Transcriber's Note:
A Table of Contents has been added.
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

THE
SALEM BELLE:

A Tale of 1692.

BOSTON:

TAPPAN & DENNET,
114 Washington Street.
1842.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by
TAPPAN & DENNET,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.

{ Printed by S. N. Dickinson, }
{ 52 Washington Street. }

INTRODUCTION.

The following letter addressed to the author, will explain the circumstances which led to the publication of this little work.

Cumberland County, Va., July, 1841.

Dear Sir:

In compliance with your request, I now send you a manuscript which contains all the material circumstances of a remarkable legend, founded on the singular events of 1692. The original chronicle is lost, but its general features were strongly impressed on my memory, and I committed them to writing, some years since, and very soon after the discovery that the first manuscript was missing. I hope you will be able to make such use of these materials, as shall expose the danger of popular delusions, and guard the public mind against their recurrence. It is too late to revive the folly of witchcraft, but other follies are pressing on the community,—fanaticism in various ways is moulding the public feeling into unnatural shapes, and shadowing forth a train of undefined evils, whose forms of mischief are yet to be developed. In this state of things, our true wisdom is to take counsel of the past, and not suffer ourselves to be led astray by bold and startling theories, which can only waste the mental energies, and make shipwreck of the mind itself on some fatal rock of superstition or infidelity.

It is an age of boasted liberty and light, but it may well be doubted whether these high pretensions are any powerful defence against popular mistakes. It often happens that the moral plague spot is first seen in the walks of science. It was so in the days which this manuscript commemorates: men renowned for talents and learning gave countenance to a delusion which swept over the land, and will be known in all coming ages by its track of blood and death.

I am not opposed to innovations upon any vicious principle or habit whatsoever. I have no respect for any venerable theory, unless its claims are supported by the Bible and common sense; but how often is that noble edifice of Truth, which the Bible reveals to our eye, deformed by the additions and inventions of men! The Catholic church has for ages thrown up its battlements and towers on the heavenly structure; but these imagined ornaments have only marred its beauty, and hidden its real grandeur from the eye. Other sects have attempted to improve upon the divine Architect; and thus it has happened that the cumbrous scaffolding has fallen, and buried multitudes in its ruins. But if this Temple had been permitted to stand in its own native simplicity, its perfect symmetry, its unrivalled strength and glory, not one of the countless millions who have sought its mysteries would have thus miserably perished.

The elements of delusion always exist in the human mind. Sometimes they slumber for years, and then break forth with volcanic energy, spreading ruin and desolation in their path. Even now the distant roar of these terrible agents comes with confused and ominous sound on the ear. What form of mischief they will assume is among the mysteries of the future;—that desolation will follow in their train, no one can doubt; that they will purify the moral atmosphere, and throw up mighty land-marks as guides to future ages, is equally certain; the evil or good which shall be the final result, depends, under Providence, on the measure of wisdom we may gather from the lessons of the past.

With sincere regard,
Yours truly,
J. N. L.

The foregoing letter speaks for itself; and in conformity to the writer's suggestions, we shall now introduce to our readers the new scenes and hitherto unknown actors in that fatal tragedy, which stains so deeply the history of New England. Follies equally great with those of the witchcraft delusion may yet infest a land as enlightened and civilized as ours; and we cannot agree with our friend in the belief that it is even now too late to revive the same superstition, though its madness may not, as then, terminate in blood. Not more than twelve years since, this same delusion existed in a neighboring state, and within a few miles of its metropolis; numbers visited the spot, and to this day believe that invisible and mysterious agencies controlled the movements of individuals and families.

It is the object of the following pages to hold up the beacons of the past, and in this connection to illustrate the social condition, the habits, manners, and general state of New England, in these early days of its history. We love to contemplate the piety and simplicity, while we deplore the superstition of those times. Much of the former still remains to challenge our admiration and excite our gratitude; the latter, we trust, is passing away. Our fathers were not faultless, but as a community, a nobler race was never seen on the globe: they were indeed in some degree superstitious and intolerant, but far less so than even the brilliant circles of wealth and fashion they left behind, in their father land; and it will be well for their sons, if they do not stumble over worse delusions, and fall into more fatal errors, than those of their primitive ancestors.

CONTENTS

THE SALEM BELLE.

CHAPTER FIRST.

That beautiful spot, now known as Mount Auburn, was formerly covered by a forest, which in the early days of New England was the scene of many a startling incident and wild adventure; the wolf howled in its thickets, and the wild cat issuing from its borders, found an easy prey among the flocks of the neighboring farmers: on this account, the utmost skill and energy of the colonists were often taxed, to save their property from pillage and destruction. The young men of those times were bold and expert in the chase, and stimulated by rewards offered by the colony, they often pursued their game many miles from Boston, and seldom returned without trophies of their skill and success. In this way, the vicinity of the town was soon cleared of these scourges of newer and less populous settlements. At the period of our narrative, however, the race of wild animals was not extinct, and the chase was kept up as one of the most agreeable and salutary sports which the austerity of those days would permit.

It was a fine evening in September, 1691, when two young men, who had been engaged all day with a company of sportsmen, were returning leisurely home on horseback. They were both members of Harvard college, room mates and intimate friends. They lingered a mile or two behind their associates, and though travelling after dark was not very safe in those days, yet the beauty of the evening tempted them to loiter, and possibly they were not unwilling to encounter some little adventure, to make up for a dull and unsuccessful chase. At any rate, their conversation was sufficiently interesting to detain them awhile on the road.

'Have you heard from your cousin Mary of late?' said James Lyford to his companion.

'Why do you ask that question? I have no such cousin as you refer to,' replied his friend.

'I have heard you call her cousin Mary,' said James, 'and it was fair to judge from your manner of speaking, that she bore this relation to you.'

'Cousin,' replied Walter, 'is a name that belongs to every body or nobody, as the case may be. It is a very convenient term, and affords a good house to shelter in, when you are bored with questions. I have forty such cousins as Mary.'

'Then you have forty such houses to shelter in,' said Lyford. 'Verily, Walter, you will have no want of inns on the road to matrimony.'

'Forty inns are none too many for a road that promises to be so long, as the one you think I am travelling. To be serious, Lyford, I wish you would let me alone about Mary. She is beautiful and good, but I dare not marry in this Puritan land. I must not reside here; and much as I love Mary Graham, I can never take her to the lighter habits and frivolous scenes of licentious France. You are aware that my parents have left Virginia for Paris; that city must be my home. I must grapple with its temptations, perhaps fall under their power; but duty, honor, nay love itself forbid me to take Mary to its blighting influences. But why talk of such subjects? I am but twenty-one years old and this passion of love, the wise heads say, is not to be depended on; my own feelings may change. And now, Lyford, you have the reasons why Mary Graham must still be my cousin.'

'You speak like a philosopher, nay like a Christian too. I hope your practice will correspond with your precepts, and that you will be careful not to overact the cousin, in your intercourse with Mary. If the cousin in speech becomes the lover in practice and example, it may wake a responsive affection in her own heart, and if so, she cannot quench it, as you may, among the gayeties of Paris. It may fade the bloom on her cheek and quench the light in her eye; but it cannot, like yours, be overcome by excitement abroad, or change at home.'

'Your remarks are very just,' said Walter; 'but why speak in this tone of warning? think you, Lyford, I would trifle with her feelings? I have no evidence that she returns my love; and do you pretend to see ought that is reprehensible in my conduct?'

'Yes, Walter; and if your purposes are not serious in the matter, you ought not to persist in those attentions, which clearly indicate your love to her, and may produce similar feelings on her part. You deceive yourself in this affair, and, it may be, you are deceiving her also. Love is always in advance of the judgment, and you speak like one little acquainted with its snares.'

'And what right have you,' replied Walter, 'to catechise me after this fashion? It is one of your worst faults, Lyford, that you see every thing in a dark and suspicious form. As to Mary, she never suspected me of anything but friendship and good will. She does not love me. Would to heaven she did! Were it not for the fatal dislike of my parents to this Puritan race, I would rather live with Mary Graham on a mountain fastness, or in the solitude of the desert, than to occupy, without her, the throne of England or France; but my filial duties interpose, and the stern demands of such parents as mine must not be disregarded.'

'Your purposes on this point must be settled,' said Lyford, 'and I must catechise you till they are. I know not that Mary loves you. I hope she never will, until you are so fully sensible of her value and your duty, as to consult her interests in the case, as much at least as your own. If you seek to gratify your vanity, by securing her love, when the obstacles to your union are not to be overcome; then your principles are not firm enough for me, and your friendship is no longer of any value.'

'Ought I to deny myself the pleasure of her society,' returned Walter, 'because the severity of Puritan habits imposes so many restraints, and is so rigid in its inquiries, and exact in its demands? I hope this people, in the march of improvement, will learn to be a little more liberal. You are too severe yourself, Lyford, and all the innocent gayeties of life look to you, as so many clouds between us and heaven.'

'Religion is not severe in her demands,' said Lyford, 'and if she appears so to you, Walter, it is because you invest her with false attributes, and view her through a false medium. Mary Graham is a sincere Christian; her cheerfulness of character you will readily admit; it is a thing of nature, and never runs into excess. She has often had occasion to rebuke the frivolous and turn back the current of levity and folly, and she never shrinks from her duty in this respect, as you well know. I should be sorry to believe any one could command her love, who is not governed by a principle of true religion; and I must add, Walter, if you fail in this point, I hope you will never possess her love.'

'Whence, Lyford, pray tell me, whence this strange interest on your part in Mary? do you mean to stand between us and tell her I am unworthy of her love? You well know I believe in the reality of religion, and reverence it too; you know my character, and cannot suspect me of dishonor. What does all this mean?'

'I mean to put you on your guard, Walter. I can only repeat what I have already said, that your present position and prospects do not warrant you in lavishing upon Mary so many proofs of your love. The course you are pursuing is unjust to her and unjust to yourself. I think you now understand me.'

'I do not understand,' said Walter, 'by what right you prescribe my duties, and undertake to regulate my social intercourse. It would seem to me, to be more wise to mind your own affairs, and let mine alone.'

'And why should I let yours alone, when they interfere with mine? Is it your privilege alone, Walter, to love Mary? Why may I not love her as well as you? She is not less the object of my regard than yours. Mary Graham is more dear to me than I can express. There is no one on earth I love so well. Moreover, she returns my love, and of this I can give you the most unequivocal proofs.'

'Now, I have it,' replied the indignant Walter; 'you mean to supplant me in Mary's love, and all this parade of friendship and religion is a mere artifice to cover your own selfish designs. Lyford, you are playing the hypocrite and the villain.'

'Tell me not thus,' said Lyford calmly. 'Much as I love Mary, I shall not stand in your way. Could I see, Walter, that to all your other virtues, you added that of sincere piety towards God, I should rejoice to see you together at the nuptial altar, and my prayers would go up with yours, that it might be a blessed union.'

'I do not understand you, Lyford: you say I must desist from my attentions to Mary, till my purposes are settled. When I ask why you interfere, you tell me, it is on account of your own love, and then, with strange inconsistency, you add, that, if I was a sincere Christian, you would rejoice in our union. Why do you thus perplex and mislead me?'

'All I have said is true, Walter: the lady you have known by the name of Mary Graham, is the beloved sister of your friend Lyford. It must remain a secret, and you must, on no account, divulge it. Do you now wonder at my love? do you object to my counsels and cautions? This dear sister is not the relative of Mr. Ellerson, with whom she resides. She is my only sister, the grand-child of Gen. Goffe, and was the little companion and solace of his last days. At his death, it was deemed expedient that, under this assumed name, she should reside with her friends at Salem. You have now the cause of my suggestions and warnings. Will you not say they are reasonable and right?'

'You have indeed opened my eyes. Pardon me, oh Lyford! that angry burst of passion which denounced my best friend. It was love to your sister that prompted my wrath; and I must have the forgiveness of her brother, before I can quietly rest.'

'It is forgiven,' said Lyford, seizing the hand of his friend, and together, in silence and tears, they dismounted at the college gate and entered the hall just at the commencement of evening prayers.

CHAPTER SECOND.

Walter Strale was of German descent; his parents, as we have seen, resided for a time in Virginia, and it was during this period that Walter was born. When he was about fourteen years of age, his father determined to remove to France, and establish a mercantile house in Paris. Mr. Strale, however, was unwilling to educate his son in that gay metropolis; and though by no means strict in matters of religion, he felt a deep solicitude that the morals of his child might be preserved. It was at one time his purpose to leave him in Virginia, among some highly valued and judicious friends; but as the means of education were very imperfect in that region, he wisely determined to send him to Boston, where he knew his studies would be carefully superintended, and his morals effectually guarded.

