A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS.
A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS
IN
SIXTEEN
HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
A
Tale Of Olden Times.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF DIVERS UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPTS,
&c. &c.
Come,
listen to my story,
Tho’
often told before,
Of
men who passed to glory
Thro’
toil and travail sore;
Of
men who did for conscience’ sake,
Their
native land forego,
And
sought a home and freedom here,
Two hundred years ago.
IN
THREE VOLUMES.
VOL.
1.
PRINTED
FOR GEO. B. WHITTAKER,
1825.
A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS
CHAP.
I.
From
native shores by tempest driven
He sought a purer sky,
And
found beneath a wilder heaven
The home of
MELLEN.
EARLY
in the autumn of 1636 a British vessel approached the coast of
Apart
from his companions, stood a young man whose countenance and figure were
singularly prepossessing. In an attitude of deep attention, he regarded the new
world which stretched around him—his dark eyes now sparkling with admiration,
then softening into sadness; and, again, some object of sublimity or beauty
kindling the glow of enthusiasm on his cheek. To him they seemed approaching a
wilderness; for already the forests were enveloped in darkness, and the
gigantic hills invested with the shadows of twilight. Presently a dim speck
appeared on the horizon: —it was the little
The
stranger experienced a momentary disappointment, as he rapidly surveyed the
limited dimensions, and rude architecture of that new “city of refuge.” His
fancy had sketched scenes of Arcadian loveliness, and coloured the picture
which it drew with the fairy tints of romance; but he only saw, rising from the
rocky and sea-girt shore the humble roofs of the Pilgrims, clustered together
in two compact lines, and thinly shaded by native trees; each tenement
encircled by a patch of vegetation, then wearing the seared and fading hues of
autumn. The English colours waved gaily from the battlements of a square fort,
which crowned the summit of a commanding eminence, and its flat roof was paced
by several persons, who watched with curiosity the approaching vessel.
“And
this is my adopted country!” was his first reflection, accompanied by a deep
sigh, as his thoughts reverted to the refinements of polished life to which he
had been accustomed. But this involuntary chagrin gave place to other feelings
as the ship rode gallantly into the shallow but extensive harbour, and anchored
beneath the very rock which, seventeen years before, received the intrepid band
of adventurers, who had forsaken the enjoyments and comforts of civilized life,
braved the howlings of the wintry blast, the horrors of famine, and the terrors
of an unknown wilderness, for
“conscience’ sake,”—reposing an unwavering
confidence in Him, who had hitherto sustained and kept them, as in the “hollow
of his hand.”
Major
Atherton, in the enthusiasm which the scene inspired, remained lost in a train
of reflections, till accosted by the captain of the vessel, who inquired if he
had any friend to welcome him on shore.
“No,
I am friendless and a stranger,” he replied, and never had the loneliness of
his situation struck so forcibly on his heart; for, looking around, he
perceived the vessel was almost deserted, and there were few of his
fellow-passengers who had not recognized some old acquaintance, and received a
cordial greeting. The inhabitants of the town hastened towards the ship, eager to
learn tidings from the friends and relatives they had left in their native, and
still fondly remembered country; and it was pleasant to witness the interchange
of kind inquirers, the mutual expressions of good-will, and the heartfelt
earnestness with which they listened to even the minutest incidents relating to
those with whom, though perhaps for ever separated, they still felt united by
the ties of kindred affection, the sweet sympathies of one common country, and
the delightful associations of childhood and youth.
Atherton
indulged but a moment in gloomy reflections:—naturally cheerful, and always
sanguine, he turned to the captain, who still regarded him with an air of
kindness, and said—
“Pardon
me, that I have so long trespassed on your patience; but I feel like one in a
dream, to whom every object is strange and incongruous; we seem to have passed
the threshold of earth, and to verge on a new creation.”
“To
me it is not new,” replied his companion; “I have thrice before visited this
rocky coast, and am well known to most of the inhabitants; and, if my services
can be of use to you, I pray you to command them.”
“I
thank you,” returned the young man, fervently; “but I have one kinsman in this
land of strangers, to whom my first respects are due; Captain Standish, sir,
with whom you are probably acquainted. I am personally unknown to him, but we
are nearly allied by blood, and I would crave your courtesy to shew me the
place of his residence.”
“The
military commander of New Plymouth,” said the Captain. “You will find a warm
heart, as well as a brave one, in him; and I will gladly go with you to his
house, as soon as I can find a moment of leisure.”
So
saying, they both sprang on shore, and Atherton continued walking alone, to and
fro on the beach, until the crowd had dispersed, and he was rejoined by the
Captain, from whom he learned with chagrin, that Captain Standish had gone to
the Massachusetts Bay, to transact some public business, and that the period of
his return was uncertain.
“It
was an unlucky planet which presided at my birth,” he said, “but patience must
be my counter-charm; and so, if it please you, Captain, I will return to your
floating castle to-night, and the morrow may bring me better fortune.”
They,
however, continued to walk on, for a considerable time, and almost in silence;
it was a mild evening, in the early part of September; and, just escaped from
the monotony of a long and tedious voyage, the bright and beautiful moonlight
scenery floated before their eyes, like a vision of enchantment. Every object,
half hid and half revealed, in the pale and uncertain light, was mellowed into
grace; and not a sound was heard, except the sighing of the wind among the
trees of the forest, which hung, like a cloud, around the skirts of the settlement;
and the low murmuring of the ocean slowly rolling its waves upon the strand.
The village of Plymouth, with its lowly houses and cultivated fields, alone
interrupted the wild magnificence of nature; and, unimportant as it seemed
amidst her vast dominions, was a striking monument of the enterprise of man,
and the freedom and independence of his spirit.
The
scene produced, in the mind of Atherton, sensations of mingled awe and delight;
he felt as if translated to a holier and happier sphere; and, for a while, the
passions, and hopes, and disappointments of earth, were lost in the novelty and
intenseness of his emotions. He stopped, and gazed around; and his companion,
who, if he did not comprehend the nature of his feelings, at least, forbore to
interrupt them, retired within the shadow of a dwelling-house, apart from
Atherton, who stood leaning against the twisted and gnarled trunk of a
venerable oak, quite unconscious of his vicinity to the residence of man.
The
evening was far advanced, the busy hum of voices had ceased, and a few feeble
lights streaming through the narrow casements, and then suddenly extinguished,
shewed, that the inhabitants were fast seeking their repose.
Suddenly,
a low, sweet strain of vocal music stole upon the ear;—it gradually rose, and
swelled into full cadence; and a female voice, soft, rich, and powerful,
predominated in a slow and solemn tune of sacred melody. Atherton started, and
looked round; but his half uttered exclamation of surprise was interrupted by
the Captain, who softly approached, motioning him to silence.
“Hush,”
said he in a whisper, “or we shall disturb the family, who are now at their
evening worship; it is the custom here to begin and close each day with
devotional exercises, in which the singing of a psalm is included.”
“And
whose voice is that, so full of sweetness and harmony,” asked Atherton.
“It
is Miriam Grey’s, the fairest maiden of New-England,” replied his friend; “but
had we not better withdraw? I would not, for the world, be discovered loitering
beneath the windows.”
“Oh
no, not yet; hark!” said Atherton, almost breathless with attention; and again
he listened, till the last notes died away; and even then lingered, hoping
again to hear the voice, or at least to catch a glimpse of the fair musician:
but he waited in vain; all continued silent; and, though a faint light shewed
the apartment in which the family was assembled; they were screened from
observation by a curtain, which hung against the casement. At that moment, too,
a favourite dog, who had long shared the fortunes of Atherton, began to bark at
some offensive object, threatening a speedy discovery; and he reluctantly
turned from the spot.
During
the remainder of their walk, Major Atherton sunk into a deep reverie: and his
imagination was so excited by the events of the evening, and the novelty of his
situation, that it was long after he retired to rest, before sleep visited his
eyelids; —and, then, the sweet voice of Miriam Grey haunted his dreams. He
awoke and heard only the waves lashing the sides of the vessel, and the wind
whistling among the shrouds; and again closing his eyes, to exclude the
day-light, which was beginning to steal into the cabin, he fell into a long and
profound slumber.
CHAP.
II.
Scenes
of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes
that former thoughts renew,
Scenes
of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now
a last and sad adieu! BURNS.
THE
father of Major Atherton was left an orphan in early childhood; and, with an
only sister, consigned to the guardianship of his maternal uncle, Sir Robert
Fenly; who, in receiving his young charge from the hands of their dying mother,
promised to watch over them with care, and faithfully discharge the duties of
his interesting and responsible office; —a promise which he fulfilled, at least,
to his own satisfaction, by entrusting their education and morals entirely to
strangers; while, engaged in an eager pursuit of pleasure, which left no
leisure from its selfish and absorbing engagements to observe the intellectual
progress of his wards, he contented himself with remarking, from time to time,
their proficiency in the outward accomplishments suited to their rank and age;
and which, in his opinion, were alone of essential importance. But the
gentleman he selected, as tutor to his nephew, was fortunately possessed of
excellent principles, a vigorous understanding, and those attaching qualities
of the mind and heart, which secured the entire confidence and affection of his
pupil, and effectually counteracted his own pernicious example.
Young
Atherton was naturally grave and reflective, but cheerful and unreserved in the
society of those he loved, and susceptible of a depth and ardour of attachment,
which could only be appreciated by those who knew him most intimately. Deeply
feeling the indifference of his uncle, whose blind partiality to an only son
seemed to exclude every other object of regard from his heart; and with few
natural ties to interest his affections, they became almost entirely centered
in his sister. Miss Atherton regarded her brother with enthusiastic tenderness;
she was gay, innocent, and lovely; and, till her seventeenth year, scarcely
experienced a pleasure, of which he was not the source, or participator. But,
at that time, Atherton began to watch the progress of a still stronger and more
engrossing passion; nor was it without many painful efforts, he could reconcile
himself to the idea, that, in future, her heart would be devoted to another,
and their pursuits and interests no longer united. But he was destined to receive
a deeper and more lasting wound. The week previous to that appointed for her
marriage, Miss Atherton was seized with a violent disorder, which brought her
to an untimely grave, in the spring-tide of life and beauty, when all around
her breathed of love and happiness, and the future seemed strewed with
thornless and unfading flowers.
The
health and spirits of Atherton sunk under the withering blow; nor was it till
months of wretchedness had passed away, that a new misfortune aroused the
dormant energy of his mind. Sir Robert Fenly died suddenly, leaving his affairs
in a state of extreme derangement, and his improvidence and dissipation had not
only ruined himself, but induced him to borrow freely from the inheritance of
his ward, to support his extravagance, and pay the arrears of the
gambling-table: and though he probably intended to refund it before his nephew
became of age, death surprised him in the midst of his days, with his plan and
schemes unaccomplished, and all that remained of a once noble fortune, was an
entailed estate, which descended to his son and heir.
These
tidings awoke Atherton from his lethargy of grief; stript at once of
independence, and by the hand which ought to have cherished his interests, he
felt the necessity of immediate exertion; and the effort happily diverted his
mind from the calamity which had long entirely occupied it. Inclination decided
him to embrace the profession of arms, and he obtained an ensign’s commission
in a regiment of foot, then quartered in the village of ——, in Lancashire.
