
 The foregoing shows the unfairness of the 
 course taken by the court, and the evident 
 intention to confuse the prisoners, and en 
 deavor to entangle them into a contradiction 
 in their answers. 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 Sarah Good had not intended to accuse 
 Goody Osburn. She had only been led by 
 the questions put to her to allow that Os 
 burn might be guilty. The whole amount 
 of what she had intended to say seems clear 
 ly this, that if the sufferings of the children, 
 of the reality of which she did not seem to 
 entertain a doubt, were caused by either 
 Osburn or herself, it must be by Osburn, 
 as she was conscious of her own entire inno 
 cence of it; and this, w^hich was uttered 
 only in self-defense, was cruelly perverted 
 by the court into a positive accusation 
 against her fellow-prisoner. 
 
 But to return to Sarah Osburn. Mr. Ha- 
 thorne now desired all the children to stand 
 up and look upon the prisoner, and see if 
 they did not know her which they did; 
 and every one of them said she was one of 
 them that did afflict them. 
 
 Three witnesses declared she had said 
 that morning, " She was more like "to be be 
 witched than that she was a witch ;" and Mr. 
 Hathorne asked her what made her say so. 
 
 She answered him she was frighted one 
 time in her sleep, and either saw, or dreamed 
 
SALEM. 
 
 she saw, a thing like an Indian, all black, 
 which did pinch her in her neck, and pulled 
 her by the back of her head to the door of 
 the house. 
 
 " And did you never see any thing else ?" 
 asked the examiner. 
 
 To which she replied, " No." 
 
 (Here it was said by some one in the 
 meeting-house that she had said she would 
 never believe that lying spirit any more.) 
 
 "What lying spirit is this? Hath the 
 devil ever deceived you, and been false to 
 you ?" 
 
 "I do not know the devil. I never did 
 see him." 
 
 " What lying spirit was it, then ?" 
 
 " It was a voice that I thought I heard." 
 
 " And what did it propound to you ?" 
 
 "That I should go no more to meeting. 
 But I said I would go, and I did go next 
 Sabbath-day." 
 
 " And were you never tempted any fur 
 ther?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Why did you yield thus far to the devil 
 as never to go to meeting since ?" 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 " Alas ! I have been sick, and not able to 
 
 go." 
 
 Here the examination of this prisoner, for 
 the time, was ended, and she was removed. 
 Certainly there seems to have been nothing 
 elicited by this pointless questioning which 
 could criminate the poor creature ; and 
 when we take into consideration the weak 
 ness of body and mind under which she 
 was avowedly laboring, being half bed-rid 
 den, and crazy, as her answers plainly show, 
 she not being able to distinguish whether 
 things she thought she saw and heard were 
 dreams or realities, it would seem as if it 
 must have been evident to any fair and im 
 partial mind that, though her reason was 
 clouded, her nature was essentially innocent 
 and truthful. 
 
 The next one brought upon the stand 
 was Tituba, the Indian slave-woman. As 
 we have already said, this would seem to 
 have been a stroke of policy. The fact of 
 her having been one of their own number 
 being calculated to disarm suspicion, while 
 it is evident she had been in full council 
 with the accusers, was under their control, 
 
SALEM. 
 
 and was well instructed as to all that she 
 was to say and do. 
 
 To this end she begins, like the other 
 two, by declaring her entire innocence, at 
 which the children appear to be greatly tor 
 mented ; but as she begins to confess, the 
 children grow quiet, and she herself be 
 comes afflicted before the eyes of the magis 
 trates and the awe-stricken crowd, who 
 looked on in blind belief and shuddering 
 horror. 
 
 The object of all this was undoubtedly to 
 show that the moment she confessed her sin, 
 and repented of it, she had broken loose 
 from her compact with the devil, and her 
 power to afflict others had ceased at once; 
 and the devil was wreaking his vengeance 
 upon her through some other of his many 
 confederates. 
 
 By her confession and repentance, she had 
 passed from the condition of an afflicter, and 
 had herself become one of the afflicted ones, 
 and an accuser, naming Sarah Good, Sarah 
 Osburn, and others as afflicting and torment 
 ing herself and the children. 
 
 Her whole story is full of absurd and 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINA TIONS. z j 7 
 
 monstrous fancies of devils, etc., and we will 
 give some portions of her examination, as it 
 serves to show the character of the woman, 
 her intimate knowledge of all the children 
 had said and done, and also showing by her 
 own wild and unnatural images the impure 
 source from which the pagan lore of the chil 
 dren was derived. The examination com 
 menced exactly like the two others : 
 
 " Tituba, what evil spirit have you famil 
 iarity with ?" 
 
 And, like the others, she answered, 
 "None." 
 
 "Why do you hurt these children ?" 
 
 " I do not hurt them." 
 
 " Who is it, then, that does ?" 
 
 " The devil, for aught I know." 
 
 " Did you ever see the devil ?" 
 
 " The devil came to me, and bid me serve 
 him." 
 
 " Who have you seen ?" 
 
 "Four women sometimes hurt the chil 
 dren." 
 
 " And who were they ?" 
 
 " Goody Osburn and Sarah Good. I don t 
 know who the others were. Sarah Good 
 
Ii8 SALEM. 
 
 and Osburn would have me hurt the chil 
 dren, but I would not." 
 
 " When did you see them ?" 
 
 " Last night, at Boston." 
 
 " What did they say to you ?" 
 
 " They said, < Hurt the children. " 
 
 " And did you hurt them ?" 
 
 "No. There is four women and one man 
 they hurt the children, and they lay it all 
 upon me. They tell me if I will not hurt 
 the children, they will hurt me." 
 
 " But did you not hurt them ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I will hurt them no more." 
 
 " Are you sorry that you did hurt them 2" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And why, then, do you hurt them ?" 
 
 " They say, Hurt the children, or we will 
 do worse to you. 
 
 " What have you seen ?" 
 
 " A man come to me, and say, Serve me. " 
 
 " What service 2" 
 
 "Hurt the children. Last night there 
 was an appearance that said, Kill the chil 
 dren. And if I would not go on hurting 
 the children, they would do worse to me." 
 
 " What is this appearance you see ?" 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 119 
 
 " Sometimes it is like a hog, and some 
 times like a great dog." 
 
 " What did it say to you ?" 
 
 " The black dog said, Serve me. But I 
 said, I am afraid. He said if I did not, he 
 would do worse to me." 
 
 " And what did you say to it ?" 
 
 " I will serve you no longer. Then he 
 said he would hurt me." 
 
 " What else have you seen ?" 
 
 " Two cats a red cat and a black 
 cat." 
 
 " And what did they say to you ?" 
 
 " They said, Serve me. " 
 
 " When did you see them ?" 
 
 " Last night. And they said, Serve me. 
 But I said I would not." 
 
 " What service 2" 
 
 " Hurt the children." 
 
 " Did you not pinch Elizabeth Hubbard 
 this morning ?" 
 
 "The man brought her to me, and made 
 me pinch her." 
 
 " Why did you go to Thomas Putnam s 
 last night, and hurt his child ?" 
 
 "They pull and haul me, and make me go." 
 
120 SALEM. 
 
 " How did you go ?" 
 
 " We ride upon sticks, and are there pres 
 ently." 
 
 " Why did you not tell your master ?" 
 
 " I was afraid. They said they would cut 
 off my head if I told." 
 
 " Did you go through the trees, or over 
 them ?" 
 
 " We see nothing ; but are there pres 
 ently." 
 
 She also describes " a thing with a head 
 like a woman, with two legs and wings ;" 
 and another " all hairy, but with only two 
 legs, and going upright like a man." 
 
 But it is needless to continue these ex 
 tracts any further. It seems strange, indeed, 
 to iis that at this senseless babble which 
 really appears too ridiculous to take pains to 
 transcribe grown men, of fair average com 
 mon-sense and education, could ever have 
 winced and shivered, and turned pale in 
 shuddering horror as they listened ; and yet 
 it undoubtedly was so, for puerile and mon 
 strous as it appears to us, it seems to have 
 been fully conclusive to the mind of the 
 learned court, for the prisoners were all three 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. I2 i 
 
 committed to jail to await further examina 
 tions. 
 
 These followed upon the second, third, fifth, 
 and seventh of the month, when they were 
 sent to Boston jail, where Sarah Osburn died 
 in the following May. The child of Sarah 
 Good, a little girl of five years of age, who 
 had also been accused, died while in confine 
 ment. 
 
 As to the other two Sarah Good and Ti- 
 tuba as they will have no further connec 
 tion with our story, we shall not return to 
 them, and it may be as well to finish their 
 histories here. 
 
 At one of the subsequent examinations of 
 Sarah Good, one of the afflicted girls cried 
 out that the prisoner, Good, had just stabbed 
 her, and had broken the knife in so doing, in 
 corroboration of which statement she pro 
 duced a piece of a broken knife-blade. Upon 
 which a young man then present produced 
 the rest of the knife, which the court then 
 examined, and declared to be the same. He 
 then affirmed that he had broken the knife 
 the day before, and had thrown away the 
 piece, the accusing girl being present at the 
 F 
 
122 SALEM. 
 
 time. Upon which clear proof of her mali 
 cious mendacity, the court merely bade the 
 sinful and falsified witness " to tell them no 
 more lies;" and after this plain exposure of 
 her guilt, she was still used as a witness 
 against the unhappy prisoners. 
 
 It has also been recorded that at the exe 
 cution of this Sarah Grood,Mr.Noyes,the Sa 
 lem minister whose zeal certainly outran 
 his discretion followed the wretched wom 
 an even to the gallows, vehemently urg 
 ing her to confess, and calling out to her, 
 " You are a witch, and you know you are a 
 witch." But " the trodden worm will turn at 
 last," and, conscious of her own innocence 
 of the dreadful crime, and maddened to des 
 peration by his false and cruel accusations 
 at such a moment, standing upon the very 
 verge of that world where there is no re 
 spect of persons, the miserable creature cried 
 out in frenzy from the steps of the ladder, 
 " You are a liar ! I am no more of a witch 
 than you are a wizard; and, as you take away 
 my innocent life, may God give you blood 
 to drink !" 
 
 When, nearly twenty-four years after, Mr. 
 
THE FIRST EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 Noyes died of sudden and violent internal 
 hemorrhage, bleeding profusely at the mouth, 
 what wonder if it were long a commonly 
 received tradition that the frantic words of 
 the wronged and dying woman were thus 
 fearfully verified ? 
 
 The only record we find remaining of Ti- 
 tuba, the Indian woman, is that she after 
 ward testified that her master did beat and 
 otherwise abuse her, to make her confess, and 
 accuse the others ; and that w r hat she had 
 said in confessing and accusing others was in 
 consequence of such usage from him ; that 
 he refused to pay her prison fees, and take 
 her out of jail, unless she would stand to 
 what she had said; and that consequently 
 she remained in jail, until she was finally 
 " sold for her fees." 
 
 If this is true, and there seems no reason 
 to doubt it, it bears a fearful testimony 
 against Mr. Parris, her master, as having been 
 the unseen but moving pow r er of this great 
 tragedy. 
 
 The fearful delusion had now reached 
 its height ; its lamentable effects were wide 
 spread, and the whole country felt its hor- 
 
I24 SALEM. 
 
 rors. All business was interrupted or set 
 aside, farm labors were neglected, cultivation 
 was forgotten. "It seemed," said the histo 
 rian, " to strike an entire summer out of the 
 year." 
 
 All contemplated improvements were giv 
 en up ; farms and homesteads were sold 
 out or abandoned ; and the terrified people, 
 shocked at what had taken place, and still 
 more in terror of what was yet to come 
 dreading where the bolt might strike next 
 -hastened to quit the doomed neighbor 
 hood. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 " The earth no longer can afford 
 
 Its old-time feuds and quarrels 
 Hence ! with the warrior s dented sword, 
 
 The victor s blood-stained laurels ! 
 The world has had enough of war, 
 
 Of bloodshed and of clamor ; 
 Honor to him who guides the saw, 
 
 To him who wields the hammer." 
 
 , almost ineffably great, was 
 the delight of old Winny when 
 she first heard of the expected 
 arrival of the feathered inmates. 
 But if her delight could not find adequate 
 expression, neither could it be wholly re 
 pressed. 
 
 " Wai, now, dat are is nice," she said, com 
 placently. " Dat are is sum pen like a pres 
 ent. Dat seems like as if we wuz folks _ 
 it makes a place look so much more respect- 
 abler-like to see dem sort o critters round. 
 I will say for t, hens are mighty spectable 
 
126 SALEM. 
 
 animals specially the roosters. An den 
 de eggs why, goodness a massy ! I tink eggs 
 is allers the first fruits ob de season, I real 
 ly do. I dun no," she added, looking down 
 reflectively, rubbing her arms alternately, and 
 thoughtfully scraping up the sand where 
 she stood with the broad side of her old, 
 square-toed shoe " I dun no : a pig may be 
 a more sociabler bird in his feelin s I won t 
 say dat he isn t. But den, yer see, he isn t 
 so talkative -like, an he isn t sich an easy 
 boarder he w r ants a deal more food, an a 
 deal more waitin on, he does ; an he s a 
 deal meaner-like too. A hen, now, she s kind 
 er honest an industr us, an free-hearted an 
 gen rous she pays her board as she goes 
 along an egg mostly allers ebery day, an 
 now r an den, if she haz a chance, a brood of 
 chickens. Wai, dat are is right ; she couldn t 
 do no better. But a pig oh ! he s a mighty 
 fine genimen to be waited on, an he takes 
 his ease like a gemmen, but he neber pays 
 a cent on his board-bill as long as he libs 
 no, not till he dies ; an he wouldn t then 
 if he could help hisself not he, indeed! 
 If he could have his will drawed up by a 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 127 
 
 jj 
 
 lawyer, I don t beliebe he d leabe yer as much 
 as a sassinger or a hasslet ! a mean thing 
 ha ! I spize him ! But, Alice, where will 
 yer keep yer critters ?" 
 
 " I don t just know, Winny. That is what 
 I came out to ask you about. Don t you 
 think we could contrive to make a hen-coop 
 out of the farther end of the wood-shed ? I 
 mean if it were parted off. You don t make 
 much use of that end of it, do you 1" 
 
 " Not a bit ob use. I on y keeps my soap- 
 barr l an my ashes ober there ; I kin fotch 
 my soap ober this side jest as well as not, 
 an my ashes. Folks talks boiit not wan tin 
 to hab their ashes sturbed ; law for me, I 
 don t mind it a mite. Sturb um as much as 
 yer like." 
 
 " Well, then, if we could get it parted off, 
 wouldn t it make a nice hen-coop ?" 
 
 " I should say it would be splenderous !" 
 
 " But, Winny, do you think grandmother 
 will be willing ?" 
 
 "I guess she won t be ginst nuffin you 
 want she don t use to." :/ 
 
 " That is true enough, Winny. She is 
 very indulgent. The next thing is, how can 
 we do it ?" 
 
I 2 8 SALEM. 
 
 "Wai, we must get boards, an nail urn 
 up. Dar aint no udder way, as I knows on." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I know that. . But who shall 
 we get to do it ?" 
 
 Winny reflected a moment. " I dun no ; 
 lem me see. Don t yer tink ole Drosky kin 
 do it ?" 
 
 " Drosky ! I don t know. Who is Dros 
 ky, Winny ?" 
 
 " Why, my ole dad." 
 
 " Your dad ? What do you mean ? your 
 father, Winny ? Why, I never knew you had 
 a father." 
 
 " Yer didn t now ? Dat s queer. Why, 
 I s had him eber an eber so long. I had 
 him when I warn t higher dan dat stool. Oh ! 
 longer ; I s had him eber since I kin remem 
 ber. I ruther tink I had him afore I war 
 born. Lordy ! I guess I s allers had him." 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say. Only it seems strange 
 I never heard of him before." 
 
 " Wai ! really, it does now. He aint nuf- 
 fin to boast ob Drosky aint. But I neber 
 made no secret ob im. I aint shamed ob it ; 
 coz it s my misfortin , it aint my fault. I 
 didn t buy im, nor beg im, nor steal im ; 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. I29 
 
 fact, I don t know jest how I did get im; 
 I neber went a step out ob my way to pick 
 im up. The Lord he sent him to me, I 
 s pose ; an I m sure I wish he hadn t tort 
 on t I neber asked for no farders. I neber 
 wanted none ; an I s sure sartin I d be bet 
 ter off widout im." 
 
 "I don t know about that,Winny," said the 
 laughing Alice. "But, Winny, what is he ?" 
 
 " What is he ? My farder ? Why, an ole 
 nigger, ob course. What else did yer tink 
 he wuz ? Look at me do I look as though 
 I longed to white folks 2" 
 
 " No, no ; you did not understand me, Win 
 ny. I meant what does he do for a living ? 
 
 " Bress us an sabe us ! he don t do no lib- 
 in . I haz to do de libin for im ; an it s an 
 awful sight o libin he takes too, I kin tell 
 yer. Why, bress yer soul ! dat are ole nig 
 ger, he d eat a whole cabbidge an a peck ob 
 taters in a day, ebery day ob his black life, 
 an more too, if I d let im. He aint got no 
 
 conscience." 
 
 " But where does he live, Winny ?" 
 " Oh ! I s got a bunk for im out in de 
 paster, an he libs dar." 
 F 2 
 
S A LEAL 
 
 " But why did I never chance to see him 
 before ? Why does he never come here ?" 
 
 " Coz I won t let im. Sez I to im, i Dros- 
 ky, yer ole sinner, look a here ! if eber yer 
 come a niggerin roun de house whar I libs, 
 I ll sot de tidy-man at yer, I will. Oh ! I 
 tell yer, I haz to make im mind he d be 
 awful imperdent if I didn t. But I keeps 
 im down ; he s awful feared o me. If I jest 
 clap hands and cry, Tidy-man ! tidy-man ! 
 hist-st-st ! he ll run like rats." 
 
 " But,Winny, do you think he could build 
 our hen-coop ?" 
 
 " I clare I dun no why not. If a nigger 
 can t build a hen-coop nor a pig-sty, what on 
 arth kin he do ? You go an ask leabe ob 
 yer granny, an if she says so, I ll go an get 
 ole dad, an we ll see what he kin do." 
 
 Permission to build being readily obtained 
 from Mrs. Campbell, Winny went out, and 
 soon returned followed by her venerable 
 parent; and of all the strange objects ever 
 beheld in the shape of a man, old Drosky, 
 take him all in all, was the most strange and 
 singular. 
 
 He was evidently immensely old, and was 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 not more than four and a half feet high, and 
 stooping at that. It seemed as if he had 
 originally been a man of large frame, and, 
 possibly, of proportionate height ; but in the 
 long course of his very protracted existence, 
 every part of him that could shrink had 
 shriveled up like a mummy, while the bony 
 portions of his frame his head, hands, feet, 
 and joints still retained their normal size, 
 and looked, of course, unnaturally out of 
 proportion. 
 
 The effect of the disproportionate size of 
 his head was absurdly increased by an im 
 mense quantity of snow-white wool, which 
 was pulled out at each side, till his head was 
 as big as a peck measure. Beneath this 
 snowy apex, his great black face, with its 
 rolling, blinking eyes, was wonderfully ef 
 fective. His body had been so bent by the 
 weight of many years that it was nearly at 
 right angles with his attenuated lower limbs, 
 and yet his motions had all the sinewy spry- 
 ness of a cat. 
 
 His dress was clean and whole no, not 
 whole, for its entirety consisted of patches 
 of nearly every shade of black, blue, green, 
 
I 3 2 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 and brown, skillfully applied by Winny s fru 
 gal and industrious hands. If the too cov 
 etous sons of Jacob had been gifted, like 
 their world-renowned brother, with prophet 
 ic dreams and visions, and, looking down the 
 long roll of centuries, could have beheld old 
 Drosky s many-hued garment, possibly the 
 " coat of many colors " which their too par 
 tial old father gave to his favored darling 
 would never have tempted them to envy, 
 hate, and fratricide ; the exodus into Egypt 
 might never have taken place; and the world 
 would have lost one of the sweetest and 
 most pathetic of its Bible stories. 
 
 " Make yer manners, nigger ! What yer 
 tinkin bout ?" said Winny, authoritatively ; 
 and at once the old man began scraping his 
 foot upon the ground, and butting with his 
 woolly head like some vicious old ram, though 
 evidently with more friendly intentions. 
 
 " Why, what a wonderfully old man ! 
 Why, Winny, how old is he ?" said Alice, 
 not knowing what to say. 
 
 "Oh, lors! I dun no. Old ? he s old 
 enuff for any ting, I guess. How old be 
 yer, nigger do yer know ?" 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 133 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee !" tittered the old man ; 
 " te-hee ! te-hee ! I dun no, Wiuny, gal. I 
 spect I s older dan you be ; but I dun no 
 te-hee ! te-hee !" 
 
 " Wai, I shouldn t wonder if yer wuz," said 
 Winny, quietly regarding him. 
 
 " And have you got a mother too, Win 
 ny ?" inquired Alice. 
 
 " A mudder ? no, I guess not. I neber 
 heerd o none. Say, ole nigger !" turning 
 to her father, " we aint got no mudder, hab 
 we?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! No, no, Winny, gal," 
 tittered the old man. " No mudder ! no mud 
 der ! no, no ! te-hee ! te-hee !" 
 
 " I tort not," said Winny, turning to Alice. 
 " Yer see we two haz been pardners a many 
 years, an I guess dar aint no mudder in de 
 biz ness ; I neber see none roun 7 . Yer didn t 
 neber hab no mudders, did ye, Drosky ?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! Neber a mudder, gal 
 never ; te-hee ! te-hee !" 
 
 " Is he so very deaf, Winny ?" asked Alice, 
 finding that Winny raised her voice almost 
 to a scream whenever she addressed her fa 
 ther. 
 
34 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 " Deaf ? he ? No, nor blind nuther. I 
 wish he wuz ; at his time o life it wild be a 
 sight more respectabler-like if he wuz one 
 or t other o um. He ought to be shamed 
 o hisself, not to have no infarmities, an he 
 so awful ole. It pears as if the Lord had 
 clean forgot the ole fellow don t it now ? 
 An tween you an I, Alice, I rather spect 
 he haz." 
 
 " Oh, Winny, don t talk so," said Alice ; 
 her own tender, filial feelings toward her 
 only relative, her grandmother, making Win- 
 ny s unfilial disrespect to her aged parent 
 seem shocking to her " Oh ! don t talk so ; 
 you would be so sorry if he were to die." 
 
 " Die ! Who die ? He ? dad ? Cotch 
 im at it ; I d like to see im do it. Not he ! 
 He aint a goin to die, I know. He don t 
 want to, an he dun no how to, if he did. 
 He neber died in all his life, an I guess he 
 aint a goin to larn now. He s too old to 
 larn nuffin . He ll neber die ; he wouldn t 
 know how to begin." 
 
 " But, Winny," said Alice, returning to the 
 main point in question, " do you think he 
 can do what we want ?" 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 135 
 
 " I don t see why he can t ; for the mas- 
 sy s soul s sake, why not ? But I ll ax him. 
 Here, you ole rogue ob a sinner," she said, ad 
 dressing her parent, " you kin build a hen 
 coop you, can t yer ?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! No, Winny, gal no !" 
 tittered the cracked old voice ; " I can t 
 make no hen-coop te-hee !" 
 
 "Yer can t? An why not can t yer? 
 Yes, yer can, too. Why can t yer ?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! Winny, gal, aint got no 
 boards can t make hen-coop widout boards 
 te-hee ! te-hee !" 
 
 " Lordy ! yer ole fool ! we wnz spectin 
 to fin yer de boards course we wuz. Did 
 yer tink we spected yer to make it out ob 
 yer own ole skin ? An if yer had de boards, 
 nigger, kin yer build it den ? Come, now, 
 be smart kin yer make it den, say ?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! No, Winny, gal ! no, 
 no !" 
 
 " Why not ? Yes, yer could. Why not ?" 
 
 " Coz it takes nails, Winny nails, gal ! 
 Te-hee! te-hee!" 
 
 " Yer darned ole fool ! An if yer had 
 boards an nails whatever else wud yer 
 want ?" 
 
136 SALEM. 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! Winny, ole gal, ham 
 mer an saw hammer an 7 saw te-hee ! te 
 hee !" 
 
 " Lord sake, yes ! Yer d want hammer 
 an saw ob course yer wud ; but if yer had 
 dem, kin yer do it ?" 
 
 " Te-hee ! te-hee ! Winny, yes yes, I kin, 
 I kin. I ll make hen-coop fas enuff." 
 
 " Werry well, den ; I ll fin yer all dem 
 tings. Take off yer jacket, ole man, an rouse 
 dat are ole barr l ob soap ober dis way, an 
 put it here. Do yer see, nigger? put it 
 here." 
 
 Certainly the old man s strength had not 
 diminished with his size. He moved the 
 barrel with the greatest apparent ease, and 
 placed it according to orders, and then shov 
 eled away the ashes from the proposed site 
 of the new partition ; and by the time these 
 two jobs were completed, Winny had mus 
 tered the necessary boards, nails, hammer, and 
 saw. It was amusing to Alice to see the 
 professional earnestness of the old man, as 
 he bent the saw in his withered hands to 
 test its temper, and tried its teeth upon his 
 own broad thumb ; and, there being no fault 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 to be found in this important auxiliary, he 
 was satisfied, and the work was begun in 
 earnest. 
 
 A fair division of labor is one of the use 
 ful discoveries of modern times ; but if our 
 friends had never heard of it as a principle, 
 they certainly availed themselves of it as a 
 fact. First, Alice, as the owner, founder, and 
 projector, pondered and considered and de 
 cided what she wished to have done. She 
 represented the theoretic element. Next, the 
 more experienced matron, Mrs. Campbell, 
 took her grandchild s crude imaginings into 
 wise consideration, and decided how it was 
 to be done. She was clearly the practical 
 member. Next came Winny, who held the 
 highest executive power ; she took her direc 
 tions from her mistress, measured and marked 
 and adjusted the boards in their places, and 
 showed her father how to do it. And last 
 of all came in old Drosky, the mechanical 
 power, who did the hammering and sawing 
 or, as Winuy pithily phrased it, " she druv 
 old dad, an dad druv the nails." 
 
 At all events, they worked well together, 
 and made a very harmonious quartette, and 
 
138 SALEM. 
 
 the work went gayly on. It is just possible 
 that there may have been more noise and 
 clatter when the Tow^er of Babel was run up. 
 But then that was a more imposing struct 
 ure, there were more people engaged in it, 
 and it was in the Old World ; but this was 
 pretty well for a new country three wom 
 en, an old man, and a hen-coop and made 
 some noise in the world. 
 
 When the work was about half finished, 
 Alice, who, owning not a penny of her own 
 in the wide world, was, of course, of a very 
 liberal and generous disposition as penni 
 less people usually are proposed that old 
 Drosky should stop and rest, and have 
 something to eat, observing to Winny that 
 she was sure he must be tired, and hungry 
 too. 
 
 " No, he aint not a bit ob it," said Win 
 ny, with a reproving and admonitory wink 
 of her eye, and a shake of her sagacious old 
 head at Alice. "He aint a mite hungry yet, 
 yer know," and as she spoke she looked full 
 in old Drosky s face, whose hungry eyes 
 spoke a very different language. " You aint 
 not a mite hungry now, nigger ; but I spects 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 139 
 
 yer will be when yer work is done, and den 
 I clare I guess yer ll get sum pen to eat I 
 do." 
 
 " Shoo !" she said, sotto-voce, turning to 
 Alice, " yer don know dat are ole man as 
 well as I do he s a mighty powerful han 
 to eat. Yer sot im at it now, an I guess 
 yer cocks an hens will hev to stan roun 
 all night for want ob a roost to sot down on. 
 Keep im at it till de work s done, I tell yer, 
 an den stan clear an you ll see !" and 
 Drosky resumed his work submissively but 
 regretfully. But at length the work was 
 completed the partition was all up; the 
 broken hinge of the door was replaced ; slats 
 were put over the window, to allow air, but 
 not egress ; the waste ashes were spread over 
 the floor, " to keep off wermin," as Winny 
 explained to Alice ; a clothes-pole was put 
 up for a roost; and two old boxes, filled 
 with hay, were introduced to offer suggest 
 ive ideas to any well-disposed hen who might 
 be thriftily inclined to pay for her board in 
 eggs and chickens; and all was declared in 
 readiness for the expected tenants. 
 