It was difficult, after all, to understand fully the motives of Mr. Strale, in sending his son to so rigid a school of morals. He was a high churchman, and had a thorough contempt for what he called the superstitions and austerities of the Puritans. It is probable the extremely volatile temper of Walter made it necessary to place him under careful restraints and a rigid discipline, and Mr. Strale, who was a man of excellent sense, perceiving the advantages of a New England education, was willing, for the sake of its fidelity, to overlook its seeming bigotry and austerity; for with all his contempt for the Puritan sect, he was ready to acknowledge, that on the score of integrity and good morals, no people on earth could rival them.

On the morning of the twenty-fourth of June, 1685, Walter embarked at James River, on board the Sea Gull, a beautiful schooner, under the command of Capt. Wing, who was a shrewd trader, as well as a skilful seaman, and had for some time past kept up a regular intercourse between Virginia and the New England colonies. He was of course well known to Mr. Strale, who was entirely satisfied in committing Walter to his care. Mrs. Strale was careful to furnish, her son with every convenience and luxury which maternal care could provide, and his father sent with him a negro servant, named Pompey, the most faithful of all his domestics, and who might in an important sense be called the steward of his house: he presided over sundry departments of domestic economy, and no one on the plantation was more jealous of his rights, or displayed in a higher degree, the pride and authority of station; yet Pompey professed to be a thorough democrat, and insisted that all men were born free and equal: he could never solve the problems and mathematics of slavery, yet as he required the strict obedience of those under his control, he thought it no more than right to be submissive, in his turn, to the mandates and discipline of his master.

Pompey's theory of universal liberty exposed him to much censure from his fellow slaves, for he was in fact a tyrant on as large a scale as circumstances would permit. Whenever he had a chance to exercise his love of power, Pompey assumed the kingly prerogative, and claimed for his opinions the supremacy of law; if any one questioned his authority, or chose to plead his natural rights, Pompey assured him that democracy always consulted the general good, and as power must reside somewhere, it was natural to suppose that he who possessed it knew best how and when it was proper to exercise it.

There was another circumstance which gave Pompey a little extra consequence: in consideration of his fidelity, he was assured that if he continued faithful till Master Walter was educated, he should then receive his freedom. This period was now approaching, and he thought it no harm to take a little of his future liberty in advance; but he often misjudged in regard to the extent of his privilege, and was of course subjected to some slight rebukes, which occasionally left marks on his person, not at all to his credit. If there was any thing to which Pompey had a mortal aversion, it was to the cane or the lash: not, as he said, that he minded the pain,—but they always disfigured a gentleman, and his freedom would not be worth having, if he carried on his person such tokens of his vassalage and debasement.

The first impressions of a sea life are uniformly disagreeable. The pleasant dreams which gather over the mind, in its views of distant countries, changing latitudes, and the thousand forms of beauty which flit through the air, or skim over the water, are dispelled by a single hour's experience, and perish at the first touches of reality. It was so with Strale. He had no proper notion of the unsettled life of a sailor: the splendid visions which hung over the future, were soon scattered by the fatal sea-sickness, and the retreating phantoms thronged around the scenes of home, and invested every locality with the same beauty which at first beckoned him away; but there was no hope of return: the fine southern breezes were wafting him to a strange land, of which he had few correct notions, and whose customs and habits, however repugnant to his feelings, must be adopted as his own.

For two days our little hero was struggling with all the demons of sea-sickness, homesickness, and the remembrances of past enjoyments; but his mind was too buoyant to continue long under this depression. On the third day he appeared on deck; and as the graceful schooner with fine breezes and under a cloud of canvass was gliding on her path, the bright and the beautiful again adorned the prospect, and restored the pleasures which had been so suddenly and rudely dispersed. He was now able to climb the mast, and take his post on its highest elevation. Walter was always on the look-out for adventure, and the novelties of the sea began to occupy his mind, and invest the objects around him with unwonted attractions. Moreover, Capt. Wing, like other seamen, was graphic in his descriptions of hair-breadth escapes, and was never at a loss for some real or invented tale of wonders. This was an unfailing source of amusement, and Walter listened to his narratives with enthusiasm and delight: he longed for some experience in the same school; he wished to be familiar with dangers, to conquer whatever element might oppose him, and to be in all respects the master of his own destiny.

'There is no character like that of a sailor, Walter,' said Capt. Wing, as they were sitting together near the companion-way, after dinner; 'he is a cook, a seamstress, a washwoman, a gentleman, a philosopher, and an astronomer.'

'You judge from your own crew,' said Walter, 'for you have trained them to all these different characters; but as to the mass of seamen, you might safely add, they are spendthrifts, drunkards, and fools.'

'You are an ignorant boy, Strale. Do you not know there are as many spendthrifts, rowdies, and scoundrels, on shore, in proportion to their numbers, as on the sea? They have a better chance to keep out of sight, and there is a little more refinement in their vices; but after all, the sailor has more good qualities to counterbalance his bad ones: he is grievously slandered by all sorts of men; as a body they are faithful, obedient, patient and generous, and when you take into view their sufferings and temptations, it is wonderful they do so well.'

'The name of a sailor was once full of terror to me,' returned Walter, 'for in every narrative of piracy I have read, they are fearful agents, and seem to commit murder with as little scrapie as if it were lawful business.'

'So you have judged of the sailor's character from the worst portraits you can find. This is not fair, Walter: if you take this method with landsmen, you will dread them as much as you do the sailor. What do you think of those land pirates, who decoy seamen into their dens of wickedness, and then turn them houseless and penniless upon the world? There are good and bad in all classes: when you are older, you will do justice to the sailor.'

'I would do it now, Capt. Wing. My judgment was hasty and my language rash; my observation must be more extended before I can be a competent judge in this matter; but in the variety of character you have given the sailor, you have placed things so much at opposites, that I must ask you to unriddle the paradox.'

'The necessities of the sailor,' returned Capt. Wing, 'have made him a little of every thing. You can well enough understand why he acts the tailor or the cook, but you cannot connect these humble offices with the higher qualities of the gentleman and philosopher. Now here is Le Moine—our French steward; no one can be more skilful in his office, and yet that lad can tell you the name of every prominent constellation, and with the proper instruments he can measure his latitude with unfailing accuracy. The same is true of many other seamen, upon whom a careless observer might turn an eye of indifference or contempt. But look, Walter! the clouds are heaving up in the west; we shall have a thunder squall, and you will now see how the Sea Gull dances on the water. That is the black flag,' continued Wing, addressing Roberts, the mate; 'there are pirates in the clouds as well as on the water, and old Neptune gets all the plunder; but the wind is fair, and we can run half an hour before we are overhauled.'

'It grows dark already, and the wind lulls,' said Roberts; 'this sky-scraper will board us directly.'

'Let him come,' said Wing; 'he is one of my old acquaintance, but his dress is darker than usual, and he looks more rough and surly than is his wont.'

The wind had now died away, and there was a perfect calm on the water; the Sea Gull was flapping her wings, but had no onward motion. In a few moments the cloud suddenly expanded, and stretched a curtain of terrific blackness from the western limit of the horizon to the extreme north; the air was now excessively sultry, and an ominous silence and gloom hung over the water; it was presently interrupted by a sharp flash of lightning, followed by a deafening peal of thunder. 'Get up the chain, Mr. Roberts,' said Wing; 'the lightning will soon be in chase of us, and we must throw it overboard.' The chain was instantly run up to the mast head, and its lower extremity hung over the tafferel; the sails were furled, except the foresail, which was closely reefed, and under a light breeze the schooner again made some headway.

The whole atmosphere was now veiled in blackness, and as if conscious that some terrible convulsion was at hand, the crew of the schooner stood at their posts in perfect silence, while Capt. Wing paced the deck, with that hurried and tremulous motion, which indicated the anxiety that oppressed him. A few drops of rain now fell on the deck and the surrounding ocean. Another and more vivid gleam of lightning, followed by rapid and still fiercer flashes, announced that the crisis was at hand. The next moment the little Sea Gull was enveloped in a blaze of lurid fire, and she staggered under a shock, which but for the chain at the mast head, would have sent her to the bottom; at the same moment, the roar of the hurricane was heard in the distance, and before the panic occasioned by the lightning had subsided, the foresail was torn from the bolt ropes, and scattered in shreds upon the sea,—and in a cloud of tempest and foam, the Sea Gull was rushing through the water, at the rate of ten knots per hour. The sea and sky were now mingled together in wild and terrible uproar; the constant blaze of lightning, the rapid peals of thunder, the trembling and creaking of the schooner as she dashed on her way, presented a scene which startled and overawed even her daring and experienced commander. But the crisis was soon past, and in the course of forty minutes the violence of the squall was over, and before sunset the Sea Gull, with no other damage than the loss of her foresail, was gliding over the water, with a pleasant breeze from the south.

'I am willing to grapple with anything but lightning,' said Wing, 'thanks to the chain we sent up; but for that, Walter, we should have slept to night in the ocean.'

'I must go beyond second causes, Capt. Wing, for such a wonderful deliverance as this; our gratitude is due to a higher Power, and I would never forget it.'

'A sailor's gratitude, Walter, does not often express itself in words, but its impulses are not the less strong because they are invisible.'

'They are transient, however,' said Walter, 'and the occasion that gives them birth is forgotten as a dream. Gratitude must be a steady principle, and not a blind emotion; its fruits must be visible in the life.'

'We sailors,' said Wing, 'are not preachers; we do not study the items of theology; if we did, we should be poor navigators. You are a boy, Strale, and have seen little of the world; a few more tramps over its rough surface, and you will think nothing of these narrow escapes.'

Walter did not reply, but resting on the tafferel, and casting his eye over the fading light of a gorgeous sunset, he traced the beautiful images of a better land, and breathed an earnest prayer that he might be fitted to enter at last upon its pure and everlasting felicities.

No other incident of importance occurred, and on the evening of the third of July, the schooner was moored by the side of a little island off the harbor of Boston. The boat landed Walter and some of the crew by the side of a fine rivulet which flowed from the rock. The quiet evening soon gathered around, and was occupied in grateful recollections of the past, and bright anticipations of the morrow. The antiquary may be interested to know that all which remains of that green spot where Roberts and the young Virginian rambled by moonlight, may be found in the rocks now called 'the Hardings.'

At sunrise on the following morning, the fourth of July, the Sea Gull was again under way. The day was fine, with a clear sky and a soft southern breeze. The schooner glided among the beautiful islands of the inner harbor, which were then filled with trees, and vocal with the songs of birds. It was not, as now, covered by vessels of every name and from every clime, but along its still waters the little galley with oars, the fisherman's skiff, and now and then the white pinions of some taller bark, were seen to move over its silence and solitude; neither did that halo of glory which now circles the birth-day of freedom kindle the patriot's ardor; nor did the stripes and stars wave on the green hills, nor the merry peal of bells go up with the rejoicings of a liberated nation; yet the elements of all this glory were there, and many a prophetic eye even then discerned its dawn upon the mystic horizon of the future.

As the vessel approached the town, the eye of Walter roamed in delight among the varied scenery which adorned the prospect. The islands with their forests, the bay, the blue mountains on the left, were reposing in the beauty of the morning, and the youthful fancy of Strale threw around them a thousand visions of future bliss. On the west the tower of Harvard Hall rose in the distance, shadowing forth that eminence and literary fame, which have since adorned that noble institution. In a few moments, the town with its white edifices, the spires of its churches, its trees and gardens, which had for some time appeared in beautiful outline, were displayed in distinct groups and figures; and Walter, who had till then seen only a few scattered habitations, gazed with intense gratification on the miniature city, as it stretched its little outposts, its convenient and spacious wharf, its thirty sail of merchantmen and coasters, and its eight hundred buildings, with all the attractions of novelty on his eye.

The beauty of the day, the mild breathings of summer, and the carol of innumerable birds, were but the emblems of that sublimer glory, which in after times rested on the birth-day of freedom. The fathers of those times sleep in the dust. The sons, too, are silent as the fathers; but on the ears of the third generation the hymn of liberty poured its strains of gladness, and the name of Washington was borne on every breeze and enshrined in every patriot's heart. That name will be revered as long as Virtue herself shall be loved and honored; and in any future struggle for liberty, his grateful country will interweave with every fold of her star spangled banner, the beautiful motto:

'He led the fathers and inspires the sons.'

CHAPTER THIRD.

During the passage of the Sea Gull up the harbor, no one seemed to enjoy the genial influences of the day more than Pompey: there was something in the very atmosphere, he said, which gave him life and freedom, and he blessed the good land where a man might speak his mind without fear of a cuff or a whip. His fancy revelled in new dreams of liberty, and his exclamations of delight were so frequent and loud, that Walter at last sent him below. Presently, however, his head peered above the companion-way, and on his promise of silence and decorum, Walter permitted him again to come on deck—but it was all in vain. Pompey was in too warm a glow to keep still, and becoming once more a little too garrulous, Capt. Wing seized a rope, but before he had a chance to apply it, Pompey, who saw his purpose, was up the ratlings and on the cross-trees, where, although he had a better view of the blessed land, his raptures soon subsided, and he was enabled to keep silence long enough to insure his safety when he came down.