Atherton
there became acquainted with Eleanor Standish, the heiress of an ancient
family, whose hereditary estates were watered by the Douglas; and, deeply
touched by the charms of her mind and person, he, for the first time, felt the
full extent of his uncle’s injustice. It was no longer in his power to offer
her an establishment suitable to her rank and expectations; and too generous to
seek her affections under circumstances which must involve her in difficulties,
he withdrew, in doubt and sadness, from her dangerous society.
The
pacific reign of James the First, admitted few opportunities for military
distinction; and, eager to engage in active duty, and acquire an honourable
rank in his profession, Atherton obtained a furlough, and repaired to Holland,
then the scene of contention between the disciples of Calvin and Arminius, each
of whose followers had resorted to the sword to decide their controversy.
The
intrepid bravery of the young Ensign, united with a prudence and judgment beyond
his years, procured him the favour of the Prince of Orange, who distinguished
him by his personal regard, and rewarded his services by promoting him to the
command of a regiment. But amidst the bustle of a camp, Eleanor Standish
retained her influence over his imagination, and occupied his thoughts in every
moment of repose; for nearly two years he had been self-banished from her
presence, and anxiety respecting her often weighed heavily on his spirits: he
was, therefore, rejoiced when a suspension of hostilities at length permitted
him to retire from the field, and return to his native country.
Colonel
Atherton, on arriving in England, proceeded directly to Lancashire, impatient
of a moment’s delay, until he reached the residence of Miss Standish. As he
rode through the stately avenue, and looked wistfully at the mansion which used
to be hospitably thrown open to admit the stranger, he was struck by the gloom
and silence that surrounded it; and something like a melancholy foreboding
damped the ardour of expectation. He knocked long and loudly at the door before
he could make himself heard, and it was at last opened by an old domestic,
whose countenance was familiar to him, though changed and sorrowful since the
days when he had last seen it. His inquiries respecting the family were minute;
but though he had fancied himself prepared for the worst, he was inexpressibly
shocked by the intelligence he received.
Eleanor
Standish had embraced the tenets of the Puritans; and with some others of her
distinguished house, formally renounced the faith and worship of her ancestors.
Her father, incensed at her conduct, and unable to effect a change in her newly
adopted opinions, which were fixed by the dictates of conscience, banished her
from his presence, and bequeathed his whole estate to a distant branch of the
family. But a few months of loneliness, succeeded by a mortal illness, softened
his heart towards his only child; and, in his last hours, she was again folded
in his embrace, and blessed with his forgiveness. The arguments of the
interested and prejudiced, however, had persuaded him that it would be criminal
to leave his fortune at the disposal of one who would doubtless appropriate it
to the use of a sect, which had already set at defiance the established laws
and religion of their country; and he, therefore, made no alteration in his
will; but added a codicil, which left his daughter heiress to her mother’s
estate, sufficient to render her independent, but not rich. Eleanor was too
happy at being restored to her father’s affection to regret the loss of
superfluous wealth; though it was not without deep and painful emotion, that
she bade farewell to the home of her youth, and retired to the house of a
widowed relative in a distant part of the country.
Colonel
Atherton listened with interest to the simple tale of the garrulous domestic¾he had been taught, from childhood, to believe the church of England
infallible; and that, on the existence of its forms and privileges, depended
the security of the crown, and all that was valuable to a loyalist. He had
viewed with abhorrence, not unmixed with contempt, the surprising increase and
firm resistance of the non-conformists, and conceived it the bounden duty of
every faithful subject, to check their audacious pretensions. With these
sentiments he naturally heard, with the keenest disappointment, that Eleanor
Standish had united herself to that despised and persecuted sect; and, fondly
as he loved her, pride and principle revolted from the idea of receiving a
Puritan for the bosom companion of his future life.
Still,
however, he would not at once relinquish his long cherished hopes; nor would he
believe it possible that one so young and gentle could long remain blinded by
the spirit of fanaticism. He resolved, at all events, to see her once more,
were it only from respect to the memory of her father, and sympathy in her own
misfortunes; and during his rapid journey thither he almost persuaded himself
that these were the leading objects of his visit.
Colonel
Atherton felt his heart beat quicker, as he drew near her sequestered dwelling;
and, whatever had been his feelings and resolutions, prejudice vanished, and
creeds and sects were forgotten, when he found himself again and alone in the
presence of his beloved Eleanor. She looked paler than formerly, and her
countenance was pensive, almost to sadness; but her smile was as sweet as ever,
and her blushing confusion, more eloquent than language, revealed the untold
secret of her heart.
Colonel
Atherton, too happy to think of reason or resolve, yielded to the impulse of
passionate tenderness, and whispered a tale of love, and hope, and constancy,
which drew from her lips a confession, that her affections had been long
devoted to him, nor did she shrink from a firm but modest avowal of the
principles she had adopted, in the earnestness of sincere conviction, candidly
acknowledging, that no worldly advantage would ever tempt her to forsake them;
and her lover, convinced that arguments would be vain, freely conceded to her
the rights of conscience, and promised her the full exercise of her religious
principles and worship.
Their
union, which shortly took place, proved happy beyond the common lot of mortals,
and though Colonel Atherton had probably indulged the hope, that the tacit
influence, or mild persuasions of the husband, would eventually restore his
wife to the bosom of the church, a more intimate knowledge of her character
satisfied him, that the opinions she had deliberately chosen, would continue to
guide her through life. Mrs. Atherton was firm, but not bigotted; and, though
strongly attached to her own creed, was far from condemning all others as
erroneous. She reverenced the virtues of her husband, and happily exercised the
rare prudence to avoid all religious controversy with him; while he, though
unwavering in his faith, could not but respect the doctrines, which she so
beautifully exemplified, by a life of uniform and unobtrusive piety and
benevolence.
This mutual forbearance and liberality produced
the desired effect on the mind of their only child, who, though educated in the
forms of the established church, honoured the more austere principles of his
mother, and listened, with submissive attention, to the pure and virtuous
precepts, which distilled, like the ‘dews of Hermon,’ from her lips. His mind
thus unprejudiced, and left to the guidance of reason and scripture, in all
matters of mere nominal importance, escaped the infection of party-spirit,
which excited so much rancour during his youth, and, afterwards burst forth,
and subverted the pillars of church and state.
Edward
Atherton grew up, gay, spirited and handsome; with all the vigour and
enthusiasm of his father’s character, happily tempered by the vivacity and
gentleness of his mother’s. Educated in retirement, and accustomed to little
society, beyond his family circle, he entered into manhood with an ingenuous
and well disciplined mind, a sanguine and adventurous disposition, and spirits
buoyant with hope and happiness. Active in his pursuits, he betrayed an early
pre-deliction for a military life, and, though not without many scruples, his
parents at length consented to his wishes; and, at the age of eighteen, he
received a lieutenant’s commission, in a regiment then commanded by his father.
The regiment soon after received orders to sail with the army of the Duke of
Buckingham, to succour the Huguenots of Rochelle; and, in that ill starred
expedition, both father and son were distinguished by their courage and
address; but Colonel Atherton received a mortal wound in the engagement, and
died, a few hours after, in the arms of his afflicted son.
Edward
Atherton, stricken in heart with the irreparable loss he had sustained,
returned to the desolate mansion of his mother with the fatal intelligence;
and, though it was disclosed to her with the utmost precaution, the shock
produced an effect upon her health and spirits, from which she never entirely
recovered.
Atherton’s
talents and zeal in his profession, acquired him many friends, and he was
advanced to the rank of major far sooner than he had anticipated; but, though
surrounded by every allurement to pleasure and dissipation, his principles were
untainted, and his heart ever turned, with affectionate solicitude, to the
scenes of his earliest enjoyments; and, in every interval of duty, he flew to
their quiet shades, and almost regretted, when the call of honour again forced
him from the society of his beloved parent.
Mrs.
Atherton survived her husband several years; they were passed in profound
retirement, but filled up with active duties, employed in noiseless efforts to
promote a cause, in which she believed the interests of religion involved; in
works of charity and benevolence, particularly towards the persecuted Puritans,
who were relieved by her bounty, and often sheltered beneath her roof. In the
meridian of her days, she awaited, with perfect composure, the expected moment
of her departure from a world, which had ceased to charm, happy in the virtue
and prosperity of her son, and soothed in the last stages of a lingering
decline, by his affectionate and unwearied attention. Never was a parent more
deeply and justly lamented; and it was fortunate for Major Atherton that
professional engagements drew him from the indulgence of his solitary grief.
Public
events, at that time, engaged the attention of every one, and the affairs of
the kingdom seemed daily assuming a more dark and threatening aspect. The
number and influence of the Puritans was rapidly augmenting. Far from being
intimidated by threats, they opposed a determined and zealous resistance to the
arbitrary measures, which the impolitic obstinacy of Charles, instigated by the
implacable Archbishop Laud, had adopted. An alarming insurrection had taken
place in the Scottish capital, when, in compliance with a royal mandate, an
attempt was made to read the Liturgy in its churches; and, already, a military
force was regarded by many as indispensably necessary to crush the power and
check the progress of the rebels.
Major
Atherton was firmly attached to his father’s religion, and would cheerfully
have encountered death, to advance the interests of his sovereign, and the
glory of his country. But his conscience revolted from the idea of aiding in a
war of persecution, against an inoffensive sect of Christians, who claimed
nothing but the privilege of enjoying their opinions unmolested, and of
sharing, with their fellow-subjects, the protection of the government, to which
they acknowledged allegiance. Respect for the memory of his mother, and
subduing recollections of her tenderness, her purity, her unaffected piety,
strengthened these lenient sentiments. He could not cherish harsh and
groundless prejudices against a sect which she had loved, and his father
favoured; and, though he was daily accustomed to hear them derided and
denounced, his judgment remained unbiassed, and, in spite of arguments and
raillery, and against interest itself, he remained convinced that their cause
was just, however mistaken, and that the rights of conscience were too sacred
to be infringed by the arbitrary will of a monarch.
Still,
however, an ardent love of his profession, and the natural desire to attain the
honours which tempted his ambition, and seemed within his grasp, struggled long
and powerfully against the convictions of reason and conscience. But the
generous impulse of a candid and well-principled mind finally prevailed over
every selfish consideration, and determined him to resign his commission, and
with it the dreams of glory, which had so long delighted his imagination.
Major
Atherton returned to Lancashire, depressed in spirits, and his father’s house
no longer cheered by the smiles of those he had so fondly loved, awakened the
most melancholy reminiscences. He had few around him to excite interest or
affection, and in relinquishing the active duties, which had so long occupied
his attention, he felt as if he had resigned the gay and busy world, and had no
object worthy of pursuit and exertion. With such sombre feelings, the winter
passed away drearily enough; but a dejection so foreign to his natural
disposition could not long retain its influence; and the return of spring, with
its train of rural pleasures, and varied occupations, gradually withdrew his
thoughts from the past. An unexpected occurrence also took place, which gave a
new impulse and direction to his mind.
Mr.
Fullerton, an intelligent young man, who had resided several years in the
colony of New-Plymouth, just at that time chanced to revisit England, and
frequently met with Major Atherton at the house of a mutual friend. Warm and
sanguine in his feelings, he confidently believed that New-England would soon
become the most happy and favoured region of the earth; and painted its charms
and advantages with an enthusiasm which completely dazzled the imagination of
Atherton. Mr. Fullerton, without dreaming of such an effect, was daily imbuing
him with a portion of his own spirit; and, from repeated conversations
respecting the early colonists of America, he began to wish himself transported
to their land of simple habits and uncorrupted morals. It was not long before
these incipient desires became confirmed and active; and Major Atherton,
romantic, fond of novelty and adventure, and rapid in his decisions, made
speedy preparations for a voyage to the western world. Mr. Fullerton was
pleased with his determination, and regretted that he could not accompany him;
but business detained him in England, whence it was his intention to proceed to
the Continent, and the period of his return was uncertain.