 Alice was delighted but still more charm- 
 
140 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 ed was old Drosky. He went in, and silent 
 ly contemplated the little apartment w T ith 
 intense satisfaction; possibly he was admiring 
 the work of his own hands more probably 
 he was thinking how superior the accommo 
 dations were to his own; but he stayed so 
 long in wrapt contemplation that Winny 
 had to interfere at last. 
 
 " I clare fort," she said, " I b liebe dat ole 
 nigger ob mine wud jest stay an sot in dar 
 all night, if we d let im; pity he could nt 
 sot for yer hens, Alice twould save dere 
 time, an it s jest bout what he s fit for." 
 But Winny knew of a potent charm suffi 
 cient to draw him out. 
 
 " Kim a he ar, nigger, an get sum pen to 
 eat ;" and the old man was at her heels in a 
 moment. 
 
 Laughingly Alice followed them to a table, 
 which Winny had improvised out of two 
 barrels and a board for his express use. 
 Here the indulgent daughter laid out two 
 or three dozen of cold boiled potatoes ; half 
 a peck of cold baked beans, with a corre 
 sponding lump of pork ; half of a pie ; a loaf 
 of bread ; a huge bit of cheese ; a ham-bone ; 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 a saucerful of pickles ; a bowl of tea ; and a 
 can of cider. 
 
 With laughing eyes, full of mingled mirth 
 and amazement, Alice stood quietly by and 
 watched the old darkie make his way 
 through this heterogeneous mass of food, 
 with the celerity and the apparent ease with 
 which an able mower cuts his swath through 
 a field of ripened grain ; keeping up all the 
 time an incessant shuffling of his feet, as if 
 that were some part of the machinery by 
 which he was able to accomplish so much in 
 so short a time; but when, after making a 
 clean sweep over the board, he turned his 
 wishful eyes upon Winny with an Oliver 
 Twistical expression, Alice could not help 
 laughing. " He doesn t mean that he wants 
 more, does he, Winny ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; laws bress us, no ; he tinks he 
 does ; but he dun no. No, no, nigger ! yer 
 won t get nuffin more here yer kin go 
 home now an hav yer supper." 
 
 But when Alice, furnished with the money 
 by her grandmother, was about to offer it to 
 old Drosky, the dusky hand of Winny was 
 interposed. "Hi! hi! Alice; don t yer go 
 
142 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 to giv it to im yer giv it to me ; he don t 
 know nuffin about money I ll take it. 
 Here, nigger ! here s some coppers for yer 
 to buy bacca wid ; an now make yer man 
 ners an take yerself off do yer hear 2" 
 
 Again, in obedience to his daughter, the 
 rani -like butting and scraping performance 
 was gone through with, and Drosky moved 
 off; but at the gate he paused, looked back 
 with admiring eyes at the work of his hands, 
 and half turned, as if to enter the coop again ; 
 but his daughter s eye was upon him ; a sud 
 den clapping of hands, a loud shout "Hist ! 
 hist ! Drosky ! tidy-man ! tidy-man /" and 
 poor old Drosky was off like a shot, just as 
 the cart drove up with Goody Nurse s pres 
 ent. 
 
 With great cackling and squalling, laugh 
 ing and talking, the new-comers were re 
 leased from their confinement and introduced 
 to their new quarters, where they went to 
 roost at once, as if the events of the day and 
 their unexpected journey had been almost 
 too much for them, and they knew that 
 " what was new at night would still be new 
 in the morning." 
 
ARCHITECTURAL DESIGNS. 
 
 Alice looked in upon them with much 
 pleasure as they crowded close together, side 
 by side, on the low roost, and shut and but 
 toned the door upon them with a proud feel 
 ing of ownership, as novel to her as it was 
 delightful. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 " Daring to shake, with rude, irreverent hands, 
 From Life s frail glass the last slow-ebbing sands." 
 
 MONG the best known, most in 
 fluential, and widely respected 
 of all the families of Salem vil 
 lage was the large family of 
 Francis Nurse. 
 
 " Goodman," or " Grandfather," or " Land 
 lord Nurse," which were the several titles of 
 respect usually accorded to him, as the hon 
 ored head and patriarch of his numerous 
 family of children and grandchildren, was 
 then about seventy-six years of age. 
 
 He appears to have been a man of great 
 and acknowledged respectability ; a person 
 of much energy and stability of character, 
 and his judgment was much relied upon by 
 his neighbors; he being frequently appoint- 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 ed to act the part of umpire in disputes, ar 
 bitrator on conflicting claims, and also as 
 committee-man and juror. Goodman Nurse 
 had been a mechanic in Salem, but having 
 by patient industry accumulated a little 
 money, he removed to Salem village, where, 
 in the year 1650, he purchased the great 
 "Townsend Bishop Farm," as it was termed, 
 a tract of about three hundred acres of land, 
 much of it already improved, at the cost of 
 .400. He was at this time a fine, hearty, 
 hale, and vigorous old man ; his wife, Kebec- 
 ca Nurse, was about one year younger than 
 himself. 
 
 She was an eminently Christian woman, 
 full of good works; a regular member of 
 long standing in the mother church at Sa 
 lem ;, but after their removal to Salem vil 
 lage, by reason of her advanced age and 
 consequent frequent infirmities, often a wor 
 shiper at the nea rer church in the village, 
 although never formally united with them. 
 Goody Nurse seems to have been one of those 
 rarely gifted women who unite the solid 
 worth and excellence of a deeply religious 
 character with the lighter graces of a cheer- 
 G 
 
I4 6 SALEM. 
 
 t ul and attractive manner: kind-hearted, sin 
 gle-minded, and free-spoken. 
 
 This worthy couple had brought up a large 
 and exemplary family of children. They had 
 four sons Samuel, John, Francis, and Benja 
 min ; and four daughters Kebeeca, married 
 to Thomas Preston : Mary, the wife of John 
 Tarbell : Elizabeth, the wife of William Kus- 
 sel; and Sarah, then unmarried, but after 
 ward .the wife of Michael Bowdon, of Mar- 
 blehead. 
 
 Francis Xurse, senior, having by the united 
 industry of himself and his children cleared 
 off all the encumbrances upon his large es 
 tate, had apportioned it among his several 
 children, reserving a homestead for himself; 
 and his son Samuel, and his two sons-in-law, 
 Thomas Preston and John Tarbell, had al 
 ready established themselves there near their 
 parents, having separate households and gar 
 dens upon the land thus "conveyed to them 
 by their father ; and a happier, more united, 
 or more respectable family can hardly be im 
 agined than were the Nurses at the time the 
 great delusion of witchcraft first broke out. 
 
 Thomas Preston, one of the sons-in-law, was 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 147 
 
 at first n )>eliever in the sufferings of the " af 
 flicted children ;" but many others of the 
 family circle, and among them the beloved 
 and venerable mother, refused credence to 
 their pretensions, and had absented them 
 selves from attendance at the village church 
 in consequence of the great and scandalous 
 disturbances which they created there. 
 
 It is also noticeable that the Nurse family 
 had been opposed to the party or faction who 
 had been so zealous in favor of Mr. Bayley, 
 the former minister, and they had thus drawn 
 upon themselves the ill-will of Mrs. Ann Put 
 nam, who had been one of his most zealous 
 partisans, and was now one of the most fa 
 natical of the accusers. 
 
 Mrs. Nurse, who was a free-spoken, active 
 body, had taken a decided part in these 
 church discussions : it is singular to note how 
 in all parish difficulties the female portion 
 are the most zealous, the most belligerent, and 
 the most vituperative. No doubt Mrs. Nurse 
 had been free in the expression of her senti 
 ments upon both these subjects it was the 
 nature of the woman to be so ; and unfriendly 
 remarks about the children, any doubt of the 
 
I4 8 SALEM. 
 
 truth of their statements or the reality of 
 their sufferings, were sure to be carried to 
 them at once, and of course suggested to 
 them new victims to accuse as the authors 
 of all their sufferings and torments. 
 
 There had been for some time a half-con 
 cealed intimation that some one more noted 
 than any of the previous victims was to be 
 brought to justice, and expectation and fear 
 were at their highest, when at length it was 
 stealthily whispered about that (rood wife 
 Nurse was suspected and was to be cried 
 out upon. 
 
 At first, of course, the rumor was indig 
 nantly discredited ; the quiet, unobtrusive 
 virtues of the aged, Christian, village matron, 
 her well-known charities and kindliness of 
 heart setting defiance to the monstrous charge 
 against her. 
 
 But day by day the rumor grew that she 
 was to be called out, and at last two of her 
 personal friends, Israel Porter and his wife 
 Elizabeth, were requested to go to the Farm, 
 see Mrs. Nurse, and tell her that several of 
 the afflicted ones had accused her. 
 
 As the persons thus selected and sent wese 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 149 
 
 her friends, it would seem to intimate that 
 the painful visit they were to make was un 
 dertaken in a friendly spirit, and was intend 
 ed to warn the unsuspecting woman of the 
 peril in which she stood, and very possibly 
 they may have hoped that she would take 
 the alarm and save herself by flight. 
 
 Entering the grounds, now all bright and 
 smiling in the new promise of their spring 
 beauty, the anxious friends reached the house, 
 which was then regarded as a spacious and 
 elegant one; it had once been the abode of 
 some of the choicest and best spirits in New 
 England here Bishop had spent his wealth 
 to beautify the spot, and here he and Chick- 
 ering and Ingersoll had exercised the rites 
 of liberal and elegant hospitality ; and now 
 it was the happy home of an honest and pros 
 perous family. 
 
 Entering, they found the venerable and 
 unsuspecting hostess in her usual place. She 
 welcomed them gladly, with all her wonted 
 friendly hospitality; although, as she told 
 them in answer to their inquiry, in a rather 
 weak and low condition, having been sick 
 and confined to the house for nearly a week 
 
150 SALEM. 
 
 Then they asked how it was with her 
 otherwise. To which the patient, cheer 
 ful-hearted old Christian replied, "that she 
 blessed God for it, that she had had more of 
 his presence in this sickness than at some 
 other times, but not so much as she desired ; 
 but she would, with the apostle, l press for 
 ward to the mark, " with other passages 
 from Scripture to the like purpose. This 
 was not the cant of a hypocritical piety it 
 was the common mode of expression among 
 Christian believers in those times; and it 
 seemed as if her religious beliefs and the 
 natural buoyancy of her spirits kept her 
 up under the weight of her years and in 
 firmities. 
 
 After a little conversation relative to per 
 sonal and domestic matters, such as is usual 
 among friendly neighbors, she naturally and 
 of her own accord alluded to the great afflic 
 tion which had broken out among them, and 
 which was of course the most common sub 
 ject of conversation. 
 
 She spoke very kindly of Mr. Parris s fam 
 ily, and said she was much grieved for them, 
 but she had not been to see them because 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 she had once been subject to fits herself, and 
 she did not wish to see them, as people told 
 her their sufferings were awful to witness ; 
 that she pitied them with all her heart, and 
 had prayed to God for them; but she had 
 heard that there were some persons accused 
 whom she fully believed were as innocent 
 as she was herself. 
 
 After a little more conversation of this 
 sort, the visitors told her that they had heard 
 a report that she too had been spoken against. 
 
 " Well," she said, " if it be so, the will of 
 the Lord be done." 
 
 Then for a while she sat perfectly still, 
 as if utterly amazed at what she had heard 
 and well she might be. The mind of the 
 aged and saintly woman could not admit the 
 fact; it was all too unnatural too mon 
 strous that her good name could be thus 
 vilely traduced. 
 
 How could she for a moment believe that 
 her own neighbors, whom she had loved and 
 befriended that the members of the church 
 where she had worshiped would listen to 
 such a horrible accusation. 
 
 After a little silent reflection, and doubt- 
 
152 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 less an inward prayer, the poor woman said, 
 sadly, "Well, as to this thing, I am as inno 
 cent as the child unborn. But surely," she 
 added, "what sin hath God found out in 
 me, unrepented of, that he should lay such 
 a heavy affliction upon me in my old age ?" 
 
 The pious and loving old woman, the 
 mother, grandmother, and great-grandmoth 
 er of a large and affectionate family, made 
 no attempt to escape or evade her enemies, 
 as she might possibly even then have done ; 
 but fully conscious of her own integrity, and 
 with a heart full of love and good -will to 
 others, she felt sure her friends, her towns 
 people, and her fellow- worshipers would jus 
 tify and defend her. 
 
 But her inexorable fate was hurrying 
 along; and on the 23d of March a warrant 
 was duly issued against her on the com 
 plaint of Edward and Jonathan Putnam; 
 and on the next morning, at eight o clock, 
 she was arrested torn, sick and feeble as 
 she was, from the clinging arms of her weep 
 ing daughters and indignant husband and 
 sons, and brought up for examination by the 
 marshal, George Herrick, 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 153 
 
 At this time, it would seem that, though 
 many accusations had been made, and sever 
 al, after undergoing a preliminary examina 
 tion, had been committed, there had been no 
 actual trials, and, of course, no convictions 
 or condemnations; consequently it may be 
 that the prisoner and her friends, although 
 fully alive to the disgrace and obloquy of 
 such a charge, did not realize the awful peril 
 of death in which she was now standing. 
 
 It was bitterness enough that, sick and 
 feeble as she was in health, infirm and aged, 
 she was taken all unprepared from her quiet 
 and comfortable home, and the tender care 
 of her devoted husband and children, upon 
 a charge so utterly unfounded, and subject 
 ed to an examination so harrowing and so 
 disgraceful. 
 
 The preliminary examination of this ven 
 erable "Mother in Israel" took place at once 
 in the village meeting-house, the magistrate 
 Hathorne commencing the proceedings, mak 
 ing himself the mouthpiece of the assembly; 
 and it is noticeable all through these ex 
 aminations that Hathorne, full of zeal, took 
 an active and prominent part in them, al= 
 G 2 
 
J 54 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 most assuming the office of prosecuting of 
 ficer, while his brother magistrate, Justice 
 Corwin, although present, and signing the 
 commitments, seems to have been a silent, 
 passive, and almost unwilling agent in the 
 affair; so evidently was this the case, that 
 his lukewarmness excited the displeasure of 
 the accusing girls, and they made several 
 attempts to cry out against members of his 
 family. 
 
 Hathorne began in this case by address 
 ing one of the afflicted ones : 
 
 "What do you say? Have you seen this 
 woman hurt you ?" 
 
 " Yes, she beat me this morning." 
 
 "Abigail, have you been hurt by this 
 woman ?" 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 Here Ann Putnam had a terrible fit, and 
 cried out that it was Rebecca Nurse who 
 was afflicting her. When Ann s fit was 
 over, and order restored in court, Hathorne 
 continued : 
 
 " Goody Nurse, here are two who com 
 plain of you as hurting them ; what do you 
 say to it?" 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 " I can say, before my Eternal Father, I am 
 innocent ; and God will clear my innocency." 
 
 Hathorne was apparently touched for the 
 time by her language and bearing, and said 
 to her : 
 
 " Here is never a one in the assembly but 
 desires it ; but if you be guilty, pray God 
 discover you." 
 
 The prisoner again affirmed her innocence, 
 asserting in answer to the charge of hurting 
 any one, that she had been sick, and not out 
 of doors for some days. 
 
 This simple statement seemed to awaken 
 a doubt of her being guilty in the mind of 
 the magistrate, and the popular feeling seem 
 ed turning in her favor, when the wife of 
 Thomas Putnam who had an old grudge 
 against her on account of her opposition to 
 Mr. Bayley, and whose wild, passionate ex 
 citement carried her beyond the control of 
 her reason suddenly cried out with a loud 
 voice : 
 
 " Did you not bring the black man with 
 you? Did you not bid me tempt God and 
 die? How often have you eat and drank 
 your own damnation ?" 
 
156 SALEM. 
 
 This sudden and terrible charge, uttered 
 with frantic cries and vehement gesticula 
 tions, roused the listening multitude to hor 
 ror. Even the prisoner herself seemed to 
 be shocked at the woman s evident madness, 
 and, raising her hands to heaven, she fervent 
 ly ejaculated " Oh, Lord ! help me, help 
 me!" 
 
 Upon this all the afflicted children were 
 tormented; and when all this various tu- 
 rntilt had subsided, Hathorne again address 
 ed the .prisoner : 
 
 " Do you not see what a solemn condition 
 these are in, that -when your hands are loosed 
 they are afflicted ?" 
 
 Then Mary Walcott and Elizabeth Hub- 
 bard accused her, but she answered : 
 
 " The Lord knows I have not hurt them ; 
 I am an innocent person." 
 
 Then Hathorne continued : 
 
 " It is very awful to see all these agonies ; 
 and you, an old professor, thus charged with 
 contracting with the devil by the effects of 
 it ; and yet to see you stand with dry eyes, 
 when there are so many wet." 
 
 It was considered one proof of a witch 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 that she could not shed tears, and to this 
 she said, " You do not know my heart." 
 
 Hathorne continued: "You would do 
 well, if you are guilty, to confess, and give 
 glory to God." 
 
 "I am innocent," she replied, " as the child 
 unborn." 
 
 Then he told her that they charged her 
 with having familiar spirits come to her bod 
 ily person then and there, and asked her : 
 
 " Now, what do you say to that ?" 
 
 " I have none, sir." 
 
 "If you have, confess, and give glory to 
 God. I pray God clear you if you be inno 
 cent, and if you are guilty, discover you; 
 and therefore give me an upright answer: 
 Have you any familiarity with these spir 
 its?" 
 
 " No, I have none ; but with God alone." 
 
 At this point it seems as if the magistrate 
 began to waver as to her guilt ; after ques 
 tioning her upon many other things, he 
 seems almost convinced of her innocence. 
 
 " You do know," he said, " whether you 
 are guilty, and have familiarity with the 
 devil; these testify that there is a black 
 
158 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 man whispering in your ear, and birds about 
 you ; what do you say to it ?" 
 
 "That it is all false; I am clear." 
 
 "Possibly you may apprehend you are no 
 witch; but have you not been led aside by 
 temptations in that way 2" 
 
 " No, I have not." 
 
 " Have you not had visible appearances, 
 more than what is common in nature ?" 
 
 " I have none ; nor ever had in my life." 
 
 " Do you think these suffer voluntarily or 
 involuntarily ?" 
 
 " I can not tell." 
 
 ".That is strange ; every one can judge." 
 
 " I must be silent." 
 
 "They accuse you of hurting them, and 
 you think it is not unwillingly, but by de 
 sign; you must then look upon them as 
 murderers." 
 
 " I can not tell what to think of it." 
 
 This last answer was considered as equiv 
 alent to calling them murderers; but this 
 she denied, saying that being a little hard 
 of hearing she did not quite understand the 
 question, and had meant only to say that she 
 could not tell what to make of their conduct. 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 759 
 
 "Do you think that these suffer against 
 their wills, or not ? 
 
 " I do not think they suffer against their 
 wills." 
 
 " But why did you never go to see these 
 afflicted persons ?" 
 
 " Because I was afraid I should have fits 
 too." 
 
 Upon every motion of the prisoner s body 
 the children had fits, upon which Hathorne 
 said: 
 
 " Is it not an unaccountable thing that 
 when you are examined these persons are 
 afflicted?" 
 
 Seeing that he and all the others believed 
 in her accusers, her only reply to this was : 
 
 "I have nobody to look to but God." 
 
 As she said this she naturally attempted 
 to raise her hands, upon which the afflicted 
 ones were taken with great fits. 
 
 When order was again restored after all 
 this tumult, the examiner continued : 
 
 "Do you believe these afflicted persons 
 are bewitched ?" 
 
 " I do think they are." 
 
 Goody Nurse was a clear-minded but un- 
 
160 SALEM. 
 
 educated woman ; she held the common opin 
 ion of her times she believed in witchcraft, 
 and was willing to allow that the children 
 were bewitched ; but she knew her own in 
 nocence, and she only asserted that and said, 
 " Would you have me belie myself?" 
 
 At length being old, sick, and feeble, 
 worn out both in mind and body, and wea 
 ried with all she had thus undergone in this 
 long examination the poor woman s head 
 drooped in very weakness ; and at once, to 
 the consternation of the court and specta 
 tors, the necks of all the children were bent 
 in the same way. 
 
 Elizabeth Hubbard s neck appeared fixed, 
 and could not be moved, and Abigail Will 
 iams cried out : 
 
 " Set up Goody Nurse s head, or the maid s 
 neck will be broke ;" whereupon some one 
 holding up the prisoner s head, the neck of 
 the other was righted at once. 
 
 Then the Rev. Mr. Parris read aloud a 
 declaration of what Thomas Putnam s wife 
 had said while in her fits that the appari 
 tion of Goody Nurse had come to her at sev 
 eral times, and had horribly tortured her; 
 and then Hathorne asked her : 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 161 
 
 " What do you think of this ?" 
 
 " I can not help it ; the devil may appear 
 in my shape." 
 
 At the close of this long and most one 
 sided examination, where all the power and 
 subtlety were with the examiner, and the 
 unfortunate prisoner stood alone and unsup 
 ported, she was committed to Salem jail to 
 await further examination ; and there, doubt 
 less, in common with all the others commit 
 ted on the same charge, she was put in 
 chains. 
 
 All this time the prevailing excitement 
 was artfully heightened and kept up by 
 lectures and sermons by Mr. Parris and Mr. 
 Lawson, in which, by ingenious and labo 
 rious research of both the Old and New Tes 
 tament histories, they proved and enlarged 
 upon the nature and evidences of witch 
 craft. 
 
 After the lapse of a week preparations 
 were made to renew operations, and to at 
 tempt to give to them a new and more com 
 manding character ; and, as new complaints 
 were constantly being made, new arrests 
 were issued, and the marshal received orders 
 
SALEM. 
 
 to bring his prisoners into the meeting-house 
 in Salem on April eleventh. 
 
 This was not to be an examination before 
 the two local magistrates, as the others had 
 been, but before the highest legal tribunal 
 in the colony the Honorable Thomas Dan- 
 forth, deputy governor, and his council be 
 ing present. 
 
 But we do not propose to give the details 
 of these trials ; it is enough to say that the 
 consummate tact and boldness of the accus 
 ing girls deluded every body. 
 
 No necromancers have ever surpassed them 
 in sleight -of -hand and simulation. It has 
 been said that in their strange performances, 
 in which they had now perfected themselves 
 by long practice, they equaled the ancient 
 sorcerers and magicians. Of their fearful 
 blasphemies, the horrible inventions, the 
 monstrous fancies of the devil-worship, the 
 fiendish sacraments, and other revolting rit 
 ual of which they accused their victims, we 
 can only say that, while it was fully cal 
 culated to produce an overwhelming effect 
 upon minds so imbued with a belief in all 
 the superstitions of those days, they are to 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 
 
 us, in our more enlightened age, simply too 
 tedious and revolting to be transcribed upon 
 our pages ; and while we wonder at the 
 marvelous dexterity of the girls in their per 
 formances, the principal interest for us is de 
 rived from the evidence they give, that all 
 this fearful imagery was beyond the inven 
 tion of youthful minds, and reveal the fact 
 that some older and more experienced hand 
 was moving unseen behind them. 
 
 At the close of this examination, Mrs. Nurse 
 and five others were fully committed for trial, 
 and were sent to Boston jail for safe keep 
 ing. 
 
 The court met again June 29th, and Mrs. 
 Nurse was put upon trial ; but the charac 
 ter of the venerable old woman was too well 
 known not to have created many friends ; 
 time had given rise to reflection, and many 
 persons, who had believed in other cases, 
 paused, and hesitated to believe her guilty ; 
 and many, who had been silent through fear, 
 now came forward boldly in her defense. 
 Testimonials of her moral worth and un 
 blemished character were got up and signed 
 by persons of the highest respectability, and 
 
SALEM. 
 
 among these names appears that of Jonathan 
 Putnam, one of the very men who had pro 
 cured the warrant against her. 
 
 So deeply were the jurors impressed with 
 the proofs of the virtue and Christian excel 
 lence of her character, that, in spite of the 
 clamors of the spectators, the monstrous 
 charges brought against her by the accus 
 ers, and even the plain leaning of the court 
 against her, they brought in their verdict of 
 "Not guilty." 
 
 But immediately all the accusers in court, 
 and shortly after all the afflicted out of the 
 court, made a great and hideous outcry, to 
 the amazement not only of the many specta 
 tors, but of the court itself. 
 
 One of the judges expressed himself as 
 not being fully satisfied; another of them 
 said that they would have her indicted 
 anew; and the chief justice intimated to the 
 jury that they had not well considered one 
 expression used by the prisoner. 
 
 This induced the jury to ask leave to go 
 out again, and reconsider their verdict. 
 
 The point in question was this, that when 
 one of the accused, who had confessed to be- 
 
GOODY REBECCA NURSE. 165 
 
 ing a witch (as several of the poor creatures 
 were induced to do, in hope of thus making 
 their escape from death), was brought up as 
 a witness against her, Goody Nurse had said, 
 " Why do you bring her ? She is one of us." 
 The foreman of the jury afterward stated 
 that, upon considering this point, he could 
 not tell what to make of her words " she is 
 one of us;" that he had returned to the 
 court and stated his doubts; and that the 
 prisoner, being still at the bar, she gave no 
 reply or explanation, which made the words 
 seem strong evidence against her (as if by 
 them she acknowledged that she was one of 
 the avowed witches). 
 
 The foreman having thus stated the case, 
 and receiving no reply or explanation of the 
 words from the prisoner, returned to the 
 jury, who thereupon reconsidered their vote, 
 and brought in a second verdict of " Guilty," 
 upon which she was condemned, and sen 
 tenced to be hanged upon the coming 19th 
 of July. 
 
 When the prisoner was afterward inform 
 ed of this question, she explained her mean 
 ing to have been simply this, that the wit- 
 
1 66 SALEM. 
 
 ness in question, being herself one of "the pris 
 oners, she did not think her evidence ought 
 to be taken against her fellow-prisoners; 
 but that being hard of hearing, and also 
 full of grief and terror, she did not under 
 stand the meaning given to her words ; and 
 no one informing her how the matter stood, 
 she had no chance to explain. Even after 
 her condemnation, the governor saw cause 
 to grant her a reprieve; but the accusers 
 made such an outcry that he was induced 
 to recall it. 
 
 " In a capital case," says the careful histo 
 rian from whom we have gathered some of 
 these facts, " the court often refuses the ver 
 dict of guilty, but rarely sends a jury out 
 to reconsider one of l not guilty. : 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 EXCOMMUNICA TION. 
 
 None shall weep for thee none shall pray for thee; 
 
 Never a parting psalm be sung; 
 Never a priest shall point death s way for thee, 
 
 Never a passing bell be rung." 
 
 FTER the fearful sentence had 
 been pronounced, Mrs. Nurse was 
 again taken to Salem jail, and 
 there kept, loaded with chains 
 and bound with cords, until her execution, 
 it seeming to be the general belief that more 
 restraint was needed for witches than for any 
 other criminals. 
 
 But a new affliction was preparing for the 
 aged and suffering Christian. 
 
 Upon the 3d of July, in the morning of 
 the Sabbath-day, at the close of the services, 
 after the sacrament of the Lord s Supper had 
 been administered, it was propounded by 
 the elders, and unanimously consented to by 
 
l68 SALEM. 
 
 the Church members (by those who had just 
 been commemorating the love of Him who 
 died for sinners), that Sister Rebecca Nurse 
 being a convicted witch, and by sentence of 
 the court condemned to die, she should be 
 excommunicated by the Church ; and this 
 was accordingly done on the afternoon of 
 the same day. 
 
 Can the imagination picture any thing 
 more revolting to all good feeling ? At the 
 very time when she stood most in need of 
 the prayers and support of her Christian 
 friends and fellow-worshipers, she was to be 
 ruthlessly struck out of their communion, 
 denied their sympathy, and cast off, reviled, 
 and contemned by those in whose devotions 
 she had so often taken a part. 
 