The schooner soon reached the wharf, which at that time was the great depôt of trade and commerce. As Walter passed by the long ranges of wooden buildings which then occupied the ground, the merry cries of the market men, the grand display of merchandise, and the bustle of wagons and carts, formed a scene so full of novelty and attraction, that he lingered for an hour or more, surveying the different objects with lively curiosity and interest. Pompey was utterly amazed. 'What sort of world be this, Massa?' was his exclamation, as he stood at the termination of King street, from whence, at that time, all the business part of the town was visible. 'Mind your business, Pompey,' said Walter, 'and follow me with the luggage; if you stare at this rate, they will have you up for a vagabond, and with good reason.' Walter kept on, but in a moment or two, he heard a shout of merriment and glee, which had the effect of stopping all business within its circle. Pompey had just met with one of his own color, and when the two friends rushed together, it caused such an explosion of good nature, as sent the laugh up and down the street: the idlers came out to gaze, and a stout drayman, who saw the ludicrous attitude of the two blacks, tripped them both into the gutter, when Pompey, covered with shame and choked with dust and passion, rose on his feet and gave the drayman a violent blow, which nearly felled him to the ground; he was then seized by an officer and carried to prison on the charge of fighting in the streets; a serious crime, and one for which the fathers of New England had provided due punishment, which was usually inflicted in full measure on the culprit; for the rigid justice of those days was not often tempered by the mild pleadings of mercy.

Walter saw how the affair was going, and wishing his servant to have the full benefit of such a lesson, did not choose to interpose, but directing a porter to take his luggage, he saw Pompey move off to prison, with no regret that the ridiculous farce, in which he had acted, was likely to meet its proper rebuke. On his arrival at the hotel he was provided with suitable lodgings, and spent the remainder of the day in walking about town, and viewing the various objects of interest it contained.

The morning of the next day was occupied in visiting some of the gentlemen of the town, to whom Walter was furnished with letters. Among these were Mr. Stoughton, Judge Sewall, Rev. Mr. Willard, and Mr. Winthrop, the latter a distinguished practitioner at the bar. He was welcomed with the warm hospitality of those days, and assured of their kind offices and best efforts for his welfare. He related to Mr. Winthrop the affair in King street, between the two Africans, who caused an immediate examination of the case before a magistrate, which resulted in the release of Pompey, who followed his master home. His dream of liberty had by this time nearly vanished, and the poor negro was deeply concerned at his disgrace.

'It was a great breach of good manners, Pompey, to make such a noise in the street and tumble about in the gutter,' said Walter; 'I thought you intended to act the gentleman.'

'So I did, Massa, and many is the gentleman I have seen in the gutter, besides me.'

'Very well, he is no gentleman while there, especially if he clamors and fights as you did. That was too vulgar even for a gentleman's servant, and I was ashamed to have the public see you had not been better trained.'

'It is hard to get into jail, Massa, for being so glad to see an old friend. Is it one of the laws, Massa?'

'It is every where a law, to pick up vagabonds in the gutter,' said Walter; 'if you put me to this trouble every day, I shall send you back to Virginia.'

'Right glad to go, Massa; homesick enough,' said Pompey.

'Well, you must get over it, and behave in better fashion for the future. I am not without hopes, you will learn good manners in due time. This lesson will help you a little, and so will I, if you will try to help yourself. I want you now at my lodgings, and will there show you what you have to do.'

Pompey followed Walter to the inn, in better spirits; for a word of encouragement always gave him a glow of happiness, and he tossed his head with a new sense of his importance, as he entered the hotel to receive the orders and wait upon the movements of his young master.

In a few weeks, Walter was received into the family of Mr. Gardner, a highly respectable merchant, who was a friend and correspondent of his father. In this situation he was favored with the best literary advantages and possessed every facility for social enjoyment. He was committed to the special care of Mr. Cheever, one of the best teachers New England has ever produced, and made rapid proficiency in his studies; in less than two years, he was fully prepared for college; the usual examination was passed with singular credit, and he entered Harvard University in the year 1688. The social and moral influences which had surrounded him in Boston had done much to check his too volatile disposition, and to inspire him with a high respect for the consistent and exemplary piety which so much prevailed in those days; he was freely admitted to the best circles, where elegance without ostentation, cheerfulness without frivolity, and refinement without the despotism of fashion, were the natural and graceful ornaments of the social character.

Walter was not slow in improving the advantages he enjoyed. It is true, he sometimes thought the bow was bent too long, and that the demands of religious duty might be somewhat relaxed, yet he had the good sense to perceive in the state of the community around him, the best illustration of the excellence and moral force of that education in which science and religion acted in concert and moulded the temper and habits by their combined influence. Walter, however, was not religious in the true sense of the term. His understanding admitted the excellence of the moral precepts that were taught him, and his conscience confessed their power. He wanted neither light nor conviction on the subject, but he had no special love for the strict requirements of religion and had no experience of its renovating power on the heart.

We must now pass over the first years of college life, and pursue the train of incidents up to the period which introduced our narrative. Walter had attained his senior year in college, and had proceeded thus far with credit to himself and the esteem and confidence of his instructors. He had now reached that period when the character is rapidly developed, and new forms of good or ill are daily stamped on its features. At the age of twenty years, with a graceful person, pleasing manners, and confessedly in the highest literary ranks, his prospects were too flattering to escape the fears of his friends, that the temptations of life might prove too strong for his principles; but those fears were groundless. Although every distinction which wealth or talents could bestow were at his command, yet Strale was never unduly elated; there was no affectation of superiority, no arrogant assumption of rank, no pride of distinction. His whole course at Cambridge had been marked by a strict regard to his moral and social duties. He had even declined the personal services of Pompey, who was left in the family of Mr. Gardner, and chose to perform himself the little drudgery of college rooms, and to live in commons upon the ordinary college fare. The uniform kindness of his temper, his liberality to his fellow students, and his strict regard to every point of order and discipline, procured for him an enviable and well deserved reputation.

It was happy for Strale that among his youthful associates he possessed such a friend as Lyford. It was still more happy that the female society to which he was introduced, possessed every moral ornament, as well as the graces of refinement and good breeding. Among the ladies of New England he found very much to respect and admire. A scrupulous regard to the delicacy and dignity of the sex was almost universal, nor is it to be denied, that in personal attractions and all the truly valuable ornaments of character, they have not been surpassed by any succeeding generation.

It is pleasant to call up the beautiful pictures of simplicity and grace which adorned the dwellings of our ancestors; to look back upon those groups of maidens, who breathed the air of moral purity, and bounded in the full tide of health and happiness, over the gardens and among the forests of this very spot, where the city now spreads its marts of business, its solid piles of masonry, its 'streets of palaces and walks of state.' If the beauty of that moral painting was sometimes marred and defaced, it was as often retouched by many a simple, yet unconscious artist, and its calm and beautiful outline is still visible as a blessed vision of the past, and a sure beacon to future eminence and glory.

It was common among the students of Harvard College in those days, with the approbation of the faculty, to make frequent visits to Boston for purposes of social and religious improvement. This practice was encouraged in the belief that the early habits of the students would be formed on the best models, and that the moral feeling which then prevailed, was just the atmosphere in which they should live and breathe. The elder Mather, at that time President of the College, was himself a resident of Boston, and in connection with his College duties, was pastor of a large congregation in town. The students were, of course, when in Boston, much under his supervision, and any instance of misconduct would hardly escape the notice of this vigilant guardian of the public morals.

It was at the house of Mr. Hallam, a gentleman of intelligence and wealth in town, that Strale first met with the young lady whom we must still call Miss Graham. She was the intimate friend of Miss Caroline Hallam, a beautiful and accomplished girl of the same age. The early friendship they had formed was of a character not readily to be interrupted, and the interchange of visits between Boston and Salem was kept up, as often as the circumstances of the two friends would allow. There was, however, a strongly marked difference between the two young ladies. Miss Graham was sincere, confiding, and transparent in her character. Miss Hallam was somewhat vain, unusually gay in her temper, and strongly inclined to suspicion and jealousy; yet these points of character were not sufficiently developed, to interrupt the harmony which had prevailed for several years. In the summer of 1690, at a small musical party at Mr. Hallam's, Walter was first introduced to Miss Graham, and the sudden and powerful interest she then acquired in his affections, had never been subdued. From that time, when Mary was in town, the house of Mr. Hallam was Walter's chosen resort. His attentions, however, were cautiously shunned, and while she never failed in all the forms of politeness, there was a manifest reserve in her manners, which, though it checked his hopes and increased his respect and admiration, did not at all diminish his love.

It was not surprising, however, that Mary should feel some interest in a young gentleman of so many accomplishments, as were possessed by Strale. But, while she was careful not to betray any special attachment, or discover to her friends that her affections were at all involved in the matter, and while perhaps she was herself unconscious of the power he was gaining over her feelings, the reserve of her manners gradually softened, and she engaged with lively interest in that sportive and animated conversation, for which both were distinguished. But her natural seriousness of manner inclined her rather to subjects of graver import, and she never concealed the fact that religion and its kindred themes, were those upon which she most delighted to dwell. Indeed, this was so obvious to Strale, that he often regretted that his own heart refused its sympathy with a subject, which was uppermost in the heart of the object of his love. It was plain, however, that the acquaintance of the parties was becoming every day more agreeable, and the general opinion was, that, if the holy bands of matrimony did not finally unite such kindred tastes and tempers, no predictions, touching these matters, could ever be trusted again.

This state of things between the parties continued for about a year, when it gave occasion for the conversation which Lyford held with Strale on their return from a hunting excursion. A few days after this, Walter informed Lyford he had written his father of his attachment to Mary, and desired permission to make known his feelings, and, if she did not object, he requested his consent to their future union. This letter was accompanied by one from Mr. Gardner, in which he assured Mr. Strale that Miss Graham was every way worth of Walter's love, and possessed all those graces and accomplishments which would reflect the highest credit on the family.

This declaration on the part of Strale was entirely satisfactory to Lyford, and he no longer objected to the occasional intercourse which had been kept up between the parties. It is not improbable, however, that Walter was a little in advance of his father's consent, and that some of those visions, which glittered on his eye, would reflect a portion of their brilliancy on the mind of Miss Graham. But nothing was said of a definite character, and the two friends were left to the pleasure attending the consciousness of mutual love and the occasional sadness of 'hope deferred.'

Mary Graham was a decided favorite in Boston. Her personal attractions were surpassed by none, and her manners and conversation were scarcely rivalled by any of her associates. Yet she was simple and unpretending in her demeanor; her religious character, from long reflection and deep conviction, was firm and decided; but she was no enthusiast, and though even Walter, at times, thought her more precise and severe than necessary, yet there was a charm of inexpressible beauty, interwoven with her every movement, a purity of mind and purpose, a visible communion with things unseen and eternal, which commanded the unvoluntary homage and respect of all who knew her.

It was not strange that a young lady thus gifted, should have many admirers, nor that love of equal strength with that of Strale's, should be kindled in the affections of others. Such was the fact in regard to Mary, and its consequences will be unfolded in the progress of our narration. But it is a law of our nature, most beneficent and wise, that but one response can be given, and, when given in sincerity and truth, it is done with no divided heart.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

It was a frosty and dark evening, early in the following February, when Walter and Lyford went into Boston, to meet a party of friends at the house of Mr. Elliott, a gentleman who had recently come from Europe, and whose commercial operations were, in future, to be conducted with England and her American colonies. Mr. Elliott was wealthy, intelligent and highly respected by all classes. It was deemed a high privilege among the young gentlemen of the town, to be on visiting terms with his family. His son, James, was amiable and agreeable, and Miss Margaret Elliott was a decided belle. The good people of those days were sometimes annoyed by the style of her dress, which was somewhat in advance of the prevalent fashions, and was always formed upon the best London or Paris models, though greatly modified and adapted to the New England taste. Among the younger maidens, she would frequently encounter looks of admiration or envy, according to the taste or temper of the parties. But Miss Elliott insisted she could accommodate herself no further to the prevalent scruples concerning dress, and as she was a most amiable girl, condescending and affable to all, her imagined vanity and love of fashion was generally forgiven.

The large hall of Mr. Elliott's house was brilliantly lighted, and at seven o'clock the company began to assemble. They were received at the door by a servant, and the ladies and gentlemen conducted to different rooms, where the servants assisted in the arrangement of their dresses. On entering the hall, they were received by Mr. Elliott, who presented each to Mrs. Elliott, according to the etiquette of the day, and the parties then dispersed themselves about the room.