Major
Atherton, eager to execute his project, committed his affairs to a trusty
agent, and hastened to Falmouth, where a vessel was in readiness to cross the
Atlantic. He arrived there just in time to secure a passage; in a few moments
the moorings were loosed, and the white cliffs of his native land receded fast
from his view. He stood with his eyes fixed on the shore he had left, perhaps
for ever, till the highest stretch of land dwindled to a point, and hung like a
light cloud in the distant heavens, and at last faded from his sight. He looked
around¾the vessel pursued its tranquil course, cutting
the deep green waves, and leaving far behind a foamy track; a strong breeze
swelled the canvas, and, all around the circling horizon, the vast ocean
mingled with the blue and cloudless sky.
CHAP.
III.
¾¾¾ A man in chiefest trust,
Whose
life was sweet and conversation just,
Whose
parts and wisdom most men did excel;
An
honour to his place, as all can tell.
NEW
ENGLAND’S MEMORIAL.
THE
day after his arrival at Plymouth, Major Atherton delivered several letters of
introduction, with which Mr. Fullerton had furnished him, and, among others,
one to Mr. Winslow, then governor of the colony. He was received by that
gentleman with the most cordial hospitality, and so earnestly solicited to
remain his guest, at least till he had arranged his future plans, that Atherton
could not, without an appearance of affectation, refuse the offered courtesy.
It was, indeed, a courtesy truly grateful to his feelings. Exhausted by the
fatigues of a long voyage, and cast on a world of strangers, the society of an
intelligent friend, and the comforts of a well-ordered family, were peculiarly
soothing to his spirits. The unobtrusive attentions of all around him, which
delicately inferred that they received rather than bestowed obligations, and
the ease with which he found himself included in their domestic arrangements,
removed from his mind every idea of intrusion, and he soon felt as perfectly at
home, and free from restraint, as if only renewing an intercourse with his
early and familiar friends.
Mr.
Winslow, himself an experienced traveller, had too often enjoyed the kindness
of strangers not to appreciate its value, and the native benevolence of his
heart led him to embrace every opportunity to confer on others such civilities
as he had gratefully received, under various circumstances, during his eventful
life. A zealous adherent to the principles of the non-conformists, he attached
himself to the church at Leyden, and embarked with the first adventurers for
the then inhospitable region of North America. Possessed of uncommon activity
and address, a sound judgment and discriminating mind, he acquired great
influence with the colonists, and was early associated with others of approved
worth in the management of their civil affairs. Every action of his life was
dictated by the purest motives, and rendered subservient to their interests,
and the advancement of that religion for which they had made such astonishing
sacrifices. His prudence and gentleness rendered him particularly agreeable to
the Indians, with whom he was often selected to negotiate; and the goodness of
his heart and lenity of his disposition were, perhaps, as useful in maintaining
harmony with them, as the more prompt and severe measures of the military
commander.
Mr.
Winslow, at the time of Major Atherton’s introduction to him, was still in the
prime of life; he had experienced many vicissitudes of fortune, and, in
travelling through various countries, had acquired an intimate knowledge of human
nature, and that variety of information, which rendered him a most useful and
entertaining companion. There was in his manners nothing of the gloom, so
generally, and, too often, justly attributed to the Puritans; and Atherton
ceased to remember the distinctions of party, in the freedom of social
intercourse, and the interchange of liberal and enlightened sentiments.
At
the hour of sunset,¾for it was Saturday¾the labours of the week were ended, and the
Sabbath commenced. Every worldly employment was suspended, and the children
forsook their playthings, and gathered in submissive silence around the knees
of their parents. Books of devotion, religious conversation, and instruction,
filled up the evening; and, at the customary hour, the assembled family united
in the evening sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving.
It
was so long since Major Atherton had enjoyed the luxury of a neat and quiet
bed, that he would, perhaps, have slept till an unseasonable hour on the
following morning, had he not been awakened by a concert of young voices in an
adjoining apartment. They were audibly repeating their Sabbath lessons; and,
every now and then, a young urchin, more learned than his brethren, assumed the
office of prompter, though generally hushed to silence by the mild command of
Mrs. Winslow.
Atherton
thought it rather uncomfortable to rise before the sun in a chilly September
morning; but civility required him to observe the regulations of the house, and
he hastened to join the family in the sitting-room. The duties of that holy
day, as of every other, were commenced with religious exercises; a practice
which the early settlers of New-England never omitted, though like many others
which were their “glory and defence,” it has since become unfashionable, and,
of course, too generally disregarded. Breakfast immediately followed, and all
the children, as usual on Sunday, enjoyed the privilege of sitting at table,
and sharing the wheaten loaf and a basin of chocolate, instead of their daily
nutritious fare of milk and Indian bread. Every countenance beamed with
cheerfulness and contentment; and Atherton thought he had never seen a more
interesting family group.
At
the accustomed hour, the governor and his whole household repaired to church,
or rather to meeting, for that was
the term which the dissenters substituted for one that savoured too much of
prelacy. The public funds had not yet permitted the erection of a house of
worship, but the fort already mentioned, which crowned the summit of a hill in
rear of the village, had been prepared for that purpose. It was built with two
stories; the upper planted with ordnance and flanked with battlements, and, in
the lower, benches were arranged to accommodate the audience, with a desk
elevated at one extremity for the minister, and, just below it, seats for the
ruling elders or deacons.
Thither
the inhabitants of the town were hastening, all arrayed in their best attire;
mothers leading their tottling little ones, and young people supporting their
aged parents, whom no consideration short of absolute necessity could detain
from the public duties of the day. Atherton was struck with the air of
reverence and respect with which every one seemed to approach the house of God;
no news was circulated, no scandal whispered, no dress or fashion discussed,
and even the mirthful faces of the children had assumed an expression of
gravity and reflection.
The
people bowed respectfully as Mr. Winslow and his family entered, and passed on
to their usual places¾the governor’s rank entitling him to the upper
seat with the magistrates, while the females ranged themselves on the opposite
side of the edifice, separated by a broad passage from the other sex. Major
Atherton, according to the usage of the church, remained a few moments absorbed
in mental devotion, from which he was roused by a deep groan from an elderly
female, accompanied by a look of horror, which could scarcely have been more
profound had the whole hierarchy, or the Pope himself, stood before her.
Reminded by the incident that he was not in an English chapel, but amidst a
congregation of Puritans, who regarded the least approach to episcopacy with as
much abhorrence as an act of sacrilege, he resolved to abstain from a practice
which occasioned so much offence, and would probably excite many prejudices
against him. As these reflections were rapidly crossing his mind, Mr. Reyner,
the clergyman, a man of grave and solemn deportment, entered the assembly. He
commenced the duties of his sacred office with a devout and fervent prayer, and
then selected a psalm from the unharmonious version of the day, which he
briefly expounded, for the benefit of the ignorant and the prevention of any
false interpretation. One of the elders then arose and read the first line,
when all the audience who could, and many who could not sing, united their
melody to the words, and having completed the line, another was read, and so on
through the psalm.
Strangely
as this intermixture of reading and music sounded in the ears of Atherton, he
was impressed with the deep devotion which seemed to animate every countenance,
as they thus mingled their hearts and voices in the praises of their Maker.
There was a touching eloquence in this simple worship, that he had seldom felt
when listening to the most skilful performance that ever woke the tones of the
organ, amidst the more imposing ceremonies of his national religion. An
extemporaneous discourse succeeded this vocal harmony: and, though not
copiously sprinkled with the flowers of oratory, it breathed a spirit of ardent
piety, and strongly enforced the observance of moral duty, with a scrupulous
regard to the peculiar tenets of the sect. This sermon, which, in matter and
dimensions, exceeded half a score of modern ones, at length drew to a close;
and the singing of another psalm concluded the services.
In
this last exercise, Major Atherton was strangely attracted by a sweet and
powerful voice, which sometimes soared above the others, and then, as if
shrinking from the melody it created, murmured into silence, and again rose and
mingled in the general strain. It came over his memory like a half forgotten
dream of enchantment; nor was it till the lapse of several moments that he
could identify it with the one which had so lately held him lingering beneath
the windows of Miriam Grey. He looked around for the object which unexpectedly
revived the interest then so strongly excited; and, directed by the same
bewitching tones, his eye rested on a figure of uncommon delicacy and grace,
closely enveloped in the folds of a silken scarf, which, with a hood of the
same material, completely baffled his curiosity. Yet there was something
superior, Atherton thought, something more tasteful, in short, indescribable,
about this female. Young she must be, and how beautiful, he longed to know¾which rivetted his attention. Occupying a seat nearly parallel to her
own, he could watch every movement without altering his position so much as to
occasion remark; and the unconscious girl little suspected with what diligence
every article of her dress, and every motion of her person, was scanned.
As
soon as the congregation was dismissed with a blessing from the pastor,
Atherton, in his haste to intercept her retreat, and to obtain a glimpse of her
face, overturned a seat against the unlucky shins of a curly-pated boy, who,
forthwith, set up a cry, which resounded through the building, and fixed the
eyes of every one upon them. Miriam Grey turned, of course, and Atherton saw,
peeping from beneath her hood, a pair of laughing blue eyes, with the features
and complexion of a Hebe. Her cheeks were dimpled with smiles, which seemed
excited by his disaster; but the instant she met his fixed and admiring gaze,
she moved away with a deep and almost painful blush. Atherton could scarcely
regret an accident which had crowned his wishes with success, but he felt bound
in conscience to offer an apology for his carelessness, and, if possible, to
pacify the still sobbing child, who was kicking lustily, in utter contempt of
the tender caresses of several venerable damsels, who had gathered about him,
and whose sympathy seemed to have a most perverse effect upon his temper.
Major
Atherton, however, found his interference quite unavailing; and, as he was
looking round for Governor Winslow, his step-son, Peregrine White, came towards
him with a countenance which shewed how highly he was diverted by the passing
scene. They left the house together, and, as they descended the hill, the quick
eye of Peregrine readily detected the eagerness with which his companion
continued to regard the figure of Miriam Grey, who tripped lightly on before
them.
“There
goes the handsomest lass in Plymouth,” said the youth; “and there, too, is the
sanctimonious Benjamin Ashly walking by her side, whom her father wants her to
marry, because he is gifted, and makes a speech almost every sabbath day at
meeting, which generally lasts till the congregation are well nigh all asleep.”
“A
powerful recommendation truly!” returned Atherton; “and is it likely to prove
successful with the damsel?”
“It
may be so,” replied the other; “but she is a sly little witch, and nobody can
find out yet. I believe Master Ashly himself is as much at a loss to know as
any one.”
“That
respectable looking man, to whom she is now speaking, is her father, I
presume?” said Atherton.
“Yes,
and the most rigid sprig of orthodoxy that ever walked in the steps of Calvin:
he is thought a ‘burning and shining light’ in the church here, but I confess
there is too much smoke about it to enlighten my path, at least.”
“I
am afraid you are wilfully blind,” said Atherton, smiling: “but has he been a
long time in New-England?”