 Of course, this intended ceremonial was 
 widely made known. The great meeting 
 house in Salem was crowded to its utmost 
 capacity, in every nook and corner ; the two 
 ministers, or "ruling elders," as they were 
 then termed, Mr. Higginson and Mr. Noyes, 
 were both in the pulpit; the deacons and 
 other elders all in their places, when the 
 sheriff and the constables brought in their 
 
EXCOMMUNICA TION. 1 69 
 
 prisoner, heavily manacled and bound with 
 cords, and placed her in the broad aisle. 
 
 Then the Rev. Mr. Noyes, rising like an ac 
 cusing spirit, pronounced upon her the stern 
 and awful sentence of the Church, which 
 was then regarded as not only excluding 
 her from the Church on earth, but as closing 
 against her the very gates of heaven. Be 
 lieving she had already transferred her alle 
 giance to the devil, he then and there form 
 ally made her over, body and soul, to the 
 great enemy forever and ever. 
 
 How the noble but grief-stricken old 
 woman met this new and most appalling 
 stroke of refined cruelty, neither history nor 
 tradition has told us but it were needless. 
 Our own hearts can reproduce the terrible 
 picture. We can almost see her aged form,- 
 as with slow and fettered steps she passed up 
 the accustomed aisle, with the stern* guard 
 ians of the law on either side of her, the 
 hushed and awe-smitten crowd shrinking 
 away from the pollution of her touch. 
 
 We can see the dim, sad eyes turning 
 their piteous gaze from side to side, hoping 
 to catch one glance of love or sympathy or 
 H 
 
I70 SALE AT. 
 
 pil^y. In vain. If pity or sympathy were 
 there, only the bowed head and averted face 
 manifested it. In that dark hour, like her 
 Master, " the Man of sorrows," she stood for 
 saken and alone. We can see the quivering 
 of her whole frame, as the stern, terrible 
 words fall upon her clouded hearing, and 
 see her waver and shrink and totter, as if 
 the summer thunder-bolt had blasted her. 
 It is but for a moment : the weak woman has 
 faltered but the believing disciple stands 
 firm again ; she knows in whom she has be 
 lieved she knows that her "Redeemer liv- 
 eth;" and trusting in his love and power, 
 she, who has meekly followed his example 
 through life, follows it even now. We see 
 her fold her fettered arms across her submis 
 sive breast, as, raising her dim eyes to heav 
 en, she faintly murmurs, in his own words, 
 " Father, forgive them ; for they know not 
 what they do." 
 
 When this mockery of religion on the 
 part of the Church was over, she was again 
 taken to Salem jail, where she remained until 
 the 19th of July, when she was hung at Gal- 
 low s Hill. 
 
EXCOMMUNICA TION. T 7 1 
 
 There seem to be two distinct sources from 
 which we are permitted to see a beautiful 
 and softening light thrown over the tragical 
 horrors of this dark picture of fanatical per 
 secution. The one is the calm, unwavering 
 constancy, and the unbending fortitude of 
 the sufferer herself aged even beyond the 
 allotted "threescore years and ten," infirm 
 of health, suffering still from the effects of a 
 recent illness and her long and rigorous 
 confinement no persecution could break 
 down her trust in God, or her assurance 
 of her own innocence and integrity of 
 heart. 
 
 She was urged by her enemies to confess 
 her guilt, and she well knew that only by 
 confession could she hope to save herself 
 from the horrors of an impending and igno 
 minious death ; but she repelled them with 
 scorn : " Would you have me belie myself?" 
 and their threats had no power to move 
 her. 
 
 No doubt some of her family or friends, 
 seeing her thus in mortal peril, may, in their 
 loving earnestness, have importuned her to 
 the same course; but, if so, she was proof 
 
172 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 against their affectionate pleadings. Life 
 was pleasant to her, indeed home and its 
 loving endearments had never seemed so 
 sweet ; but more precious still was the im 
 mortal soul, which put its faith in God, and 
 knew its own integrity. What to her were 
 her few remaining days of the life on earth, 
 that she should barter for them the blessed 
 hopes of the life eternal? and she stood 
 firm. 
 
 The other beautiful and mitigating circum 
 stance is the deep love and unwavering trust 
 of her husband and children. They never 
 doubted or forsook her. Day after day, 
 early and late, braving the scoffs of the jeer 
 ing and reviling crowd, they were at the 
 prison, cheering her by the assurance of their 
 unshaken love and trust, and supporting her 
 by their tender ministrations. They left no 
 means unessayed for her vindication : they 
 put in new evidence ; they got up petitions, 
 testimonials, and remonstrances; they walk 
 ed beside her to the place of execution, 
 cheering and sustaining her to the last by 
 the assurances of their unabated and devoted 
 love; and when all was over, at the risk of 
 
EXCOMMUNICA TION. 
 
 173 
 
 their own lives, they obtained the dishonor 
 ed but beloved remains, and privately and 
 by night gave them tender and reverent bur 
 ial in their own land, where they rest to 
 this day at peace among her kindred. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 "I call her angel but he called her wife." 
 
 3j/"T was in Salem, at noon, on Saturday, 
 
 IP 
 
 and the court, which held its ses 
 
 sions in the great First Church on 
 Essex Street, had just risen and ad 
 journed to the coming week, when Justice 
 Jonathan Corwin, leaving the heated and op 
 pressive air of the court-room (oppressive at 
 once to mind and body), passed with slow, 
 dignified steps, thoughtfully depressed head, 
 and arms crossed behind him, down Essex 
 Street, to a large house then standing upon 
 the site of the present market-place in Derby 
 Square, and occupied by the Honorable Col 
 onel William Browne. 
 
 Entering unannounced, with the familiar 
 air of a frequent and ever welcome guest, he 
 passed through the hall which divided the 
 
THE MERCHANTS WIFE. 175 
 
 house, and opening the glass doors which 
 closed it at its lower extremity, came out 
 upon a vine-shaded porch or veranda, which 
 ran across a portion of the southern or back 
 part of the house. Below the w T ide, easy 
 steps spread the flower-garden, now bright in 
 all the radiance of its summer hues ; and at 
 the extremity of the little flowery domain, 
 the quiet, blue waters of "Browne s Cove" 
 were rippling and flashing in the sunny 
 light. 
 
 Upon a straight, high-backed chair in this 
 cool and shady seclusion sat his sister, Mrs. 
 Browne, the mistress of the establishment, 
 still a fair and graceful matron, although 
 now past the earlier bloom and freshness of 
 her youthful beauty. 
 
 She was richly and becomingly dressed, 
 after the rather gorgeous fashion of the day. 
 A loosely fitting negligee of rich satin, of that 
 peculiar shade of lilac-pink which we so oft 
 en see in Copley s matchless portraits, was 
 worn over a pale sea-green petticoat of 
 quilted silk, and fell in sheeny folds to the 
 ground. The dress was cut low and open 
 in front, leaving her neck partially bare, and 
 
1 76 SALEM. 
 
 so were her white arms to the elbow : but 
 both neck and arms were shaded and relieved 
 by wide ruffles of the costliest lace. Her 
 soft and still abundant dark hair was drawn 
 off from her brow, and combed over a crape 
 cushion much as modern taste dictates to 
 its votaries of the present day and being 
 gathered into a clasp or band at the back of 
 the head, the ends were suffered to flow in 
 loose, waving curls over her neck and shoul 
 ders. A string of large pearls, clasped close 
 ly around her slender throat, and a brill 
 iant pin at the knot of ribbons at the top 
 of her bodice (or stomacher, as it was term 
 ed), connected by a glittering chain to the 
 massive gold watch and equipage at her 
 side, were the common ornaments which 
 marked her rank in life, at a period when fe 
 male domestics were not accustomed to out 
 shine their mistresses in extravagance of 
 dress and demeanor. 
 
 We have said that she was no longer in 
 extreme youth, but the fair face was still 
 smooth and delicately tinted; and time, which 
 had added thoughtfulness to the open brow, 
 and penetration to the deep, darkly lustrous 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 
 eyes, smiling beneath their finely arched 
 brows, had left unimpaired the almost child 
 like tenderness of the sweet lips. 
 
 " Good-morning, Sister Browne," said the 
 brother, stepping out upon the veranda, and 
 bending over her with the stately courtesy 
 of the times, he pressed a light kiss upon 
 her fair, round cheek. 
 
 " Good-morning, Jonathan," responded the 
 matron, offering her hand in hospitable greet 
 
 ing. 
 
 " Husband not come home yet, Hannah ?" 
 inquired the visitor. 
 
 "Not yet," she replied. "The colonel is 
 later than usual very often nowadays. They 
 are about fitting out two of their vessels, 
 and my husband is often detained at the 
 store quite beyond the usual hour. The 
 times are so out of joint at present that it is 
 almost impossible to procure the necessary 
 labor. Every body seems to be taken out 
 of themselves, and all work is neglected, while 
 these terrible trials are occupying all minds." 
 
 Judge Corwin made no answer, but lounged 
 carelessly up to a little table at the back 
 of the veranda, which held a massive silver 
 H2 
 
i 7 8 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 punch -bowl, richly chased round the brim 
 with a pattern of roses and lilies of natural 
 size. This bowl stood upon a salver of the 
 same costly material and workmanship a 
 wreath of corresponding roses and lilies be 
 ing enchased round the outer border. He 
 lifted the heavy silver ladle, with the family 
 arms richly engraved upon the handle, and 
 dipping up a very moderate portion of the 
 lemon-punch, which was then the common and 
 uncriticised noonday beverage of gentlemen, 
 he put it into one of the tall glasses, whose 
 slender stems were curiously enriched with a 
 white spiral substance artfully blown into 
 the glass, which stood in readiness to receive 
 it ; took a sip, and then returning, glass in 
 hand, drew a chair and seated himself near 
 his sister, who had now quietly resumed her 
 embroidery. 
 
 "You certainly do brew better punch 
 than any body else, Sister Hannah," he said, 
 approvingly. "I do not get it nearly so 
 good at my own house as you make it." 
 
 " That may be because I make it by the 
 old home receipt," said Mrs. Browne, smiling. 
 "I make it just as I used to make it at fa- 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 
 179 
 
 ther s only the colonel and his father both 
 like it better made of green tea ; that is the 
 only change I have made. But won t you 
 stay and dine with us, brother ?" 
 
 "I don t know perhaps so. What have 
 you for dinner ? Don t put me off with 
 pudding and beans again." 
 
 " No, no !" said the hostess, laughing. " I 
 remember that; but it is not baked -bean 
 day to-day it is Saturday." 
 
 " Oh, true. Then, of course, I am to con 
 clude it is to be salt-fish, beef-steak, and ap 
 ple-pie." 
 
 " Of course it is and will you stay ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you, I think so ; for my wife 
 is in Boston at her mother s. Here, you lit 
 tle ones," he said, as two of his sister s chil 
 dren came up from the garden and stood at 
 the bottom of the steps looking at him, 
 " run and see if you can find Jim or Sambo, 
 or somebody or other to pull off my boots, 
 and bring me slippers." 
 
 When this accommodation had been fur 
 nished him, he held out his hand affably to 
 the two little ones, who had returned, and 
 who now stood, hand in hand, at the foot of 
 
Z 8o SALEM. 
 
 the steps, silently regarding him, the strict 
 etiquette of the times forbidding a nearer and 
 more familiar approach to their uncle until 
 such time as he might see fit to address them. 
 
 " Here, sirrah !" he said at last, addressing 
 the boy, who was the eldest of the two chil 
 dren, " and you, too, little maid Mary, come 
 up here, and tell me what you have learned 
 since I saw you last. What do you know 
 now? tell me." 
 
 " Nothing much, I think, uncle," said the 
 boy, lifting his clear eyes to the inquirer s 
 face, with a look of roguish meaning, as th-e 
 two stood at their uncle s knee ; " I guess I 
 know but little, and sister Mary here don t 
 know any thing." The timid little Mary 
 turned her eyes upon him deprecatingly, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Well, my little man," said the judge, 
 laughing, as he pinched the boy s round 
 cheek, "that is modest, Johnny, any way. 
 And now, if you please, tell me the little you 
 do know. Hey, sirrah ?" 
 
 " I know," said the boy stoutly, " that you 
 are one of the judges that are trying the 
 wicked witches, uncle." 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. T 8i 
 
 " Ahem !" said the magistrate, settling his 
 laced neck-tie, and somewhat disconcerted by 
 the unexpected answer. " Oh ! you know 
 that, then, do you ? And now your turn, 
 my little maid tell me, if you can, what 
 you don t know." 
 
 Raising her clear, soft eyes to his face, the 
 child without a moment s hesitation replied, 
 "I don t know what you will do with all 
 the poor witches,, uncle." 
 
 " Good !" said the questioner, turning to 
 his sister. " I could not have answered the 
 questions better myself. Your children are 
 quick-witted, and appear to be well posted 
 up in the topics of the day, Sister Han 
 nah." 
 
 " Only too much so," said the mother with 
 a sad sigh ; " it is no subject of congratula 
 tion to me, I assure you, Jonathan. -You 
 may go now, my children. I wish to talk 
 with your uncle. You and Mary may play 
 in the garden till dinner-time, Johnny ; but 
 do not go down to the water." As the little 
 ones wandered away among the flowers, Mrs. 
 Browne arose and carefully shut the glass 
 doors behind her, and looked anxiously up 
 
1 82 SALEM. 
 
 at the closed windows. Then resuming her 
 seat by her brother s side, she spoke in low 
 tones, but in a voice of deep feeling : 
 
 " You say my children are well posted up 
 in the news of the day, Jonathan, and I re 
 gret to confess it is so. It is a solemn and 
 a fearful thing to have children as young as 
 these listening to all the details of the hor 
 rors that are going on around us. It is a 
 fearful thing to have their young ears con 
 taminated, and their innocent hearts hard 
 ened by such things as are the common top 
 ics of conversation ; and, situated as I am, I 
 am powerless to prevent it. They hear it 
 on every hand. I went into the garden only 
 this very week, and there I found John 
 Indian and Tituba in close and earnest con 
 fabulation with my own servant ; and close 
 by them stood my innocent children, eagerly 
 listening with open mouths and ears to the 
 pestilent communications swallowing all 
 they heard, and doubtless with their imag 
 inations all at work, conjecturing even worse 
 than they heard from hints and gestures, and 
 wild, suggestive grimaces ; and yet what can 
 I do to prevent it ?" 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 
 " Order them off of your premises at once 
 and forever or get your husband to do it 
 and forbid their coming again," said the 
 magistrate, unhesitatingly. " Or, if you wish, 
 I will do it for you." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ! not for the world. Alas ! 
 I dare not it is a time of too much peril. 
 The very air is heavy with danger, and sick 
 ening with horror. I feel that I am in the 
 midst of spies and eavesdroppers," she said, 
 glancing fearfully up at the closed windows, 
 and dropping her voice to a still more cau 
 tious whisper. " One knows not where to 
 look for treachery now. My power over my 
 own servants is gone, and I am at their mer 
 cy. A chance-dropped word, innocent as it 
 may be, may be caught up and twisted from 
 its meaning, and carried to those who will 
 know how to make a fearful use of it. It 
 has come to this, brother, that I, a quiet, home- 
 keeping matron a believing, and, I hope, a 
 consistent Christian connected by birth 
 and marriage with the best and most influ 
 ential families in the land I, the daughter 
 of Judge George Corwin, and the wife of the 
 Honorable William Browne, dare not, in my 
 
184 SALEM. 
 
 own house, to speak ray own mind or order 
 my own servants, lest I should draw down 
 a fearful vengeance on myself or my dear 
 ones. I can not bear it any longer. I seem 
 to be stifling in this dreadful atmosphere; 
 and it was this in part that I wanted to tell 
 you, Jonathan I have made up my mind 
 to leave the country." 
 
 " Good heavens ! Hannah ; what do you 
 mean ? Where will you go ?" 
 
 " Home to England. My husband has 
 duties that will call him to the court of St. 
 James you know he has been out before 
 and he has promised to take me and my 
 children with him. If, by the mercy of God, 
 this horrible cloud is ever dispersed, I will 
 return if not, I will remain there. Our 
 fathers left England to enjoy freedom of 
 conscience, and the liberty of thought and 
 speech, and we have been taught to honor 
 them for it. I will go back in pursuit of 
 the same inestimable blessings." 
 
 " And does your husband approve of this 
 step V asked her brother, in surprise. 
 
 " He consents to it." 
 
 " But, my dear sister, this decision of 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 
 yours appears to me premature at least, I 
 think you are nervous and causelessly 
 alarmed. What possible danger can reach 
 you, secure as you are in your social and 
 moral position ?" 
 
 " Not more secure than others have be 
 lieved themselves to be, Jonathan. Oh, my 
 brother! think of Mrs. Nurse the purest, 
 truest, humblest Christian; of high standing 
 in the Church, and blameless in character. 
 I knew her well. She was with me in many 
 of my trials she was at the birth of all my 
 children ; and in the dark days when it 
 pleased God to take my precious ones from 
 me, she was with me, sustaining my weaker 
 faith and trembling spirits under sickness, 
 suffering, and loss, by her more fervent 
 piety and gentle ministrations. Oh ! I 
 knew her well ; no child ever turned to its 
 mother in surer confidence of finding the 
 support and sympathy it needed than I did 
 to her, and she never failed me ; and where 
 is she now? Snatched from the home of 
 which she was the loved and loving- centre : 
 
 o 
 
 reviled and deserted by the neighbors she 
 had served and blessed ; excommunicated by 
 
SALEM. 
 
 the Church of Christ, of which she had long 
 been an honored member ; her innocent life 
 lied away by malicious tongues ; she was im 
 prisoned for months ; she met a felon s death ; 
 and her poor remains are not even allowed 
 to rest in hallowed ground. Oh, brother ! 
 forgive me if I speak too strongly, but my 
 heart is full of bitterness ; and how do I 
 know if, before another week closes, I may 
 not myself occupy the cell from which she 
 has gone, and my little children be cast out 
 to the mercy of the cold world, as so many 
 other poor children have been ?" 
 
 For a few moments Jonathan Corwin sat 
 meditating in gloomy silence, his head rest 
 ing on his hand, while Mrs. Browne wept 
 silently. At last, raising his head, he asked 
 in trembling tones : 
 
 " Hannah, do you blame me ; do you hold 
 me responsible for all this? if you do, you 
 must look upon me as a murderer." 
 
 " No, Jonathan," answered his sister, lay 
 ing her hand kindly upon his, " I do not 
 mean to blame you ; I know that your office 
 has its painful duties ; 1 do not believe you 
 ever willfully wronged any one ; but I do 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 187 
 
 think that you are blinded and deceived ; 
 you are my own brother in the flesh, and 
 still more the dear brother of my affections, 
 and I know your heart is a good and true 
 one ; it grieves me to differ from you but 
 I must bear my honest testimony to you 
 that I think you are misled in this matter. 
 I know something of these girls these i ac 
 cusers, as they are called : I have known 
 Abigail Williams ever since she first came 
 here, and I know her to be an artful, design 
 ing, false-hearted girl; I know, too, that 
 Elizabeth Hubbard, the niece of Dr. Griggs 
 his wife, and I know no good of her what 
 ever ; and Ann Putnam, too, she has always 
 been known to be a mischievous, malicious 
 girl ; I know, too, a little about Mary Warren 
 and Sarah Churchill Sarah, indeed, lived 
 with me a little while, and I dismissed her 
 for lying. I believe they are both moved by 
 revenge for fancied wrongs against their em 
 ployers. I know also that for months past, 
 indeed all through the winter," these girls 
 have been practicing all manner of charms 
 and enchantments, all sorts of sorceries and 
 black arts, under the teaching of those Pagan 
 
1 88 SALEM. 
 
 slaves of Mr. Parris until their brains are 
 overset, and their sense of right and wrong 
 is wholly perverted. 
 
 " I do not dare to say how far their suffer 
 ings and fits are real or assumed. How far 
 they are acting a part I can not tell, of 
 course; but I do believe that if they are 
 not insane, they are themselves bedeviled. 
 
 " I can not understand why their testimony 
 is so freely taken, while that of others is re 
 jected ; these insolent, artful girls, whose 
 flippant and reviling tongues are dealing 
 death so recklessly who are boldly clamor 
 ing against lives worth far more than their 
 own why are they entitled to such ci ed- 
 ence ? Tell me, my brother, do our laws con 
 demn one without allowing him a chance to 
 defend himself? and yet, it is well known, 
 these unhappy prisoners are not allowed 
 counsel; they are not allowed to speak for 
 themselves, unless it is to confess, and all 
 witnesses in their favor are set aside is this 
 right, is this impartial justice, is this English 
 law ?" and she paused. 
 
 " Tell me," she said, trying to speak more 
 calmly, " do you get on any ? do you see 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 189 
 
 any light breaking in upon this horrible 
 darkness ?" 
 
 " No," replied the magistrate, sadly ; " I 
 must confess I do not." 
 
 " Have there been any more arrests or 
 commitments ?" 
 
 " Several." 
 
 " Any new condemnations ?" 
 
 " Alas ! my sister do not ask me." 
 
 " I must ask, Jonathan, and you must hear 
 me. Oh, my brother ! remember that the 
 sword of justice is a fearful thing it is a 
 two-edged weapon, too, Jonathan ; beware, 
 lest it turn in your grasp and wound the 
 hand that wields it." 
 
 " I do not understand you, Hannah ; how 
 do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean that this terrible power, thus en 
 couraged and helped on by the ministry, the 
 law, and by medical science, is growing daily 
 more and more exacting ; do you fail to see 
 that the victims it demands are daily more 
 numerous and of a higher class in life ? tell 
 me, brother, what will you do if they should 
 accuse your wife or me ?" 
 
 " Nay, my dear sister, you jest that can 
 not be it is impossible." 
 
190 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 " Not so ; we may be cried out upon any 
 day, any hour ; what would you do ? Would 
 you believe their accusations against us ?" 
 
 " Good heavens ! Hannah how can you 
 ask it ? No ! ten thousand times no ! God 
 forbid." 
 
 " But why not, if the evidence were con 
 clusive ? you have believed it in other cases, 
 why not in ours T 
 
 " Why not ? because it would be too mon 
 strous ; because I know you both incapable 
 of such things." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but how would that avail 
 us ? you could not convey your convictions 
 of our innocence k> other minds. So did I 
 fully believe in the entire innocence of my 
 poor old friend, Goody Nurse and so did 
 hundreds of others but what did that avail 
 her ? At my urgent request my husband 
 drew up a paper in testimony of her worth 
 and her blameless life, and many of .our best 
 people signed it gladly ; but the petition, of 
 her friends was rejected, and the words of 
 those miserable children, and of one or two 
 other persons who were known to have a 
 grudge against her or her family, took away 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 191 
 
 her life. Oh ! I shudder when I contemplate 
 the widespread misery, the sea of blood that 
 lies before us ; when shall it end ?" 
 
 " But what can be done, Hannah ? I, for 
 one, am open to conviction ; suggest a better 
 
 course." 
 
 " I would give the accused a fairer trial ; 
 I would have them have counsel to defend 
 them their very ignorance and helplessness 
 demand it. Think of that miserable Sarah 
 Good, a poor, forlorn, friendless, and for 
 saken creature, deserted by her husband, the 
 subject of universal prejudice, an object of 
 compassion, not of persecution, surely. I 
 have heard there was not a word brought 
 against her in the whole trial that ought or 
 would have sustained the charge in the mind 
 of any impartial person at a less exciting 
 time; (forgive me, brother; I take my account 
 of these, trials second hand of course, I can 
 not be present myself) ; and still more, 
 think of her child that little, miserable, 
 half-starved Dorcas; just think of the whole 
 majesty of the law setting itself against the 
 wits of a poor, little, ignorant, vicious, base- 
 born child, not yet five years old ; think, 
 
I92 SALEM. 
 
 Jonathan, younger than our little Mary here! 
 does it not seem pitiful ? it is too un 
 equal ; if it were not so tragic, it would be 
 an absurdity." 
 
 " But, Hannah, that child was a pestilent 
 little wretch as ever breathed ; if you had 
 only heard her vile profanity and inso 
 lence." 
 
 " I do not question it in the least : poor, 
 miserable little thing, she could be no less 
 a vagabond from her very birth ; dragged 
 round from place to place by her vagrant 
 mother, what chance had she to learn any 
 thing but evil ? Poor little Dorcas ! how 
 often I have fed, and clothed her w T ith my 
 children s clothing ; if I had not, I think her 
 wretched little body must have perished 
 long ago I almost wish it had, it would 
 have been better for her, perhaps." 
 
 " But, Hannah ! you know the miserable 
 child confessed." 
 
 " Confessed ? yes, I dare say she said just 
 what she had been told to say she did not 
 know right from wrong ; but, Jonathan, if 
 you had been a mother of many children, as 
 I have been, and had sat and listened, as I 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 193 
 
 have done, to their thoughtless "babble, you 
 would surely have been astonished at the 
 strange and monstrous absurdities that they 
 will often utter." 
 
 " Aye, but this child was precociously evil 
 she was just like her mother." 
 
 " And who else should she be like ? She 
 never knew any other parent." 
 
 " Very true ; and black cats have black 
 kittens, they say." 
 
 "Sometimes they do, but not always, I 
 believe," said his sister. "And even when 
 they do, I suppose it is from a law of their 
 nature, not their choice." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but the result is the same, I 
 conclude." 
 
 " Pardon me, no ! Physically, not moral 
 ly, it may be the same. In the one case it 
 would be a misfortune simply, in the other 
 it would be a fault." 
 
 " Why, Hannah ! what a casuist you are ! 
 There has been a mistake in our family. 
 You should have been bred to the law, not I." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! I was not," said Mrs. 
 Browne, fervently. 
 
 " You have reason to say so in these pres- 
 I 
 
I94 SALEM. 
 
 ent times/ said her brother, sadly. "But 
 you seem to have reasoned upon these mat 
 ters a great deal. Will you tell me what 
 conclusion you have come to ?" 
 
 " I am but an ignorant woman, Jonathan 
 wholly unskilled in all these subtle ques 
 tions. I never, indeed, thought of these 
 things before; but I can not shut my eyes 
 or close my mind to the terrible realities that 
 are going on around me. I have suffered 
 deeply, and thought much, and of course I 
 have formed my own conclusions." 
 
 " And will you not let me have the benefit 
 of them ?" 
 
 " You put me to the blush, brother. You 
 are a magistrate, an.d I know nothing of the 
 law." 
 
 " But I think the instincts of a pure and 
 earnest, healthful mind are the voice of a 
 higher law the voice of God. Tell me, 
 then surely you believe in the existence of 
 the devil?" 
 
 " Of course I do. I must. The Bible af 
 firms it, and our Lord Jesus Christ his 
 words do so instruct us. I do believe in 
 persons being bedeviled ; but that does not, 
 
THE MERCHANT S WIFE. 
 
 to my apprehension, imply a belief in witch 
 craft." 
 
 " But where do you make the distinction ?" 
 
 " It seems to me that it is a very plain one. 
 It is this: If the devil hath power, which 
 we dare not deny, surely the Lord God Al 
 mighty hath a greater power. I think a per 
 son may, by his own act, by means of his own 
 sins, forsake God % and be brought into bond 
 age to the power of the devil. Such a* one 
 is bedeviled. But I do not believe the devil 
 hath power to take possession of any inno 
 cent soul that trusts in God, and make use 
 of it to torment others ; and that, as far as I 
 understand it, is witchcraft being a witch, 
 having power from the devil to torment and 
 bewitch others." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then 
 Justice Corwin rose, and grasping his sister s 
 hand warmly, he said, " I think, Hannah, if 
 you will allow me to change my mind, I will 
 not dine here to-day. What you have said 
 has given me much to reflect upon. I want 
 the quiet of my own study." 
 
 " But, brother, my husband has just come 
 home. I hear the footsteps of his horse at 
 
196 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 the door. His hospitality will be wounded 
 if you should leave his house just at the very 
 dinner hour. Do stay, and take a hasty din 
 ner with him. He is too busy himself just 
 now to tarry long over the table. Stay, and 
 we will speak of these terrible things no 
 more. You can talk to him about his ves 
 sels, his farm, his garden ; but do not go 
 until after, dinner. You will oblige me if 
 you will stay." 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 CONDOLENCE. 
 
 "No! had all earth decreed that doom of shame, 
 I would have set, against all earth s decree, 
 The inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee." 
 