When the young gentlemen from Cambridge arrived, the spacious rooms were nearly filled with guests: the beauty and pride of the town were present, members of the learned professions, several clergymen with their families, Governor Stoughton, Judge Sewall and other eminent men of the day, to whom these hours of recreation were among the greenest spots in their lives of professional labor and care; but for the youthful part of the company, these occasions possessed the highest charm. The morning of life, as yet unclouded by care, and spreading its pictures of joy on every hill, and crowning even the distant and snow-clad steeps of old age with a visionary green, was too balmy and bright to be false, too serene and beautiful to be deformed by sudden tempest or a threatening sky. So reasons the mind in its early views of life; such were the hopes and expectations of these young men and maidens, as they looked through the vista of time. Yet was there nothing in the nature of these social enjoyments which might not challenge the scrutiny of even the most rigid and severe. There were no card tables, no merry dances, nor frivolous games; yet conversation was sprightly, good humored, and sometimes gay; the interchange of social courtesies was cordial and sincere, and the mirth of the occasion, if it might be called such, was neither excessive nor unbecoming.

'You can boast the belle of the flowers to-night,' said James Elliott to his cousin, Miss Hallam; 'it seems like a rare exotic, and is a perfect novelty to me; pray tell me where you obtained it.'

'I had it, James,' said Caroline, 'from one of the mountains of the moon. You know our own supply of flowers in winter is very small.'

'You are dealing in riddles, Miss Hallam. Pray explain: I would like to know where more might be had.'

'I have told you, James, already: will you never believe me?'

'Hardly ever, Caroline. You are always shutting the door and leaving me in the dark. It would be civil to give me a lamp, that I might find my way out.'

'You must get out by moon-light, James. I have you told a plain story, and if you will not believe me, why, let it go. You believe, every day, things much less credible.'

At that moment, Miss Graham joined the circle, and James, appealing to her, said he hoped Miss Hallam would give her the explanation she had refused to him.

'Why, you must study your map, Mr. Elliott,' said Mary; 'I suppose the flower, or the plant that produced it, came from Africa.'

'There, James,' said Caroline, 'see how little wit you have! Would you not thank me, now, to shut you up in the dark, to hide your blushes?'

'No, Caroline, for then I could not see you, and as to the blushes you speak of, they will help my looks, which are none of the best. Miss Graham, you have given this little vixen the best of the game: I shall pay up hereafter.'

So saying, James moved off in tolerable humor, and glad to make his retreat. He soon joined another group of ladies, and as his conversation was very agreeable, he seldom found himself without willing auditors. Moreover, he felt that, on the present occasion, the honors of his father's house were in a measure confided to him, and the slight confusion of the incident soon passed away.

The two young ladies he left were joined by another young gentleman from Cambridge, named Trellison. He had graduated the preceding autumn with some reputation; his manners were polished; and, except an occasional harshness of expression, his face was not disagreeable. He made high professions of religion, and there was a seeming modesty and sobriety, in his deportment; yet to a practiced eye, he displayed the tokens of fanaticism and hypocrisy rather than the unequivocal signs of frankness and sincerity in his religious faith.

'I believe you always worship at the South church, when you are in town,' said Mr. Trellison, addressing Miss Graham. 'I have never seen you at the North. Will you go with me to hear Mr. Mather next Sabbath, by way of variety?'

'My friends,' returned Miss Graham, 'worship at the South church, and in truth I prefer Mr. Willard's preaching to that of Mr. Mather. He is a man of singular candor, and his calm and benevolent temper has so gained my esteem and confidence, that I think his preaching more useful to me than any other.'

'All this is true of him, and much more; but he is a man who never believes more than he can help, and is very slow to give credit to matters of fact. I think this a serious blemish in his character.'

'Some men,' returned Mary, 'believe a great deal too much. Coolness and caution in all matters of belief are essential to a well balanced mind. If this be a fault in Mr. Willard, it is certainly a very amiable one.'

'This coolness you speak of, Miss Graham, is a great enemy to prompt action. I go for energy and decision; without these features the mind is comparatively powerless, and its great purposes perish in the moment of their birth.'

'You cannot say this of Mr. Willard,' said Mary; 'his caution tempers his zeal, but does not suppress it; his piety is not the less ardent because it is cheerful and unobtrusive.'

'You are quite his eulogist, Miss Graham. I am more inclined to the fervid zeal of the Mathers, than to the quiet course of Mr. Willard. Nevertheless, I esteem him highly. But I believe in the power of mighty impulses to renovate the heart and subdue the evil principle in man. The heart of man is like a wasted garden, full of unsightly plants and noxious weeds, and dry and barren trees. When these are burnt up by the terrors of the Lord, the Sun of righteousness covers it with a beautiful verdure, and it brings forth the fruits of holiness.'

'I believe, as you do, in a supernatural change of heart,' said Mary; 'but I consider a holy life and a willing obedience to the commands of God, as the best evidence of his presence and power in the heart; nor am I sure, that a soil, from which the noxious weed and barren tree have been rooted out, may not as well bring forth the fruits of holiness, when the seed are implanted by a divine hand, as if it were burned over with fire. Nevertheless, there is beauty and truth in your figure, and it is doubtless a consolation to the true believer, to have a vivid remembrance of the work of the law on his heart.'

'Those are certainly the most active Christians,' replied Trellison, 'who see the depths of ruin, from which they have been rescued. They have a clearer view of the danger of their fellow men, and are excited to greater efforts in their behalf. It appears to me the special design and tendency of Mr. Mather's preaching is, to awaken this solicitude and excite to such efforts.'

'The minds of individuals,' returned Miss Graham, 'are affected by such modes of address, as are best adapted to their peculiar habits and tempers. Some men are more readily moved by terror, others by the winning persuasions of the gospel. But in the remarks I have made, do not, I pray you, think me the enemy of Mr. Mather. I am not, and if I had not heard him preach, it is quite probable I should go with you next Sabbath. I admire his talents, and his literary character is deservedly high. Moreover, he is very agreeable in conversation, and has entertained me much this very evening.'

At this moment, the summons to the evening's entertainment prevented the reply of Trellison. In a large room, adjoining the hall, a range of tables had been laid, and were covered with a rich variety of foreign luxuries as well as the more substantial products of New England. The hospitality of those days was not marked by all those nice refinements, which so often embarrass the social life of the present times; but it was liberal to profusion, and, though simple in its forms, was not deficient in a just regard to the proprieties and restraints of elegant society. Yet there was one feature in the social life of New England, which constituted its principal charm, and gave it a direction to the highest and noblest objects of human pursuit. It was a devout recognition of Providence, at every social meeting, an unembarrassed and grateful thanksgiving, always expected and offered with becoming reverence and a grateful sense of obligation.

This interesting service was performed on the present occasion by Mr. Willard, the accomplished pastor of the South church, and a more pleasing spectacle is seldom witnessed. Around the tables were the fathers of the colony, men eminent for learning, for mental vigor, and above all, for distinguished, consistent and exemplary piety. Mingled among them, in different groups, were fifty young men and maidens, blooming in youth, the flower of the province, the first in rank and manners in the land, all bowing their heads in reverence, while the evening thanksgiving went up to the Giver of all good and the source of every blessing. This was a part of that education which has made New England the glory of all lands. But this glory has passed away from the brilliant circles of its now splendid metropolis; gifts are received with no audible response to the Giver; and Religion is too often deemed a graceless intruder in the walks of wealth and fashion.

The conversation, which had occupied Trellison and Mary, had not escaped the notice of Strale. From some cause, these two young gentlemen were not often pleased with each other. The young ladies insisted that Trellison considered Strale as a rival who could not easily be supplanted. It was plain that Miss Graham was, in some measure, the cause of this dislike; yet apart from this, the characters of the two were so exceedingly different, that little harmony of feeling could be expected between them. Strale was always pleasing. Distinguished for frankness and simplicity, his conversation was vigorous, playful and strongly marked with the characters of truth and propriety. Trellison was cautious, frequently reserved, with good manners; but an expression of cunning, and even malignity, would often cross his countenance, and give to his features, which, in general, were pleasing, a harsh and disagreeable aspect. He was selfish and very suspicious of the motives and doings of others, and his bad temper towards Strale was often manifested by an ambiguous politeness, throwing off sarcasms, mingled with civility enough to show his own dexterity, and conceal, in part, the bitter hatred which prompted him.

At the supper table Walter found means to join Miss Graham, and the conversation, as usual, soon became playful and animated. Several young ladies gathered round and formed a circle of attraction, which, wherever it moved, was sure to carry its satellites with it, and keep up its brilliancy. Trellison who had made unusual efforts to be agreeable, finding himself unable to break the circle by starting new topics and diverting the current in his own favor, at last joined it himself. Soon after, as Walter was passing a glass of wine to Miss Graham, Trellison's arm, either by design or a sudden change of position, struck the hand of Strale and overturned the wine upon the dress of Miss Graham. Trellison stooped to take up the broken pieces, remarking:

'How unfortunate! what was the matter, Mr. Strale?'

'I ask pardon, Miss Graham,' said Strale; 'wine, they say, is a mocker; but I would rather its color might grace your cheek than stain your dress; my hand is not usually unsteady. Perhaps Mr. Trellison can explain why it is so to-night.'

'I am sorry you think any explanation due from me: what possible connection could I have with the accident? Mr. Strale, your imputation is rude and unjust.'

'I know not how it is, Mr. Trellison: some person's arm struck my hand abruptly, as it seemed to me. I thought it was yours: but if you disclaim it, I am willing to take back the suspicion, and think it an accident.'

'Your apology is hardly in season,' said Trellison; 'you had no right to suppose any one in this room would willingly help you stain a lady's dress; still less, to point out an individual, in a manner so invidious and selfish.'

The young ladies, who had been engaged in assisting Miss Graham, now returned, and before Walter had opportunity to reply, Miss Hallam remarked to Trellison, that he was a very careless gentleman to molest a lady's cup-bearer. Strale looked at Trellison, who bore this rebuke unabashed; but he instantly replied: 'I am sorry you think me so careless, Miss Hallam; but indeed, I was not aware of any agency in the matter.'

'It may not have been intentional,' said Miss Hallam: 'it could not have been, and perhaps I was deceived in supposing it to be you; nevertheless, I thought it was.'

The conversation was getting a little too grave, and a movement towards the hall was readily seconded by some of the young ladies, and the company adjourned to the other room. The impressions which this conversation made were not of the most agreeable kind; but they soon passed away, and other topics and amusements restored, at least in appearance, the harmony which had been so rudely disturbed.

The festivities of an evening party were always closed, in those days, by devotional exercises; and on the present occasion, they were performed by the younger Mather, who was now in his early manhood, and whose vigorous, yet credulous and superstitious mind was destined to exert a powerful, and we must add, a baleful influence upon the social condition of the colony. It happened that, as he was about to read the evening hymn which preceded the closing prayer, the shock of an earthquake was slightly felt by the company. It was immediately followed by a rapid and tumultuous sound, like the rattling of heavy wheels over the pavement. Another shock succeeded, and the house, for an instant, rocked, as if a sudden whirlwind had passed by. In a moment, all was hushed, and the awe-stricken party stood like motionless statues, wrapped in amazement and terror.

The silence, which lasted a moment or two, was broken by Mr. Mather, who remarked that the providence of God had furnished a theme for reflection, which was fitted to impress the mind with the instability of earth and all earthly things. It was a voice of admonition which could not be disregarded. When pestilence and famine were abroad in the land, the means of at least temporary relief were possessed. But when the pillars of the world were moved and its foundations upheaved by unseen and terrible agents; it was then every earthly refuge was vain. 'But,' he continued, 'there is one hiding place which, in the midst of every convulsion, is safe for the believer. Time has not reached it with his consuming hand; tempests have beat upon it in vain; pestilence, famine or earthquake can never waste its strength; it shall survive the ruin of earth, the wreck of planets, and a dissolving universe. This refuge is the 'Rock of ages;' here are towers of strength and palaces of hope, built on foundations which rest on the throne of God. The voice we have just heard is the voice of a father telling us to hide in these chambers of his grace, 'until the indignation be overpast;' it is but a louder echo of his mercy, warning us that earth must pass away with a great noise, and the elements melt with fervent heat; and, at the same time, assuring us that, though the mountains depart and the hills be removed, his loving kindness shall not depart from his people.'

Such was a part of the extempore address, which the interesting circumstances of the evening called forth. It was followed by a fervent prayer, and a train of salutary reflections occupied the minds of the party, as they dispersed to their several homes.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

'What an unfortunate evening we have had!' said Strale to Lyford, on their return home; 'every thing has gone wrong. Trellison was in the wrong place, the wine went the wrong way, and the earthquake came at the wrong time.'

'Hush, Walter; you speak too lightly on this latter point. All the trifles of the evening vanished from my mind when the earthquake voice of my Maker spoke to me of a coming judgment, and a crashing world. Why is it, Walter, that we think so little of our future destiny? Why do we build our hopes on a world we must leave so soon?'

'I know it is a fitting time to think, James,' said Strale; 'I would that sensible objects had less effect upon me; but so it is, Lyford, and I cannot help it. I thought more of my own misfortunes this evening than any thing else. Even the earthquake scarcely diverted my thoughts from that unfortunate overthrow, which I verily believe was caused by Trellison.'