“Oh
yes, he came over in the Mayflower, with the first company of settlers, and
brought with him his wife, and Miriam, then scarcely a year old, and her cousin
Lois, whom you see leaning on her arm. Mrs. Grey, I have heard my mother say,
was very delicately brought up, and did not many years survive the change of
climate and situation.”
Mr.
Grey and his family, at that moment, reached the door of their residence; and,
shortly after, Atherton and Peregrine White entered the house of Governor
Winslow.
Peregrine
White was a tall, handsome youth of seventeen, with a frank, intelligent, and
very animated countenance, which was perfectly characteristic of his
disposition. He was the first English child born in New-England, and his birth
took place while the vessel, which had brought the Pilgrims to a frozen coast,
was lying exposed to the severity of the season, before they had found a spot
to rest upon, or a shelter for their wives and little ones. But neither these
gloomy circumstances, nor the hardships to which his childhood was exposed, had
left any traces on his mind. He was gay and thoughtless, loved a frolic better
than any thing else, and though perfectly good-humoured and affectionate, so
inconsiderate as to involve himself in frequent difficulties, and occasion
constant anxiety to his friends. His father died soon after his arrival at
Plymouth; and, in the following spring, Mrs. White was united to Mr. Edward
Winslow, whose wife had fallen a victim to the sickness which carried away more
than half their numbers, during the preceding winter; and this was the first
marriage that was celebrated in the colony.
Peregrine
White drew his hand over his face with a whimsical expression, as he threw open
the parlour door; and then, with the utmost gravity and composure, followed
Major Atherton into the room. The family were shortly reassembled, and partook,
rather sparingly, of some light refreshments which were placed before them.
Mrs. Winslow apologized to her guest for not having provided a dinner,
observing that it was an established custom with the colonists to refrain from
unnecessary labour on the Lord’s day, that their domestics might enjoy the
privilege of public worship, to which they were equally entitled with
themselves.
After
an hour’s intermission they returned to the meeting-house: and the afternoon
services differed considerably from those in the former part of the day. The
puritans, on leaving their native country, adopted many opinions and modes of
teaching, suited, perhaps, to their peculiar situation, but unpractised by
their brethren in England. Being at first destitute of clergymen, the ruling
elders, and others in esteem, were obliged to exercise their gifts to edify the
people; a practice which became too common, and often misused, even after the
settlement of a minister.
Instead
of a regular discourse, the Governor arose, and propounded a question, touching
certain controverted doctrines of their creed, and was answered in a brief and
comprehensive manner by the pastor. Mr. Brewster, a ruling elder, then
exhorted, or prophesied, as it was called, in a style of persuasive eloquence,
and with a force and clearness of expression, which always distinguished his
public teaching, and usually carried conviction to the heart and understanding
of his hearers. He was followed by several of the congregation, and, among
others, Benjamin Ashley spoke at some length, with a zeal, not exactly
according to knowledge, and which Atherton thought strongly tinctured with
arrogance and self-conceit. He certainly attended with more interest to the
father of Miriam Grey, whose strongly marked, and rather severe countenance,
energetic manner, and bold and searching language, rendered him a meet
representative of the eminent reformer whose doctrines he so strenuously
advocated. The assembly was then reminded of their duty in contributing to the
support of the church and the necessities of the poor; when all advanced to the
deacon’s seat, and put their mites into the bag destined to receive the
offering. The singing of psalms also formed a part of the exercises, and
Atherton again listened to a voice which had twice charmed him with its
unrivalled melody, though he fancied that Miriam Grey cautiously avoided his
observation; and, whether from accident or design, he was unable to obtain
another view of her features.
“You
will find our religious customs and opinions somewhat singular, Major
Atherton,” observed the Governor, when they had left the house; “but I hope
there has been nothing unpleasant to your feelings, though I am aware that our
ideas essentially differ.”
“Perhaps
not so very essentially, sir,” returned Atherton; “you will recollect that my
mother was a dissenter, and I should feel a regard for her religion, even if my
own experience did not bear witness to the purity and rectitude of many of its
professors, and the wisdom and piety which have adorned their lives.”
“Many
judicious and good men,” said Mr. Winslow, “have objected to the practice of
prophesying, as it is generally used amongst us, and which is allowed in no
other churches of New-England. It is a truth, and to our reproach be it spoken,
that dissensions have already disturbed our peace, and grievous wolves have
entered into the fold, and divided the sheep of the flock.”
“Do
you attribute these divisions,” asked Atherton, “to the admission of the custom
alluded to?”
“In
a certain degree,” returned the Governor; “were the liberty of speaking subject
to particular regulations, and confined to men who, like Elder Brewster, are
gifted with the spirit of grace, and prepared by education and habit, it would
doubtless tend to edification; and in the early period of the settlement, it
was our only method of public Christian instruction. But, in later days, many
godly ministers who have ‘cast in their lot’ with us, have been discouraged by
finding their office assumed by brethren who vainly imagine themselves
qualified to exhort; and thus a ‘door of contention’ has been opened, which our
adversaries have not failed to use to our disadvantage, and sometimes to the
hindrance of gospel ordinances.”
“I
thought,” said Atherton, “that here, at least, the church was at rest; and that
those free and virtuous spirits who braved so much for liberty of conscience,
and the enjoyment of their religious privileges, were now reaping the reward of
their laudable exertions, and sitting quietly under their ‘own vine and fig
tree.’”
“They
have done all that fallible man judged right and suitable,” replied the
Governor; “and though perfection and complete success are not the portion of
earth, we may still be permitted to hope, that what we have ‘sown in tears’ we
hall hereafter ‘reap in joy;’ and that He who has ‘planted a vine,’ in this wilderness,
will not cease to water it with his blessing. We are deemed enthusiasts, Major
Atherton,” he added, with a smile; “but slight disappointments will never
discourage those whose hearts are truly interested in a great design; and I
trust that our children, and children’s children, even to the remotest
posterity, will eat of the fruit of the tree which we have rooted and
nourished; and that New-England will yet become the most favoured country of
the world, even that ‘happy land whose God is the Lord.’”
CHAP.
IV.
Grave
in council,
Firm
in resolve, invincible in arms;
Yet
jocund in the hour of ease, he lov’d
The
merry jest and laughing brow of youth.
IN
the course of a week, Captain Standish returned to Plymouth, and being soon
apprised of his kinsman’s arrival, during his absence (for even in those early
days the good people found some leisure to discuss the affairs of the village),
he sent a message to the Governor’s, desiring Major Atherton to visit him as
soon as he found it convenient and agreeable. Atherton’s curiosity to see a man
who was regarded by the colonists as a second Joshua for valour and address,
induced him to accept the invitation without delay. Peregrine White attended
him as guide on the occasion; and after a walk of eight miles, they reached the
house of his relative just in the dusk of twilight.
Peregrine
White led the way without ceremony into a large, low apartment, brightly
illuminated by a huge fire, which was blazing on a hearth occupying no
inconsiderable part of the room, and which diffused a cheering warmth,
peculiarly agreeable in a cool autumnal evening. One recess of the
chimney-corner was occupied by a stout Indian, dressed after the English
fashion, with the addition of a wampum belt, and other savage ornaments, strangely
blended with his European costume. A fowling-piece rested beside him, and on a
ledge, over the fire-place, lay his still smoking pipe, which seemed to have
been put aside while he satisfied the cravings of hunger from a pewter basin of
savory pottage, occasionally adding a relish from the carcase of a fowl which
garnished his lap. His bold features were composed into the gravity peculiar to
his race, and his tawny complexion was rendered more dark by the fitful light
of the flame, which now flashed upon it, and again left him involved in shadow.
Captain
Standish, the early hero of New-England, was seated in a three-cornered elbow
chair, beside a round oaken table, discussing the merits of a brace of
partridges, from which, with the assistance of some dried fish, and a quantity
of Indian cakes, he was preparing to make a hearty supper. His repast was
shared by his only son, a robust lad, while two surly mastiffs sat erect on
each side of them, with their eyes fixed wistfully on the well-filled platter.
Captain
Standish was small of stature, but his well-proportioned figure denoted great
agility and muscular strength; his features were spirited and intelligent, his
eyes dark and piercing, and his whole countenance indicated a frank and hasty
temper, an active and decisive mind, and a warm and sanguine disposition.
This
group was first apprised of the approach of visitors by the portentous growling
of the dogs, who inhospitably attacked the defenceless favourite of Major
Atherton, which had followed, or rather preceded him into the room.
“Come
away, Towser, down with you, Bess,” cried the Captain in a loud voice, “shall I
never teach you to be civil! Ah, is it you, Master Peregrine,” he added, on
seeing his young acquaintance enter, “well, I am glad to see you, though you do
always bring noise and confusion with you.”
“Thank
you Captain,” said Peregrine White; “but, as it happens, I find the noise
already here, for once, and have brought with me something which I think will
be more acceptable.”
“Ah,
my cousin Atherton!” exclaimed the Captain, rising briskly from the table, and
seizing his hand, without the ceremony of an introduction; “you are truly
welcome to Plymouth, though I am sorry I was not here to tell you so sooner;
but sit down now, and we shall be better acquainted over our soldiers’ fare, if
you will share it with me.”
“I
am used to a soldier’s fare,” returned Atherton, “and thank you for a soldier’s
welcome; but I should judge from the appearance of your trencher, that your
campaigns had been made in a fruitful land; a camp does not often furnish such
a profusion of good things.”
“True,”
replied the Captain, “the Dutch burgo-masters know, as well as most people, how
to regale their palates; and I served long with them in the days of our good
Queen Elizabeth. But we will try what is set before us now, if you please,
Major Atherton. Alexander, my lad, get up and give your kinsman a seat; are you
so hungry as to forget your manners!”
The
boy, with a very good grace, arose and placed chairs for the guests, and the
important business of eating, was shortly resumed with alacrity.
“We
want a light here,” said Captain Standish, again attacking the partridges;
“Hobamock, throw away your pipe; it may not be quite so agreeable to every one,
as it is to you and me; and give us a candle here quickly; we are none of us
owls to see in the dark.”
The
Indian rolled a column of smoke from his mouth, knocked the ashes from his pipe
upon the hearth, and gravely rising, obeyed the Captain’s command. He then threw
some dry wood into the fire, which sent forth a crackling sound, and a heat
that penetrated to every recess of the apartment; after turning his eyes
deliberately round the room, to ascertain if any thing else required his
attention, reseated himself on a wooden stool, to doze away the evening.
The
candle, which had been placed on the table, first distinctly revealed to
Captain Standish the features of his kinsman; he examined them a moment in
silence, and then observed,
“I
see you have true Standish blood in your veins, Major Atherton; and I can now
trace in your countenance a strong resemblance to my cousin Eleanor, though it
is many long years since we met. She was just sixteen, when I left England, and
the comeliest lass in Lancashire. Many a joyous hour have we passed together in
the halls of our fathers; but I little thought, when I last bade her farewell,
that I should never see her or my country more.”
“My
mother often spoke of you, sir,” returned Atherton, “and always with
affectionate interest; but I was then far from anticipating, that we should
ever sit down together in this remote region of the earth.”
“It
is the fortune of war to encounter sudden reverses,” replied the Captain; “but
you have reached a quiet land at last, though if you love your profession, our
savage neighbours will contrive to keep your sword from rusting.”