 MONGr all the various members 
 of the community that had 
 been shocked and saddened by 
 the tragical death of Rebecca 
 Nurse, possibly no single individual out of 
 the circle of her own immediate family felt 
 it more keenly or sorrowed more deeply 
 than Alice Campbell. The kind, cheerful, 
 generous-hearted old woman had distin 
 guished her by many little acts of affection 
 ate kindness and many tokens of good-will, 
 and the loving heart of the young girl had 
 warmly responded. Alice was naturally af 
 fectionate and grateful, and the extremely 
 limited circle of her personal friends had 
 perhaps intensified the love she bore them. 
 
198 SALEM. 
 
 Then, again, it was the first time that the 
 grim skeleton, death, had ever crossed her 
 own horizon, and here he was revealed in 
 deed as the very " king of terrors." There 
 were no mitigating circumstances no soft 
 ening of the awful shadow. The words 
 " here to-day, and gone to-morrow," " in the 
 midst of life we are in death," to which she 
 had listened so often, had suddenly taken 
 on a new meaning, and become to her an 
 awful reality. 
 
 The glad young spirit of the girl, so new 
 to suffering, was rent alike with grief for her 
 own loss and intense sympathy for the be 
 reaved family, and her own powerlessness to 
 help or comfort them, and she longed at least 
 to assure them of her undiminished love and 
 trust. 
 
 One evening she came up the little door- 
 yard of her humble home, with a step so 
 heavy, so slow and lagging, that her listen 
 ing grandmother, who was waiting for her, 
 did not recognize it, it was so unlike the 
 usual firm, free, bounding step of her child. 
 As Alice entered the room, the old woman 
 looked up and started, shocked at the ghast 
 ly paleness of her darling s face. 
 
CONDOLENCE. 
 
 199 
 
 " Oh, Allie, my ain precious bairn !" she 
 cried. " Oh ! what, is it, my darlin ? what 
 ha kim ower ye ?" 
 
 Alice did not speak, but, sinking down at 
 her grandmother s feet, she laid her head 
 upon the kind knees that had ever been 
 her place of refuge in all her childhood s 
 troubles, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Allie, Allie, my ain sonsie lassie ! 
 what oh, what is it? Dinna ye greet sae 
 sairly. Tell me what it is that s grievin ye. 
 Is there ony new throuble \ Oh, tell me 
 tell me !" 
 
 " Oh, no ? no, grandmother!" sobbed Alice, 
 whose hearty burst of tears had relieved her 
 overcharged feelings. " No, there is nothing 
 new ; but I think my heart is broken." 
 
 " Na ? , na , my dearie. Dinna say that, nor 
 think it, either," said the grandmother, fond 
 ly parting the girl s sunny curls, and ten 
 derly kissing her. "Ye are young, lassie, 
 an young hearts dinna break when they 
 think they will. Ye will win ower it, my 
 darlin , in time, though it s hard to bear noo. 
 But tell me, lassie, where hae ye been, an what 
 hae ye met wi , that ha so cast ye doon ?" 
 
200 SALEM. 
 
 " I have been over to Nurse s Farm, gran 
 
 nie." 
 
 " To Nurse s Farm, indeed ? Ye don t tell 
 me sae. An 7 did ye walk it a 7 the way there 
 an bock ? Ah, weel-a-weel ! I dinna won 
 der an ye are a used up. Ye are na fit to 
 be gangin sae lang a walk." 
 
 " Oh, it was not that, grandmother," said 
 Alice, relapsing into tears again. "I did 
 not mind the w^alk." 
 
 u To Nurse s Farm?" repeated the old 
 woman. " Oh, Allie, my dearie, how could 
 ye hae the heart to go there ?" 
 
 " Say, rather, how could I have the heart 
 to keep away," answered the sobbing girl. 
 "Think how kind -and good she was to me, 
 and how much I loved her ; think, too, what 
 they have suffered. Oh, how could I keep 
 away, and let them think I believed all those 
 lying, infamous charges? think that I did 
 not love her, and sorrow with them ? Oh, I 
 could not keep away ; and though to go has 
 almost broken my heart, still I am glad I 
 have been." 
 
 " I believe ye, dear. It wa a hard thing 
 to do; but ye wa right to go. Tell me 
 aboot it, Allie." 
 
CONDOLENCE. 2OI 
 
 " Oh, grandmother, it was sad ! sad ! 
 sadder even than I expected it would be. 
 Every thing was so changed since I was 
 there last, and that only so short a time 
 ago." Alice paused a moment to recover 
 herself, and then w r ent on. 
 
 " You know when I went there last, it was 
 all so bright and gay. The doors and win 
 dows were all set wide open, and the merry 
 little children were trooping in and out all 
 the time, laughing and playing, and all the 
 family were gathered there, so glad and 
 happy, and all seeming so secure. The very 
 house seemed to be full of sunshine and 
 laughter; and now oh, such a sad con 
 trast ! It seemed to me as if I could have 
 told from the very look of the house outside 
 that she had gone, and they were mourning 
 for her. 
 
 "Every door and window was shut fast. 
 Not a creature to be seen moving about 
 no happy children, no merry voices, no 
 laughter, no sunshine. It seemed the still 
 ness of death. I scarcely dared to go in. 
 Two or three times I lifted the knocker; 
 but my heart failed me, and my hand fell, 
 12 
 
2 02 SALEM. 
 
 and I did not knock ; but at last I did, and 
 the sound came back to me so hollow and 
 strange that I thought the house must be 
 deserted and empty. 
 
 " There was a long silence, and then I 
 heard the shuffling of feet inside, and old 
 Landlord Nurse himself opened the door for 
 me. Oh, grandmother ! I thought I should 
 scream when I saw him ; he is so changed, 
 you would not know him his flesh has all 
 fallen away ; he is sunken, and all bent over 
 on a cane, and his eyes looked so glassy and 
 bewildered and winking, as if he had wept 
 the very sight out of them." 
 
 " Puir auld mon ! .1 dare say ; I suppose 
 he is jist fairly dementit wi 7 the sorrow." 
 
 " I could not speak a word to him I only 
 held out my hand to him, and broke down, 
 crying. I could not help it ; but I think he 
 knew me, and knew what I felt, for he 
 squeezed my hand hard in his, and laid the 
 other on my head ; and then without a word 
 lie led me into the room where his daughter 
 Sarah was sitting all alone, and oh ! so sad. 
 She held out her arms to me, and I tried to 
 tell her what I felt, but we both broke down, 
 
CONDOLENCE. 303 
 
 and cried together ; and the poor old man 
 went into the other room, and sat down in 
 his big chair, and rested his head on the top 
 of his cane, and never spoke or looked up. 
 
 "And then, when we had got a little more 
 composed, she tried to tell me about her 
 mother ; but every time she tried to speak of 
 her her voice choked, and she cried so terri 
 bly, I begged her not to speak of her ; and I 
 tried to talk to her of other things of her 
 father, her sisters, the children, the garden, 
 the poultry but somehow or other, every 
 thing seemed to lead round to her mother 
 again. 
 
 "At last her sisters came in, and I was 
 thankful they did, for they were more com 
 posed. I suppose they may have loved their 
 mother as well as she did perhaps they 
 did ; but of course they do not miss her so 
 much, for they have their own houses and 
 their husbands and children to interest 
 them ; but poor Sarah is the youngest, and 
 has always lived at home with her, and of 
 course she must miss her the most. 
 
 " But when she went out to get the old 
 man s supper ready for him, the others told 
 
204 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 me all they could about their mother how 
 patient and resigned and forgiving she was; 
 and, oh ! grandmother! this is a great secret- 
 hut they told me I might tell you, and I am 
 sure you will be glad to know they have 
 got their dear mother s body, and buried it 
 decently in their own grounds, and that is 
 such a comfort to them. 
 
 "They told me all about it how one of 
 their kind neighbors kept watch to see what 
 was done with it, and came and told them ; 
 and how they all gathered together at their 
 father s house, and the sisters remained with 
 poor Sarah, who was almost beside herself, 
 while their poor old father, with all his sons 
 and sons-in-law, went off at midnight to that 
 awful place to try to recover it. Oh ! it 
 would make your heart ache to hear them 
 tell of it. 
 
 " There they sat, they said, all alone in the 
 dark, for they did not dare to have a light 
 at that hour in the house, fearing some one 
 might see it and inform against them, or it 
 might betray the party going out or coming 
 home. And so there they sat in the dark 
 ness, holding each other s hands, weeping and 
 
CO ND OLE NCR. 205 
 
 praying, it seemed, they said, as if it was 
 hours and hours. 
 
 " But at last they heard the slow steps of 
 the father and brothers returning, and they 
 knew by their heavy, solemn tread that their 
 search had been successful ; and sobbing but 
 silent, they all hurried out and opened the 
 door to give her a sad welcome to her home 
 once more, though they knew it was but for 
 a few hours ; and they said, terrible as it 
 was, they were thankful even for that. 
 
 " And then the young men went out again 
 and dug the grave in their own ground ; and 
 they, her daughters, with their own trem 
 bling, loving hands, hastily made her ready 
 for it. And when all was prepared, they all 
 went out together, and placed her there in 
 silence and darkness ; not a word was 
 . spoken, but they all knelt and prayed silent 
 ly for w r ho could tell who might be listen 
 ing; they did not even dare to raise up the 
 sods above her, lest their enemies might sus 
 pect, and steal the body from them ; and 
 so they just smoothed it off, and got back to 
 the house just as day dawned. And the 
 young men have taken turns to watch there 
 
206 SALEM. 
 
 every night, but it has not been disturbed. 
 And when I was coming away, they took 
 me round to see where they had laid her ; 
 but they told me not to pause or even turn 
 my head as we passed the spot, for fear it 
 might betray it, for they think her enemies 
 may still be on the watch to steal her away. 
 
 " And so they came with me to the gate, 
 and kissed me, and thanked me for my sym 
 pathy, and I came away; but I am glad I 
 went, grandmother, sad as it was." 
 
 " Yes, I am sure ye maun be ; if it wa 
 hard to do, it wa the mair merit l no cross, 
 no crown an sure an sartin they maun 
 ha felt thankful to ye." 
 
 " Yes ; I am sure they were pleased and 
 grateful for my visit. But, grandmother, I 
 have got something more to tell you some 
 thing which seems very strange to me." 
 
 " Weel ! an what wad that be, Allie ?" 
 
 " As I was coming home, walking through 
 the village, thinking sadly of all I had just 
 seen and heard, I heard my own name spoken 
 on the other side of the street I was sure I 
 was not mistaken There, that is the Camp 
 bell girl, I heard the voice say. That is 
 Alice Campbell, now. " 
 
CONDOLENCE. 207 
 
 " Haith ! ye wa mistaken, lassie ye wa 
 thinkin of ither things." 
 
 K No, I could not be mistaken I heard 
 it plainly. You will see I was not mistaken, 
 for as I looked over across the street (I could 
 not help doing that, of course, hearing my 
 own name spoken out so), there stood two 
 women, and one of them was one of those 
 dreadful, lying accusers." 
 
 The sensitive young girl stopped and shud 
 dered ; her naturally clear mind had doubt 
 ed the charge of witchcraft even when its 
 victims had been vagrants of a more than 
 questionable reputation. But when the aw 
 ful charge had been brought against her own 
 old friend, whose true and consistent piety 
 and excellence she had intimately known and 
 admired, the whole baseness and falsity of 
 the charge seemed to stand out in bold 
 prominence to her, and she hesitated not to 
 deny the whole thing as an imposture; the 
 cruel injustice of her doom, so opposed to 
 all law, human or divine, which reached out 
 hands eager to secure the victim, had out 
 raged her feelings, and she looked upon the 
 cruel accusers as murderers of her friend. 
 
2o8 SALEM. 
 
 " But, an who were they, Allie ?" asked 
 her grandmother, as Alice paused. 
 
 " I do not know her name I do not think 
 I ever heard it, though she was pointed out 
 to me as one of them ; and the other, an elder 
 woman, was her aunt I have seen her with 
 her before. When I looked round, the girl 
 called to me, and beckoned with her hand : 
 4 Alice Campbell! come over here; we want 
 to speak to you. 
 
 " But when I saw who it was, and remem 
 bered how those lying lips had falsely sworn 
 away the life of my dear old friend, I could 
 not bear to speak to them, or even look at 
 them ; I shook my head, and hurried on. In 
 a moment they had crossed the street, and I 
 heard their footsteps hurrying after me. 
 
 " Stop, Alice Campbell, says the girl ; 
 4 1 want to speak to you. 
 
 " I can not stop, says I ; and I almost 
 ran on. 
 
 " Well, says she, catching my sleeve, I 
 must say you re civil; we will walk with 
 you. 
 
 " I do not care for company, says I; 
 i and I ana in a hurry. : 
 
COND OLENCE. 2 09 
 
 " Oh, Alice, my child ! wa it safe to of 
 fend them ? Who kens what harm they 
 may do ye ?" 
 
 " I know it, grandmother ; but I could not 
 bear to look at them or speak to them, or 
 have them touch me ; I felt as if they were 
 murderers that there was blood, innocent 
 blood, on their cruel hands. 
 
 " i Why do you walk V says she ; * if you 
 are in such a hurry, why don t you ride ? 
 
 " You might have been riding in your 
 own coach, says the woman, l if your old 
 grandmother had not stood in your way. 7 
 And then they both laughed. 
 
 " You know nothing of me or my grand 
 mother, 7 said I. Let me go, will you ? and 
 I pulled away my sleeve. 
 
 " Don t I ? indeed ! says the woman ; 
 1 maybe I know more of her than you do. 
 And when did you hear last from your fa 
 ther, my dear V 
 
 " You have mistaken me for some one 
 else, says I, t for I have no father. And I 
 broke from them. 
 
 " t No ; none to speak of, you mean, says 
 the woman, laughing ; but I would not hear 
 
SALEM. 
 
 any more I broke from them, and fairly ran 
 down the street. But what did it all mean, 
 grannie ? was it not strange ?" 
 . Could Alice have seen her grandmother s 
 averted face in the gathering twilight, she 
 would have been struck with its sudden 
 change the ruddy complexion was ashy 
 pale. 
 
 " An hoo should I ken ?" she answered 
 angrily, snapping out the words with sharp 
 bitterness ; " I did na see her." 
 
 " But what could she have meant ?" 
 
 " Her meanin ? don t ye ken well enough 
 that they are awfu liars ?" 
 
 " But you know who the woman is, I sup 
 pose ?" 
 
 " An hoo should I ? If she is ane of those 
 vile creatures, I wad na wish to ha ony 
 thing to do wi her." 
 
 " Oh ! but I thought you might have 
 known something of her at home years ago, 
 because she is a Scotch woman, and came 
 out in the spring. Her name is Evans, I 
 think, and I heard she had been making 
 many inquiries about us so I thought it 
 was possible it might be some one you used 
 
CONDOLENCE. 2 1 1 
 
 to know at borne. But never mind about 
 her now. I am all tired out, grandmother, 
 and I think I will go to bed now it has 
 been a very hard day to me. I am weary 
 all over, in body and mind ; I do not think 
 there is a bone in my body that does not 
 ache, and my head and heart the worst of 
 all ; I hope I shall feel better to-morrow 
 and so good-night, grandmother." 
 
 And Alice kissed her fondly and left her ; 
 but for hours after, Goody Campbell sat 
 silent and motionless, just where Alice left 
 her. But if she moved not, her restless 
 thoughts roved far and wide in vivid recol 
 lections of the past; which, if the working 
 of her features might be regarded as indica 
 tive of their nature, were any thing but sat 
 isfactory. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 
 
 "In the cold, moist earth they laid her, when the forest cast 
 
 the leaf, 
 
 And they wept that one so beautiful should have a life so 
 brief." 
 
 JEAKLY a week subsequent to the 
 conversation between Justice Cor- 
 win and his sister, which has been 
 given in a previous chapter, Col 
 onel William Browne, who had found him 
 self strangely vexed and hampered in every 
 way in his business, owing to the excitement 
 of the .times, and the intense, all-absorbing 
 interest taken by all classes of the commu 
 nity in the pending witch-trials, informed 
 his wife at "supper-time," as it was then 
 commonly designated, that he should prob 
 ably be out late, as it was his intention to 
 pass the evening at his father s house, where 
 they were to be busy in adjusting certain 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 213 
 
 shipping-papers relative to the two vessels 
 they were preparing to send out ; and re 
 quested her, as her health was constitution 
 ally delicate, and her nervous system had 
 been heavily overtaxed of late, not to sit up 
 for him, but to retire at her usual hour ; add 
 ing, moreover, that as it was wholly impossi 
 ble for him to say at what hour he might 
 come home, he did not wish any one to be 
 kept up for him, but he would take the key 
 of the side door with him and let himself in, 
 whenever he could get through the business 
 he had on hand. 
 
 That night Mrs. Browne was oppressed by 
 a strangely vivid and most uneasy dream. 
 She seemed to be walking by night through 
 a deep and most impenetrable forest, trying 
 to pick her uncertain way through the thick, 
 rank undergrowth which grew up breast- 
 high around and before her; the choking 
 vines and interlaced bushes intercepting and 
 baffling her, clinging ever tenaciously around 
 her feet, and resisting the frantic efforts of 
 her utmost strength to tear them away, 
 while a strangely sweet, but heavy, pungent 
 odor from the branches she bruised seemed 
 
2I 4 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 to rise and confuse and almost suffocate her, 
 and all the while a strange, weird sound, half 
 tempest, half music, seemed to pursue and 
 surround her. 
 
 Gasping, panting, breathless, and oppress 
 ed, she struggled with this fearful sort of 
 nightmare now half reviving to conscious 
 ness, now again sinking down into a sort of 
 conscious stupor, until at length, when the 
 sense of oppression became absolutely un 
 bearable, she suddenly started and awoke 
 awoke to the full conviction that some one 
 or something was in the room with her. 
 
 For one moment she lay in mute, helpless 
 mental bewilderment, bathed from head to 
 foot with the cold dew of terror, and doubt 
 ful even where she was doubtful if she were 
 still asleep or awake for the closely shut 
 room was too entirely dark to enable her to 
 discover even the faintest outline of familiar 
 things; and still she was conscious of the 
 same warm, sweet, sickening odor, and still 
 sounding in her ears was the same weird, 
 mysterious music ; was it in the room or out 
 of it? she could not tell. It was a low, 
 sweet, wailing symphony unutterably sad ; 
 
THE MIDNIGHT \ TERROR. 2 1 5 
 
 at times so low as to be scarcely discernible, 
 yet never wholly ceasing : now swelling like 
 the high notes of the ^Eolian harp, close as 
 it would seem to her very bedside ; then soft 
 ly retreating away away it would seem 
 miles afar, yet still distinct; then swelling 
 again nearer, and nearer, and yet more near. 
 She was too fearfully agitated, too full of 
 terror, to tell if it were vocal or instrumental 
 the question did not then even occur to 
 her; it was like a chant by human voices; 
 but if there were words to it, she did not 
 catch them. 
 
 At last, with a desperate effort (a very 
 woman s courage, born of excess of fear), she 
 sprang from her bed, and gaining the win 
 dow with uncertain steps, she loosed the 
 clasp, and flung the casement wide open. 
 The sultry summer night was damp and star 
 less, and although without she could discern 
 the dim outline of the trees, it gave no light 
 into the chamber; but the outer air had 
 somewhat revived her, and for a moment she 
 clung to the window-frame for support, glanc 
 ing fearfully behind her into the darkness. 
 Nothing moved in the chamber but? herself, 
 
216 S A LEAL 
 
 the strange music had died away into si 
 lence, and in the awful stillness she could 
 hear the fierce beating of her own heart 
 beat, beat, beat ! She felt as if the life-blood 
 thus violently pumped up must break in 
 hemorrhage over her parched and stiffening 
 lips. 
 
 Another desperate effort, and she has dart 
 ed across the room and gained the chamber 
 door. She will call for help ; her trembling 
 hand is feeling for the latch ; she has found 
 it she has torn it open ; a figure stood just 
 beyond the threshold, and, with a wild, glad 
 C1 y " Oh, William !" she was springing 
 forward to the shelter of her husband s arms 
 but, merciful heavens ! that tall, vague, 
 shrouded figure, dimly revealed to her by 
 the hall window just behind him, is not her 
 husband ! not her husband s the cold, damp, 
 clammy hand that firmly clutched her wrist, 
 and held her one moment forcibly in the 
 doorway, then sternly thrust her back into 
 the chamber, closing the door between them. 
 
 Quick as thought, with rare presence of 
 mind, the trembling woman shot the bolt of 
 the door. One terror at least was thus shut 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 217 
 
 out; but what might she not thus have 
 shut in ? Clasping her hands about her 
 throbbing temples, " I must not faint," she 
 said mentally; " no, I must not I must not, 
 and I will not !" 
 
 Fully aware that in this terrible emer 
 gency she had no one but herself to depend 
 upon, she summoned up all her resolution, 
 and creeping with fearful and uncertain steps 
 in the direction of the fire-place, she groped 
 blindly about for the means of procuring a 
 light. 
 
 In those early times, the dangerous but ef 
 ficient lucifer matches, which we bless and 
 anathematize almost in the same breath, had 
 never been thought of, and thousands who 
 now in moments of need or terror obtain an 
 instantaneous light by a mere scratch upon 
 the wall, have never realized the blessing of 
 this much-abused invention. At the close of 
 the seventeenth century, and long afterward, 
 it was a work of time, skill, and patience to 
 gain a light ; and now Mrs. Browne, having 
 found her tinder-box, and secured the nec 
 essary apparatus of flint and steel, began to 
 strike a light ; but her trembling hands, 
 K 
 
2i8 SALEM. 
 
 which shook as in an ague fit, added to the 
 usual difficulties of the task. 
 
 A dozen times she struck the implements 
 together nervously before she could obtain 
 a spark, and even when she did obtain it, 
 owing to her trepidation, the tiny messenger 
 of hope fell outside of the prepared tinder 
 in the box, and was lost; another and an 
 other and they do not light ; again it lights, 
 but her own eager, gasping breath has ex 
 tinguished it. At length, after repeated dis 
 appointments, the tinder is ignited, and she 
 hastily lighted the rushlight at the moment 
 ary blaze. Oh ! thank heaven for the pro 
 tection, the sense of security that there is in 
 light. 
 
 She breathed more freely, as looking round 
 the room she saw no traces of disorder or 
 disturbance: every thing was in its place, 
 every thing was unaltered, and this familiar 
 home look did much to compose and reas 
 sure her. Finding that the open window 
 had cleared the room of much of its oppress 
 ive odor, Mrs. Browne hastened to close and 
 fasten it; and then, as by a natural connec 
 tion of ideas, she stepped to the other win- 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 219 
 
 dow, which she had not opened to her 
 surprise she found it unclasped, and a little 
 way opened. 
 
 As this window, being situated very near 
 the bed, was rarely opened, this fact con 
 firmed her in the conviction that some one 
 had been in the room. As she hastily shut 
 and fastened it, she heard the side door open 
 and close again her husband had returned, 
 then. Oh, welcome sound; she recognized 
 his well-known step in the hall below; she 
 heard the familiar creak of the door of the 
 little entry closet where he was wont to de 
 posit his hat and cane; and now his wel 
 come step was on the stairs. Oh ! what 
 blessed sense of relief there \vas in that 
 steadily approaching tread ! But then there 
 flashed over her mind the remembrance of 
 that dim, shrouded figure she had seen in 
 the entry way. What if her husband should 
 encounter him, unarmed and in the darkness ! 
 and fears for herself all forgotten in tender, 
 wifely anxiety for one so infinitely dear to 
 her, she opened her chamber door and stood, 
 light in hand, to receive him. 
 
 "Why, Hannah! why, wife!" said the 
 
220 SALEM. 
 
 strong, hearty, manly voice "what is the 
 meaning of all this ? why in the world are 
 you up at this hour, and with a light? is 
 any one sick?" 
 
 Wholly overcome with the sudden reac 
 tion of feeling, the overexcited woman put 
 down the light, tottered forward, and sank 
 fainting into his arms. 
 
 Colonel Browne was a man of warm feel 
 ings, but of a calm temperament; he loved 
 his wife tenderly, but he had often seen her 
 in a fainting fit, to which she was constitu 
 tionally subject ; therefore he was not alarm 
 ed by it, and, remembering the lateness of 
 the hour, he called up no one ; bearing her 
 back into her chamber, he found and applied 
 the usual restoratives, which were always at 
 hand, and in a few moments she recovered ; 
 and then, sitting with her cold, trembling 
 hands in the firm, warm clasp of his, she told 
 him the story of her terrible experience. 
 
 But Colonel Browne, although he listened 
 patiently and respectfully to his wife s nar 
 ration, was evidently incredulous husbands 
 are apt to be in such cases. In vain the ex 
 cited woman reiterated her story: " Pooh, 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 221 
 
 pooh ! sweetheart ; it was nightmare you 
 were dreaming." 
 
 " Yes, William, I know ; I had had the 
 nightmare, and I had been dreaming, but 
 not then ; I was wide-awake enough at the 
 last." 
 
 " Well, well, Goody ! you see there is 
 nothing in the chamber now, at any rate ; 
 you are satisfied of that, I suppose; you 
 must try to go to sleep, my dear Hannah, 
 or you will have one of your dreadful head 
 aches if you allow yourself to become so 
 much agitated; try to forget it all ; it s only, 
 a bad dream ; we will keep a light burning 
 if you wish, but you will laugh at it all to 
 morrow I am sure you will." 
 
 Overruled, but not in the least shaken in 
 her own convictions, the mother now insist 
 ed upon visiting her children s room to see 
 if they were safe, and nothing but the use 
 of her own motherly eyes would satisfy her. 
 Supported on the strong arm of her hus 
 band for she was really unable to walk 
 alone she crossed the entry into the room 
 occupied by the children. 
 
 "All safe here, you see," whispered the fa- 
 
222 SALEM. 
 
 ther, as with carefully shaded light they 
 bent over the little white beds which held 
 their sleeping treasures. " Are you satisfied 
 now, dear Hannah ?" 
 
 It would have amused a less anxious ob 
 server to see how characteristically different 
 the two children were, even in the uncon 
 sciousness of sleep the little, gentle Mary, 
 straight and fair as a lily in her almost 
 breathless repose, with quiet limbs all prop 
 erly disposed in unconscious grace, a half- 
 formed smile on her calm, sweet face, and her 
 little dimpled hands crossed lightly over her 
 bosom, lay like some saintly fair marble ef 
 figy upon a monumental stone, as if sleep 
 had surprised her at her innocent devotions ; 
 while the more decided, active Johnny, rest 
 less and energetic even in his sleep, with up 
 turned face and eager lips apart, the soft, 
 loose curls brushed back from his moistened 
 brow and flushed cheeks with graceful 
 limbs tossed about the bed in careless free 
 dom lay with his little sturdy fists doubled- 
 up like a prize-fighter above the disordered 
 bedclothes, as if he had fought to the very 
 last against the approaches of the slumber 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 223 
 
 that could alone have power to subdue his 
 active "nature. Pressing a light but fervent 
 kiss upon the brow of each of her darlings, 
 the mother returned to her ow r n room. 
 
 Once more within the sacred privacy of 
 their own apartment, the wife made a new 
 attempt to convince her husband of the truth 
 of her own convictions, but in vain ; his in 
 credulity was impenetrable at every point, 
 and she had no proof to offer him beyond 
 her own word and her own firm belief. She 
 called his attention to the fact of the win 
 dow witich she had found open ; but to him 
 that fact offered no proof at all. 
 
 " Did you look at it before you went to 
 bed, Hannah ? Are you quite sure it was 
 fastened then ?" 
 
 No ; she had not looked at it, as it was a 
 window very rarely opened. 
 
 "Then," said he, "the fact of finding it 
 open clearly proves nothing ; it may have 
 been, and very possibly had been, unfastened 
 for some time past, and you had not noticed 
 it that is all." 
 
 " Then you do not believe in what I have 
 told you 2" said the wife. 
 