'It is vain and foolish, Walter, to dwell upon such trifles. I am no enemy, as you well know, to social pleasures, but at such an hour as this, I am sorry your mind is not better occupied. It is now nearly midnight, the way is solitary, and its very silence seems to me ominous and impressive: these leafless trees, all nature hushed and dead, the voice which has just issued from the groaning earth,—all these speak to us of our mortality, warn us of the flight of time, and throw around us the dim figures and solemn images of a coming hereafter.'

'You are superstitious to-night, James. I do not mean to say your views in the main are not reasonable and right, but there is a tinge of melancholy in your language and manner, which is hardly natural. I wish to be as religious as you are, but not quite so grave, for gravity you know has little to do with my constitution. We are now nearly home, and when we get there I will converse with you on religion if you wish, but not exactly in this way.'

At this moment they entered a narrow turn in the road, which was lined on either side by a dense forest for nearly a mile; the large tangled bushes formed the only fence, and the way was so nearly open, that any one coming from the woods might enter it with little obstruction. The night was extremely dark, and not even a star was visible; the young travellers, however, were provided with a small lantern, which was a very important guide in this stage of their walk. A slight rustling in the woods had once or twice arrested the attention of James, who remarked that he could hardly account for it at that hour of the night, and at this season of the year.

'The wind may produce it,' said Strale; 'the imagination may produce it; and possibly, Lyford, the Salem witches may be dancing about in the woods. By the way, I wonder Cotton Mather said nothing about these rumors from Salem; he is just the man to believe them. Do you think it possible he knows nothing of the story?'

'Very possible, indeed; for it attracts very little notice, and is in fact very little known. Mr. Mather is inclined to superstition, but I hardly think he believes in ghosts and witches. I am quite sure his father would not sanction such folly, and the father and son are not much inclined to differ in opinion.'

'I have no very high opinion of Cotton Mather. He may be a good man; he is certainly forcible and impressive in the pulpit; and it is thought his rising greatness will soon eclipse that of his father; but in my belief Dr. Mather, if not a greater man, is a far better one, and the son, with all his eccentric brilliancy, can never rival the father. He is headstrong, violent, and intolerant. I hope the President will soon return, and keep his son from meddling with college affairs.'

'He will soon be here,' said Lyford; 'and in my opinion he will come the messenger of good to these colonies; he will obtain for this Puritan community from the Prince of Orange, what the bigotry and pride of the Stuarts would never grant. No man's return to Boston can be so welcome as that of Dr. Mather.'

The conversation was interrupted by a sound in the woods, resembling the tread of footsteps among the tangled bushes. Walter proposed to walk in the direction indicated by the noise, and ascertain if possible the cause. Lyford, however, objected, and thought it best not to separate; for a little of the superstition which such circumstances might readily occasion, had now affected the minds of both, but particularly that of Lyford. They walked silently along for a moment or two, when a sudden flash was seen, which was followed by a quick, sharp report, like that of a rifle, and the rustling of the bushes over the way indicated that they were torn and rent by a shower of lead. Another flash succeeded, when a shot struck the hand of Strale, and passed off into the neighboring woods.

'There are no witches here,' said Strale; 'there is too much cold lead to come from the gun of a witch; look at my hand, Lyford, and be thankful as I am it was not my head.'

'This is no time to look at heads or hands,' said Lyford, 'but to escape the loss of both, if we can'; and he instantly extinguished the lamp, and suppressing the voice of Walter, who was about to speak, they moved along as silently as possible, and in half an hour entered the college gate.

These singular events, following each other so rapidly, made a strong impression on the minds of both Strale and Lyford. It was impossible not to connect them in some shape with Trellison, and yet there was a boldness and audacity in the affair, which was hardly consistent with his reputation for caution and cunning. It was too late to do any thing about it that night, and after an examination of the wound of Strale, which proved very slight, a few simple remedies were applied, and they retired for such rest as the exciting scenes of the evening might allow.

The next day the story was rife in Cambridge, and a strong excitement was produced throughout the town. Trellison was at once suspected, and as his dislike to Strale was well known, a legal investigation was proposed, and immediately carried into effect; not, however, without a strong remonstrance from Walter and his friend, who were disposed to let the affair drop. A warrant was immediately issued for the apprehension of Trellison, but before it could be served, he was warned of the movements against him, and advised to make his escape. This he refused to do, and declared himself ready for immediate trial. Accordingly, when the officer appeared, he accompanied him to a magistrate, and the investigation proceeded in regular form.

All the evidence against Trellison was circumstantial, and rested mainly on two facts; one of these was his inveterate dislike of Strale, which, with all his caution, he had been unable to conceal; the other was the very late hour of his return, and his disturbed and agitated manner, which was remarked by several persons, as soon as he entered his lodgings. In his defence, he stated very forcibly his objections to the first branch of evidence, declaring that nothing less than madness could prompt even an enemy to a kind of revenge which was so rash, and must recoil so soon on the aggressor. He explained the lateness of his return by saying that he walked with one of the young ladies for nearly half an hour before he left Boston, and on taking his leave, he came home on the public road, and was himself surprised, on his arrival, at the lateness of the hour.

The magistrate demanded the name of the young lady, as her evidence might be important in the case.

Trellison replied, that he should give it with reluctance, but would do it, if the requirement was mandatory.

The magistrate repeated the question, and insisted on a prompt reply.

'The name of the lady,' said Trellison, 'is Miss Graham.'

Walter started at this annunciation, and the blood rushed to his face; but he recovered himself in a moment, and the sudden flush escaped the notice of all excepting Trellison.

The magistrate thought it necessary to send for Miss Graham, and ordered that Trellison should be held in custody till the next day, when Miss Graham's evidence would be taken, and all the parties should have a fair hearing.

Strale and Lyford now requested that Trellison might be liberated on his own bail. They also stated the complaint had been made against their wishes, and they believed the evidence was such as did not warrant his committal. But the magistrate immediately ordered Trellison to prison, and rebuked the young students for meddling with his official duties. The public feeling was very strong against Trellison, and scarcely any doubt remained, that on the next day he would be convicted of an aggravated assault, with intent to murder.

At this stage of the business, to the surprise of all, two young men, members of college, appeared and declared themselves the parties in fault. They stated, that having been in Roxbury the preceding afternoon on a shooting excursion, they had taken supper at an inn on their way home, and after supper several persons came in, and the evening was occupied in card-playing and wine-drinking; the wine proved too strong for them, so much so as to make them wholly unconscious of the earthquake, the news of which surprised them, the next day. On their return home at a late hour, they saw a long distance behind them a light, which they supposed proceeded from the lantern of some members of college. They had now partially recovered from the effects of the wine, and on seeing this light, they resolved to play off a joke, and accordingly went into the neighboring woods and waited till the students came up; they then fired successively, aiming at the bushes a few rods in advance of the travellers. The guns were loaded with buckshot only, but they supposed the unsteadiness of their aim proceeded from the fumes of wine, and on hearing Strale remark that his hand was wounded, and seeing him by the light of the lantern hold it up to his companion, they feared the joke had been carried too far, and after waiting till the road was still, they went home.

This relation established the innocence of Trellison beyond all doubt, and very much to the annoyance of several officious individuals who had prejudged the case, and fully believed in his guilt. Walter and Lyford shared too in the awkwardness and confusion that followed. All they could do was to make a full apology, and express their deep regret at the course which had been taken. Trellison bowed haughtily, but in such a manner as to show that the offence would not readily be forgiven. The two young men who had made confession, were held to bail for subsequent examination, and the parties soon after dispersed.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

A few days after the adventure in the woods, Lyford obtained leave to visit his friends in Hadley. At that time such a journey was no small affair; and the road was so new, so little travelled, and the settlements on the way were so thinly scattered, that it required a good deal of preparation, and was usually performed on horseback. There were no inns on the road, except a small house in the settlement at Worcester, and a log cabin in the neighborhood of Brookfield, where food and lodging might be had.

The journey was undertaken in company with a friend, and the ride of four days among the forests of New England was characterized by a variety of romantic and pleasing incidents. It was not without peril of life and limb, for the road was often precipitous, and though sometimes travelled in sleighs and wheel carriages, these conveyances were little adapted to its rugged surface, and afforded small comfort to their riders. The road was perfectly known to Lyford, and the scenery on the way was so picturesque and beautiful that he often paused in admiration on some of the cliffs over which his path led him, and gazed long and with lively interest at those wild and rugged features of nature which the labor of man has since softened into the calmer lineaments of pleasant meadows, flourishing gardens and cultivated fields.

The village of Hadley had been the residence of the venerated Gen. Goffe. Every incident in his grandfather's history, every spot which the illustrious exile loved, was dear to the memory of Lyford. In their early childhood, James and his sister were the solace of many a weary hour, and threw around the aged patriot the last gleams of sunshine which fell on his troubled career. Every one loved the old man; and the mandate of the royal Stuart and his bribe of gold were of no force among the peaceful villagers, who well knew the veteran's retreat, and could never be persuaded, by promise or threat, to betray him. The sympathies of the community in which he lived were wholly on his side, and all those friendly offices which affection could suggest, or kindness confer, were liberally bestowed. But the tyrannical Charles was then in the zenith of his power, and the last days of Goffe were imbittered by the tidings of his constant and successful aggressions on the laws and liberties of England. Whatever were his errors in pronouncing judgment upon the only Stuart who commands the sympathy and affection of posterity, it is certain that Gen. Goffe deplored the necessity of such a sacrifice, and acted under a strong, but misguided sense of duty. His name is yet held in honored and grateful remembrance; his ashes rest in a land where no kingly prerogative tramples with its iron foot on the sacred rights of man, and where the blessed vision that shone so brightly on his eye, is a living and glorious reality.

During Lyford's absence, his sister returned to Salem, and Walter applied himself with new vigor to his studies. Before Mary left Boston, however, their mutual vows had been pledged, with the full consent of Walter's parents, whose reply to his earnest request was as kind and affectionate as he could desire. Strale had never requested Miss Graham to explain the circumstances of Trellison's long interview with her on his way home from Mr. Elliott's, but as she was aware of the difficulties which occurred at Cambridge on the next day, and of the singular and suspicious attitude in which Trellison's declaration had placed her, she now thought it proper to make Walter acquainted with all the facts in the case. It appeared that Mr. Trellison had long persisted in a class of attentions which were exceedingly annoying and disagreeable, and Miss Graham determined to accept his offer to accompany her home, with a view to put a final end to his importunities. On this occasion Trellison again renewed his request, that she would so far permit his attentions as to allow him the hope of a future union, declaring that his love was stronger than death, and that no conceivable suffering could be equal to that which must follow the abandonment of his hope. Miss Graham had long known the strength of his attachment, and in reply assured him that in many points he possessed her esteem and respect, but beyond that, she could give no response to his feelings, and begged he would cease his attentions, declaring once for all, that all hope and expectation on his part were entirely groundless, and must terminate, as her affections were already fixed upon another, and his duty to himself and to her required that he should no longer molest her with such attentions as she could never reciprocate.

The result of this interview accounted for the haggard and troubled appearance of Trellison on his return to Cambridge. It was a fatal blow to his hopes, it struck deeply at his pride, and aroused a train of reflections and purposes which, under various disguises, were so interwoven with the severity of his religious views, as to conceal from him in part their real turpitude. He could not forgive Strale for supplanting him, as he supposed, in Mary's love. He began to think Miss Graham herself was not the angelic being his fancy had pictured, and a feeling of bitterness against both soon passed over his mind, which he chose to indulge, as furnishing some antidote to the disappointment and shame which had nearly overwhelmed him.

It was now the clear sunshine of happiness with Walter. His long cherished object had been attained, and he looked forward with pride and pleasure to the day when he could call Miss Graham his own, and present her to his parents as the object of his warmest love.

Mary, too, was happy; but there was one blot in the beautiful picture she was contemplating. Strale was not decidedly religious. His principles were firm, his views of religion serious and respectful; but this was not sufficient or satisfactory. She was desirous most of all, that he might possess that inestimable pearl, which he who obtains will never give up, and he who refuses to seek will never obtain. Her conversations with Walter on religious subjects were frequent and serious; and every day, while they were together, she had the happiness to find him more deeply interested, and more determined that his future well being should become a matter of personal concern and solicitude.

On the last evening before Mary left Boston, the conversation was more than usually interesting. The day had been clear and cold—there was little snow on the ground, but it presented a smooth surface of ice over which they found a pleasant walk on the borders of the forest which then occupied, in the wildness of its original growth, the present site of the Boston common. The moonlight was falling among the trees, and was also reflected from the ice and snow, whose beautiful expanse was visible on the south. The subject of conversation was the character of New-England piety. Walter had serious objections to its general features, which he thought were unnatural and unwarranted by the scriptures. He objected to its harshness and severity, its alliance to bigotry and superstition, its restraint upon the buoyancy and cheerfulness of youth, and its rigid demands upon the time and attention of its professors.