“My
sword and best services will ever be at the command of any who stand in need of
them,” returned Atherton; “but I have resigned my commission in the army, and
expect, in future, to lead a retired and private life.”
“Well,
we can find employment that will suit you in either case, if you like to remain
with us. Your mother has brought you up in her own religion, I hope.”
“No,
I am of the Church of England.”
“Humph,
that is unlucky; but you need not make much stir about it; be regular and
peaceable, and no one has a right to intermeddle with your conscience, though,
to be sure, the good people here are rather fond of doing such things. But, may
I ask, have you any particular plans to execute.”
“None
at all. I am at present a citizen of the world; and have travelled hither from
mere curiosity, and the want of other employment. I admire the country, as far
as I have seen it; am charmed with the simplicity and goodness of those who
inhabit it; and, if nothing occurs to change my feelings, may yet sojourn with
you for a long time.”
“Admirable!”
cried the Captain, rising and leading the way to the fire. “I think we shall
fix you here for life. I tell you cousin Atherton, there is no country in the
world so happy, or that will be so glorious, as New-England. Had you seen it in
1620, when we landed, famishing and almost frozen, you might have turned back a
longing eye to the goodly fields of England; but, by the blaze of this warm
fire, and on the strength of our evening’s meal, I think we can arrange a
better prospect for you.
“And
what shall I do to keep myself out of mischief?” asked Atherton. “I have been
used to an active life, which gave constant exercise, both to my mind and
body.”
“We
will contrive to amuse you, through the winter,” answered the Captain; “and in
the spring you can learn to till a farm, and provide for a family, when you
have one, which will be exercise enough.”
“Rather
more than I had anticipated,” said Atherton, smiling; “a wife is a blessing I
have scarcely thought of as yet.”
“It
is a thought, which is very apt to run in a young man’s head, though,” replied
the Captain, “at least, till he is fairly tied to one. But we will not hurry
you in that matter; though I can shew you as comely maidens, and as prudent
ones withal, as you could meet with in Old England itself.”
“Now
I’ll wager any thing, Captain,” said Peregrine White, “that you are thinking of
Miriam Grey; but Major Atherton has seen her already.”
“What,
seen my little rose-bud, Major Atherton?” said the Captain. “You are a true
soldier, to be looking about for pretty damsels, as soon as you get into new
quarters.”
“It
was quite accidental,” returned Atherton; “and, after all, only a momentary
glimpse at church.”
“There
was no lack of peeping though,” rejoined Peregrine, archly; “but her new hood
is unluckily a very close covering; don’t you think so, Major? ”
“Never
mind, Peregrine,” said the Captain significantly; “as Benjamin Ashly is to be
her husband, what does it signify;” while he spoke he fixed his keen eye on
Atherton, who, without exactly knowing why, turned his towards the fire.
“And
what news do you bring us from England, Major,” resumed Captain Standish, after
a moment’s pause.
“None
particularly interesting, I believe,” answered Atherton:¾“indeed I have lived almost out of the world for the last few months;
and, to confess the truth, have been too much engrossed by my own concerns, to
observe what was passing around me.”
“Well,
and our good King Charles has lost none of his obstinacy, I suppose; I doubt
you would have heard of that.”
“Not
enough, I fear, for his own good, or the welfare of his subjects. His
hereditary zeal for kingly prerogative is likely to prove a fruitful source of
evils to the kingdom.”
“So
I thought; and that comes of having an obstinate father, and a papist wife; the
former he could not help, the more’s the pity; and for the last, the Lord help
us; but the women will have their own way; they would rule us all, if they
could, cousin Atherton.”
“Yet
Queen Henrietta is a beautiful and accomplished woman, with a high and
dauntless spirit, worthy of her descent from the most illustrious monarch, who
ever sat on the throne of France.”
“So
much the worse, if her husband cannot govern it,” persisted the Captain; “but
that Archbishop Laud,¾is he fining, imprisoning, and persecuting
yet?”
“I
did hear that a warrant had been issued, at his instigation, to prevent any
non-conformist ministers from leaving England; and the severities exercised
against the laity of that persuasion, are also attributed to his influence.
Great numbers have sold their estates, and intend, shortly, to embark for
America.”
“It
is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” said Peregrine White, who thought it
was quite time for him to speak; “I hope they will help us to clear out the
wilderness, when they get here.”
“The
great hurricane of last year,” replied the Captain, “felled a good many trees;
and, if it had moved them out of the way, I should have made more speed on my
journey homeward. And now tell me, Peregrine, what you have been doing since I
left Plymouth?”
“Me!
Captain? I have been hunting, and fishing, and¾”
“And
all sorts of good-for-nothing things, I warrant thee,
jack-a-napes,” interrupted the Captain; “I
don’t mean you, but the town, the colony, Master Peregrine.”
“Why
just what they have been doing ever since I came into it,” returned Peregrine;
“but I hope you have brought something to entertain us, from the Massachusetts.”
“I
heard of nothing there,” said the Captain, “but Mrs. Hutchinson, who has set
them all in a flame, and the new governor, with whom some are already
discontented. He has taken great state upon himself, and goes to the court and
meeting with four sergeants walking before him, carrying halberds in their
hands. Mr. Winthrop, who spent his fortune in the service of the people, had
more humility; and, I do believe, this Governor Vane, in spite of his quality,
and his grave visage, and clipped head, is imposing on them.”
“And
what are they doing to Mrs. Hutchinson?” inquired Peregrine White¾
“Doing
to her!” returned the Captain with some warmth, “what, they fled from England
to avoid themselves!
These
Massachusetts are a meddling people, and they seem to have grown so fond of
persecution, since they escaped from the reach of it, that they have a mind to
try its efficacy in their own church, and undertake to discipline whomsoever
they choose. God knows there is little enough of charity in our colony; but it is some comfort to find
we are not quite so bad as our neighbours.”
“Who
is this female,” asked Atherton, “and of what crime has she been guilty, to
draw upon herself so much reproach?”
“The
crime of thinking differently from her opposers,” said the Captain. “She is a
respectable gentlewoman, and her husband was long a representative in the
court. But she is now accused of teaching false doctrines, holding unlawful
meetings, and divers other misdemeanors: and the whole country is divided into
parties, for and against her. I am sure it is no such strange thing for a
woman’s head to be filled with idle notions; and, if the magistrates would only
let her alone, she would soon come to her senses; but I am told she is to be
tried by a council, and, it is thought, will be banished from the colony.”
“Well,
peace go with her!” exclaimed Peregrine White, “I only hope she will not come
here; for we have meetings and exhortations enough now to keep the elders
employed, and Benjamin Ashly too. But did you hear any thing about the Pequods,
Captain? It is reported here, that they have murdered John Oldham at Block
Island, and are detected in plotting against the English.”
“It
is true; the traitorous savages!” said the Captain, “and instead of treating
for peace with them, the whole race ought to be exterminated. Oldham was a
pestilent fellow, to be sure, but that is no reason why he should be hacked up,
when trading peaceably with them, in their own country.”
“Was
the unfortunate man alone,” asked Atherton, “when the crime was perpetrated?”
“No,
he had with him two boys, and as many Narraganset Indians, whose lives were all
spared. The master of a bark from Connecticut accidentally fell upon the
wretches, soon after the deed was accomplished, and, assisted only by a man,
and two lads who were with him, retook Oldham’s vessel, which was filled with
hostile Indians, several of whom were drowned in attempting to escape. Block
Island is subject to the Narraganset tribe; but they seem to have had no hand
in the murder, which was, doubtless, instigated by the Pequods, with whom the
offenders have sought refuge.”
“Have
no further attempts been made to punish the murderers?” asked Atherton.
“Yes,
the Governor of Massachusetts sent four-score men, under Captain Endicot of
Salem, with offers of peace, if they would give them up; but after parleying
for some time, they refused, and fled into the woods.”
“And
Captain Endicot pursued them, I hope,” said Peregrine.
“No,
he burnt their wigwams, destroyed their corn, staved their canoes, and returned
home to seek more comfortable winter quarters. I wish I had been there,”
continued the Captain, with earnestness; “not a dog of them should have
escaped; I know their metal well; and, though generally fearless of death, a
few dauntless Englishmen can put half a tribe of them to flight. These savages,
Major Atherton, are so perfidious, that no treaty can bind them; and so jealous
of us, as to aim continually at our total ruin. Many a foul plot has been
revealed to us; and, in the days of our feebleness, nothing but the watchful
providence of God preserved us from their evil designs.”
“And
your own valour, Captain,” observed Peregrine White; “you always forget to
bring that into the account. But I can tell Major Atherton, how you went with
only eight men, to the settlement of Wessagusset, which was filled with
Indians, and boldly attacked the sachems Wittuwamet and Pecksuot, who were the
terror of the whole land; and a great many other wonderful stories.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Captain,
impatiently, “nobody doubts your ability to tell wonderful stories, Peregrine.
I have had proof enough of it from your youth up. But there is Hobamock nodding
in the corner, and Alexander fast asleep on a bench yonder. The boy seems
wearied by his long march yesterday; and, in truth, his young legs have never
executed so much in one day before.”
“And
I had forgotten,” said Atherton, rising, “that you had been travelling so
lately, and must need repose; indeed, the evening has passed so pleasantly,
that I scarcely thought of returning.”
“Oh,
we think lightly of a walk through the woods, once or twice a year, to the
Massachusetts,” said the Captain, “and should be half ashamed to acknowledge
ourselves fatigued by it. But you must not leave me to night, cousin Atherton;
I have a bed ready for you, such as it is, and you will not forsake the house
of your kinsman, for a stranger’s roof.”
“I
scarcely feel that any are strangers here,” returned Atherton, “I have been
treated with so much kindness and attention; but the Governor expects me to
return, and I cannot leave his hospitable family with so little ceremony.”
“Yes,
you must indeed, go home with me,” said Peregrine White, “or you will
disappoint us all; to-morrow, you know, we are to have some sport in the
shooting way, and the next day¾”
“Oh,
your endless plans,” interrupted the Captain. “I tell you, young man, they will
some day bring you into mischief.”
“Well,
I know, Captain, you will do your best to get me out of it.”
“Not
I, at least, till you have suffered enough for your folly to cure you of it,
which will be no brief period. An’t now, Major Atherton, promise to come back,
to-morrow, and take up your abode with me.”
“To-morrow,
then,” said Atherton, “I will see you again.” And cordially shaking hands, they
parted.
Peregrine
White lingered a moment behind, while Captain Standish attended Atherton to the
outer door; and, feeling his habitual love of mischief prevail, adroitly
contrived to roll the sleeping Alexander upon the floor. He fell with a dead
weight on one of the surly mastiffs, which set up a howl that awakened his
companion, who instantly joined in the chorus, producing a confusion of sounds,
that speedily recalled the Captain and Atherton to the room. They entered, just
as the lad was scrambling up, with a somniferous growling, and the Indian,
roused by the noise, was starting on his feet, and instinctively seizing his
fowling-piece. His straight black hair, which had been discomposed by his
recumbent posture, stood almost erect, and his dark eyes rolled wildly round,
as if seeking the cause of the unusual commotion. Captain Standish quickly
discovered the author of the bustle; but his intention of rebuking the culprit
vanished, the moment he saw him, and his gravity yielded to a fit of laughter,
in the midst of which, Peregrine White made his escape.
CHAP.
V.