224 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 " I do believe in every word of it, my dear 
 Hannah that is, I believe in your belief; 
 but I can not share it. I found you in a 
 , very nervous, excited, and hysterical state 
 when I came in this you will allow, certain 
 ly and you tell me you were comparatively 
 calm then, because the light had revealed 
 to you that there was no one in the room. 
 If, then, you were still more excited before I 
 came, how can I help feeling that your judg 
 ment was at the mercy of your terrors? 
 It seems to me there is really nothing in 
 all this to prove to my senses that it was 
 any thing more than a distempered dream." 
 
 " But you seem to forget, William, that I 
 had the evidence of nearly all my senses," 
 said Mrs. Browne. "You forget that I heard 
 the music, that I smelt the sickening odor, 
 that I saw the veiled figure in the hall, and 
 felt his rude grasp upon my arm. What 
 further evidence of my senses could I have ? 
 
 " William," she said, after a moment s 
 pause, " I will not ask you further to believe 
 me, for I see that you are wholly incredu 
 lous, and I have, as you say, no actual proof 
 to give you. I can not make you believe 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 2 2$ 
 
 against what you call the evidence of your 
 senses, and I can not hope to convey to your 
 mind the convictions of ray own. But this 
 much I may and I do ask of you : Do not 
 attempt by reasoning or by ridicule to com 
 bat what I in my own secret soul fully be 
 lieve. I do not, I can not attempt to ac 
 count for the transactions of this night ; but 
 my conviction of their reality is as firmly 
 fixed as is my belief in heaven ; and your ar 
 guments, however much they may wound 
 and distress me, can never convince me. 
 
 "Let this subject, then, be dropped be 
 tween us now and forever. I shall keep my 
 belief until my dying day, and you may 
 keep your unbelief as long as you can ; but 
 I do ask that the matter shall never be di 
 vulged to friend or foe. If it has come from 
 the invisible world (it may be a warning 
 I know not), we are, of course, powerless to 
 contend against it ; if it is (as it may be) 
 the result of earthly malice, our only safety 
 is in silence. I am too well aware that I 
 have already given offense to the evil ones 
 who seem to rule the hour, by the earnest 
 zeal that I have manifested in behalf of my 
 K 2 
 
226 SALEM. 
 
 poor old friend, Goody Nurse. I feel that 
 I am watched and suspected the merest 
 trifle, a chance word, a look even, may place 
 me in the same position. Complete silence 
 and total inaction are, I feel, my only chance 
 for escape, until you can take me and our 
 children away. My only hope of safety is in 
 being overlooked and forgotten. Will you 
 not promise me this, at least ? I ask it for 
 our children s sake as well as my own." 
 
 Of course this promise was freely given; 
 for Colonel Browne saw, no less clearly than 
 his wife did, that in the present inflammable 
 state of the public mind, any notoriety 
 any thing which might serve to draw atten 
 tion to them would be not only unwise, 
 but positively unsafe ; and he felt sure that 
 a public discussion of the mysterious events 
 of the night in the strange truth of which 
 his wife so fully believed would be sure to 
 link her name with the powers of darkness 
 in a way that might peril her reputation, 
 her safety, and even her life ; and he fully 
 agreed to her proposal to keep the whole 
 affair a profound secret. 
 
 In compliance with this decision, Mrs. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 227 
 
 Browne, the next day, although she was in 
 reality ill from the effects of her midnight 
 terror, made an effort to rise and appear at 
 the early breakfast-table as usual ; but her 
 husband did not tell her that the morning s 
 light had revealed to him that the flowering 
 vines around the porch, beneath the window 
 she had found open, were slightly but dis- 
 cernibly broken, trampled, and crushed, as 
 if an expert climber had ascended and de 
 scended by that means ; for he feared such a 
 confirmation of her story would only lend 
 a new intensity to her belief; and he fond 
 ly hoped that time and change absence 
 from the terrible scenes around her, and the 
 charms and incidents of foreign travel, to 
 which they were looking forward would 
 obliterate it from her mind. But in this hope 
 he was mistaken ; the conviction was far too 
 firmly rooted, and she brooded over it in 
 fearful silence day and night. 
 
 Although in advance of her times in re 
 gard to the subject of witchcraft, and look 
 ing with scorn and horror upon the mad fa 
 naticism of the multitude around her, she was 
 not, of course, wholly superior to the almost 
 
228 SALEM. 
 
 universal superstition of the age she lived 
 in. If the occurrences of that fearful night 
 which seemed burned in upon her heart 
 and brain were natural or supernatural, she 
 could not tell ; either way they boded her 
 no good, and they haunted her. 
 
 It might be that the terrible secret was 
 all the more terrible to her because she kept 
 it so closely locked up in the recesses of her 
 own breast. She received no sympathy, 
 for she asked none. Between herself and 
 her husband her own wish had made it a 
 forbidden subject, and no one else knew of 
 it not even to her brother, Judge Corwin, 
 whom she tenderly loved, and with whom 
 through life she had ever been in the habit 
 of full, free interchange of thought and feel 
 ing, did she ever in any way allude to the 
 secret weight of gloomy apprehension which 
 was slowly but surely dragging her down 
 ward to an untimely grave. 
 
 Her naturally delicate, nervous organiza 
 tion could not long bear up against so in 
 tense a pressure, and her health gave way. 
 Slowly at first, and almost imperceptibly, 
 but daily more and more speedily, the sad 
 
THE MIDNIGHT TERROR. 229 
 
 change came ; and as the summer drew near 
 to its close, she drooped more and more. 
 There were indeed as there often is in these 
 cases alternate intervals of failure and of 
 recruit ; but those who watched her most 
 closely and most tenderly saw that when she 
 rallied, she never got back to the point she 
 had last failed from. 
 
 The purposed trip to the mother country 
 had to be given up, for she had not now 
 the strength to make the passage as it was 
 then obliged to be made. 
 
 People called it a decline perhaps it was 
 so ; but, though gentle as ever, she never re 
 vealed her solemn secret possibly her hus 
 band thought she had forgotten it. 
 
 The most skilled physicians were called in, 
 but the case baffled their highest art ; for 
 she alone knew what had sapped the springs 
 of life, and she would not tell. 
 
 The sad summer passed on, and as the 
 flowers faded, she faded with them. When 
 the brilliant days of the Indian summer 
 drew near, and the laud put on its gorgeous 
 robes of regal beauty, she would sit, propped 
 up in her cushioned chair, at the southern 
 
2 3 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 window, which overlooked the garden where 
 her children played, her quiet eyes roam 
 ing, with their tender, wistful gaze, over the 
 blue, dancing waters of the little cove to the 
 fair, green hills beyond or turning dreamily 
 to the golden southwest, where the sunset 
 clouds spread their pavilion curtains of pur 
 ple and softest rose-tints; and "when the mel 
 ancholy days had come, the saddest of the 
 year," a shrouded armorial hatchment over 
 Colonel Browne s door, a passing bell, and a 
 slowly moving train wending its mournful 
 way to the then thinly populated burial- 
 ground, told of the removal of one whose 
 youth and health, rank, wealth, beauty, grace, 
 and loveliness are now known only "as a 
 tale that is told." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WAKEFULNESS. 
 
 " Tis well for us there is no gift 
 
 Of prophecy on earth, 
 Or how would every pleasure be 
 A rose crushed at its birth. n 
 
 LICE retired to her bed ; but, 
 weary as she was, she could not 
 sleep. Hitherto, whatever her 
 griefs or anxieties had been, 
 night had brought repose sleep, blessed 
 sleep, that panacea of all human woes, which 
 the young and happy have never learned to 
 estimate, had never failed her before ; but 
 now her powers of mind and body had all 
 been overtasked, and her whole delicate 
 nervous system was shaken by the intense 
 strain it had undergone, and she could not 
 sleep. Restless and feverish, she turned 
 from side to side in strange, unwonted wake- 
 fulness. Her head ached, her cheeks burned, 
 
2 3 2 
 
 SALEM: 
 
 her temples throbbed, her aching eyes seem 
 ed strained unnaturally wide open, and her 
 hot hands and restless arms were tossed 
 wildly above her head. 
 
 She had no power to stop the action of 
 mind and memory. Thought seemed to her 
 like the great wheel of some ponderous ma 
 chine, which, once set in motion, could nei 
 ther be guided nor stopped, but would go on 
 and on forever, with its terrible but useless 
 activity. 
 
 Probably, for the first time in her healthy, 
 happy young life, she realized what wake- 
 fulness was, and she lay, with quick beating 
 heart and widely opened eyes, staring into 
 the blank darkness, through long, uncounted 
 hours, that seemed to her inexperience to be 
 interminable. 
 
 Of course, in this state of enforced bodily 
 stillness, and unnatural mental excitement 
 and activity, the sad scenes of the previous 
 day, the terrible sorrow she had witnessed 
 and shared in could not be put aside it 
 was all lived over again in her excited imag 
 ination. 
 
 Again in memory she went through all 
 
WAKEFULNESS. 
 
 233 
 
 the sad details of that harrowing story; 
 again she saw and pitied the silent, hopeless 
 grief of the bereaved and sorrow-stricken old 
 man, whose voiceless woe was more eloquent 
 than the most expressive words; again she 
 seemed to pass that nameless and unmarked 
 grave, where she dared not pause to drop a 
 tear, and over which the tenderest love vent 
 ured not to place a stone or a flower. And 
 when, by a powerful effort of self-will, she at 
 last succeeded in turning her mind away 
 from this dreadful subject there rose up be 
 fore her the recollection of her unwilling 
 interview with the two women who had so 
 rudely accosted her in the street on her way 
 home, and she naturally began to wonder 
 who they were and what they could have 
 meant. 
 
 She had never spoken to either of them 
 before, and knew nothing of them beyond 
 what she had told her grandmother. What, 
 then, could they know of her or her affairs ? 
 
 But as Alice pondered this question curi 
 ously, a new thought took possession of her 
 mind. The woman had spoken of her father 
 how oddly the words sounded to her ears 
 
234 SALEM. 
 
 her father ? She had never heard of him 
 before; and, strange as it now seemed to 
 her, when her thoughts were thus turned to 
 the subject, it had never before occurred to 
 her that she ever had a father. 
 
 Her grandmother had so constantly spok 
 en of her as her daughter s child, as her 
 own Alice s " wee Allie," that it had never 
 entered her mind that she belonged to any 
 other parent. 
 
 Her grandmother, her mother, and herself 
 these formed for her a regular trio ; and 
 she had grown up so impressed with the 
 idea that they three were and had been all 
 in all to each other, that any other relation 
 ship had seemed superfluous ; but now, when 
 her thoughts had been called to the subject, 
 she wondered at her own stupidity, and puz 
 zled herself in wild conjectures. Why had 
 her grandmother never mentioned her father 
 to her ? No doubt he must have died long 
 ago in her infancy, perhaps, as her poor 
 mother did. And yet, if he had her grand 
 mother had always talked to her of her 
 mother, and had taught her to love and 
 cherish her memory. Why, then, had she 
 
WAKEFULNESS. 235 
 
 not taught her to remember and love her 
 
 o 
 
 father too ? 
 
 Surely, she thought, her grandmother must 
 have done so of course she had, and she, 
 undutiful child, must have forgotten it. It 
 would all come back to her by and by she 
 should be able to remember what grannie 
 had told her about her father ; and she taxed 
 her memory to the utmost to try to recall 
 any such information any allusion, even, to 
 such a person having ever existed. It was 
 all in vain ; but as she thus explored the ut 
 termost limits of her childish recollections, 
 there came up a dim, shadowy remembrance 
 of that vague suspicion which had been 
 awakened long ago, when she was but a lit 
 tle child, and had dressed her hair with the 
 purple flowers, and grandmother had seemed 
 so displeased with her she did not know 
 why. She did not understand it then, and 
 she did not understand it any better now. 
 It was all so hazy and dim, she could make 
 nothing of it. 
 
 Turning away in despair from that vain 
 research, the restless thoughts took a new 
 direction, and she began to wonder who and 
 
236 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 what this unknown father could have been. 
 Already his very name had taken a strong 
 hold upon her innocent affections. Surely 
 she ought to love him, to make up to him 
 for her life-long forgetful ness. Who could 
 he have been ? What was he like ? What 
 was his name? But here a new question 
 started up why did not she bear his name, 
 instead of that of her mother and grand 
 mother ? 
 
 In vain she questioned and conjectured. 
 There was but one way out of this strange 
 mystery her grandmother must know all 
 about it. To-morrow she would ask her. 
 Yes ; to-morrow she would get her grand 
 mother to tell her all about it ; but though 
 she repeated these words to herself a dozen 
 times, they did not satisfy her impatient 
 longing, and more widely awake than ever, 
 she looked and longed for the coming day. 
 
 And Mrs. Campbell, too, had had her sleep 
 less night (but it was not so new to her). 
 She, too, had been tossing restlessly, striving 
 vainly with the memories of the past and 
 the anxieties of the future. 
 
 Again she reviewed the sad events of 
 
WAKEFULNESS. 237 
 
 other days ; again, with a renewed bitter 
 ness, they rose up before her ; again she 
 strove with a mighty sorrow, a cruel wrong, 
 an unmerited disgrace, a fierce temptation, 
 a ready revenge, a yielding circumstance ; 
 again she weighed chances long passed, and 
 pondered probabilities all long gone by, and 
 balanced with trembling hands and waver 
 ing brain the eternal right and wrong. 
 
 Again she seemed to look with bitter an 
 guish on the face of the dead ; again, by her 
 persistent will, she tore open the deep but 
 unforgotten wounds of her heart, and laid 
 her own fierce hand -on the unhealed scars 
 that bled with a touch. 
 
 Alas ! there was no comfort there. What 
 had all that suffering brought her, that a 
 chance word might not have swept away ? 
 
 She never for a moment doubted that Al 
 ice would question her she knew the girl 
 too well to doubt it. That quick, impera 
 tive spirit was too like her own for her to 
 think for a moment that she would relin 
 quish her purpose. How could she baffle 
 or resist her ? and what and how should she 
 answer her eager inquiries ? What to keep 
 
238 SALEM. 
 
 back, and what to reveal, was a momentous 
 and unanswerable question. Long and pain 
 fully she pondered it, but no new light broke 
 in upon the troubled darkness of her spirit ; 
 for the trying ordeal must be met, and to 
 morrow would surely bring it. 
 
 At last she made up her mind that she 
 would steadfastly refuse all explanation 
 whatever. Alice could not force it from her, 
 and she should not. She might, indeed, 
 question no doubt she would ; but what 
 then ? She had held her own sa.d secret for 
 more than eighteen years should a mere 
 child have power to wring it from her now ? 
 
 With this fallacious hope, of the insecurity 
 of which she was but too well aware, she 
 tried to fortify herself for the coming inter 
 view; but it was with a new and strange 
 feeling of constraint on both sides that the 
 grandmother and her child met each other 
 the next morning. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 E S TRANCE M EN T. 
 
 A something light as air a look 
 
 A word unkind or wrongly taken ; 
 Oh ! love, that tempests never shook, 
 A word a breath like this has shaken." 
 
 N the silent and lonely hours of the 
 sleepless night it had seemed to Alice 
 a very simple and easy thing to ask 
 the question she meditated, and ob 
 tain from her grandmother the information 
 she desired, and she longed for the coming 
 day to dawn that she might begin her inves 
 tigation ; but in the clear light of day it 
 seemed neither so easy nor so practicable, 
 and she almost trembled at the temerity of 
 her own purpose. 
 
 She glanced at her grandmother s stern, 
 set face (all the more stern from her mid 
 night resolve), and her habitual awe and rev- 
 *erence for the old woman came back to her 
 
240 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 with redoubled force. She saw, too, that her 
 grandmother was watching her with uneasy 
 glances, and her heart sunk appalled at the 
 task she had set herself; yet she never for 
 one moment thought of relinquishing her 
 purpose. 
 
 And the grandmother, on her part, noticed 
 Alice s furtive, uneasy glances at her, and 
 knew the dreaded hour was at hand, and 
 braced herself to meet it. 
 
 " I laid awake nearly all night last night, 
 grandmother," said Alice, at length, begin 
 ning afar off; "I could not sleep for thinking 
 my visit was such a sad one." 
 
 " I dinna doot it," replied Mistress Camp 
 bell, gravely. ^ Ye had a lang, weary walk, 
 an a varry mournfu visit; I wad na won 
 der ye could na sleep." 
 
 " No, indeed. I seemed to live it all over 
 again I could not forget it ; and I got my 
 eyes so wide open, it seemed as if I should 
 never sleep again. And then, grandmother" 
 and here, in spite of all her efforts to keep 
 it steady, the poor child s voice trembled a 
 little, and she was sure her grandmother 
 noticed it "and then I thought of what, 
 those women said to me in the street." 
 
ESTRANGEMENT. 2 4 T 
 
 "Haith ! Alice," said the old woman, snap 
 pishly, as she rose from the table, as if to 
 put an immediate end to the conversation, 
 " an what do ye fash yersel aboot them for ? 
 Ye ken fu weel that they are vile leers an 
 defamers; dinna talk o them to me forget 
 them let them gang." 
 
 " Yes, grandmother, I know I would 
 gladly forget them ; I do not wish ever to 
 see or hear of them again. I only want you 
 to tell me what they meant." 
 
 " An hoo suld I ken their meanin mair 
 than yersel ? I did na hear them." 
 
 " No ; but I told you what they said." 
 
 " An what if ye did ? I ha nathing to 
 say to them ; an I dinna care to ken their 
 leeing words." 
 
 "But, grandmother, tell me what it meant." 
 
 " How do I ken ? I ha nathing to say to 
 them or of them ; an I suld think, Allie, ye 
 wad na care to keep company wi them that 
 wrought the death o Goody Nurse." 
 
 Trembling with vainly suppressed pas 
 sion, Goody Campbell uttered these taunt 
 ing words. She meant that they should cut 
 deeply, and they did ; but she saw in a mo- 
 L 
 
242 SALEM. 
 
 ment that she had made a mistake she 
 had gone too far. Alice s pale face flushed 
 to the very temples, and all the passionate 
 impulse of the temper she had inherited 
 from her grandmother flashed back upon her 
 from those startled eyes. 
 
 " Grandmother, it is not of Goody Nurse 
 or her accusers that I am speaking," she 
 said, controlling her rising temper with diffi 
 culty, " but of my father." 
 
 Goody Campbell made no answer, beyond 
 an emphatic and contemptuous " Hump !" 
 
 " I ask you," said Alice, with her blue eyes 
 wide open, and glittering like cut steel 
 " I ask you only to tell me about my father." 
 
 "An I hae nathing to tell ye. Tak yer 
 answer, an gang." 
 
 " I will not take that answer. You have 
 told me about my mother a hundred times ; 
 then why not tell me something about my 
 father?" 
 
 " I dinna ken ony thing aboot him I hae 
 nathing to tell ye. I hae na seen him, or 
 heard fra him, sin ye kim into the warld. 
 What hae I to tell ?" 
 
 "Neither have you seen nor heard from my 
 
ESTRANGEMENT. 243 
 
 mother since I was born ; and yet you can 
 talk to me for hours about her." 
 
 "Alice," said the grandmother, making a 
 desperate effort to re-establish her hold upon 
 the girl s affections, " hoo kin ye try me 
 sae ? Yer mither wa my ain bairn my on y 
 child ; sure I hae much to tell o her ; an ye 
 are her on y bairn. Hoo kin ye doot me? 
 Hoo kin ye doot if I hae ony thing pleas 
 ant to tell ye I wad na wait for ye to ques 
 tion me T 
 
 But the effort failed. Alice stood proud 
 and unyielding. 
 
 " Grandmother, I do not ask for pleasure 
 I ask for information. I have a right to 
 know something of my own history of my 
 own parents. I have been kept blinded long 
 enough. I am no longer a child, to be put 
 aside with a jest or a scolding. I ask you 
 again will you tell me about my father, or 
 not ?" 
 
 Alice paused ; but there was no answer. 
 
 " Grandmother, I am in earnest ; will you 
 answer me yes or no ? I must knojv the 
 truth." 
 
 " Ye maun know, did ye say, Allie ? 
 
SALEM. 
 
 244 
 
 Haith! lass, must is a bold doggie enow; 
 but you can t is the doggie that kin pu 
 him doon, an hold him there, I wot." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Alice, carelessly. " But 
 I can and will can conquer even him, 3 
 think ; and I tell you now plainly that I 
 both can and will." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! lass. Dinna bark when ye kin- 
 na bite hoo kin ye, an hoo will ye?" 
 
 "I will go to the women I met in the 
 street ; it is clear to me that they know what 
 you refuse to tell me. < An open enemy is bet 
 ter than a false friend I will go to them." 
 "Alice, girl, are ye mad? Would ye 
 gang to those awfu , leeing creatures that 
 hae the power o the evil-eye j Ye wad na 
 ye wad na ." 
 
 I will," said Alice, calmly ; " I fear them 
 not. I will brave the evil-eye, and the evil 
 tongue too but I will find out the truth 
 you are hiding from me. I will give you 
 the day to make up your mind in I will 
 wait until the evening; if you choose to tell 
 me tfeen, I will have the story from you if 
 not, then before this night closes I will try 
 to learn it from them." 
 
ESTRANGEMENT. 245 
 
 " Nay ; but Alice, hear me." 
 
 " No," said Alice, " there is no use in any 
 more angry words. We have both spoken 
 too many already. I will wait till night ; 
 then you may speak" or not, as you may think 
 best ;" and sweeping by her grandmother 
 with an air of proud defiance she had never 
 manifested before, Alice left the room. 
 
 During the rest of the day no word was 
 exchanged between this so lately loving pair. 
 In silence they met and passed each other in 
 the performance of their respective daily du 
 ties, and in silence each covertly and anx 
 iously scanned the face of the other but in 
 .vain. They were well-matched antagonists, 
 for they were far too much alike in temper 
 and spirit, for either of them to be able to 
 detect one sign of wavering in the other. 
 
 But when their evening meal was over, 
 Alice rose in silence and put on her shawl. 
 
 " Alice !" cried her grandmother, starting 
 as from a stupor, " where are ye gangin the 
 night ?" 
 
 " I am going to the village, as I told you 
 I should." 
 
 " Whist ! Alice, girl," said Mrs. Campbell, 
 
246 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 seizing the shawl with no gentle hand, and 
 drawing it hastily from her shoulders ; " ye 
 are na gangin to those awfti leeing creat 
 
 ures." 
 
 " I am," said Alice, resolutely. 
 
 " Girl, ye are mad mad ! I think the 
 power o the evil-eye is upon ye a ready." 
 
 " It is your own work, grandmother. Re 
 member always, if any harm come of it, it 
 was you that sent me there; it was not my 
 own choice to seek them you drove me 
 to it." 
 
 " What is it ye wad know, lass ?" said the 
 woman, brought to terms at last. . 
 
 " I w^ant to know the story of my birth 
 I want to know about my father ; I have 
 been kept blindfolded long enough. I want 
 the whole story and I want the truth." 
 
 "Alice," said the old woman sadly and 
 reproachfully, " ye are unjust. For yer ain 
 sake to spare ye I hae concealed the 
 truth, that I ken too weel will gie ye sair 
 pain ; but niver in a my life did I tell ye a 
 lee." 
 
 "Very well," said Alice, coldly; "let us 
 have an end of concealment now. Will you 
 
ESTRA NGEMENT. 
 
 247 
 
 tell me the whole story now? or shall I 
 seek it of others?" 
 
 " I will, Alice ; but if it gies ye pain, mind 
 ye hae yersel to thank." 
 
 "Very well," said Alice, folding up her 
 shawl and resuming her seat "I will take 
 that risk." 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 
 
 "A coldness dwells within thy heart, 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow; 
 We have been friends together 
 Shall a light word part us now?" 
 
 E hae set me a hard task, Alice," 
 began her grandmother; " Lard 
 er far than ye ken, for the story 
 ye ask is sair to hear an sair 
 to tell; but the willfu mon maun hae his 
 way, an if it makes yer ain heart as heavy 
 as mine, ye will remimber ye wad hae me 
 speak. 
 
 " It s an ower lang tale, lass for to gar ye 
 onderstan hoo it a came aboot, I maun 
 needs gae far bock, an tell ye somethin o 
 my ain youth. Like yer mither an yersel , 
 I wa an on y child, an , like her too, an yer 
 sel , I wa called fair to luke upon, an had a 
 quick, passionate temper I think these 
 things rin in our bluid. 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 249 
 
 " My father wa a inon in humble life, but 
 he wa a guid mon, an ane that wa much 
 respectit ; he wa weel off for his station- 
 he wa na so to say rich, but he farmed his 
 own Ian he had a snug little farm, a sma 
 housie, a cosy but an ben, as we ca it ; he 
 owed nae mon a penny, an he had a little 
 siller laid by, as he used aften to tell me, for 
 my tocher for he wa varry fond o me. 
 An so it kim aboot that, being called fair, 
 an my father reputit rich, I wa na to seek 
 for suitors ; but I did na care for them ane 
 an a wa nathing to me. 
 
 " But my father s little place wa near a 
 barrack toon, an ane day I met wi a gay 
 young soger laddie fra the toon weel-a- 
 weel, lassie, words are but idle brith, never 
 mind them ; but he had a merry eye, a ready 
 tongue, an a winsome smile ; an the upshot 
 o it wa that he woo d an won me ; an I 
 had nae thought but for my gay, bonnie 
 soger laddie. 
 
 " But my father, he wad na hear tell on t. 
 
 He s but a rovin blade, Elsie, he said to 
 
 me ; i he ll maybe be ordered awa fra here 
 
 ony day in the year, an then I ll lose my 
 
 L2 
 
250 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 on y child. An inair he said to me, an 
 raair to the purpose ; but, whist ! lassie, 
 young girls are aye silly an luve is blin , 
 an deaf too; I wa jist like a colt fra the 
 heather, an I wad na hear till him. 
 
 " Ye may tell yer braw wooer, Elsie, he 
 said to me ane day, if he courts ye for the 
 siller, he wi marry ye wi an empty han ; 
 for I tell ye noo that niver a baubee o my 
 honest arnings sail gae into his pouch, to be 
 squandered ower the mess-table; an ye may 
 tell him so fra me. 
 
 "But I did na tell him I could na ; I 
 thought, puir silly lass, that it wa as if I 
 dooted his luve ; an so when my father an 
 mither baith held out agin him, an talked 
 hard to me about Robin, I jist rinned awa 
 fra them, to follow the fortunes of my gay 
 soger lad. 
 
 " He married me, Allie yes, he made me 
 his honest wife; ah! he took tent o that, 
 for he counted sure upon my little fortin; 
 but my father alas, he better onderstood his 
 feathering tongue than I did, for whin he 
 wrote him word that a his sma property 
 wad gae to his brither s son, my husband 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 251 
 
 cursec^ me to my face, an swore I haed 
 cheated him into niarryin a penniless lass. 
 
 " Weel ; I trow I haed a hard life enow 
 but I wa true to him ; for mind ye this, 
 Allie, I wa his wife, an I luved him, in spite 
 o a his onkindness. So I held by him for 
 ower two years through guid an evil till 
 my little baby wa born, an thin jist what 
 my father haed foretold kim true the regi 
 ment wa ordered to move, an he went 
 whistlin awa , an left me wi the puir wee 
 thing lyin by my side, an na the first 
 haY-penny to live on, an rne too weak to 
 ettle to win ane. 
 
 " An thin ah ! Alice, mind ye, there s 
 nae luve like the luve that ha growed up 
 wi us: my father haed niver lost sight o 
 me, though he left me to drink the cup I 
 brewed ; he kim to me in my desolation, an 
 took tent o me, an my puir wee lambie. 
 
 "In less than a month I got news o the 
 shipwreck o ane o the transport ships, an 
 my husband wa lost. Thin my father an 
 mither forgave me, an took me name to their 
 hearts ance mair; an whin they deed long 
 after, they left me weel-to-do; an my wee 
 
252 SALEM. 
 
 Allie wa to hae it a after me. An 7 my 
 Allie, oh ! she wa jist the varry light o my 
 een ; an sae fair, an sweet, an sousie every, 
 bodie luved her ; an she haed luvers too, 
 but she did na care for ony o them, she 
 wa crouse an cantie as a bird in the tree, 
 but niver bould jist cannie an sweet to all. 
 