'These, Mary,' said he, 'are difficulties which I cannot get over. Surely religion was never intended to strip the world of its beauty and clothe it in unnatural gloom. It must animate all our joyous sensibilities, and not suppress them—it must give us bright pictures of the future life, and not such as will cast shadows and gloom over the present.'

'Religion, Walter,' replied Mary, 'must strip the world of its false beauty, and present it in its true light. It must frown upon every sensibility, however joyous, which is sinful. It claims our supreme regard, and demands the first place in our pursuits, the first in our affections. The beauty and color of the richest wine are often heightened by the poisonous drug—shall we therefore press the chalice to our lips? Will you not agree with me that most of that which charms the youthful mind is false and illusive?'

'I have often found it so. But on the other hand, is there no excess in religious sensibility? Do not insanity and despair sometimes follow in the train of excited apprehensions of future wrath, and is not the imagination often terrified and distracted by groundless alarms?'

'This excess of sensibility is not peculiar to religious subjects. The intense application of the mind to any subject of absorbing interest will often destroy its balance, and unfit it for usefulness and happiness. How is it with the men of pleasure, of wealth, of talent and fame? Are they not overthrown sometimes by the excitement of their several vocations? And can religion, Walter, which is of all themes the most exciting, be always contemplated with such calmness as never to distract the mind?'

'It is not religion, dear Mary, that I object to; but to those distorted and unnatural shapes which it seems to wear in the community. Look now at the strange delusion which prevails at Salem. Under color of religion, several innocent persons have been imprisoned, charged with crimes which they cannot commit if they would; and yet we are told the interests of true religion require their punishment.'

'These are the excrescences of religion,' replied Mary, 'not the thing itself. As to the witch stories, and the proceedings of the magistrates, there is folly enough about them; but I am quite sure no part of it is to be laid to religion. Superstition affects all minds more or less. It has a most powerful agency in the papal church, and is an important part of the machinery by which that evil system is supported. I believe there is less of it here than elsewhere; and yet if its elements are once in commotion, there is no absolute protection against its power. Not many years since several persons were punished in England for witchcraft, and it is unfortunate that the relations between the physical and mental states are not better understood. The ignorant and credulous too often mistake the disorders of their minds for the influence of mysterious spirits and malignant demons, and for want of a just discrimination, the most disastrous results will sometimes follow.'

'I am ashamed to confess, Mary, that my own experience goes to confirm the truth of your remarks. I am not wholly free from superstitious feelings. There have been times in my life when I was ready to start at the fall of a leaf, and have felt an undefinable and mysterious awe, for which I could trace no sufficient cause. I have been at times almost ready to sympathize with those who look at the blooming of a flower out of its season, or the sudden blighting of blossoms on the tree, as intimations of death or some other calamity. I remember a family of six brothers in Virginia, the youngest ten years of age, and all of them in sound and vigorous health. A number of peach trees in fine condition were growing in front of the house. They were very remarkable for the abundance and excellence of their fruit. Early in the spring before I left, those trees were observed to be full of blossoms, when suddenly, and without apparent cause, the bloom of three of them was blighted, and in a few weeks they died. Soon after I reached Boston I was informed by letter, that three of those brothers were successively seized with fever and died. Was not this, Mary, a shadow of things to come, a significant token of the desolation which so soon fell upon the family? Was it not at least remarkable in its circumstances?'

'Just now, Walter, you seemed to warn me against superstition, and then suggested a train of thought which could not fail to awaken it, if I had any. Indeed, Walter, I have no belief in its being a wonder, even as you state it. What is more common than for a peach tree to be full of blossoms, and then suddenly die. A worm at the root, a thousand blighting influences, are constantly at work to undermine its little life; and if the incident contains an impressive lesson, it does not warrant us in believing it the design of Providence to reveal thereby the deaths which soon after occurred.'

'You are not so credulous even, as I am,' said Walter, 'and I certainly am not so religious as you are. This would seem to prove there is no tendency in your religion to blend itself with superstition. It is therefore but reasonable that I should give up this point. Yet that superstition now reigns to an alarming degree in this very religious community is not to be denied. The singular antics and wild fancies of those who are so strangely affected, will easily satisfy the multitude of the presence and power of evil spirits; and where shall we look for a remedy? Now, strange as it may seem to you, it is my belief, if public amusements were introduced, assemblies for dancing, and even theatrical exhibitions, these would do more to banish the delusion than any thing else. The truth is, I hear so many strange things, so well accredited from sources so respectable, that I half believe Satan has been let loose upon the community, and is moulding the opinions and conduct of men according to his own will.'

'The measures you propose, to drive him off,' said Mary, laughing, 'would rather induce him to stay. He is said to be very much at home in places where these amusements abound. Nevertheless, if I were sure he would be so well satisfied with the means you propose, as to let go his hold upon the fancies of the community, I think we might be gainers by the exchange. It would be substituting the lesser for the greater evil.'

'What surprises me most,' said Walter, 'is the ready credence which is given to those who say they are affected by witches. Judge Sewall, who is certainly a wise and cool tempered man, Gov. Stoughton, and other distinguished men, are firm believers in the reality of these affections; and there is even now an appeal to the Mosaic scriptures to punish witches with death. One of its commands, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,' is quoted as a divine warrant for judicial proceedings; and such is the zeal manifested in the cause, I fear it will lead to the death of those individuals who are now in prison.'

'Well, Walter, whatever comes of it, do not, I pray you, impute it to religion. It has nothing to do with it. Some of the most pious in the land are doing all in their power to divert the public feeling into a different channel. There is Mr. Higginson, my own minister, of Salem, venerable and beloved by all; Mr. Willard, here, Mr. Brattle and Mr. Leverett, the latter your own tutor at Cambridge; all these, and many others, though to some extent believers in witchcraft, are entirely opposed to the interference of the law, and think the evil will soon cure itself. Let us trust in Providence that all will come right. And for you, dear Walter, I dread the thought that this mental epidemic should lead you to distrust for a moment the efficacy and power of the gospel. Believe it, Walter, for it is assuredly true: the gospel, received and trusted, is the best remedy for every mental and moral disorder.'

'It would be happy for me, dear Mary, could the same christian graces which adorn your character, shine forth in mine. I know that true piety towards God is my only safeguard from the ills of life, my only hope for the life to come. I believe in the great truths you profess. I long to experience their power in my own heart, and whatever sacrifice of the world it may cost, I hope through the mercy of a Redeemer, I shall be his willing and obedient disciple.'

The conversation closed as they reached the door of Mr. Hallam, with whose family Mary was to spend the last night of her stay in Boston.

It was not surprising that a superstition so unwarrantable should give to a mind like Strale's, false and unfavorable notions of religion. He imputed the delusion to what he thought the sternness and severity of the popular religious feeling, not considering that a simple analysis of the mind will develope a multitude of causes, upon which the imputation may far more justly rest. The conversation we have related tended very much to dispel this error, and in the painful scenes which were soon to be developed, he was enabled to distinguish with great accuracy between the religious principle and the wild and dreadful fanaticism with which it was attended.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

It was now the latter end of February, 1692. The winter had been cold, and the ground since December had most of the time been covered with snow. Our young friend, James Lyford, we left in Hadley. He was spending a few weeks in the family of Mr. Temple, who in the days of General Goffe was his intimate friend, and by his generosity and personal society had contributed greatly to the quiet and happiness of the exiled patriot. James had spent his early youth in Hadley, and a thousand pleasant associations were connected with its natural scenery, and the localities and friends of his childhood. The little time allowed for his visit, passed rapidly away, and his engagements at college required his return early in March. He wished also to spend a few days in Worcester on his return, to see a friend who had just located in that new settlement. One of Mr. Temple's sons, named Henry, a lad of fourteen years of age, was permitted to accompany him.

The little fellow had heard much of Boston, and longed to see a place which contained so many objects to gratify curiosity. The notions of the peaceful villagers of Hadley, in those days, were confined very much to their own beautiful territories, and they never thought of visiting Boston except for purposes of business, and having supplied their wants, which were few and simple, they always gladly returned to their homes, and in the community of friendship and good will, together with the christian sympathy which pervaded their little settlement, they found a degree of contentment and happiness, to which wealth, fashion and luxury can never attain.

'Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.'

But the youth of Hadley were not always satisfied with the quiet scenes of rural life. The fame of Boston, its high buildings, crowded market, the steeples and bells of the churches, the ships in the harbor, and its various objects of interest and attraction, possessed a charm which never invested their own blue hills and blooming forests. Boston at this time contained six thousand inhabitants, and was a beautiful town, covered with fine buildings, pleasant gardens, and streets ornamented by trees. Many of our young readers will remember their feelings, when for the first time they came to visit this now splendid city, and will readily imagine those of young Temple, when the same prospect, though in miniature, was held out to his eye.

It required some special preparation for a journey to Boston, the distance being one hundred miles, and through a country but little travelled, and with only two inns on the road. The sleighing was now fine, and Lyford preferred this mode of conveyance, as they had several articles to carry, which could not be taken on horseback. Mr. Temple provided them with every thing necessary for themselves, and provender for the horse; they had also materials for producing fire, an axe, and a shovel, to be used in case of snow-drifts, besides the trunk which contained Lyford's clothes, and books; a rifle, with sufficient powder and ball, completed their arrangements for the journey.

Thus equipped, the two friends started on the twenty-sixth of February, and in the evening arrived at a little settlement, thirty miles from Hadley, where they passed the night. Leaving early the next morning, they hoped to reach Worcester in the evening, and they rode quietly most of the day, moving very slowly on account of the difficulties of the road, which was but slightly broken. The morning had been fine and clear, but towards noon the clouds came up, and the wind changed to northeast,—indicating one of those violent snow-storms which sometimes filled up the roads, and placed a long embargo on social intercourse. As the day declined, it began to snow, and James now urged his horse to his utmost speed, as they were far from any habitation, and there seemed no alternative, but either to get to Worcester, or perish in the woods. The snow was now falling thick and fast, with a high northeast wind directly in the faces of the travellers, and creating new obstacles to the already difficult road; the evening was at hand, and they were still ten miles from Worcester, and so violent was the storm, that it soon became evident they could not reach the settlement. In this dilemma, they hesitated for a moment, when James recollected a kind of shed he had seen on his way up, about a mile from their present position; and being assured that the only chance for their lives was in reaching that spot, they redoubled their efforts, James clearing the way with his shovel, and Henry leading the horse, the tempest meanwhile raging with the greatest violence.

The horse was now hardly able to keep his feet, having been jaded and exhausted by incessant toil, and they were still a quarter of a mile from the shed: at this moment they reached a high drift, which it seemed impossible to pass; and Henry, worn out with cold and fatigue, could no longer make the least effort. Lyford was now in the most alarming circumstances; he was himself greatly fatigued, and his strength could not much longer sustain him. He placed Henry in the sleigh, and covered him with blankets, while he returned to the snow-drift with his shovel, and in half an hour worked through. It was now dark, and the wind had fortunately blown the snow from the remainder of the road to the shed, which he reached, at last, nearly overcome by anxiety and fatigue. It was well they found a resting-place there, for just before them an immense snow-drift reared its white and impassable barrier, which the strength of twenty men could not sufficiently reduce, and there was no circuit by which it could be avoided.

The shed under which our travellers were now resting, was built of logs, and wholly open in front; it faced the south, and its roof, composed of lighter wood, sloped nearly to the ground. It was built merely to feed horses on their way, and furnish a convenient spot, where travellers might rest for an hour. In one corner was a rough chimney, made of stones, but there was no furniture of any description, and little shelter from rain when the wind was south; but it seemed to our travellers, in their forlorn condition, like a home of safety and rest. They were yet unable to tell what might befall them, but their first duty of devout thanksgiving to a kind and protecting Providence was immediately and gratefully performed.

The storm had now increased to a furious tempest; the wind roared among the trees, and its wild and startling echoes sounded from the valleys and rocks. Sometimes they came in the loud tones of thunder, and then in the rapid sweep of the whirlwind; and vast clouds of snow were driven along the open spaces, and piled in huge heaps near the open front of the shed, affording some additional shelter to its inmates. But the place was at best a cold and comfortless lodging: there was no wood for a fire, and only the dim candle of the lantern to afford them light. In these circumstances, Lyford made the best possible arrangements for the night: the sleigh was placed in a corner, two large blankets were extended before it and fastened to a pole, which was secured to a low beam that ran across the shed, and by a rude frame-work supported its roof. This contrivance furnished a kind of enclosure, which kept out the snow, and afforded a partial shelter for the horse as well as themselves. The poor animal, thoroughly exhausted, on being loosed from the harness, immediately laid himself down, and was covered by a blanket, and protected as far as possible from the storm. Lyford prepared a bed in the sleigh, of such materials as he could collect, and after taking some refreshment they covered themselves and went quietly to rest.