From the crown of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all
mirth; he hath a heart as sound as a bell; and his tongue
is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE
broad disk of the sun was just visible above the horizon, when Major Atherton
and Peregrine White, with their fowling-pieces and dogs, left the house to
engage in the projected sports of the day.
They
were accompanied, a short distance by the Governor, whose agricultural pursuits
often required his early attendance in the field of labour; for, like the Roman
Cincinnatus, the primitive rulers of New-England were accustomed to mingle the
useful arts of husbandry with the higher duties of their office. Elected by a
grateful people, not from the prejudices of party spirit, or the paltry
attractions of outward state; but for sterling qualities of the mind, piety of
heart, and rectitude and uprightness of character, they presided with dignity,
and commanded respect, alike in the council chamber, and in the more humble
duties and familiar intercourse of life. Ambition had not then assumed the mask
of patriotism, nor were the unprincipled and licentious elevated to the “high places”
of the land.
As
Mr. Winslow and his companions pursued their walk, they were continually
greeted by the inhabitants of the village, who were scattering abroad on their
daily vocations; and Atherton remarked with pleasure, the cordial salute of the
Governor, equally removed from pride and meanness, and the respect and hearty
good-will with which it was returned. He involuntarily compared it with the
fatiguing splendours of royalty, and the often heartless shouts of applause,
which follow the steps of a monarch; and his already favourable prepossessions
of the country were augmented by the comparison. They rested a few moments on
the summit of a hill beyond the town; and while Peregrine White amused himself
with training his dogs to perform various feats of dexterity and cunning, the
Governor and Major Atherton regarded in silence the varied and beautiful
scenery, which was stretched around them.
“I
love to rest on this spot,” said the Governor, at length, “nor can I look round
on this goodly prospect, without emotions of gratitude to Him, who has so
wonderfully prospered the work of our hands, who ‘remembered us in our low
estate,’ ‘ brought us out of our afflictions,’ and in the latter end, has ‘
blessed us in our basket, and in our store.’”
“I
regard with surprise,” replied Atherton, “the astonishing success of your
exertions; how dreary must this place have been when you first arrived here!”
“Nor
is it possible now to form an idea of it,” returned the Governor. “Expecting to
reach a fruitful and temperate climate, we found ourselves treacherously cast
on an icy and barren coast, obliged to struggle with disease and famine; while
those, whom we most loved, were perishing miserably before our eyes, through
excess of hardship and fatigue. Some were at times well nigh discouraged; but
the Lord gave us ‘strength, according to our day,’ and when our ‘staff of
bread’ failed, the earth yielded us ground nuts, and we eat of ‘the abundance
of the seas, and of the treasures hid in the sand.’”
“How,”
asked Atherton, “did you escape destruction from the savages, who so greatly
exceeded you in numbers, and always viewed you with dislike?”
“They
seemed filled with dread of us, feeble as we then were,” said Mr. Winslow; “we
seldom saw them, except in small numbers, as we sailed along the coast, and
they always fled at the report of our fire-arms. We were informed by a friendly
Indian, who came to us in the spring, that, four years previous to that time, a
dreadful sickness had almost depopulated this part of the country; and we could
not but regard it as a signal interposition of Providence which had thus ‘cast
out the heathen’ before us, to make way for a people who would spread the true
religion throughout the land. Had they fallen upon us when we were sick and defenceless,
we could have opposed but little resistance to their savage ferocity.”
“I
understand,” said Atherton, “that many of their tribes now maintain a friendly
intercourse with you.”
“They
do so, and particularly the powerful Sachem Massasoit and his subjects, who
inhabit the northern shore of the Narraganset Bay, about forty miles distant
from us. A few months after our arrival, the Sachem sent us a present of furs,
with a message announcing his intention of visiting us; and, shortly after, he
appeared on this very hill, with a train of sixty attendants, all decorated
with the skins of wild beasts, and frightfully disfigured by paint. The chief
signified his pleasure that one of us should come to him; and, being requested
by the Governor, I went alone, and carrying a present; though, I assure you,
Major Atherton, I could hardly approach such wild looking beings without
trembling. I remained with them as an hostage, while Massasoit, with twenty of
his men, unarmed, descended to the brook yonder, where they were received by
Captain Standish and six of our people, who conducted the Indians to a house.
They were seated on cushions placed on the floor, and feasted after the English
fashion. Governor Carver presently entered, followed by a few musketeers, with
a drum and trumpet, which caused them great astonishment and delight. We then
entered into a treaty of peace and friendship with them, which has ever since
been faithfully preserved on both sides.”
“How
could you understand their barbarous dialect?” inquired Atherton; “or did you
converse only by signs?”
“We
found an interpreter,” said Mr. Winslow, “in an Indian sagamore, who early
adventured amongst us, and had learned something of our language from the
English traders and fishermen who used to frequent the coast. There was also
another savage, called Squanto, who attached himself to us, and on many
occasions did us good service, though he eventually proved treacherous. Several
years before, he, with twenty others, were decoyed on board a vessel by one
Master Hunt (who came hither under pretence of trading with the natives), and
carried to Malaga, where they were sold for slaves. Squanto was afterwards sent
to England, and is the only one who has ever returned here. This perfidious act
of our countryman justly incensed the savages against all white people, and it
is not strange that they should wish to exclude such dangerous neighbours. But
I must leave you, Major Atherton: we lead a pastoral life here, you see, and
the labour of our fields, and welfare of our flocks, must be attended to.”
“I
am glad my father has done his speech,” exclaimed Peregrine White, springing
from the ground, the moment he had left them. “But who comes here? Hobamock, as
I live, with Alexander and the mastiffs.”
And,
in truth, the Indian, who had heard their arrangements on the preceding
evening, and loved every wild adventure, now came running swiftly towards them,
followed by Alexander Standish, who was tugging up the hill, almost out of
breath, and pettishly accusing his more nimble-footed companion for leaving him
in the rear.
“Why
won’t you stop for me, Hobamock? I can’t keep up with you,” they could hear him
say.
“Your
legs be younger than mine, and I do carry your gun,” returned the Indian, who
was, in fact, loaded with two pieces.
“And
what have you come here for, Hobamock?” asked Peregrine, as soon as he was
within hearing.
“I
come for shoot you, Master Peregrine.”
“Shoot
me! you copper-coloured rascal, do you mean so?”
“Shoot
for you the birds, Master Peregrine, I mean, and then make a fire for eat them
in the woods.”
“Oh,
you come to eat, did you? Well, let’s on then. But stop; what ails you,
Alexander?”
“Nothing,”
said the boy, and snatching his fowling-piece from the hand of Hobamock, he
followed them a few moments in silence. But his cheerfulness soon returned; for
he was naturally gay and good-tempered, though rather self-willed, which might
be attributed to the want of early discipline, having lost his mother in
infancy, and, his father’s public duties calling him frequently from home, had
left him much at his own disposal.
The
little party proceeded gaily on their way, and soon struck into the mazes of a
deep forest, where Peregrine White augured they should find plenty of game.
They followed a winding path along the margin of a clear stream, that floated
on its billows the red and decaying leaves of autumn; and, after struggling on
its course, and frequently forcing a passage over fragments of rocks and trunks
of fallen trees, from which they dashed in broken and foaming sheets, producing
miniature water-falls of exquisite beauty, at length terminated in a small
lake, fringed with the quivering birch and drooping willow, which dipped their
flexile branches in the waves,
already strewed with their transient foliage.
Major
Atherton, charmed with the romantic beauty of the spot, lingered far behind his
companions; and, busied with his own thoughts, heeded not their merry voices
and loud peals of laughter, which grew fainter and fainter, till they were no
longer distinguished from the whistling of the breeze and the monotonous
rippling of the waters. The report of a gun at length roused him to a
consciousness of his lonely situation; and, hastening to the place from whence
the sound proceeded, he found Peregrine White reloading his piece, with an air
of extreme vexation.
“I
thought we had lost you, Major Atherton,” he said; “I wish you had been here,
just to have seen the fine covey of partridges that I started; but the foolish
birds chose to make the best of their way off as soon as the shot began to
fly.”
“Foolish
indeed!” replied Atherton, “to make use of their wings when such an honour
awaited them; but I fear we shall not find much sport here; there seems little
but dried leaves stirring to-day!”
“Not
much else in the bottom of that muddy pool where you have been looking this
half hour,” said Peregrine; “but see there!” and he aimed steadily at a bird
which was perched at some distance. But the keen eye of Hobamock had already
marked it, and his unerring aim brought it in an instant fluttering to the
ground. Peregrine White’s third attempt however proved more fortunate, and
abundantly recompensed him for his past mortification; and each having been
more or less successful, they began to feel strong appetites produced by their
exercise, and commissioned Hobamock to kindle a fire under the trees, and cook
their game. The Indian obeyed with alacrity; and stripping the birds of the
beautiful plumage which they had lately sported with such innocent joy in their
native bowers, he was preparing to lay them on the coals, when the distant echo
of fire-arms announced that other sportsmen were amusing themselves in the
forest.
“We
will see who is here,” said Peregrine, springing forward, and crushing the
brushwood under his feet; “and do you run on, Hobamock; and if it is any of
your sooty brethren, warn them to be civil to us.”
“I
will stay and take care of the dinner,” said Alexander; “only don’t be gone
long if you want me to save any for you.”
“You
must have a lion’s appetite to eat all those birds,” said Peregrine, laughing;
“but mind and keep a good bunch to carry home and show.”
Again
he bounded onward, and Atherton with equal agility, followed through the
various intricate windings, where the bending saplings marked the footsteps of
Hobamock, who had left the beaten track, and trusted to the guidance of his ear
for a nearer course to the place from whence the sound had proceeded.
They
at length overtook him, just on the verge of a sunny slope, which for a considerable
space had been cleared of trees; while the ruins of a wigwam and some vestiges
of a corn-field shewed that it had once been the abode of Indians. Three savage
warriors, in the prime of manhood, were carelessly reclined on the ground, and,
as usual when weary or idle, regaling themselves with smoking tobacco; while,
at a little distance, a female was busied over a large fire, apparently in some
culinary preparation. She occasionally stooped and sung, in a low sweet tone,
to an infant child that lay on the ground beside her; and which, according to
their custom, was stretched on a board, and its little limbs confined with
cords; a custom which kept it secure when travelling on the back of its mother,
and doubtless contributed to form that straightness of limb for which the race
are so remarkable.
The
men were partially covered with deer skins, extending, like trowsers, to their
feet, which were guarded by mocassins of the same material. From their
shoulders depended a sort of cloak, composed of a beautiful variety of furs;
their heads were decked with feathers, and their faces painted with divers
colours, extracted from the juice of certain plants, and representing the most
hideous figures. The eldest, and apparently a chief, was distinguished by a plume
of eagle’s feathers, and a necklace of carved bone hanging down to his waist,
which was encircled by a belt of wampum.
The
dress of the Squaw differed
little from the others, except that, with the usual predilection of her sex for
ornament, she had profusely, and with some taste, mingled the most gaudy
colours with her straight and glossy hair, and adorned her neck, arms, and
ancles, with bracelets of glass beads.
As
soon as the keen-eyed Indians observed the approaching figures of Major
Atherton and Peregrine, they started on their feet with extreme quickness; and
the chief, advancing forward a few paces, waited to receive them, leaning on
his fowling-piece, his companions standing on either side of him, with their
bows bent, prepared to take deadly aim, if any violence were offered them.