 " There wa ane chiel, a nee bor s lad, that 
 coorted her, an I liked him, an fain wad I 
 hae married her to him, an kept her an ear 
 me ; but it wa na sae to be. He wa an 
 honest, hamely bodie, but Allie did na tak 
 a likin to him. Ye see, she haed been 
 better educatit than ever I were, an she wa 
 mair of a leddie she wa often up at the 
 manse, an the rector s young leddies, they 
 made friends o her, till at last she half lived 
 there, an there s where the trouble began. 
 
 " The rector s son, he haed been tutor to a 
 young mon, the on y son o a wealthy En 
 glish family ; they haed been on their travels 
 he an his tutor that haed been an whin 
 they kim hame, he kim wi him to the rectory, 
 an there he an Alice met an she wa very 
 fair, an sweet, an innocent, an the young 
 mon made luve to her. 
 
GOODY CAMPBELLS STORY. 253 
 
 "Whin I kirn to the knowledge o it, I 
 wa sair vexed, for though he seemed an 
 honorable young mon, an asked her in mar 
 riage, an though I kenned she wa fair an 
 good as the varry angels were, an would be 
 no discredit to ony mon, still I kenned his 
 family wa rich, an proud, an high-born 
 an they might feel she wa na his equal ; 
 an I wad na hae my precious child looked 
 doon on by ouy o his English bluid an 
 sae I refused to hear till it; an whin I heard 
 his father wanted him to wed a girl whose 
 father s lands joined his ain, I wa glad to 
 hear it, for I thought that wad stop it. But 
 I reaped as I haed sowed my bounie Alice 
 fled fra my hame, as I haed fled fra my fa 
 ther s. t Ah ! then I kenned what my ain sin 
 haed been ; then I kenned what my father 
 and rnither haed suffered for me, an I felt I 
 haed na a word to say. 
 
 "In a day or two mair I got letters, beg- 
 gin me to forgi e them (ah ! hoo could I re 
 fuse I that haed dune the varry same thing 
 mysel 1 ?) ; they wrote me that they were pri 
 vately married directly Allie left hame ; 
 that as the auld laird wa varry sick, an it 
 
SALEM. 
 
 wa feared ony vexation or opposition might 
 do him an injury, so it wa to be kept secret 
 fra him for a while. Ah ! lassie, I tell ye I 
 did na like the lukes o that but what 
 could I do but try to be patient ? 
 
 " Weel, time wint on ; I got letters fra my 
 Alice regularly, an she wa so happy, her 
 husband wa a she could ask an 7 I tried 
 to feel satisfied. 
 
 " In little mair than a year I got word fra 
 her that the auld laird, her husband s father, 
 wa mair dangerous they feared something 
 wa wrong aboot his head, an his doctors 
 haed ordered him awa for his health, an 
 he wad na gae without his on y son went 
 too an as he haed na told of his marriage, 
 an dare na , he could na be excused. 
 
 " So as Alice wa in delicate health, her 
 husband wad na lave her amang strangers, 
 an he haed gi en consint she should come 
 harne an stay wi me while he wa gone. 
 An , oh ! she wa as blithe as a bird at the 
 thought o seeing me, an Tibbie, an the auld 
 hame again ; an ye may think I wa nae less 
 delightit at the chance to see my bonnie 
 bairn. 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 255 
 
 " Weel, I made ready for her wi a glad 
 heart I an auld Tibbie, who haed been her 
 nurse, an luved her a rnaist as weel as I did. 
 But a day or twa before she wa expectit to 
 come, I wa out to buy some sma matters, 
 an I chanced upon Jeannie Evans, the sister 
 o the lad that I wanted Allie to marry, ye 
 mind, an I kenned weel she haed na for- 
 gi en Allie for the slight she felt we haed 
 put upon her brither. 
 
 " i Haith ! Mistress Campbell, she says to 
 me, this is great news indeed ; I hear tell, 
 she says, yer Allie is kimming hame to ye 
 again. I did na think, she says, that he d 
 cast her a"ff sae sune ; it wad hae been better 
 by far for her to hae married to a puir but 
 honest boy, that wad hae stood by her, an 
 luved an respectit her, if he were but a 
 hamely lad like Sandie Evans. 
 
 " An what do ye mean by that ? I said ; 
 though I kenned well eneugh by the evil 
 luke in her wicked een what she meant. 
 
 " l Oh ! says she, have ye na got yer een 
 opened yet ? My faith ! hoo blind people kin 
 be whin they don t choose to see ! ye diuna 
 think it is a real marriage yet, do ye an he 
 sendin her aff like this ? 
 
256 SALEM. 
 
 " An this to be said o my girid an beau 
 tiful Alice, an said to her ain mither, too ! 
 Oh ! I could hae struck the creature to the 
 earth, but I dared na trust mysel to answer 
 her. I turned awa and went harne. I told 
 auld Tibbie, for she luved my bairn a maist 
 as I did mysel ; an she counseled me to be 
 silent, an na to let Allie ken what we haed 
 heard, an see wha she wad say : if it were 
 true, an she kenned it, she wad be sure to 
 tell us an if the puir lassie did na ken it, 
 why should we be the anes to tell her? 
 
 " Weel, she kim ; an oh, Allie, it seemed 
 she wa mair beautiful than ever; she wa 
 dressed a in her rich silks as a leddy should 
 be, an she haed jewels on her neck an 
 arms ; an , the innocent, loving young thing, 
 she haed dressed her beautiful hair wi Hhe 
 purple heather flowers, to show me she luved 
 her ain countrie still ; an she wa a sae 
 bright an sae happy, an sae full o praises o 
 her husband her liusband! Oh, but it made 
 my varry bluid creep in my veins to hear 
 the innocent creature ca him so, knowing 
 weel what I did of his vile baseness but I 
 never let on to her, I took tent o that. 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 257 
 
 " A nee or twice, whiles she talked to. us 
 sae glad an gay, an lookin sae bonnie, I 
 thought I saw a strange, sudden luke o pain 
 pass ower her sweet face ; an at last I took 
 notice o it, an I questioned her aboot it. 
 At first she put me by, an telled me it wa 
 nathin ; but at last she had to own up, an 
 she telled us that in gettin out o ane o the 
 coaches on her route hame, she had slipped 
 an fallen, an haed somehoo strained hersel 
 a little ; but she tried to laugh it aff, an said 
 it wa nathin ; but Tibbie an I felt there 
 wa reason to be anxious in her circum 
 stances. 
 
 "That night, alas! she haed to ca us up 
 oh, that wa a dreadfu night ! an before 
 the mornin broke on us, you, a puir, weakly 
 baby, wa prematurely born, an Alice my 
 treasure, my darlin , my on y child wa 
 gaen fra me foriver. 
 
 " Then, Alice, I think my brain gave way, 
 an I wa mad mad ! There wa but ane 
 bit o comfort left me I wa glad I haed 
 never told her o the sin o the mon she 
 luved sae weel ; an she died in her innocent 
 belief that she wa his luved an lawfu wife 
 
258 SALEM. 
 
 that wa a comfort as regarded her, the on y 
 comfort; but as for him, the deceiver I 
 could hae torn his fause heart out. 
 
 " But Tibbie helped me in my thirst for 
 revenge. Tibbie an I haed been alone in 
 the house wi Alice nabodie but she an I 
 kenned the terrible event of the night. She 
 put it into my mind to conceal, yer birth; 
 she took ye, poor unconscious babe, under 
 her plaidie, an awa wi ye to the house o 
 her brither, who had a baby aboot the same 
 age, an left ye wi his wife, who promised 
 to rear ye wi her ain young ane. Tibbie 
 swore them to secrecy, an kirn bock to me; 
 an wi our ain hands we made our darlin 1 
 ready for the grave we were a alane wi 
 our dead an our dool ; but if we had na 
 been, I wad hae let nae hand but my ain or 
 Tibbie s touch her sweet bodie. 
 
 "An so my precious Allie wa laid in her 
 grave, close by the side o my father an 
 mither ; an then the auld rector, who knew 
 an loved my Alice, who haed baptized her, 
 an read the burial service ower her, an who 
 knew a that the young folks cared to tell 
 him, he wrote out to yer father, at the out- 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S S7VRY. 259 
 
 landish place (wheriver it were, I did na ken) 
 where he an the auld laird were. I did na 
 ask him wha he wrote, an he did na ask me 
 wha he should write; I wa thankfu for 
 that. I suppose he thought I wa too wild 
 like in my great sorrow to send any mes 
 sage; so he jist wrote wha he thinked best. 
 Nae doot he telled him o the accident she 
 met wi on her way hame, and o its fatal 
 effects, which might weel hae been expectit 
 in her circumstances; but he could na tell 
 him o the birth o her child nabodie guess 
 ed that nabodie haed seen her fra the time 
 she kim, till they seen her sweet face in the 
 coffin ; nabodie kenned wha had happened 
 but Tib and I, for the event had na been 
 expectit for many weeks yet, an the secret 
 wa safe eneugh wi us. 
 
 " After a while news kim fra abroad that 
 the auld inon wa gainin somewhat, out 
 there where the doctors haed sint him; an 
 now that Alice wa gone, his son s first duty 
 wa to his father, an he wad stay wi him 
 as long as he remained there. The rector 
 telled me this; an there wa somewhat aboot 
 luve an sorrow idle, bleth rin words ! I 
 
260 SALEM. 
 
 did na care to hear them they could na 
 bring bock my bairn to me, or atone for the 
 wrong he haed done her." 
 
 "But, grandmother," said Alice, raising 
 her pale face, and speaking for the first time, 
 as Goody Campbell paused " tell me, what 
 did he, what did my father say, when you 
 did see him ? tell me did he deny or own 
 the terrible wrong ?" 
 
 " Haith, Alice, I haed nae chance to see 
 him ; an I wad na if I haed. J ne er looked 
 on his fause face again; my on y wish wa to 
 keep out o his way." 
 
 " Bat did you never write to him never 
 question him never charge him with his 
 baseness ? never give him a chance to clear 
 himself?" 
 
 " Not I, indeed ! Hoo could he repair 
 the wrong he haed done ? My bonnie lassie 
 wa lyin under the mools ; an wha wa he 
 to me ? Would I gi e him the chance, think 
 ye, to cast mair dishonor on my Alice s mem 
 ory, or to disown her innocent bairn? Never, 
 never ! I tell ye, No !" 
 
 " But, grandmother, that was unjust. You 
 took the angry word of a revengeful woman 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 2 6l 
 
 against him, and gave him no chance to dis 
 prove it. That was cruel cruel and unjust. 
 I will not so lightly accept the story of my 
 mother s shame and my father s dishonor. 
 I will hold fast by the loving trust my sweet 
 mother had in him. But tell me did he 
 never seek you out when he returned to his 
 home again ?" 
 
 " He did na return for years ; an lang be 
 fore he did come hame, I wa far eneugh awa . 
 I wa too restless an unhappy to remain 
 there, where every thing reminded me o a 
 that I haed lost. I wanted to be awa 
 awa fra a that knew me. I sold the little 
 place that wa my father s, an removed awa 
 to the Highlands to the t Hillside Farm 
 wi on y my faithful Tibbie; and there, 
 where nabodie kenned my sad story, where 
 nabodie spiered to ken my name or where I 
 kimmed fra , there I ventured to tak ye 
 hame to me ; for ye wa a I haed left to me 
 in life, an in ye I felt a maist as if I haed 
 my ain Allie bock again. 
 
 "But when ye wa five or six year auld 
 I chanced to see by a paper that the auld 
 laird wa dead, an that his son wa comin 
 
262 SALEM. 
 
 hame to England ; an I could na rest easy 
 for the fear lie might track me out, an tak 
 ye fra me, ye wa so like yer mither; an 
 sae I sold a out again, an took ship, an kirn 
 to America, for I made sure he d ne er find 
 me here." 
 
 " But, oh, grandmother !" said Alice, speak 
 ing in quick, eager tones ; " is he is my fa 
 ther oh ! tell me is he living yet ?" 
 
 a I dinna ken; I hae telled ye a I ken aboot 
 him." 
 
 " And you do not know that he is dead, 
 then ? you never heard that he was ?" 
 
 "I tell ye I dinna ken aught mair aboot 
 the mon ; I dinna want iver to hear o him 
 again." 
 
 "But I do," said Alice, rising proudly; 
 " he is my father, and as such I will love and 
 honor him, until I know he is unworthy of 
 my love. I will seek him the world over, 
 and not until I hear it confessed by his own 
 lips will I believe this cruel story." 
 
 " Ye will seek him, did ye say, Alice ? an 
 hoo ?" asked the grandmother, with a con 
 temptuous smile. 
 
 " I will cross the sea to find him, if I have 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 263 
 
 to work ray passage," said the girl, resolute 
 ly ; " and, if he still live, I am sure I shall 
 find him." 
 
 " An hoo will ye ken where to seek him, 
 silly bairn " 
 
 "I will go first to the rectory I know 
 how to find my way there. I will tell my 
 story, and those who knew my mother will 
 help her child to find her father." 
 
 " An ye will leave me, Alice ?" said the 
 trembling voice of the old woman. 
 
 " I will go to my father," replied the reso 
 lute tones of the younger one. 
 
 " Alice ! Alice ! an is this a the return 
 ye make me for the care that ha bred ye, 
 an fed ye, an luved ye wi a mither s luve, 
 for rnair than eighteen years." 
 
 " Grandmother," said Alice, sternly, " I re 
 member only that for more than eighteen 
 years you have deprived my poor widowed 
 father of his daughter s love, and me of a fa 
 ther s love and care." 
 
 " An ye will leave me, an go to seek the 
 fause - hearted mon that wronged yer puir 
 mither? Oh, Allie ! Allie ! I did na luke 
 for this fra ye." 
 
264 SALEM. 
 
 " Grandmother, you are cruel cruel ! you 
 have no mercy you have no pity for me ! 
 You stab me to the heart, and then ask me 
 for love and gratitude you have no mercy, 
 
 none." 
 
 As Alice uttered these words, with raised 
 and passionate voice, a slight rustling under 
 the open window attracted Goody Camp 
 bell s attention, and fearing they might be 
 overheard, she rose to close the sash ; but as 
 she did so, a retreating footstep, and a low, 
 mocking laugh, floated back to her, and con 
 vinced her that they had had listeners ; but 
 she was too much troubled with the turn af 
 fairs had taken to pay much heed to the 
 circumstance. She closed the window, and 
 returning to her usual chair, sat down in 
 ominous silence, her head resting on her 
 hand. And Alice too remained silent, busy 
 with her perplexed and tumultuous thoughts. 
 And so they sat in silence for more than an 
 hour, Goody Campbell absorbed in the past, 
 Alice quite as much absorbed with the fut 
 ure; Alice nervously and restlessly chang 
 ing her position, while her grandmother nev 
 er moved. 
 
GOODY CAMPBELL S STORY. 265 
 
 But Alice, though quick and impulsive in 
 temper, was affectionate and loving ; and her 
 heart upbraided her. From time to time 
 she glanced uneasily at the unmoving figure 
 in the old arm-chair. It seemed to her that 
 a strange grayness was stealing over those 
 aged features. Surely she thought, as she 
 looked at her, she had grown old since the 
 morning; and was it her unkindness that 
 had wrought the sudden change ? 
 
 She thought of all her patient love and 
 tender care ; she thought of all she had suf 
 fered, and all she had lost her parents, her 
 husband, her only child ; and her warm but 
 hasty little heart swelled in pitying and re 
 pentant tenderness. How still she sat, so 
 motionless ! oh, if she would only move her 
 head her hand ! And her usually erect fig 
 ure, how drooping ! There was something 
 awful in her unnatural silence and stillness. 
 Oh, what if her unkindness had broken that 
 true and loving heart ! what if she were pal 
 sy-smitten, and would never move again 
 never again speak to her ! At this terrible 
 thought, Alice left her seat, and drew nearer 
 to that sad and silent figure. She laid her 
 M 
 
2 66 SALEM. 
 
 own hand upon the cold hand which rested 
 on the table; it did not move to meet the 
 proffered clasp. 
 
 " Oh, grandmother ! dear grandmother !" 
 burst from the girl s lips in sudden penitence; 
 "forgive me oh, do forgive me! I have 
 been too unmindful of your love and care; 
 can you forgive me? I have been very 
 wrong." 
 
 Not a word, not a motion betrayed that 
 she had been heard ; and, wild with terror, she 
 threw herself in quick, penitent tears at her 
 grandmother s feet, and sobbed out her pray 
 er to be forgiven. 
 
 Ah ! it was her childhood s story over 
 again. The doting grandmother could not 
 hold out against the beloved penitent, and 
 the loving arms unclosed to her once more. 
 Again Alice was taken back in love and for 
 giveness, and again she wept out her passion 
 ate rebellion upon that true and faithful heart. 
 
 Ah, happy for them both that the recon 
 ciliation was not deferred until it was too 
 late that they " suffered not the sun to go 
 down upon their wrath ;" that with tender, 
 loving words and fond embraces and mur 
 mured blessings they parted for the night. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN DANGER. 
 
 " Send down thy bright- winged angel, Lord ! 
 
 Amid the night so wild ; 
 And bid him come and breathe upon, 
 And heal our gentle child." 
 
 GAIN darkness spread its shad 
 owy wings over the little dwell 
 ing of Mistress Campbell, and 
 its inmates separated ; but again 
 poor Alice passed a restless and feverish 
 night, tossing and turning in painful sleep 
 lessness, wearied and exhausted in mind and 
 body, but still seemingly condemned to sad 
 watchfulness. 
 
 It might have been something peculiar in 
 the heavy atmosphere which oppressed her, 
 for the sultry night air was surcharged with 
 electricity ; or it might have been merely 
 the natural result of the overtasking of nerve 
 and brain which the sensitive girl had un- 
 
268 SALEM. 
 
 dergone during the last two days ; but sleep 
 seemed denied her. 
 
 Oh ! how welcome to her would have 
 been only one short hour of that calm, dream 
 less slumber, light as the sleep of infancy, 
 which she had never learned to appreciate 
 till the lesson came to her through its loss. 
 Oh ! for only one short hour of blessed sleep, 
 to cairn her wild, feverish unrest to take 
 the sting of pain out of the hot and dazzled 
 eyes, whose aching lids seemed as if they 
 would never again close over the strained 
 vision. 
 
 In vain. She lay, restlessly tossing and 
 moaning only made conscious of a moment 
 ary drowse, when a sudden nervous start 
 betrayed to her that she had been treading 
 the border-lands of sleep. Yet it was not so 
 much the sad memories of the past, or the 
 doubts, hopes, and anxieties of the future, 
 which dwelt now upon her mind, and kept 
 her waking, as it had been the night before. 
 Her mind was perhaps quite as much and 
 as unnaturally overtasked ; but it was far 
 less clear, and its condition was wholly dif 
 ferent. 
 
IN DANGER. 269 
 
 On the preceding night, although pain 
 fully excited and disturbed, the action of her 
 mind had still been coherent and natural 
 the objects which had then passed in review 
 before her were real, though distressing, and 
 she had mind and memory enough to think 
 them out, and follow them up to their legit 
 imate conclusion; but now it was the delir 
 ium of coming fever her mind drifted be 
 yond her control, and her brain was filled 
 with the rapidly shifting, weird, and often 
 grotesque visions of an incoherent and disor 
 dered imagination. 
 
 o 
 
 A strange physical drowsiness, that was 
 not sleep, contended with a fierce mental ac 
 tivity that was not wakefulness ; and she 
 lay, vaguely watching the procession of fan 
 tastic figures which moved around her, won 
 dering if they could be real, yet wholly un 
 able to convince herself that they were false ; 
 now feebly laughing at their mocking show 
 then cowering from them in weak terror. 
 
 Slowly slowly, the heavy hours of the 
 night crept by ; and was it wonderful if, 
 when the tardy morning broke at last, she 
 was wholly unable to rise unable to lift her 
 
270 SALEM. 
 
 weary, aching head from its heated pillow 
 . and that her grandmother found her with 
 burning cheeks, rapid pulse, throbbing tem 
 ples, and all the terrible premonitory symp 
 toms of fever I 
 
 But Elsie Campbell, who was an experi 
 enced and tender nurse, though fully aware 
 of the danger which threatened Jier darling, 
 met it with calm demeanor and active rem 
 edies. With her loving heart wrung to its 
 very core, she wasted no time in idle ques 
 tions or useless protestations ; her loving, 
 active hands shut out the light from the sad, 
 staring eyes tenderly bound the moistened 
 linen round the tortured brow bathed the 
 burning cheeks, and held the cooling drink 
 to the parched and thirsting lips. She 
 fanned the languid sufferer, lifted the feeble 
 form to an easier position, or held the ach 
 ing head upon her kind, maternal bosom. 
 
 It seemed as if all memory of their recent 
 feud had passed from the mind of each all 
 was forgiven and forgotten. Alice, moaning 
 and tossing, with the unconscious selfishness 
 which sickness so often awakens in the inex 
 perienced in suffering, calling freely for all 
 
IN DANGER. 271 
 
 her grandmother s tender care and loving 
 sympathy, forgot she had so lately doubted 
 them ; and poor Elsie, hanging over her in 
 soothing ministrations, with a perpetual pray 
 er in her heart, remembered only her dar 
 ling s present danger, and forgot she had ever 
 been less than dutiful. 
 
 Mistress Campbell was well skilled in all 
 the homely curative lore upon which, in the 
 olden days, experience relied. She knew 
 the health-giving properties hidden in herbs 
 and roots and barks the simple remedies 
 drawn from Nature s own laboratory and 
 which, if possibly less potent for good, were 
 far more harmless than the drugs of our 
 modern pharmacists ; and so, through the 
 long, uncounted hours of the bright, hot sum 
 mer s day through the slow-moving watch 
 es of the sultry summer night the patient 
 watcher kept her weary place by the sick 
 bed, with tireless ministry, and tender, sooth 
 ing words ; and by her skill and love seemed 
 to hold even the " king of terrors" at bay, and 
 actually to ward off the impending danger. 
 It was a fearful contest, for life or death, and 
 often poor Mistress Campbell s heart sank 
 
272 SALEM. 
 
 within her ; but as the second day drew to 
 ward its close, her experienced eye detected 
 a hopeful though very gradual change. 
 
 The burning fever was lessened ; the tor 
 turing pain in the temples was subdued ; the 
 restlessly tossing limbs relaxed their painful 
 tension, and sunk into easier attitudes of 
 rest ; the rapid pulse grew slower and more 
 regular; the quick, gasping respiration be 
 came deeper and less rapid ; a gentle moist 
 ure broke out on the parched skin, and Alice 
 dozed off into a light and broken slumber 
 beneath the glad eye of the watcher, who 
 held her breath to listen with thankful heart, 
 as the health-bringing sleep grew more and 
 more profound, until, as the cooler shades of 
 night came on, the young sufferer lay in 
 calm and peaceful rest, beneath the glad eyes 
 that ventured now to weep in very thank 
 fulness. 
 
 Deeper and deeper grew that blessed, sav 
 ing slumber as the night wore on, only 
 broken when Alice was aroused to take the 
 offered medicine or nourishment, which she 
 received with grateful consciousness, and 
 then sank back to quiet sleep again; and 
 
IN DANGER. 273 
 
 still the grandmother watched and waited, 
 with a perpetual song of thanksgiving at 
 her heart. 
 
 It was late in the morning of the third 
 day when Alice awoke from her restorative 
 sleep, calm and refreshed, and with a clear 
 brain ; but weak oh ! weak to almost in 
 fantine weakness. Instinctively she turned 
 her head to address her faithful watcher ; 
 but she missed the dear old familiar face, 
 which she remembered had bent like that of 
 a guardian angel above her. But with re 
 turning clearness of mind had come back 
 Alice s habitual thoughtfulness for the com 
 fort of others ; and remembering her grand 
 mother s patient and protracted watching, 
 she naturally concluded she had left her to 
 seek the refreshment of needed sleep, and 
 she kept very quiet, resolved not to disturb 
 her, but to wait patiently until she came to 
 her. 
 
 But she waited long and vainly no one 
 came ; and at last, feeling the need of nour 
 ishment, and hearing Winny moving with 
 restless steps in the room below, she called 
 to her, faintly at first, for fear of disturbing 
 M2 
 
274 SALEM. 
 
 her grandmother ; but as her. call seemed un 
 heard or unheeded, she raised herself pain 
 fully from her pillow and called again. 
 
 And Winny came but oh ! merciful 
 heavens ! what had happened ? What was 
 the awful horror that spoke in those great, 
 wildly rolling eyes which had blanched to 
 a gray ashiness that dusky face ? 
 
 " Oh ! Winny, Winny, what is it ? Oh ! 
 tell me tell me at once," murmured the 
 girl s pale, quivering lips " tell rne what it 
 is. I can bear any thing better than silence. 
 Tell me oh ! tell me or I shall go mad." 
 
 And poor Winny, thus adjured, did tell. 
 She had been cautioned not to tell to wait-, 
 and let others break the sad tidings care 
 fully to Alice ; but grief and horror rendered 
 all precaution impossible to her, as, throw 
 ing herself down in abject terror, she burst 
 out with the terrible truth in all the pas 
 sionate volubility of her race. 
 
 Goody Campbell had been cried out upon 
 by the accusing girls the constables had 
 come with a warrant that morning and tak 
 en her away to jail, to be tried as a witch, 
 like poor Goody Nurse ! 
 
IN DANGER. 275 
 
 And Alice heard and comprehended it all 
 and then, shrieking in wild delirium, she 
 sunk back upon her bed in utter uncon 
 sciousness, and knew no more. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 
 
 "Perchance Elijah thought his fate was sealed 
 
 That God had sent premonitory warning; 
 And that the croaking ravens but revealed 
 His death to-morrow morning." 
 
 poor Mistress Campbell, 
 dizzy with want of sleep, and 
 worn and weary with her 
 anxious and long -protracted 
 watch, was summoned from her grandchild s 
 sick-bed, in the chill gray of the early morn 
 ing, to encounter the stern messengers of the 
 law, her first instinctive thought was the 
 fear that Alice might be disturbed. 
 
 Of her own impending danger she took 
 not the slightest heed indeed, she scarcely 
 realized it ; for, conscious of her own entire 
 innocence of the crime imputed to her, and 
 ignorant that she had any enemies or ill- 
 wishers, she never doubted that the whole 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 277 
 
 tiling was a mistake, and that it needed only 
 to be explained to be rectified at once ; and 
 she confidently made this assertion. But 
 in answer to this, the officers produced the 
 warrant for her arrest, in which her name 
 was plainly inserted. 
 
 Still, though surprised and indignant at 
 the ignominy and shame which such a charge, 
 even if unfounded, must leave upon her hith 
 erto spotless good name in the little com 
 munity, she felt no personal fear for the re 
 sult. Her only thought was for Alice - 
 Alice, sick and in danger. How could she 
 leave her, when perhaps that precious life 
 so much dearer than her own yet hung 
 upon her continued care ? and with tears 
 and entreaties that she would have scorned 
 to use in her own behalf, she pleaded ear 
 nestly for a short delay. 
 
 She told the officials of the dangerous nature 
 of her grandchild s illness, and tried to touch 
 their feelings. She promised, with solemn 
 protestations, that she would not leave the 
 house, but would consider herself their pris 
 oner and wait, and be found there, ready 
 to answer any future legal summons, if they 
 
278 SALEM. 
 
 would only leave her. for a few days to 
 watch over her sick child. But she pleaded 
 in vain ; her words fell upon unheeding ears. 
 Possibly the men had, by virtue of their of 
 fice, become inured to such scenes, and their 
 hearts were hardened to them; or it might 
 be that the very imputation of being a 
 witch had shut her off from all human sym 
 pathy ; but the officials were deaf to her 
 tearful pleading, inexorable in the perform 
 ance of their cruel duties, and would admit 
 of no delay. 
 
 Still, even then, amid all the agitation of 
 that hurried and terrible home-leaving, with 
 true motherly love, the afflicted woman 
 thought only of Alice, and contrived to send 
 a message to her friends at Nurse s Farm to 
 inform them of her own arrest and Alice s 
 illness, and asking them to come, and com 
 fort and care for her darling in her own en 
 forced absence from her home. 
 