When the morning appeared, the storm was wild and fierce as ever. An immense quantity of snow had fallen, the atmosphere was filled with its driving masses, and there seemed no prospect of a favorable change. Lyford dug his way a few steps from the shed, but it was vain to contend with the furious elements, and he was glad to retreat to his forlorn shelter. By the light of day he discovered a quantity of broken wood and branches of trees, which afforded them the relief of a fire; and this was the more necessary, as the air was now excessively cold. A survey of their supplies followed, by which it appeared their corn and provisions were sufficient, with economy, for eight or ten days; the horse, however, it was necessary to keep on very short allowance, as there was little prospect that they could proceed on their journey for ten days at least.

On the third day the storm abated, and in the afternoon the sun came forth in his glory. Lyford succeeded in digging his way to a neighboring tree, and ascended to its topmost branches, where he beheld a vast and trackless expanse of snow, which had spread over hill and valley to an average depth of nearly three feet, but which in many places was piled like mountains, and seemed to defy all the power of man to break down its barriers and force a passage.

As Lyford descended from the tree, he saw a dark object on the snow, about a quarter of a mile distant, and in the direction of what appeared to be the road. It first seemed like the trunk of a tree, which had been burned to a coal, yet he soon perceived it had a slow motion towards him. His curiosity was strongly excited, and he gazed with increasing interest, until the outlines of a human figure were distinctly visible, as it dragged its slow pace through the heavy snow drifts towards Lyford. In about an hour from the time he was discovered, Pompey—for it was no other than he—stood before Lyford, who was extremely perplexed and surprised at his sudden appearance.

'Be this you, Massa James?' said Pompey. 'How came you up in dis tree, and among dese snow banks?'

'It will be time enough to ask these questions when I get out. But what brings you here, Pompey?'

'Come to find you, Massa. Went to Wooster first, but no Massa Lyford there—so I came all the way here. Will you tell me, Massa, where I get something to eat?'

'All in good time. But where did you stay last night, Pompey?—you could hardly walk a mile a day through such snow drifts as these.'

'Staid in the trunk of a tree, Massa, these two nights, and glad to get there,—snow storm drove me in. I look out to-day, and saw a man climb a tree. I thought if Pompey get to that man, he may find something better than snow to eat.'

'Hard fare, Pompey; how do you like this blessed land now?'

'Nothing but trouble in it, Massa James; kicks, prisons, and snow-storms. No such things in Virginny. Hope Massa Walter send me back before de debils carry me off. Boston and Salem full of debils as dey can hold; de women full of debils, too, and de men running as if de debils were after them. Here's a letter for you, Massa Lyford.'

James took Pompey to the shed, where the poor negro obtained some food, and was soon in a condition to give some further account of himself. The letter he brought was from Strale, in which he requested Lyford to return without delay. He stated that universal distrust prevailed, and that consternation and dismay extended to every circle; the regular studies at college were interrupted, accusations for witchcraft were coming in from every quarter, and it was fully believed the reign of Satan had commenced. For himself, he held the popular notions in utter contempt; but it was foolish and dangerous to oppose them openly, and he begged that Lyford would not tarry at Worcester, but return at once, as his counsel and assistance might be necessary; and as no one was safe, it was better for him to be at home, where such measures might be adopted, as the course of events should require.

Walter had despatched this letter to Worcester, in the expectation that Lyford was there; but the faithful negro, finding he had not arrived, pushed on towards Hadley, until driven by the snow-storm into such shelter as he could find, when he fortunately discovered Lyford in the manner we have related.

It was impossible to leave the shed with any hope of making progress through the snow; the travellers were therefore compelled to wait for a change of weather. They succeeded in procuring wood enough in the neighborhood to keep up their fire, and by good management they were tolerably comfortable for a few days. During this time, the solitary waste was cheered by no voice or track of man; all was silent, save that now and then the loud report of Lyford's rifle, aimed at some passing wild-fowl, sent its echoes among the trees: but on the sixth day a gentle south wind sprung up, which was soon followed by a cloudy sky, and in the evening torrents of rain began to fall, which deluged the country like a flood. It continued all the next day, and it was with great difficulty a dry spot could be preserved in the shed. In the evening it cleared up; the wind suddenly changed to north-west, and became extremely cold. The next day, being the eighth from the time they first entered the shed, the travellers were again on their way over a smooth surface of snow and ice; and in two hours the little cluster of houses at the settlement, with its white church spire, greeted their eyes, and gave them promise of refreshment and rest.

Such adventures as these were very common among the pioneers of New England. Her vigorous and hardy population, despising the rigor of the climate, penetrated her deepest recesses, planted themselves in the midst of her forests, and there, rich in contentment, in honest industry and vigorous health, and above all in the unfettered exercise of the rights of conscience, they fulfilled their work on earth, and calmly and peacefully descended to their graves. Other generations like themselves have filled the land; the welcome of hospitality, the house of God, the family altar, the blessed Bible, and the thousand endearments of home and friends,—these, all these, and unnumbered other blessings, have been conferred upon New England by her primitive inhabitants, and are at once the monuments of their fidelity, and the pledges that if the sons walk in the footsteps of the fathers, she will continue to advance in national eminence and glory.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

The demon of superstition was now abroad in New England. The unaccountable delusion of witchcraft so pervaded the public mind, that suspicions and jealousies were engendered among the nearest friends; perplexity and astonishment were visible in every countenance. So strange were the movements of those who were supposed to be affected by demons, and such the confessions of reputed witches, that men of sober judgment and highly gifted minds were involved in the general belief, and united in the execration of those who were believed to be confederate with Satan and his emissaries. Neither age nor rank were exempted from suspicion, and those who were charged with practicing witchcraft upon almost any testimony, were arrested and committed to prison. Many deserted their homes and went into other parts of the country; days of fasting and prayer were multiplied; parts of the Bible were hung around the neck, as a defence against the power of the devil; and a constant dread of the black book which was supposed to be in circulation among the witches, and was said to contain the terms of treaty with Satan, kept the minds of the credulous in constant distress and anxiety.

This delusion, it is well known, prevailed mostly in Salem and its vicinity. To the disturbed fancies of the populace, the very air was peopled with demons, and Satan, loosed from his chains, was tormenting men before their time. A few persons withstood the delusion, but it was at the peril of their lives, if they attempted open opposition: such was the popular frenzy that, if any question were raised as to the reality of these unseen agencies, it was considered a fair case for prosecution, and the bold innovator was in constant peril of reputation and life. Still there were some who had the courage to remonstrate, and who employed every art of persuasion and influence to stay the ruin which they saw was coming on the land. They also favored the escape of many who were accused; and, though believers themselves, to a certain extent, in this kind of Satanic influence, they always opposed those measures of cruelty and shame, in which the fatal tragedy was finally closed.

Among these benevolent and excellent men, the names of Willard of Boston, Brattle of Cambridge and Higginson of Salem are most conspicuous. These gentlemen refused all part in the witch prosecutions, and earnestly protested against bringing the crime of witchcraft before the civil tribunals, alleging that the individuals charged with this sin were in the hands of God, who alone had a right to punish them, and that the liability to mistake in the nature of the evidence, and the want of a just discrimination, on a subject so mysterious, entirely disqualified the courts to act upon such cases. Their efforts, however, were in vain; yet it may be reasonably believed that, to some extent, they were able to modify and soften the proceedings of the courts, though it was impossible to control or suppress them.

Lyford started for Boston about the tenth of March, spending but a single day at Worcester. The people at this settlement were astonished at the tidings which reached them from Boston and Salem; but they were fortunate enough to escape the mania, and, though disposed to the same general belief, they viewed the cases of such as were accused in a much more calm and benevolent light, and were disposed to regard them as subjects of pity and prayer rather than as outcasts from God and man. But as Lyford approached Boston, he discovered among the people a bitter hatred of the supposed witches, and a belief that no service could be more pleasing to God than to destroy them utterly from the land. He saw at once the terrible engine of power, which designing men might seize to punish private wrongs, and push their projects of revenge for real or supposed injuries. He knew the self-blinding power of the human mind, and how readily its dark purposes assume the form of religious duties and wear the counterfeit of the heavenly graces. And it was this view that filled him with apprehensions and forebodings, which neither conscious rectitude nor the power of reason could allay.

It was the first object of Lyford, after seeing Strale, to visit his sister at Salem; but as he could give no satisfactory reason for his journey, without disclosing his relation to Mary, the government of the college refused his request, and his long absence in the winter was assigned as the cause. In this dilemma, it was determined that Walter, to whom this objection did not apply, should visit Salem and ascertain the true state of things, and the danger, if any, to which Mary might be exposed. The engagement of the parties was now publicly known, and Walter's request was immediately granted.

On his arrival at Salem, which was about the latter part of March, he found such a state of consternation and terror as could scarcely be described. Witches were every where. They would flit through the streets after sunset; and at an early hour in the evening, demons, with long tails and cloven feet, were stalking about, partly concealed in mists and shadows, but taking care to show enough of their origin to keep the good people of Salem within doors after dark, and thus they had the whole promenade to themselves. Some of the old ladies averred that they were visible in the day time, and that one of them was perched in Mr. Higginson's pulpit on a Sabbath afternoon and kept the place till the good man opened the Bible and read the passage about resisting the devil, when he suddenly decamped, leaving behind him a long train of fire, and filling the church with the fumes of sulphur. Mr. Higginson did not, however, appear conscious of the victory he had attained; for, when told of it the next day, he remarked, that he never supposed such extraordinary power in any one passage of the Bible; but since the testimony was so clear, he hoped they now possessed the means of expelling all the evil spirits in Salem, and he prayed that his people would not fail to use these weapons, as they were certainly lawful, and their own observation had shown them to be successful.

Mary Graham had resided, for several years, in the family of Mr. Ellerson. This gentleman was of course acquainted with all the circumstances of her history, and had manifested towards her the utmost kindness and friendship. In fact, no one, at all acquainted with Miss Graham, could fail to esteem and admire her character. It had been the special care of Mrs. Ellerson to instruct her in all the pleasing accomplishments of genteel life, and at the same time, to restrain her from those amusements and follies, which dissipate the mind and unfit it for religious contemplation and duty; she therefore gave, as much as possible, a serious complexion to her studies and seasons of social enjoyment. The pupil well repaid the care of the teacher, and, at the age of eighteen, beautiful, accomplished and beloved by all, she entered the best circles, and we have already had some glimpses of the virtues which adorned her character. Mr. and Mrs. Ellerson had been consulted in every stage of her relations to Strale, and the affair was not concluded without their entire concurrence and approval. Walter was of course a welcome visiter at their house, whenever he had opportunity and leave of absence from college. But these seasons were necessarily very infrequent, as the college discipline allowed little time for recreation, and required a strict attention to the regular studies.

The circumstances in which Walter now found his friends, were altogether new and peculiar. A gloom was spread over the town, which was relieved by no cheerful meetings of friends, no lively airs of music, nor even the busy hum of trade. The streets of the village were silent as the fields that surrounded them, and the necessary offices of kindred and friendship were imbittered by suspicion, and discharged with indifference and coldness. The common ties of relationship and affection were nearly dissolved, and piety itself was forced into unnatural relations with credulity and superstition.

About twenty persons were now in prison, awaiting their trial for practicing witchcraft; others were daily suspected and arrested; and there was scarcely an individual in Salem, who was not more or less under the influence of this delusion. Mr. and Mrs. Ellerson were among the most incredulous; yet facts and statements were daily going the rounds, which were so well supported, and the reality of this mystical influence was so generally believed, that persons as reflecting and considerate even as they were, did not escape the incipient stages of the public malady.

The hour for tea had nearly arrived, when Walter entered the parlor of Mr. Ellerson. Mary was not at home, having engaged to pass the afternoon and evening with the Misses Higginson. Mr. and Mrs. Ellerson were also absent, and Walter, after having spent an hour with Mary and her companions, and engaged to return for her in the evening, went back to await the arrival of his friends, the Ellersons. They returned about seven o'clock, and the conversation was very soon directed to the prevailing topic of the day.

'You have a strange atmosphere in Salem,' said Walter; 'every thing looks unnatural and melancholy; I hope the witches have kept away from your house, Mr. Ellerson?'

'They would not find very pleasant quarters here, Walter; but as all the other houses in town are full, they may for want of better accommodations force their way in. Their reception might be somewhat cold, but I am told they are not very scrupulous where they once get possession.'

'It is a singular business,' replied Walter; 'but the more I think of it, the stronger is my conviction that it is all a fatal delusion, foolish, wonderful, and wicked. I have no patience with such follies. I have heard to-day stranger things than I ever read in the tales of the fairies, the legends of Bagdad, or the whole system of pagan fables.'

'You are always rash, Walter. You must look at the evidence in favor of any alleged fact, however strange, before you decide against its truth. Have you seen any who profess to be troubled by witches?'