Nothing could exceed the dignity and grace of their attitudes, the vigour and
symmetry of their forms, or the noble, though fierce expression of their
countenances. Hobamock hastened to meet them with words of peace; and, after
listening to him with profound attention, they threw aside their weapons, and
reseating themselves on the ground, by expressive gestures invited the young
men to join their circle. They accordingly seated themselves, and through the
interpretation of Hobamock, entered into conversation with the Indians, which
was particularly interesting to Atherton, who had much curiosity to learn
something of that singular race of people, and to see them in their native
wildness.
These
warriors were of the Wamponeag tribe, subjects of the Sachem Massasoit, and on
their way to Plymouth, to trade with the people in furs. They were very
courteous in their manners; and, as a mark of peculiar kindness, offered each
of their transient guests a share of their lighted tobacco, and seemed much
surprised that Atherton declined so great a luxury, which was however accepted
with becoming gravity by Peregrine, though the use of it excited many wry
faces. The squaw was then ordered to fetch an earthen vessel of strong water; for so they called the
ardent spirits which were given them by the Europeans, and which was even then
a fruitful source of traffic and of cheating, for they would barter the most
valuable articles to satisfy their thirst for what has proved the instrument of
their destruction.
Atherton
felt obliged to put the draught to his lips, though he thought it scarcely more
palatable than the pungent weed he had just refused; and, in returning the
remainder to the young female who stood waiting to receive it, he could not but
remark with admiration the timid gentleness of her manner, which gave a charm
to the delicacy of her features and the softness of her olive complexion. She
seemed to regard with great tenderness the little papoose, who awoke and began
to cry; but the moment she attempted to soothe him she was sternly ordered back
by her savage lord, whose commands were implicitly obeyed; for the females of
those tribes are accustomed to endure the caprice of their indolent tyrants,
and to perform the most servile and fatiguing labour with unrepining meekness.
Peregrine
White at length reminded Atherton that their dinner would be spoiled by
waiting, or eaten up by Alexander and his dogs; and having no inclination to
lose their feast after so long an abstinence, they parted from their friendly
entertainers, leaving with them a small present, which was always expected by
an Indian from a white person with whom he had any intercourse.
On
returning to the spot where they had left their game under the care of
Alexander, Peregrine White, who preceded his companions, startled them with
exclaiming¾
“What
is here? The boy has served us a pretty trick, in good truth. Alexander!
Alexander!”
But
no voice replied to him, and Atherton hastening to the place, perceived with
surprise the fire which they had kindled almost extinct, and their birds lying
blackened to a coal on the mouldering embers. Those which they had reserved as
trophies of their success had all disappeared with the faithless guard who was
entrusted with the care of them. Peregrine White gave vent to his indignation
by a blow aimed with his foot, and with a force that threw the half-consumed
brands in various directions, and ejected a fragment into the face of Hobamock,
leaving a dark stain upon his swarthy skin, though his countenance preserved
its usual gravity, mingled with an expression of astonishment, as he regarded
the impotent wrath of the youth, whose anger proved as transient as it had been
ungovernable, and yielded to a burst of mirth on beholding the blackened visage
of the Indian, who began leisurely to wipe it off with a bundle of dried
leaves.
“Let
it be, Hobamock,” said Peregrine, “it will serve you for paint as well as any
other daubing.”
“I
use no paint, Master Peregrine, now that I live with white people.”
“Well,
I wish it had been Alexander instead of you; but he shall pay dearly for his
roguery yet. And now, what can we find to eat?”
Hobamock
had brought a few Indian cakes to relish their expected repast, which, for the
want of better fare, they consumed with sportsmen’s appetites; and, with this
meagre refreshment, and a draught from a pure stream, to the fountain-head of
which Hobamock led them (for an Indian will long endure thirst, rather than
drink but at the source of even the clearest water), they returned, somewhat
crest-fallen, to the village.
Peregrine
White in particular, who boasted much of his dexterity in shooting, and had
promised in the morning to return well laden with game, felt no little
mortification; and expecting the raillery of his family, proposed to Atherton,
as they passed the beach, to try their luck in fishing, that they might have
something to carry home with them. Atherton readily consented; and, hailing a
boat which was just pushing from the shore, they were cheerfully admitted by
the man who occupied it, leaving Hobamock, at his own desire, to return to his
family.
The
little bark skipped lightly over the waves, and was soon without the harbour,
where they anchored and prepared their baits, assured by the experienced
fisherman who guided them, that there would be no lack of nibbling. His
prognostic proved correct, and the place yielded such an abundance of its finny
treasure, that in a short time they procured sufficient to make amends for the
disasters of the morning;¾about sunset they steered towards the shore.
Several boats which had been fishing in the bay also tacked about and bore
homeward, and in one of them Peregrine White perceived Mr. Grey and Benjamin
Ashly; but they were far behind, and in a larger vessel, which struggled hard
against the wind.
On
approaching the shore, they observed two females walking the beach, and
occasionally stopping to regard them with attention. As they came near enough
to distinguish objects with certainty, Peregrine White exclaimed¾
“That
is Miriam Grey and her cousin Lois, as I am alive; shall we go and speak with
them, Major Atherton?”
“As
you please; I have no objection.”
“So
I thought,” said Peregrine, significantly. “Tug hard at your oars, John, or
they will be off.”
The
boatman applied all his strength; but Atherton thought the bark moved slower
than ever, particularly when the females approached near the water’s edge, and
apparently ascertaining their persons, turned carelessly away, and retreated
behind a cliff that entirely concealed them.
“I
will find them yet,” said Peregrine White, leaping on the strand, which they at
that moment gained; “follow me, and be still.”
He
sprang quickly forward, in a direction opposite to that chosen by the persons
he was seeking, and throwing down his scaly burthen, began to ascend a craggy
rock, which projected one side into the sea, and was rendered extremely
slippery by the adhesion of sea-weeds left by the receding tide, and the spray
which continually dashed over it. Atherton followed him in silence to the
summit, remaining a few paces behind, till he distinctly heard the sound of
voices rising from beneath the cliff.
Peregrine
White stooped, and looking down, saw, as he expected, Miriam Grey and her
cousin below, talking together, and quite unconscious that any one was
observing them. He silently dropped a small pebble on the head of Miriam; who,
supposing it accidental, continued conversing without regarding it; but
another, and another, fell on her neck and shoulders: and before she had time
to look around, a large handful rattled down the crag and lay scattered at her
feet. She uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought Atherton to the
verge of the precipice, though he remained screened from observation by a
fragment of the rock, from whence he watched with interest the light figure of
Miriam Grey. She stood in an attitude which expressed an intention of flight,
with one foot extended as in the act of bounding forward; yet, still lingering
on the spot, and casting an eager glance around to ascertain the cause of her
alarm. She had pushed back the hood that shaded her countenance, which was
flushed with surprise; though the first impulse of womanish fear had given
place to an expression of spirit and resolution. On looking up and perceiving
Peregrine White, she assumed an air of displeasure, which, however, seemed
unusual to her, and her features soon resumed their wonted sweetness and
vivacity, and her deep blue eyes an archness peculiarly their own.
Lois
Grey, a demure and comely damsel of twenty-eight, first broke the silence.
“Your
time is well employed, I think, Master Peregrine, in showering down stones upon
us.”
“Not
upon you, Lois, they did not touch so much as the hem of your garments. I only
gathered a few small stones, like David of old, from the great brook yonder, to
frighten Miriam, and revenge myself on her for running away when she saw me
coming to her.”
“I
run away from you!” said Miriam, “I only saw you sailing on the water, and how
could I know you were coming to me?”
“Ah,
you knew well enough,” said Peregrine; “but it is not the first time that you
have served me so.”
“And
it is not the first time,” said Miriam, pointing with a smile to the pebble
stones, “that I have had good reason for avoiding you. But I came hither to
meet my father¾did you see his boat coming in?”
“Yes,
and Benjamin Ashly was with him; but I suppose you know that already.”
“Indeed
I did not,” said Miriam eagerly, and slightly colouring.
“Well,
I tell you he is,” returned Peregrine; “and they have this moment touched the
strand¾there goes the honest deacon that is to be,
with a heavy load of fish on his back; I would you were up here to look at him,
Miriam.”
“I
have not the least curiosity on the subject, and am quite satisfied with my
lowly station,” replied the damsel; “but I must be gone; good bye to you,
Peregrine.”
“Stop
a moment,” cried Peregrine, “here is somebody who wants to see you.”
Before
Atherton was aware of his design, the youth pulled him suddenly by his arm from
behind the rock, in view of Miriam Grey, who had instinctively stopped, and now
stood abashed before him.
Atherton,
though provoked at the awkwardness of his situation, retained his
self-possession; and, on the whole, acquitted himself better than could have
been expected, considering the uneasiness of his position on the summit of a
dizzy crag. Miriam Grey silently courtesied to his salute; but a smile played
on her lips as she glanced at him through her long eye-lashes, and beheld him
hovering in the air above her; then taking the arm of Lois, they walked quietly
away, leaving Atherton to deprecate the mischievous spirit of Peregrine, which
had led him into so ridiculous an adventure.
“Now
wasn’t that well done!” exclaimed Peregrine White in an exulting tone, and
striking the shoulder of Atherton with a force which at once started him from
his musing posture. “I tell you, Major Atherton, there’s not a man in Plymouth
could have contrived a neater way of giving you a peep at a pretty girl; you
ought to thank me on bended knees.”
“Thank
you!” returned Atherton drily, “for making me look like a fool: what could she
think to see me perched, like a sea-gull, on this vexatious rock?”
“She!” returned Peregrine, with a provoking
laugh; “so you saw but one, did you? and now I think me of it, that must have
been Lois; this confounded crag was between you and Miriam; but I will call her
again, since I know you are longing to look at her.”
“Stay,”
said Atherton quickly; “indeed, I saw them both; so have done with this folly,
I entreat you.”
But
Peregrine had already mounted the highest pinnacle of the rock, and in spite of
his remonstrance called aloud to Miriam, who, though now far from them, turned
to look back as his clear and sonorous voice, rising above the dashing of the
waves, repeated her name.
Peregrine
White tore a branch from a dwarf cedar which grew in a fissure of the rock, and
waved it on high with a motion expressive of his wish for her return; but she
shook her head and was again turning away, when he pointed significantly
towards the sea shore.
Miriam
looked in that direction, and saw Benjamin Ashly advancing from it alone, and
at a pace unusually brisk for him; and probably construing his speed into a
design to overtake her, she darted from the highway, and was instantly buried
from sight in a thick copse of evergreens. Her cousin followed, more leisurely;
and Mr. Ashly, after lingering a moment, and regarding the spot from whence she
disappeared with a visage evidently lengthened, drew the fish over his shoulder
with a doubtful jerk, and quietly retreated into another path.
“Excellently
well done, my pretty Miriam,” said Peregrine, laughing;
“I declare there is not another such witch in
the country, Major Atherton.”
“She
seems to have bewitched you,” replied Atherton; “I hope you do not intend to
enter into competition with worthy Mr. Ashly.”
“Not
at all,” returned Peregrine, carelessly; “but Miriam and I have frolicked
together ever since we were born; and I do love to see her torment that whining
fool, who thinks every one, save himself and a godly few, are in the broad road
to destruction. But the tide is coming in fast; so we had better get down, or
we may be left standing here, like flag-staffs, till to-morrow morning.”