 And these sisters in affliction answered 
 the appeal at once, and hastened to Alice s 
 bedside though not, as we have seen, in 
 time to prevent the terrible disclosure which 
 poor terrified Winny had made. 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 279 
 
 But it would have made, possibly, but 
 little difference in fact how the terrible story 
 was told. No cautious words, however care 
 fully chosen no tender, pitying tones, how 
 ever sympathetic could have robbed that 
 awful communication of its fearful meaning. 
 But they found poor Alice wildly raving in 
 a relapse of the fever which her grandmoth 
 er s devotion and skill had so nearly avert 
 ed, and they took charge of the desolate 
 household, and watched over the suffering 
 girl with sisterly love. 
 
 But while Alice, blessed by her very un 
 consciousness, lay battling with the fierce fe 
 ver which had fastened upon her, and tend 
 ed by the loving care of the few true and 
 faithful friends whom misfortune and dan 
 ger only drew more closely to her side, her 
 grandmother s free and active spirit chafed 
 in her close confinement within the narrow 
 limits of the jail. 
 
 The clever, bustling, active housekeeper, 
 who had kept herself busy with all the de 
 tails of her little household, and to whom 
 fresh air and active out-of-door exercise 
 seemed to be a very necessity of her being, 
 
2 So SALEM. 
 
 was helpless and cramped in chains and bond 
 age ; she, to whom " cleanliness was next to 
 godliness," was sickened and disgusted by 
 the dirt and discomfort all around her ; and 
 far more than all these lesser evils was the 
 heart s deep craving for the companionship 
 of her child, from whom until now she had 
 never been separated for a single night since 
 Alice s infancy ; and now this one treasure 
 of her otherwise desolate heart was ill pos 
 sibly dying and she was kept from her. 
 
 This thought exasperated her beyond 
 measure. Her knowledge of her own entire 
 innocence made the unfounded charge seem 
 almost an absurdity in her eyes. She could 
 not realize that others, from a different stand 
 point, took different views ; and she felt a 
 thorough contempt for what seemed to her 
 the willful blindness of her accusers and 
 prosecutors, and this sentiment she did not 
 hesitate openly to declare. 
 
 It was strange that her reliance upon her 
 own innocence should have rendered her 
 thus fearless, with the tragic fate of poor 
 Goody Nurse before her, for she believed in 
 her friend s integrity as fully as in her own. 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 2 8l 
 
 But then it must be remembered that Re 
 becca Nurse had made many personal ene 
 mies by the part she had taken in the former 
 Church controversy, and to their malicious 
 revenge many persons attributed her con 
 demnation ; while she herself was wholly un- 
 compromised in these matters, and was not 
 aware of an enemy. 
 
 At length, when worn with her confine 
 ment and irritated with delay, she was ar 
 raigned for trial, and the same formulas were 
 gone through with that had marked the tri 
 als of her unfortunate predecessors ; but El 
 sie Campbell, with her heart full of anxiety 
 for her child, and bitter contempt and hatred 
 of her judges, was a sharp match for the 
 sharpest of her opponents. 
 
 Reckless of all possible consequences 
 fearless by nature sure that a trial must 
 make her innocence clear to all and stung 
 to madness by the uncalled-for malice of her 
 accusers and the injustice of her confine 
 ment, her sharp Scottish shrewdness and 
 quick mother wit flashed back upon them in 
 angry, scornful words. 
 
 When she was placed at the bar, Justice 
 
282 SALEM. 
 
 Hathorne (who seems to have combined in 
 his own single person the several duties of 
 judge and prosecuting officer, in a manner 
 that is incomprehensible to our modern ideas 
 of legal etiquette) thus addressed her : 
 
 "Elsie Campbell, look at me. You are 
 now in the hands of authority ; answer, 
 then, with truth." 
 
 "I kinna answer ye wi ony ither. The 
 truth is my mither tongue I aye speak it." 
 
 "Tell me, then, why do you torment these 
 children ?" 
 
 "I dinna torment them. I niver hurted 
 a bairn in my life I d scorn to do it." 
 
 " But they say that you do." 
 
 "I kinna help wha they say. I am jist 
 an honest, God-fearin woman ; I dinna ken 
 aught o yer witchcraft." 
 
 "But what, then, makes them say it of 
 you V 
 
 " Hoo suld I ken ? I kinna fash mysel to 
 tell hoo ilka fule s tongue may wag." 
 
 " But do you not know that if you are 
 guilty you can not hide it ?" 
 
 " Haith ! an I ken that weel enow ; an 
 sae do the Lord abune us." 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 
 
 283 
 
 " Yea, He doth ; and He hath power to 
 discover the guilty, and bring them to open 
 shame." 
 
 " In varry deed He hath. He kin gie wis 
 dom to the simple may he open the een 
 o magistrates an ministers." 
 
 " Do you think to find mercy by denying 
 and aggravating your sin ?" 
 
 " Alas ! that is a true word na , I dinna 
 think it." 
 
 "You should look for it, then, in God s 
 
 way." 
 
 " An sae I do ; an in nae ither." 
 
 " Here are three or four witnesses who 
 testify against you." 
 
 " Weel-a-weel, an what kin I do ? Many 
 may rise up again me I kinna help it. If 
 a be again me, what can I do ?" 
 
 " You said just now that we magistrates 
 needed to have our eyes opened." 
 
 " Did I say that ? Na na , I but said I 
 prayed it might be." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that we are blind, 
 then 2" 
 
 " I suld think ye maun be, if ye kin see 
 a witch in me." 
 
284 SALEM. 
 
 " I hear you have said that you would 
 open our eyes for us." 
 
 " Na na , I ne er said the word ; I wad 
 na be that presumptuous." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 " That I think it is far abune me. It wad 
 tak the power o Him who opened blind 
 Bartimeus his eyes." 
 
 This allusion to the supposed professional 
 blindness of the court which the prisoner at 
 the bar was accused of having made, seems 
 to have rankled in the breast of Justice Ha 
 th orne with peculiar bitterness ; and her 
 spirited answer, although it might silence, 
 was certainly not calculated to conciliate 
 him indeed, the whole conduct and bearing 
 of the prisoner, both in confinement and 
 upon trial, was rasping and irritating in the 
 extreme, and such as to increase the preju 
 dice already existing against her. 
 
 But it must be remembered in her exten 
 uation that, believing the charge brought 
 against her had originated in some absurd 
 ignorance, which would be brought to light 
 in the course of events, and w r ould trium 
 phantly vindicate her good name, she could 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 285 
 
 not believe that even her persecutors really 
 believed in it ; and exasperated at what she 
 considered an unauthorized and unlawful 
 interference in her private rights, in compell 
 ing her to leave her home and the bedside 
 of her sick child, she assumed a defiant and 
 even contemptuous attitude, to which the 
 sharpness of her foreign tongue gave per 
 haps additional point. 
 
 But Justice Hathorne continued his inves 
 tigations, which seem to have had little 
 method : 
 
 "You may have engaged not to confess 
 your sins." 
 
 "I wa na brought up to make confes 
 sions to men I am nae papist." 
 
 " But God knoweth the heart." 
 
 " So he doth that is a true word, an I 
 confess my sins to him." 
 
 " And who is your God ?" 
 
 " Surely, the God who made me." 
 
 " What is his name ?" 
 
 "The Lord God Almighty; glory be to 
 his holy name ; an may he keep his servants 
 in the hour o their trial." 
 
 " Hath he no other name ?" 
 
286 SALEM. 
 
 "Yes, he is sometimes called the Lord 
 Jehovah. " 
 
 "And does the one you pray to tell you 
 lie is God ?" 
 
 "I dinna pray to ony but. the God that 
 made me." 
 
 " Do you not believe there are witches in 
 the country ?" 
 
 " Sure, I dinna ken there is ony ; I am but 
 a stranger an sojourner here what do I 
 ken?" 
 
 " Why do you laugh V 
 
 " Did I laugh ? I did na ken it ; but weel 
 I may at sich folly." 
 
 " I ask you what ails these people ?" 
 
 " I dinna ken ; how suld I, when they are 
 strangers to me ?" 
 
 " But they say that you have tormented 
 them." 
 
 " An I say it is na true. Why suld I ? 
 I hae nae ill-will to them, I dinna ken aee- 
 thing aboot them." 
 
 "But if not what do you think ails 
 them ?" 
 
 " I dinna ken an I dinna desire to spend 
 my sma judgment upon it." 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 287 
 
 " But do you think they are bewitched ?" 
 
 " Na ; I dinna think they are." 
 
 "Well, then what do you think about 
 them?" 
 
 "I kinna say; my thoughts are my ain 
 whiles I keep them to mysel ; but ance 
 they are out, they are anither s." 
 
 " But who do you think is their mas 
 ter?" 
 
 " That is nae affair o mine I dinna serve 
 him." 
 
 " But who do you think they serve ?" 
 
 " Aiblins they be dealin in the black art, 
 ye maun ken as weel as I." 
 
 "Do you believe they do not speak the 
 truth ?" 
 
 " Deed ; an they may lee, for a I ken." 
 
 " And why may not you lie as well ?" 
 
 " I dare na tell a lee not if it wad save 
 my life." 
 
 " Pray God discover you, if you are guil 
 ty," said the examiner impatiently ; and 
 the dauntless woman responded fervently, 
 " Amen ! amen ! so be it ; but a fause tongue 
 can ne er make an innocent bodie guilty." 
 
 Up to this time, this rather pointless ex- 
 
288 SALEM. 
 
 animation had failed to prove any thing ; and 
 now the accusers, seeing doubtless that the 
 popular sympathy was on the side of the 
 spirited old woman, and that the case was 
 evidently going against them, fell into dread 
 ful convulsions, and writhed in strong con 
 tortions, giving utterance to fearful groans 
 and shrieks. When this disturbance was 
 over, and quiet was again restored, the mag 
 istrate asked the prisoner : " Is it possible 
 that you have no pity for these afflicted 
 ones T and she calmly replied, " Na ; I hae 
 nae pity to waste on them." 
 
 " Do you not feel that God is discovering 
 you ?" 
 
 " Ne er a bit ; but if ye kin prove me 
 guilty, I maun lie under it." 
 
 At last, after a consultation, the magistrate 
 informed her that one of her accusers had 
 testified that she had been known to torture 
 and cruelly use the young maid, her own 
 grandchild, living with her. 
 
 " Alas ! that she is na to the fore to -speak 
 for me," said poor Elsie ; " she wad na say 
 sae ; but she is lyin deein at hame, her 
 lane, puir lambie." And at the thought of her 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 289 
 
 darling s danger, thus suddenly brought be 
 fore her, tears, that her own woes had not 
 called forth, fell thick and fast upon her fet 
 tered hands. 
 
 The wily accuser saw her advantage, and 
 hastened to press it on. 
 
 " She has said so she has been heard to 
 
 
 
 say it, and you yourself have heard her." 
 
 " She ha said it said what ?" said Elsie, 
 starting like a war-horse at the sound of the 
 trumpet. " What ha she said ?" 
 
 " That you were cruel to her ; that you 
 had no mercy ; that you stabbed her to the 
 heart and tortured her." 
 
 As these terrible words fell upon her 
 ears, a burning flush rose to poor Mistress 
 Campbell s brow ; too well she remembered 
 Alice s passionate and heedless words too 
 clearly she realized now who had been list 
 ening beneath her window on that sad 
 night ; and as the utter impossibility of ever 
 clearing herself from this new and horrible 
 imputation broke upon her, she wrung her 
 fettered hands in anguish, sank back and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 Of course the impression this made was 
 N 
 
290 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 overwhelming : it was regarded as a clear 
 and signal proof of her guilt. There was a 
 momentary silence, and then the justice 
 spoke again : 
 
 " Did I not say truly that God was dis 
 covering you ? What will you say to 
 this ?" 
 
 "That it is fause,"*said Goody Campbell, 
 starting up ; " it is as fause as the leein 
 lips that say it." 
 
 " Do you deny the truth of it, then ? Can 
 you say that your grandchild never said 
 it?" 
 
 " Na !" said the unhappy prisoner, trem 
 bling with wrath and shame, " I ll na deny 
 it; but they were thoughtless, heedless words, 
 if the lassie did utter them, and had naught 
 to do -wi witchcraft." 
 
 " How did the maid happen to use them, 
 then ? 
 
 "She did na mean them; I wa tellin 
 the lassie somewhat that happened at hame, 
 years agone, afore iver she wa born, when 
 she said it." 
 
 " And what was the strange event which, 
 happening so long ago, called out so much 
 
MISTRESS CAMPBELL S TRIAL. 
 
 291 
 
 feeling? You will please state it to the 
 court." 
 
 "It wa somewhat wi which the coort ha 
 nathing to do," persisted Elsie, who would 
 have died sooner than tell the story of her 
 daughter s wrong in open court. " It wa 
 jist an auld world story, an I am na free to 
 tell it here." 
 
 Insinuation, question, and cross-examina 
 tion failed to draw any thing more from the 
 wary and determined old woman, and she 
 was remanded to jail. 
 
 Of course the impression she had made 
 was a very unfavorable one; her sharpness 
 had irritated her judges, and the pertinacity 
 with which she refused to gratify the curios 
 ity of the court was looked upon as a sure 
 test of her guilt. 
 
 Twice more she was arraigned, and still 
 she refused to give any further explanation 
 of the ominous words ; and her refusal to 
 comply being regarded as contumacy and 
 contempt of court, in addition to the primary 
 charge against her, the verdict of the jury 
 was " Guilty " and she was condemned and 
 sentenced to death. 
 
2 9 2 SALEM. 
 
 And Alice, raving in the delirium of fever, 
 was spared the agony of knowing that her 
 passionate words, caught up by revenge and 
 repeated by malice, forged the terrible link 
 in the chain of evidence which condemned 
 her grandmother to a felon s death. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 
 
 How much the heart may bear, and yet not break! 
 
 How much the flesh may suffer, and not die! 
 I question much if any pain or ache, 
 
 Of soul or body, brings our end more nigh. 
 Though we are sick, and tired, and faint, aud worn 
 Lo ! all things can be borne." 
 
 ND poor Alice lay ill for weeks, 
 hovering long between life and 
 death, and all unconscious of the 
 bitter woe that was awaiting her 
 tardy recovery a woe so vast that even 
 her loving attendants, having had to pass 
 through the same terrible experience them 
 selves, almost hoped she might never awaken 
 to the consciousness of it, but find her grand 
 mother in a better world, without the agony 
 of the parting in this. 
 
 But youth is strong, and Alice had a good 
 constitution, and she rallied at last ; but oh ! 
 
294 SALEM. 
 
 to what a bitter awakening ! to find her 
 nearest and dearest, her only known relative, 
 languishing in chains and bondage, and un 
 der condemnation to death. 
 
 But it was worse than useless to attempt 
 to keep the awful truth from her it must 
 be made known ; and Alice the petted child, 
 the creature hitherto of the sunshine and the 
 summer had to listen to the communication 
 which must strike the summer and the sun 
 shine out of all her future life. 
 
 But the moment she was able to stand 
 alone she insisted upon going at once to her 
 grandmother; and dreadful as their meeting 
 must be, her friends felt there w r as nothing 
 to be gained by delaying it ; while Alice felt 
 as if every moment of that doomed life was 
 far too precious to her to be wasted apart; 
 and soon the morning, noon, and evening 
 found the faithful child feebly creeping, with 
 weak, tottering steps, back and forth, to and 
 from the miserable prison, where her pres 
 ence brought the only ray of comfort that 
 could enter those melancholy w r alls ; and 
 even the hardened jailers grew to know and 
 pity the beautiful and desolate young creat- 
 
WAITING FOR DEATH. 
 
 295 
 
 ure, and opened their doors to her, when 
 they refused admittance to others. 
 
 But though Alice s presence gave comfort 
 to the weary prisoner, the grandmother was 
 the one to essay the part of comforter. By 
 a strong effort of her indomitable will, she 
 had reconciled herself to her fate. She knew 
 she was to suffer unjustly ; but surely, she 
 argued, it was far better so than if she had 
 merited her sentence. Death, early or late, 
 was the natural finale of every life, and what 
 did a few more years of old age and infirmity 
 have to offer her ? 
 
 The one great trouble upon her mind was 
 the thought of Alice s future. Alone in the 
 world beautiful, friendless, and penniless 
 (for she well knew that by her attainder as 
 a witch all her little property would be 
 confiscated) what was to become of her? 
 Only the "Father of the fatherless" could 
 know ; and often, lifting her poor manacled 
 hands to heaven, she prayed for his mercy 
 and guardianship for her desolate child. 
 
 It was a striking bnt not unnatural proof 
 of the unselfish love of the parent and child, 
 that while the former, setting aside all ques- 
 
296 SALEM. 
 
 tion of her own forfeited life, dwelt ever upon 
 the future life of her darling, vainly striving 
 to form some idea of what her existence 
 would be after her own was ended, Alice s 
 thoughts never wandered beyond that terri 
 ble event that was to her the termination 
 of all things. To her the world itself would 
 end w r ith the life of her only relative. After 
 that, all was a blank to her. Up to that ter 
 rible hour, all was blind agony and useless 
 prayer, and then "after that the deluge." 
 
 And so, while Mistress Campbell wasted 
 away in prison, the dreadful day was fast 
 approaching, and no voice was raised to 
 plead for her, no hand was lifted to avert 
 her terrible doom. 
 
 How, indeed, could there be, when Alice s 
 warmest, steadiest, and most powerful friends 
 were the various members of the Nurse fam 
 ily ? They had tried, as we have seen, every 
 expedient in their own case: by appeals to 
 justice and clemency; by certificates and 
 testimonials ; by fervent entreaties for delay 
 and a new trial ; and 4hey had all signally 
 failed. They knew, and felt it was worse 
 than useless to attempt it again in behalf of 
 
WAITING FOR DEATH. 
 
 297 
 
 another; and thus, while they surrounded 
 Alice with their loving attentions, and com 
 forted and supported her by every means in 
 their power, they regarded it as only cruelty 
 to encourage in her hopes which they felt a 
 sure conviction must only end in disappoint 
 ment. 
 
 One day, when Alice was searching at their 
 desolate home for some article which her 
 grandmother required, she chanced to come 
 quite unexpectedly upon the little wampum 
 chain which Pashemet had given her at their 
 last parting; and as she lifted the simple 
 pledge of friendship in her trembling hands, 
 and thought of the kind words then spoken 
 by him, her tears fell freely over it. The 
 peaceful* scene when it had been bestowed 
 upon her the quiet water, the overhanging 
 trees, the mellow sunset all rose upon her 
 memory in strong contrast with the fearful 
 present. Could it be indeed the same world ? 
 That happy, untroubled security ! It was so 
 short a time ago, in reality, and yet, in the 
 momentous events which had crowded into 
 it, it seemed like a period of long years. 
 
 " Oh, Pashemet, Pashemet ! my brother !" 
 N 2 
 
298 SALEM. 
 
 she murmured, in a voice broken by her sobs; 
 "he little knows how wretched I am now. 
 Ah ! he would help me if he could he said 
 he would ; but alas ! alas ! he can not help 
 me no one can help me now." 
 
 But Alice s friends were far too few to suf 
 fer her to forget one of them ; and although 
 she was sure Pashemet could not aid her, 
 still she felt as if even the knowledge of his 
 true, though distant, sympathy and sorrow 
 for her in her dreadful affliction, if ineffectu 
 al, would yet be soothing to her lonely heart. 
 So giving the little token into the hands of 
 the faithful old Winny, she directed her to 
 send it to Pashemet by the hands of an old 
 neighbor, who belonged to the Naumkeag 
 tribe of Indians, and tell him of her great dis 
 tress, and t)f her grandmother s dreadful fate. 
 
 How and what was the Indian method of 
 conveying tidings, secretly and speedily, 
 through the intervening wilds and unbroken 
 forests of a then uninhabited country, has, 
 we believe, never yet been satisfactorily ex 
 plained. We know that they were fleet of 
 foot, and of untiring strength in the race; 
 but whether information was thus posted on 
 
WAITING FOR DEATH. 
 
 299 
 
 from hand to hand, as was wont to be done 
 by the Scottish clansmen in the days, of old, 
 we know not ; but it is a well-authenticated 
 fact that intelligence was conveyed among 
 them with marvelous speed and unerring 
 certainty : and Alice felt sure the little token 
 and the message would reach her friend, al 
 though she hoped and expected nothing more 
 from it than his deep, brotherly interest in 
 her sad misfortune ; but to her, who stood so 
 much alone in the world, even to feel that 
 there existed for her this one little bond of 
 sympathy with a true and loving heart was 
 a relief. 
 
CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 THE DA Y OF EXECUTION. 
 
 "Perhaps the dreaded future has less bitterness than I think 
 The Lord may sweeten the water before I stoop to drink 
 Or, if Marah must be Marah, He will stand beside the brink." 
 
 jIME, the inexorable messenger, 
 whose tardy pace no passionate 
 wishes, however ardent, can accel 
 erate, whose rapid flight no break 
 ing heart can arrest, moving on in his regu 
 lar course, all unheeding of human joys and 
 sorrows ever the same, regardless "if em 
 pires rise or empires fall "- was bringing on 
 the dreadful hour. 
 
 The last terrible day the day appointed 
 for the execution had come. Clear, bright, 
 and beautiful it dawned upon the earth, as 
 if its cloudless light was sent in mockery, 
 to tantalize the sad eyes which were doomed 
 before it reached its zenith to be closed in 
 death, and see its sweet light no more for 
 ever. 
 
THE DA Y OF EXECUTION. 
 
 301 
 
 The unhappy prisoner, who though worn 
 and pallid with the rigorous confinement, 
 which told fearfully upon her active nature, 
 used to sun and air and unlimited liberty of 
 motion, had borne it uncomplainingly, had 
 made but one request and that, alas ! could 
 not be complied with. She had prayed that 
 Alice might be kept away from her on that 
 last solemn occasion. She had felt when she 
 parted from her darling the night before, 
 with mingling tears, blessings, and caresses, 
 and sent her from her, that the worst of 
 death was over, and she begged that that 
 bitter agony might not be renewed. 
 
 But Alice would not be thus kept away. 
 She counted as a miser does his treasure ev 
 ery moment that remained to her of that 
 precious life, although she, too, well knew 
 that every moment w T as a renewed anguish. 
 She could not be kept back except by actual 
 violence, and that no one had the authority 
 or the heart to use. She was early at the 
 prison doors, and would be* admitted. But 
 over those last sad moments we must drop 
 the veil of silence they are too sacred for 
 words. 
 
? o 2 SA LEM. 
 
 " There is a tear for all who die, a mourner 
 o er the humblest grave;" for death is al 
 ways death ; no lavished words, no mitigat 
 ing circumstances can make it any thing 
 less but do we never think how aggravat 
 ing circumstances may make it more ? 
 
 We weep when we stand by the death 
 bed of our beloved ones, and watch the fad 
 ing eye, and fondly clasp the nerveless hand ; 
 they may have been spared to us even to 
 the utmost limitation of human life, and yet 
 our affections can not let them go. Death 
 comes to them, as our hearts know and our 
 lips acknowledge, from the hand of a loving 
 Father, sent perhaps as a welcome release 
 from tears and pains, from weakness and in 
 firmity but yet it is death, and our hearts 
 rebel against it. We may have been per 
 mitted to watch over them in loving tender 
 ness; we have surrounded them with all 
 that love or skill or science could devise for 
 their relief; we have walked with them 
 hand in hand, and smoothed and cheered 
 their path through " the dark valley," and 
 yet, " when the long parting summons them 
 away," it is death still death; and our 
 
THE DAY OF EXECUTION. 303 
 
 wounded hearts cry out, and refuse to be 
 comforted. 
 
 But what do we know of the agony of 
 those who see the impending blow coming, 
 not from the beneficent and all-wise Father, 
 whose right to the creature he has made we 
 do not dispute, but from man, the petty in 
 strument of a fallible judgment, stepping in 
 between the Creator and the created ? Who 
 see the beloved one moving before them, in 
 fullness of health, in unimpaired vigor of 
 mind and body, and in undoubted love and 
 faith, and yet know that before another sun 
 shall set that precious life shall be crushed 
 out by brute violence ? 
 
 "Heaven in its mercy hides the book of 
 fate"- but man, unpitying man, sets the inev 
 itable hour full before his victim s eye, and 
 the terrible moments melt away, each one 
 bearing off a visible portion of the life still 
 palpitating in the heart. 
 
 Ah ! we say such agony is too great to 
 be borne. But it has been borne by hearts 
 as tender and as loving as our own. 
 
 And how can human nature endure it ? 
 We know not we only know that it has 
 
3 04 SALEM. 
 
 been borne. " Lo ! all things can be borne." 
 And it was this bitterest portion that poor 
 Alice was called upon to suffer. 
 
 The last terrible moment had come. The 
 sun had climbed to the mid-heaven, as if to 
 look down upon the sacrifice, when the door 
 of the prison was opened, and the unhappy 
 prisoner came forth not led forth, for the 
 brave and dauntless old woman came out 
 unsupported, and walking with a firm, un 
 faltering step. 
 
 There was a marked and striking differ 
 ence between Goody Nurse and Mistress 
 Elsie Campbell. Both went to their death 
 unflinchingly; but one had the meek resig 
 nation of a humble Christian, the other the 
 fierce heroism of a Stoic : the first was saint 
 ly, the last was majestic. 
 
 Conscious of her own integrity, and of the 
 falsity of the malicious charges against her, 
 and full, as we have seen, of unmitigated 
 contempt for the tribunal before which she 
 had been so unjustly condemned, the spirit 
 of the old Scottish Covenanters was roused 
 within her. Her face, though perfectly col 
 orless, was set as a flint ; and, like the Indian 
 
THE DA Y OF EXECUTION. 
 
 305 
 
 warrior at the stake, she was fixed in her 
 purpose that no trembling nerve, no falter 
 ing step, should gratify the malice of her en 
 emies by a token of her suffering. 
 
 So she came out, disdaining support, and 
 would have mounted the fatal cart unaided, 
 had not her manacled limbs forbidden it. 
 
 When she was placed in the vehicle, an 
 other vain attempt was made by Alice s 
 friends to withdraw her from the awful 
 scene; but the faithful child would not be 
 removed. With wild eyes and piteous hands 
 she waved them back. Twice she essayed 
 to speak, but the unuttered words died on 
 her feverish lips. Again and they who 
 stood nearest to her caught only the words, 
 " Having loved his own, He loved them to the 
 end ;" and awed and silent, they desisted, and 
 made way for her. 
 
 Clinging tightly with both her clenched 
 hands to the back of the cart, to support her 
 tottering and uncertain steps, with her un 
 covered head bent down upon her hands, 
 and her bright, disheveled hair falling as a 
 veil about her, Alice followed as the melan 
 choly procession moved onward up the 
 
306 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 length of Prison Lane (now St. Peter s Street) 
 into Essex Street. 
 
 As the gloomy train wound along its way 
 through the crowd, and just as it turned the 
 corner into Essex Street, an Indian, closely 
 wrapped in his blanket, dropped, as if by the 
 merest chance, a bit of pine-bough into the 
 slow-moving cart. 
 
 Apparently by accident the little missile 
 fell ; but it had been thrown by a dexterous 
 hand, and with a calculated and certain aim. 
 Lightly it brushed Alice s fair, bended head, 
 touched her clenched hands, and fell into 
 the cart before her. But Alice, moving on 
 in a trance of giddy horror, with her heart 
 u so full that feeling almost seemed unfelt," 
 did not notice it. If she had, she might 
 have recognized in it a token of the hope it 
 was meant to convey to her, 
 
 Pashemet had received the little wampum 
 chain he was true to his pledge. Even 
 then he was in town with a party of his 
 bravest young warriors, although to make 
 himself known even to Alice would possibly 
 have defeated his object. 
 
 Gradually and unobserved, half a dozen 
 
THE DAY OF EXECUTION. 307 
 
 Indians, closely wrapped in their blankets, 
 had mingled in the crowd their stolid, in 
 scrutable faces expressing neither interest 
 nor sympathy in the sad scene passing be 
 fore them. But under those blankets they 
 were fully armed ; under those dark, inex 
 pressive faces there was keenest observation 
 and intent purpose ; and in a little wooded 
 hollow, near the fatal " Gallow s Hill," a doz 
 en or more fleet little shaggy Indian ponies 
 were quietly picketed, waiting for their 
 
 fierce, tameless riders. 
 