'I have not,' said Walter; 'but that makes no difference; the stories are incredible. There is no such influence at the present day, if there ever was.'

'I am going this evening, Walter,' said Mr. Ellerson, 'to see for myself. There is a reputed witch, and a person said to be afflicted by her, who reside about half a mile from us. I shall be glad if you will go with me.'

'Nothing will please me better,' said Walter. 'I have often felt the influence of Satan, but have never seen him, and if he now makes his appearance in this gross, terrestrial atmosphere, I would like to know if my senses can discern him. I think we shall see he has many ways of making fools of even sober and considerate men.'

In a short time they set off, and a walk of ten minutes among the pleasant gardens and cottages of Salem, brought them to a house, where a crowd of people had gathered to witness the visible power of devils over men. As they entered the room, a female dressed in the rustic fashion of the country, was seated in a chair before them. She was pale and silent, but there was a wildness in her appearance, and a fierce expression in her eye, which indicated that strange elements were at work, suppressed for the time, but liable to act at any moment with fearful energy. A supposed witch was presently conducted into the room. She was an old lady, of tottering gait, and apparently in very feeble health, but perfectly self-possessed and quiet. At sight of her, the afflicted person sprang into the air, and uttering the wildest cries, she raved about the room, and was hardly restrained by the force of two men from escaping to the street. In a moment more, she sat down with comparative tranquillity; but again her frame was agitated, and she was suddenly lifted with no visible effort, and seemed for a moment suspended in the air; then falling on the floor, she was quiet a little while, when she gradually assumed a sitting posture, and began to reason with some master demon, and called upon the witch to cease her torment.

'I have nothing to do with your torment,' said the old lady.

'Then it is Satan that does it, by your means,' said the girl.

'I have nothing to do with Satan, and know not what your torments are,' was the reply.

'That is the way Satan blinds you. When you are gone, I have no suffering.'

'You have greatly wronged me,' replied the lady; 'and on this account I have no doubt my presence is painful to you. I hope God will forgive you, and restore that reason, which in his inscrutable wisdom he has taken away.'

The old lady was now removed from the room, when the afflicted person relapsed into a state of quiet, which was of course attributed to the absence of the exciting cause.

'This is a juggler's game, Mr. Ellerson,' said Walter; 'that person accused is no more a witch than I am. If it be not an intended cheat, it is a diseased mind, or a nervous irritability, which has been trained into a system, and acts with some regularity. These people are some of them knaves, and most of the remainder are fools; the reputed witch is the only one in her right mind.'

'I cannot decide so readily as you. There is some evidence in the Scriptures of the reality of visible, Satanic influence, but I am inclined to believe there has been little, if any of it, since the Christian era; but how that female preserves her stationary posture in the air, with no visible support, I cannot imagine. If you, Walter, are wise on this point, I wish you would enlighten me.'

'There is some mystery in it,' said Strale, 'but so there is in every thing. To believe such follies we must renounce common sense, and I had almost said a belief in a beneficent Providence. I have seen persons poised on the fingers of others, in such a manner as to be apparently unaffected by gravitation; the cause, no one explains; but if such cases are scrutinized, it will doubtless be found they are perfectly consistent with natural laws. Think you, Mr. Ellerson, it is possible that the devil has such power on earth?'

'He is the prince of the power of the air,' replied Mr. Ellerson. 'We know that in the time of Christ, he did exercise power over the bodies and minds of men, and may it not be impious in us to deny that he has such influence now, though it may be in less degree?'

'I would not be impious or irreverent on this or any other subject,' rejoined Walter; 'yet there are so many natural causes, which may account for these things, that I am very slow to attribute them to the agency of Satan. I believe a limited power over man is possessed by the arch apostate, but it seems to me the period of its physical developement was confined to the early ages of the Christian church, just as the age of miracles was measured and limited by the necessities of the church. I doubt not he retains power to tempt men. I have felt it myself, alas! too often; but, Mr. Ellerson, since I have known Mary, she has led me to a brighter path of contemplation and hope. I would be no visionary theorist; I would be an humble, serious, every-day Christian.'

'Such, dear Walter, I would have you to be. Such, indeed, I trust you are,' replied Mr. Ellerson. 'True piety enlightens as well as purifies; and let not, I pray you, this mysterious delusion, for such I must regard it, disturb your faith in that Gospel, which must be your only hope, for time and eternity. What will be the issue of these troubles, no one can tell. A dark cloud has come over the land; when it shall pass away is known only to Him, to whom darkness and the day are alike.'

They had now reached Mr. Ellerson's dwelling. It was a beautiful habitation, and the moon was shining brightly over the garden and a neighboring grove, and falling in placid radiance on a little stream which glided through the field. That spot is now covered by mansions of opulence and comparative grandeur; but the romance of the scene has passed away, the white fence of the garden is broken down; the bed of the stream is covered by the green earth, and the moonbeams shine over the works of taste and art; but not with the simplicity and grace in which they danced upon the forest oak and the tangled grove.

Walter remained a few days at Salem, and notwithstanding the state of things around him, it was one of the happiest periods of his life: another and a sweeter illusion occupied his mind; the bright pictures of coming days, undefaced by a single visible stain, passed in rapid succession before his charmed imagination; the hopes of future years gathered in beautiful groups on his eye, while he felt that the lovely object, around which these visions were glittering, would soon be his own.

During this brief period, the conversation of the two friends was devoted mainly to the subject of religion. The holy influences of the Gospel had found their way to the mind and heart of Strale. He saw in a new light the wonderful scheme of redemption; he admired and adored the grace which had made him a partaker of its blessings, and he resolved that his whole future life should illustrate its excellence and glory.

We need not speak of the joy that glowed in the heart of Mary, as she beheld and admired the change. Her cup of worldly happiness was full to overflowing; she looked even upon the distracted community around her in a calm reliance on Him who controls the tempest and stills its rage; but she saw not the dark cloud that was even then gathering in her sky; she heard not the dashing of those waves, which were soon to ingulf her dearest hopes. The song of the sirens was too sweet to be hushed by the distant thunder, and her unconscious feet were already treading on the fatal shore.

CHAPTER NINTH.

Nothing is more essential to a well-ordered civil government, than a well-balanced public mind; for want of this, in different ages, laws have been framed and penalties executed in cases which go beyond the reach of human investigation, and relate to subjects of which we can form only faint and obscure conceptions, and consequently all the evidence touching such cases is more or less to be distrusted.

At the period we are now contemplating, the connection between the spiritual world and the physical being of man was supposed to be developed in an extraordinary degree. It was believed the boundaries between the material and invisible states were more clearly defined, and that strange and startling intercourse was held by mysterious agents, on these border territories. It was indeed no novelty in those days for the civil courts to claim jurisdiction over the rambling vagaries of the mind, and so far as any law affecting the social or civil compact was plainly violated, it was certainly within their office to punish the offence; but the courts travelled out of their way, and, invading the natural rights of man, they entered a field of inquiry, whose dim and uncertain forms could never be reduced to facts, or supply materials of evidence, on which a sober mind could rely. Of this nature was the court organized by Sir William Phipps, for the trial and punishment of witches. It had no legitimate character, and the functions it assumed were entirely beyond the rights of any earthly tribunal. Nevertheless, its authority was acknowledged, and its stern and dreadful mandates were obeyed as promptly as they were issued. The influence of this court, by giving judicial sanction to the extravagances of the times, tended very much to strengthen and prolong the delusion, and the remarkable infatuation of the judges overcame the plain common sense of the jury, which but for their influence would soon have checked the mania, and restored the public mind to calmness and reason.

We have before remarked, that Mr. Willard, the minister of the South Church, was strongly opposed to the proceedings of the courts. This was the more remarkable from the fact, that the chief justice and two of the judges were members of his church. Mr. Willard admitted the possibility of Satanic influence, but he denied that it was visible in any such form as to warrant judicial interference. He remonstrated with great earnestness against the general movements, and there is no doubt he suffered so much reproach on this account, that his remarkable talents and exemplary piety could scarcely sustain him. It is certain also, that he was accused of practicing witchcraft, and though the complaint was rejected by the court, there were not wanting those who believed him confederate with Satan, and a direct agent in promoting his designs upon the people of New England. There were some, however, who took Mr. Willard's ground, and boldly maintained that the court was illegal, and could not in any sense take cognizance of such matters. We have already mentioned Thomas Brattle and John Leverett, tutors of Harvard College; and there is good reason to believe President Mather was of the same opinion, and attempted to restrain the popular feeling; but no one was more bold than Robert Calef, an eminent merchant of Boston, whose views on the subject were as sound and discriminating as those of any man of that age. No individual did more to dispel the delusion, and the records he has left behind have reared an imperishable monument to his courage, fidelity, and success.

Miss Graham had accepted an invitation from her friend Miss Elliott, to spend the last two weeks of May in Boston. An intimate and endeared friendship now existed between these two young ladies. It was greatly promoted by Lyford, who had carefully studied the character of his sister's friend, and there was no one in his judgment who surpassed Miss Elliott in moral excellence, as well as mental accomplishments. Every attention had been bestowed upon her education; and though her manners and appearance were more formal and stately than comported with the simplicity of the times, yet she universally secured the respect and good-will of all classes in society.

It was grateful to Mary's feelings to retire for a while from the painful scenes she was every day compelled to witness at home. Her health and spirits were sinking under the strange excitement which pervaded the community at Salem and its neighborhood, and the change she sought was now absolutely necessary. The two friends were entirely agreed in matters of religious faith, and their intercourse with the world was regulated by a scrupulous regard to Christian decorum and example. The fashionable society of Boston was at that time professedly religious; the outward forms of devotion were generally and greatly respected; yet a powerful current of worldly influence was visible, and the clergymen of those days complained that the vital power of the Gospel was far too little manifested, in the lives and conversation of its professors.

On Miss Graham's arrival at Boston, she was visited by all her friends; but the usual routine of social parties was now nearly suspended. The painful suspicions and jealousies that were abroad had interrupted the peace of families, and extensive divisions in the churches and in general society were disturbing the public harmony, and shaking the foundations of social confidence in a most alarming degree. Still the state of things was far better than in Salem; and though the popular feeling even in Boston went along with the belief in supernatural agencies, yet there was enough of common sense remaining to oppose a formidable barrier to the action of courts and judges in the business. This conservative influence prevailed most in the first and third churches; but in the congregation of Cotton Mather, which was very large, there was scarcely a dissenting voice from the general belief, and the Sabbath day exercises at the North Church were almost exclusively governed by the impressions of an invisible world; and the church itself was regarded as the grand post of observation, from which the march and countermarch of Satan's ranks were discerned, while he moved at their head, enlisting recruits for his new kingdom, about to be established.

On the last week in May, a day of fasting and prayer had been solemnly observed in reference to the prevailing calamities. The point of Satan's visible agency was now scarcely disputed, and those who doubted or disbelieved were in too much personal danger to make any public protest against the prevalent doctrines; yet it was scarcely possible for one who entertained such views as Walter to avoid an occasional sarcasm; and Miss Graham herself was disposed to treat the subject with lightness, in the hope that its folly might in this way be more readily seen. The high standing they occupied was to some extent security from danger. But, on the other hand, there was a feeling of envy and jealousy towards the unsuspecting maiden, which soon involved her in suspicions; and Miss Hallam, who regarded Walter's attachment to Mary with extreme displeasure, availed herself of the general distrust to produce unfavorable impressions wherever her influence extended.

In this state of things the last Sabbath in May arrived. The religious exercises of the week had prepared the people to expect that their ministers would follow up the subject, and give such views of the whole case as comported with their own convictions, and the teachings of Scripture. The day was singularly beautiful; the freshness of its early dawning, and the summer breezes, that were diffusing life and joyousness around, were expressive of a mild and beneficent Providence; but Nature in her calm and delightful aspect, was all unconscious of the dark figures and mysterious demons, that were thronging the imaginations of men; her morning hymn was ascending in grateful chorus from forest, valley, and stream; but she was no longer the handmaid of devotion, for man refused to mingle in her silent or audible aspirations, or in any sense, to bend the knee at her shrine.

At ten o'clock, the bells rang for public worship, and the streets, which till then had been silent as the desert, were now thronged with multitudes on their way to the house of God. Sadness and sorrow were visible in every countenance. The early flowers of spring, the narcissus, the violet, and the snow-drop, which were wont to adorn the dresses, or fringe the hair of the young and beautiful, were utterly neglected, and the silent processions moved along the streets to their respective places of worship, as if they were following the dead to their burial. Even the church bells, which sent their cheerful melodies among the valleys and rocks, now seemed to toll upon the ear, the funeral dirge of all that was bright and happy in the land; the merry laugh of childhood, the clear sunshine of the brow of youth, and the serene tranquillity of maturer years, were suppressed and clouded by an unseen yet terrible influence, before whose mysteries Reason was overthrown, and Religion herself was staggered.