 
 
 The plan was perfected in its most minute 
 details. The town officials, unsuspicious of 
 opposition, were unarmed. The surprise was 
 to take place at the moment of transit from 
 the cart to the ladder. All was in readi 
 ness, and the rescue would undoubtedly have 
 been successfully made had not circum 
 stances wholly unlooked for chanced to pre 
 vent it. 
 
 The street was crowded with spectators, 
 as upon the former executions; but it was 
 clearly evident there was a change of senti 
 ment in the lookers-on. Possibly the thirst 
 for blood had now been satiated, and had 
 
308 SALEM. 
 
 died out the tide of popular feeling was 
 evidently turning. The faith in the ac 
 cusers, once so unquestioning, had been less 
 ened : the girls had become too confident 
 and too reckless. Or it might be that pos 
 sibly a new-born pity was awakened in be 
 half of the victims ; and who could wonder ? 
 In a small community, such as Salem then 
 was, the private history, the affairs and per 
 sonalities of each of its inhabitants is consid 
 ered as the joint property of all the rest; 
 consequently Alice s desolate orphan girl 
 hood her entire dependence upon the con 
 demned prisoner, who was her only known 
 relative in the wide world, might have well 
 awakened pity under any circumstances; 
 but, beyond this, the rare beauty of the poor 
 girl, her sweet innocence, and her fearless de 
 votion to her grandmother, had called forth 
 the interest and admiration of many who 
 had never personally known her ; and now, 
 instead of the coarse jeers, curses, and bitter 
 invectives with which the howling mob had 
 followed the first sufferers, there was, as they 
 passed along, an awed and respectful silence 
 broken only now and then by sobs and 
 
THE DA Y OF EXECUTION. 309 
 
 sighs, and half-uttered exclamations of " God 
 help them." 
 
 As the sad procession wound its slow way 
 beneath the scorching noonday sun, toiling 
 up the little crooked, narrow street, an in 
 terruption occurred. In one of the very 
 narrowest portions of the street a gay caval 
 cade was seen approaching their gay mili 
 tary harness ringing out and glittering in 
 the sunbeams. 
 
 It was the new governor, Sir William 
 Phips, who had only arrived in the country 
 in the previous May ; and who was now rid 
 ing into town, accompanied by a party of 
 officers, most of them composing his suite, 
 and one or two personal friends. 
 
 Laughing and jesting in true military 
 style, they drew near; but the street was 
 too narrow to allow of two such pageants at 
 one time, and for once grim Death stood 
 back, jostled out of the way by busy, joyful 
 Life. 
 
 The miserable, creaking, jolting death-cart 
 drew up on one side of the narrow street, 
 and halted, to allow the governor and his 
 suite to pass by. 
 
3 io 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 At the sudden stoppage of the cart, poor 
 Alice started from her ghastly drowse pos 
 sibly she thought the terrible goal was 
 reached. As she lifted her head and looked 
 wildly around with her sad, frightened, be 
 wildered eyes, the words which were passing 
 from lip to lip around her fell upon her ear : 
 " It is his Excellency, Sir William Phips, the 
 new governor." 
 
 In one instant, straight and clear as a 
 flash of light from heaven, broke in upon 
 her clouded mind an intuitive ray of hope ; 
 in one moment she had quitted the cart to 
 which she had convulsively clung, and with 
 one wild bound, like the death-leap of some 
 maddened creature, she sprung directly in 
 Sir William s path, and flinging up her wild 
 arms to arrest him, she raised her sad, be 
 seeching eyes to his, and faltered out her 
 impassioned appeal : " Mercy ! mercy ! your 
 Excellency ; pardon pardon for the sweet 
 love of heaven she is innocent ! Oh ! as 
 you hope for mercy in your own sorest need 
 hereafter, have mercy upon us mercy ! 
 mercy !" 
 
 As the frantic creature paused for breath, 
 
THE DAY OF EXECUTION. 
 
 she sank exhausted upon the ground just in 
 front of the governor s horse; and startled 
 by the sudden apparition of the fair, spirit- 
 like thing, Sir William sat in silent bewilder 
 ment, reining in his plunging, snorting horse 
 with a powerful hand, till the spirited ani 
 mal sank upon his haunches beneath the 
 strong control. 
 
 But Sir William s were not the only eyes 
 to which that fair, frantic face appealed : one 
 of the officers in the company, who had come 
 out from England with the governor, gal 
 loped to the scene, and forcing his horse up 
 to the side of the death-cart, peered with 
 quick, inquiring eyes into the face of the 
 prisoner, who had sat with closed eyes and 
 tightly compressed lips, not turning her head 
 or moving hand or foot since she entered 
 that car of death ; then suddenly, as if his 
 gaze had assured him of her identity, he 
 bent forward and shouted close to her ear, 
 "Elsie Campbell ! look at me !" 
 
 With a mighty effort, the fast-sealed eyes 
 unclosed ; and the thoughts which had, it 
 would seem, already preceded her to the un 
 known and eternal world she was so soon 
 
3 I2 SALEM. 
 
 to enter, turned back once more to earth ; 
 she did not speak, but her involuntary start, 
 and the sudden rush of color that flushed 
 her pallid face, betrayed her recognition of 
 him. 
 
 Grasping her firmly by the arm, he asked 
 in breathless entreaty: "Tell me who is 
 that girl ? I adjure you by the memory 
 of Alice answer me." 
 
 For one moment Elsie Campbell wavered 
 here was the betrayer of her only child 
 and for one moment revenge seemed sweet 
 to her still; but. then she thought of Alice, 
 her darling, left alone in the wide, cruel 
 world no friend, no protector; this man 
 was her father and love conquered pride : 
 the rigid lips painfully unclosed, and with 
 an evident effort she murmured hoarsely: 
 " Your child, my lord ! my Alice s daughter." 
 
 Another moment, and the officer had 
 sprung from his saddle and stood by Sir 
 William s side, his eager hand upon the gov 
 ernor s arm. 
 
 " Sir William hear me ; you know my 
 life s sad history, and my unsuccessful 
 search; I believe that girl to be my long- 
 
THE DAY OF EXECUTION. 
 
 313 
 
 sought child ; that woman is the mother of 
 my sainted wife she is the sole possessor 
 of the coveted secret; I will answer. for her 
 innocence of this absurd charge. I ask you, 
 by our life-long friendship, to use in her be 
 half the executive clemency which you hold." 
 The hands of the brother officers met in a 
 wringing clasp ; and then, while the father 
 pressed forward and raised the unconscious 
 form of Alice from the ground, there was a 
 sudden stir and conference among the officers 
 of the governor s council, a few words to his 
 secretary, a few hasty formulas and then, 
 the magic words, " A reprieve a reprieve ! 
 pardon pardon! the governor s pardon!" 
 were caught up by the nearest by-standers, 
 and spread rapidly through the sympathiz 
 ing crowd. The governor and his suite gal 
 loped onward ; the clumsy, creaking death- 
 cart was turned about, and followed them 
 down to the "Ship Tavern," where Alice s 
 father had already preceded them with his 
 precious and unconscious burden ; and here, 
 when her swollen and long-manacled limbs 
 were once more set at liberty, the trembling 
 and half-bewildered grandmother assisted in 
 O 
 
3I4 SALEM. 
 
 recovering the still fainting and exhausted 
 girl. 
 
 " Oh, tell me !" said the .father, who was 
 supporting his child in his arms looking up 
 into Goody Campbell s face as she too bent 
 over her darling " Oh, tell me those blessed 
 words again tell me that this is indeed the 
 child of my beloved Alice my precious 
 wife." 
 
 " An wa she your wife in varry deed T 
 asked the still doubting listener, with her 
 keen, penetrating eyes fixed full upon his 
 face. 
 
 " Was she my wife ? Good heavens ! yes 
 ten thousand times yes ! who dares to ques 
 tion it ? Yes ! my sainted Alice was my dear 
 and honored wife; did you did any one 
 ever doubt it ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Elsie Campbell, meekly, " I 
 did doot it I wa told it wa a sham mar 
 riage, an I believed it ; I thought you had 
 done me an my dead a mighty wrong, an I 
 could na forgi e it. But I see now that I hae 
 done ye a mighty wrong, an I dare na ask 
 ye to forgi e me." 
 
 " I can forgive any thing to-day," said the 
 
THE DAY OF EXECUTION. 
 
 father, tremblingly, " if only this precious 
 one, so long and so vainly sought, is spared 
 to me ; but we have each of us much to ex 
 plain." 
 
 And Alice was spared to them but not 
 till a long and dangerous illness had result 
 ed from the unnatural strain of mind and 
 body which the poor girl had undergone 
 did they dare to hope ; and while hovering 
 in united care and anxiety over their mutual 
 treasure, the two watchers learned each oth 
 er s mutual worth and if they could never 
 forget the heart sorrow they had each suf 
 fered and occasioned, at least they learned to 
 forgive and respect. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 It may be there was waiting for the coming of my feet, 
 
 Some gift of such rare blessedness, some joy so strangely sweet, 
 
 That my lips can only tremble with the thanks that I repeat." 
 
 UT Alice was young and strong, 
 and of an unbroken constitution ; 
 and youth, when aided "by love 
 and hope and happiness, recuper 
 ates rapidly. And the time soon came when 
 Alice, sitting supported by her father s arms, 
 with her trembling hand fondly clasped in 
 that of her beloved grandmother, who seem 
 ed to her as one restored from the dead, 
 could listen attentively to her father while 
 he recounted to them the events of those 
 passed years, which she had so longed to 
 know and so vainly conjectured. 
 
 He described her mother to her as she 
 was when they first met her beauty, her 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 3*7 
 
 purity, her loveliness; of his deep admira 
 tion of her; of the love she inspired in him 
 from the first, and which he flattered him 
 self she soon learned to reciprocate ; and of 
 his full and fixed determination to win her 
 for his wife. 
 
 Then he told her of the obstacles which 
 his father s more mercenary views for. the 
 greater aggrandizement of him, as his only 
 son, had thrown in his way; and that the 
 marriage which his father had so set his 
 heart upon would have made his life 
 wretched. 
 
 He explained to her that his father s dis 
 ease, which was a softening of the brain, had 
 been pronounced incurable, and that while 
 he might live for years, any opposition would 
 be sure to aggravate it; and that his medi 
 cal attendants had plainly stated to him 
 that to cross his wishes upon any point 
 upon which they were strongly fixed would 
 increase the difficulty under which he labor 
 ed would certainly be dangerous, and 
 might prove fatal. 
 
 What, then, could he do? There was no 
 hope of a favorable change in the future, and 
 
SALEM. 
 
 the postponement of his marriage might be 
 prolonged for years. Under these circum 
 stances he had persuaded Alice to consent 
 to a private marriage ; but this, though nec 
 essarily kept from the knowledge of his fa 
 ther, had been duly solemnized by his own 
 clergyman, in the presence of his two uncles 
 (who fully approved of it), and two or three 
 other material witnesses. 
 
 He told her of his distress when his fa 
 ther concluded to go abroad for change 
 of climate, and strenuously demanded he 
 should accompany him, which he could 
 not evade without declaring the fact of 
 his marriage, which he dared not venture 
 to do. 
 
 He told her of his deep grief and despair 
 when in a foreign land he received the 
 terrible tidings of his young wife s sud 
 den death ; of his heart-felt craving to 
 know more; of the many letters which he 
 had addressed to Mrs. Campbell, implor 
 ing her to give him the most minute de 
 tails of all that related to his wife s sick 
 ness and death, but which had been all un 
 answered. 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 3 1 9 
 
 That when, by reason of his father s death, 
 he had at last been free to return, he had 
 hastened at once to Scotland to see her, but 
 only to find all his letters still lying uncall 
 ed for at the post-office, and to learn that 
 Mrs. Campbell, after the death of her daugh 
 ter, had sold out all her possessions and de 
 parted, and no one could tell him where she 
 had removed to. And he had only the mel 
 ancholy satisfaction of having the beloved 
 remains of his wife removed from their hum 
 ble resting-place to the burial-place of his 
 family, and a suitable monument erected to 
 her memory as his wife. 
 
 That after the performance of this sacred 
 duty he had prosecuted his search for Mrs. 
 Campbell in every direction, hoping only to 
 learn from her something of his wife s last 
 hours ; but in vain, until in a remote region 
 of the Highlands he had come upon traces 
 of her recent occupation of the little Hill 
 side Farm. 
 
 Here he learned for the first time, to his 
 infinite surprise, that she had with her a lit 
 tle girl of the same name as his wife, whom 
 she called her granddaughter. As he well 
 
320 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 knew that she had not only no other child 
 than his wife, but no other near relative, 
 there arose in his mind the vague hope that 
 Alice might have left a living child; and 
 the description of the little girl s age and 
 appearance confirmed this new hope. Yet, 
 if so, why had the fact never been commu 
 nicated to him ? And his sole object and 
 interest now in life was to find her. But 
 Elsie Campbell had taken her measures too 
 carefully, and concealed her trail too success 
 fully for this. 
 
 For years he had prosecuted this eager 
 but ever unsuccessful search, which had for 
 him the only hope which life still held for 
 him. 
 
 At last, baffled and worn out by repeated 
 disappointments, he accepted the invitation 
 of his friend Sir William Phips to try to 
 forget his trouble in the excitement of visit 
 ing the New World, to which Sir William, 
 in his new appointment of governor, was 
 about to embark. In very hopelessness he 
 consented to make the trial ; and here, where 
 he least expected it, and under circumstances 
 stranger than fiction could invent, in the 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 321 
 
 streets of Salem he found his long-sought 
 child. 
 
 But even now the doting father felt he 
 was not sure of the safety of his darling 
 child, until he had her under the shelter of 
 his own roof and the protection of his own 
 country. He was eager to take her home; 
 and as neither Alice nor her grandmother 
 were reluctant to leave the land where they 
 had suffered so much and had attained such 
 an undesirable notoriety, preparations were 
 made for their speedy departure for En 
 gland so soon as Alice was able to bear the 
 fatigue of the voyage. 
 
 But although it was fully decided that 
 Grandmother Campbell was to cross the wa 
 ter with them, her own practical good sense 
 showed her that she could not hope or ex 
 pect to retain her place at her grandchild s 
 side when Alice should assume her true po 
 sition in her father s home; and it was her 
 decided and openly declared intention to re 
 turn to Scotland. 
 
 Alice, who, in spite of the pleadings of 
 her own heart, saw the propriety of this 
 step, strongly urged upon her a return to 
 O 2 
 
3 22 SALEM. 
 
 the Hillside Farm, of which she still re 
 tained a very pleasant impression, as the 
 well-remembered and happy home of her 
 own childhood. But Mrs. Campbell did not 
 wish it. The six years they had passed 
 there, and which to the happy child, so pet 
 ted and indulged, seemed in memory all 
 one unclouded day of enjoyment, had to 
 the grandmother been long years of the 
 most intense grief and constant anxiety, and 
 she had no pleasant associations with the 
 place. 
 
 The little Lowland farm, once occupied by 
 her parents, and which had been her own 
 patrimony, was now again, she had learned, 
 for sale. It was the scene of her own child 
 hood and youth. It was consecrated to her 
 by the tender memories of her parents and 
 her only child. Here she was born. Its 
 kindly roof had given her a shelter when 
 she came back to it a deserted wife or deso 
 late widow. 
 
 It was near enough to England to enable 
 her to see and hear from her beloved grand 
 child regularly ; and the quiet grave - yard 
 where her parents slept was now to her the 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 323 
 
 dearest spot on earth. She would return 
 there, to await the close of the eventful life 
 which had there begun; and at her request 
 an agent was authorized to make the pur 
 chase for her. 
 

 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 "Sometimes beneath exterior rough 
 
 A loyal soul is hidden, 
 That questions not the Master s will, 
 
 But does the task that s bidden; 
 For lowly lot and form uncouth 
 
 May yet perchance inherit 
 A grace the mighty Caesar lacked 
 
 A calm, contented spirit." 
 
 k HE person most aggrieved in the 
 prospect of the departure of the lit 
 tle family was our humble friend, 
 the faithful old Winny. 
 To her it was a loss to which nothing 
 could reconcile her, and though (unlike her 
 self) she bore it in silence, still it was plain 
 to see that she drooped under it. 
 
 One day Alice found her sitting upon an 
 inverted wash-tub in front of the hen-house, 
 with her poor woolly head in her hands, in 
 a very despondent attitude. Supposing she 
 was grieving for her coming departure, Alice, 
 
THE PARTING. 325 
 
 who in the fullness of her own happiness 
 longed to see every one else happy, said to 
 her 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, Winny ? you 
 seem to be in trouble. Tell me what it is, 
 and see if I can not help you." 
 
 " So I be, ruther," said Winny, raising her 
 dejected face; " but it aint nuffin to trubble 
 you wid. I wuz kinder flectin like dat s 
 all." 
 
 " But I am afraid your reflections were 
 sad ones," said Alice, kindly. 
 
 " Wai, dey wuz ; I m kinder puzzled like, 
 Alice. Yer jest set down here, will yer?" 
 and as she spoke she upset another of her 
 tubs, dusted it, and, throwing her apron over 
 it, signed to Alice to sit beside her ; and Al 
 ice, who loved to humor the simple-hearted 
 old woman, gravely complied, and sat tete-a- 
 tete with her, prepared to listen. 
 
 " Yer see, Alice, de trubble is here. I m 
 feared I se done wrong kinder cheated like." 
 
 " Oh, no, Winny no, indeed ; I am sure 
 you never cheated any one of a penny." 
 
 " Oh, no ; it aint no money, an I didn t 
 mean to do nuffin wrong; but I m feared 
 
SALEM. 
 
 I haz all de same, unbeknownst to me. Yer 
 see, Alice, de care o hens an chickens is 
 a mighty great sponsibility. Didn t yer 
 neber tink so ?" 
 
 " Why, no," said Alice, laughing, " I never 
 have thought so ; but still it may be but 
 how do you mean ?" 
 
 "Well, dat are is what I m goin to tell 
 yer. When dese ere hens dey fust begun 
 to lay little Speckle, she wuz the fust to be 
 gin, an it wuz wery pretty o her, an I tort 
 it wuz wery good manners. 
 
 " But yer see, little Speckle, she were a 
 pert, forth -puttin , no - count sort o critter; 
 an her eggs well, I s pose she done her 
 "best but her eggs, dey warn t nuffin to 
 speak ob little tings, not much bigger dan 
 a robin s eggs. So, as dey wasn t by no 
 means fit to be sot, I jest used dem in de 
 family as dey come along. But bime-by 
 Brownie, she begun for to lay. Brownie is 
 a real great, gen rous sort o hen, an her 
 eggs, dey wuz sum pen like big again as* 
 Speckle s wuz. I tell you dem wuz good 
 measure, a credit to any hen, an I kept dem 
 to set. 
 
THE PARTING. 327 
 
 " Ob course, Speckle, she habin begun to 
 lay fust, wuz de fust to want to set. She 
 wuz allers a kinder forward young ting ; an 
 as we wuz ompatient to hev some chickins, 
 an I neber tort on t I went an sot her 
 fust." 
 
 And here the speaker paused, and looked 
 up at Alice, as if she had reached the point 
 of the story. 
 
 " Well ?" said Alice wonderingly, for she 
 did not understand ; " is she not doing well 
 with the eggs, Winny ?" 
 
 "Oh, lors, yes. She s a-doin well enuff; 
 but" 
 
 " But what is the trouble, then ? I do not 
 
 see." 
 
 " Why, poor Brownie, ob course don t yer 
 see ? Whose chicks will dey be, Alice ?" 
 
 "Why Speckle s, of course," said Alice, 
 " if she hatches them won t they be ?" 
 
 " Dere, dat s jest it ; yes, I s pose so. 
 Dey ll be Speckle s chickins, an dey didn t 
 ought to be. Brownie, she laid dem eggs, 
 an now I ve giv um to Speckle, an I ll bet 
 dat pert young ting she ll go a-troopin 
 round wid um, as proud as you please, right 
 
328 SALEM. 
 
 under Brownie s nose an eyes; an poor 
 Brownie, she won t know dey re her n ; she ll 
 tink dey are on y her neffers an nieces. 
 Now aint dat are too bad ? an I done it !" 
 
 "Probably," said Alice, laughing at the 
 old woman s troubled face, "Brownie will 
 never find it out ; and you know l what the 
 mind does not know the heart will not rue. 
 I guess she will stand it. But Winny, I 
 want to ask about your father how is old 
 Drosky ?" 
 
 " Oh, lors bress us ! he s well enuff 
 strong as a horse, he is." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. I have never seen 
 him since the day he built this hen-coop." 
 
 " No, nor before eder. Don t yer remem 
 ber how s prised yer wuz to find I had dad ? 
 An yer neber knowed yer had one yerself. 
 I guess yer wuz more s priseder yet when 
 yer own come along. He is jest a beauty, 
 your n is. I d swap wid yer any day, I clare 
 I would, on y I dun no as he d be so becom- 
 in to me as old dad is; an like as not I 
 shouldn t be as becomin to him as you be. 
 So I s pose, on de whole, we had better each 
 on us keep to our own." 
 
THE PARTING. 
 
 329 
 
 "Yes," said Alice quietly, "I think so 
 too." 
 
 " But, Alice, I don t like yer goin home 
 to de old country ; I don t see how I can 
 spare yer. I don t braine yer, nuther; I d 
 go wid yer if it wuz not for my old pardner 
 here. If ole dad would on y die now ! but 
 he won t he aint got no proper feelin for 
 me, dat ole man haint. He wouldn t incon- 
 vene hisself he wouldn t jest die no, not 
 to obleedge de best Men he haz in de 
 world and dat s me ; no he wouldn t. An 
 I don t jest like to turn my back on him aft 
 er keepin him on so long ; but I really tink 
 he grows tougher an stronger ebery day he 
 libs. An why shouldn t he, when he eats 
 all he can get, right hand and lef hand, fit 
 to beat all nater 2" 
 
 " Oh, Winny, Winny ! do let the poor old 
 man have enough to eat." 
 
 "Enuff! yes, ob course but what is 
 enuff? I d like to know dat; you don t 
 know, an r I m sure he don t. Why, he ll eat 
 all I can sot afore him, an den, if anudder 
 chance comes along, he s ready for it he ll 
 jest turn to, an eat jest as much more. 
 
33 
 
 SALEM. 
 
 Emiff ! I clare, he neber lowed lie had it 
 yet, an I guess he neber will." 
 
 Still Winny did grieve deeply for the loss 
 of her friends with a genuine sorrow, for 
 which not all the liberal provision they had 
 made for the support of herself and her fa 
 ther in their declining years could compen 
 sate. Not even Alice s last laughing injunc 
 tion to her to "be sure and let old Drosky 
 have as much to eat as was good for him," 
 could bring to the dark face of the sorrow 
 ing old woman one of her broadly good-nat 
 ured smiles. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 "Through all its varying scenes our tale has run 
 
 The story s ended, and the play is done; 
 Let fall the curtain, and put out the light 
 Then, exeunt omnes and to all good-night. " 
 
 now, having disposed of the 
 i^vj, more important dramatis per- 
 n9L sonce of our story, but little 
 
 ^t^V^^p 
 
 more remains to bring it to its 
 conclusion. 
 
 The terrible delusion of witchcraft, upon 
 which this narrative is founded, had a sudden 
 rise, but it had a still more sudden termina 
 tion ; the monstrous evil had sprung up and 
 swelled, until it burst by the innate force of 
 its own virulence ; it was like one of those 
 vile poisonous fungi which spring up in a 
 night, scattering sickness and death around, 
 and disappear forever. 
 
 Perhaps the wretched girls who figured so 
 
332 SALEM. 
 
 prominently in its horrors, and whose de 
 moniac performances had so shocked the 
 public mind and dethroned all the calmer 
 powers of reason, had become wearied of 
 their deadly sport ; or else, confident in their 
 success hitherto, they had become reckless 
 of consequences.; but it is certain they went 
 too far and struck too high. 
 
 They had accused the wife of Philip En 
 glish, one of the most prominent merchants of 
 Salem, who had escaped from jail, and saved 
 her life by flight ; and also the Rev. Samuel 
 Williard, minister of the Old South Church, 
 in Boston ; and the mother-in-law of Justice 
 Corwin, an estimable lady residing in Boston 
 (probably because he was too passive at the 
 trials to suit them) ; and now, in October, 
 they ventured to accuse Mrs. Hale, the wife 
 of the minister of the First Church in Bev 
 erly : her genuine excellence and sweet 
 womanly graces and virtues were widely 
 known ; the community, through undoubt- 
 ing faith in her, became convinced of the 
 daring perjury of the accusers, and their 
 power was at an end. "Never was a revo 
 lution so sudden and so complete, and the 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 333 
 
 great body of the people were rescued from 
 their delusion." 
 
 All the previous trials had been held by 
 a special court, which was now superseded, 
 and a permanent and regular tribunal, the 
 Superior Court of Judicature, was then es 
 tablished. They held their first conrt in 
 January, 1693, and continued their sessions 
 until May although no new condemnations 
 appear to have been made by them; and in 
 May, Sir William Phips, the governor, by a 
 general proclamation, discharged all the pris 
 oners. 
 
 The number thus set free is said to have 
 been about one hundred and fifty. Twenty 
 had been executed some had died in prison 
 a considerable number had broken from 
 jail and made their escape; and it has been 
 estimated that the whole number of persons 
 who had been committed on charge of this 
 imaginary crime amounted to several hun 
 dreds. 
 
 But even after this legal acquittal, the pris 
 oners were not set at liberty until they had 
 paid all the charges for their board while in 
 prison, and all the court and jailor s fees; by 
 
334 SALEM. 
 
 this cruel refinement of extortion, these help 
 less beings, who had already had their homes 
 and possessions despoiled, were reduced in 
 many instances to utter impoverishment. 
 
 In looking back upon this terrible tragedy, 
 even after the long lapse of years, there seems 
 to be no way to account for it by any of the 
 known and recognized laws of the human 
 mind; the actors in it seem to have been 
 utterly reckless of consequences to others, 
 and totally incapable of human feeling. 
 There is no mention on record of their being 
 once moved by natural pity for the suffer 
 ings they wrought ; and in one instance, one 
 of the girls explained her unfounded charge 
 as having been " only in sport we must 
 have some sport" And they seem to have 
 been in a gay, frivolous state of mind, as if 
 totally unconscious of the death-dealing nat 
 ure of their accusations; and even after the 
 delusion had passed by, although some few 
 of the older and more important persons in 
 volved in this fearful loss of life have left a 
 noble record of their true repentance and re 
 morse for the delusion into which they had 
 suffered themselves to be drawn, the girls 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 335 
 
 do not give any evidence that they had any 
 realizing sense of the enormity of the sin 
 they had committed. In their subsequent 
 confessions they speak of their conduct by 
 such mild terms as " an error of judgment, 
 a strange delusion of the devil, 1 rather than 
 in a spirit of heartfelt repentance for their 
 terrible guilt, and its widespread and irre 
 mediable effects. 
 
 Even the Reverend Mr. Parris appears 
 himself so entirely devoid of natural human 
 sympathies that he was positively unable to 
 realize their existence in others : " He could 
 not be made to understand why the sorrow 
 ing family of Rebecca Nurse felt themselves 
 so much aggrieved by her cruel and unjust 
 execution ; he told them in plain terms that 
 while they thought her innocent, and he be 
 lieved her guilty and justly put to death, " it 
 was a mere difference of opinion ;" as if he 
 regarded the fact of her life or death as an 
 altogether indifferent matter." 
 
 But the history of the Past is the warning 
 of the Future the beacon that shows where 
 one frail little bark went down has saved 
 many a gallant vessel from a similar fate; 
 
336 SALEM. 
 
 and i the terrible delusion of 1692 has 
 taught our magistrates and rulers caution 
 and temperate judgment if the sacred fear 
 of taking human life even from the worst 
 of criminals which pervades our jury-boxes, 
 and has sometimes been regarded as almost 
 pusillanimity, has sprung from a remem 
 brance of the terrible era when the judg 
 ment of the whole community legal, eccle 
 siastical, and secular swerved aside and was 
 bent like a reed before the breath of passion 
 and superstition, the annals of "Salem Witch 
 craft " have not been preserved in vain. 
 
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