“And
our fish may swim off in the mean time, and leave us fasting again,” said
Atherton; “we left them at the foot of the rock.”
“Here
they are, safe,” returned Peregrine, sliding rapidly down the precipice; “a
pretty joke on us it would have been, if they had vanished like the partridges.
And now you will go home with me, Major Atherton, and help to eat some of
them.”
“You
know I promised Captain Standish to return to his house
to-night.”
“It
is full eight miles there, and I can never walk it, in my present weak state;
to speak the truth, these fasting days don’t suit my stomach at all. There is
no living without eating, Major Atherton; and it was a provident thought in
good master Calvin to get released from a monkish church, that kept one
starving more than half one’s life.”
“I
shall be very glad of a good supper for my part,” said Atherton;
“and I wish we had shot across the bay to the
Captain’s, when we were on the water, just now.”
“Never
mind,” said Peregrine; “if you will go home with me first, I will walk back
with you; I want to pay off my debt to the little rascal who ran away with the
birds, and the moon will be up in season to light me home.”
Major
Atherton consented to the arrangement; and during the remainder of the way to
the Governor’s, Peregrine White was in vain exercising his wits to invent some
plausible excuse for the morning disasters; but his mind was still unsatisfied,
when he opened the door and entered a passage leading to the sitting-room,
which at that hour was entirely in darkness.
“Is
that you, brother Peregrine?” said a little damsel, who was groping her way
through the place.
Peregrine
drew the cold slimy tails of the fish across her neck, in mysterious silence;
and in an instant, the cries of the frightened child brought all the family to
her assistance.
“I
should have known it was you, my son,” said Mrs. Winslow, drawing the little
girl to her arms, “you are apt to announce yourself in this noisy manner.”
“Me,
mother! I was as dumb as the fish that Susy ran against, like a silly thing.
But here is Major Atherton half starved, as well as myself, and I am glad to
see you have not done supper yet.”
“Major
Atherton is truly welcome,” said Mrs. Winslow, leading the way back to the
room, “our repast has but just commenced, and you bring us a liberal supply,
and I suppose excellent appetites after your day’s amusement.”
“That
we do,” returned Peregrine; “for I assure you we have not been overburthened
with food to day.”
“But
where are your birds?” inquired the Governor; “I saw you enter the woods this
morning, and have waited impatiently for the game you promised us in such
abundance.”
“And
here is a bunch of as fine fresh fish as ever smoked on the table of a prince,”
said Peregrine. “It was so fair a day, and the water looked so smooth and
tempting, we thought best to alter our plans; no strange thing in this
changeable world.”
“We
are never surprised to find you wavering,” observed Mrs. Winslow; “but I hope
you consulted Major Atherton’s wishes as well as your own.”
“Certainly,”
replied Atherton, “so far as it was in his power; but we have both been the
sport of an adverse destiny to-day.”
This
answer led to inquiries, and an explanation, which afforded much amusement; and
after a cheerful and hearty meal, which received a double relish from their
long abstinence, Major Atherton and Peregrine White commenced their evening’s
walk. Pursuing their way at a brisk pace, in spite of the formidable obstacles,
which they encountered at every step, in the shape of log bridges, half burnt stumps,
and straggling underwood, they at length approached the house of Captain
Standish, long visible from the bright unsteady light which streamed from the
windows, discovering the comforts within, and promising rest to their weary
feet. The cheerful voice of the Captain greeted them as they entered.
“Ah
my lads, have you come at last? I waited for you till Alexander and the dogs
growled for hunger, and now the beasts have just swallowed the very last bone.”
“The
bones of my partridges, I suppose,” said Peregrine.
“Here
is some beer to refresh you,” continued the Captain, “as good as you could find
brewed in London itself; and you shall not go to bed without eating, after a
day’s march in the wilderness. It will be lean quarters, indeed, if our larder cannot
furnish something for you.”
“This
delicious beverage is sufficient,” said Atherton, as he returned the foaming
tankard: “we supped at the Governor’s, and too heartily to wish for any thing
more to-night.”
“I
need not ask if you had good luck in the woods to-day,” said the Captain.
“Alexander brought home a load of birds that I should not be ashamed to own
myself: the boy knows how to take a good aim, with his gun, better than most
lads of his age.”
“A
good aim with his heels! the poltroon, to run off with what don’t belong to
him,” cried the indignant Peregrine.
“Not
belong to me!” said Alexander, at that instant thrusting his head into the
door; “did’nt I leave your partridges broiling on the coals, and bring away
only my own and Hobamock’s?”
“Broiling,
burning you mean, you mischievous imp! what did you leave us but cinders and
black coals?”
“I
don’t know,” returned Alexander, coolly, “those that I eat relished very well.”
This
answer irritated Peregrine beyond all bounds, and springing over a table that
stood between them, and which he overset, extinguishing the candles in its
fall, he pursued the flying Alexander, from the room and house. Captain
Standish stood in amazement, and almost total darkness, till Atherton rekindled
the lights by the decaying embers, which lingered in the chimney corner, and
related the events that had given rise to so unexpected a scene. The Captain,
who relished such jests exceedingly, had scarcely finished laughing, when the
objects of his mirth returned amicably together, Peregrine declaring that the
delinquent had sued for pardon, though the roguish expression of Alexander’s
countenance, showed any thing rather than repentance for his offence.
“Have
a care, boys, have a care,” said the Captain, shaking his head with mock
gravity, “or we shall have fine work with your fallings out by and bye. The
next thing, I suppose, we shall see sword and dagger flourishing about your
heads, and you know the end of that Master Peregrine.”
“To
kill or be killed, I should think it likely,” said Peregrine.
“No,
no; we don’t suffer things to proceed to such extremities in our well ordered
colony; we shall cut short the matter by tying your head and feet together, and
putting you on short commons for a time.”
“A
summary mode of justice,” observed Atherton, “and a truly novel invention.”
“It
is of seventeen years standing, and of approved efficacy,” said the Captain.
“You must know, cousin Atherton, some of our Company’s servants began to be
unruly when they first came to this new land, and thought themselves beyond
reach of the laws¾so two of them quarrelled, and challenged each
other to single combat; they were both slightly wounded, but we saw fit to make
an example of them, that our peace might not in future be disturbed by the foolish
brawls of every cowardly knave. We ordered them to be bent up like bows, their
neck and heels strapped together, and so to lie twenty-four hours without meat
or drink; but they made humble concessions and promises of amendment; and their
masters interceded so earnestly in their behalf, that they were released: and I
can tell you, the offence has never been repeated by any one.”
“It
was certainly a very suitable punishment,” returned Atherton, “considering the
rank of the offenders.”
“It
is suitable to any rank,” said the Captain; “our laws, thank Heaven, are
impartial, and both magistrates and people are amenable to them; and, happily,
our code does not admit the barbarous practice of cutting one another to pieces
in cold blood.”
“It
is seldom done in cold blood, I
believe,” said Atherton, smiling; “and, in a country like this, I should
imagine one would seldom be obliged to have course to such fatal measures to
wipe away an offence.”
“Neither
in this, or any other country,” persisted the Captain. “I am a military man as
well as yourself, Major Atherton; and no one can say I ever shrunk from the
fight when God and my king called me to arms; but I do believe no man who is
not led away by the suggestions of the devil, will draw upon himself the guilt and
infamy of murdering a fellow-being, or shedding his own blood in a contemptible
and idle quarrel.”
“I
would not justify the practice,” said Atherton; “I most sincerely regret that
custom has so long sanctioned it; and that so many, who seemed born for better
things, are unhappily sacrificed to the laws of honour.”
“Honour!” repeated the Captain
indignantly, “is it honourable to
despise the laws of God? To tear asunder the most sacred ties of humanity? ¾ Is it honourable to place
your life at the hazard of a scoundrel’s weapon; or by taking his, to set upon
your forehead the mark of Cain, and bear for ever on your conscience the stain
of blood?”
“I
acknowledge the justice of your arguments,” replied Atherton; “but there are
few men who can bear the imputation of cowardice, or who have independence
enough to set at defiance the opinion of the world; or to endure its ridicule
even when conscious that their conduct is upright.”
“And
who is the bravest man?” asked the Captain, “he who can despise the opinion of
the world,¾when that world is enlisted on the side of vice
and folly, ¾ and firmly obey the dictates of his duty and
conscience; or he, who like a wavering poltroon, yields to the dread of
ridicule, and quietly submits to be led by the very fools who pity and condemn
him. No, no, Edward Atherton; that man must be at his wits-ends, who seeks to
regain a character in the world, or hopes to establish a reputation for bravery
by such cowardly expedients.”
“You
have reason on your side of the question, Sir,” replied Atherton; “and I hope
the good principles of this new world will effectually exclude the vicious
practices of the old from its society.”
“I
well know,” returned the Captain, “how young men, and particularly soldiers,
regard these things; but I think I need not fear that the son of my cousin
Eleanor will bring a reproach upon his name.”
“Not,
at least, while I remain with you,” said Atherton, laughing, “I have too much
regard for my neck and heels to bring them into jeopardy; and, of course, shall
take care not to make a breach upon your laws.”
CHAP.
VI.
¾¾¾¾¾—— But then her face,
So
lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The
overflowings of an innocent heart. ROGERS.
MAJOR
ATHERTON embraced the earliest opportunity, which the unwearied attentions of
his host left at his own disposal to visit his warm-hearted friend, Captain
Martin, whose ship was still at anchor in the Plymouth harbour. Captain
Standish excused himself from attending him; for the labours of a plentiful
harvest required his attention; during a period of repose from military duty he
had “beat his sword into a plough-share,” and with characteristic activity and
ardour, engaged in the pursuits of agriculture.
Atherton,
for the first time, left to range alone through the woods, which he had only
passed in the obscurity of evening, was continually in danger of leaving the
beaten pathway, in many places, nearly filled by withered leaves, for the
diverging tracks which led in various directions, into the depths of the forest,
and sometimes terminated in a cleared spot, where the log hut of the settler,
or the blue smoke curling from its wooden
chimney, broke upon the eye of the solitary pedestrian, conveying images of
comfort and repose, and softening the savage wildness of the scene.
But
the sagacity of his dog, who gambolled around his feet, and, in cases of
difficulty, was sure to scent out the right path, at length conducted him to
the broader highway, which led into the chief settlement of Plymouth, where the
animal seemed quite at home, and, with curled tail and erect ears, proceeded at
a very grave dog-trot on his accustomed route towards the house of Mr. Winslow.
“This
way, Rover,” said Major Atherton, turning in a nearer direction to the water’s
edge; and another moment brought him to the well-remembered residence of Miriam
Grey. The house certainly did not display any architectural elegance; but
Atherton remarked it as one of the largest and best in the village. A peculiar
air of neatness seemed diffused around it, which evinced the competence and
good management of its possessor. It stood on a green bank, which, sloping to
the southern sun, still preserved a fresh and cheerful verdure, and was half
hid by a venerable oak that embraced it in a shelter of its wide-spreading
branches. It was inclosed by a slight wooden paling, and some tasteful hand had
twined the flexile branches of the sweet-briar around the windows, and reared
the wild-rose to breathe its sweetness beside the door. In rear of the building
was a garden of esculent roots and herbs, with a small orchard of fruit trees,
and extensive fields of corn and other grain.
Major
Atherton scrutinized every object as he leisurely approached the house, but no
person was visible till he had nearly reached the little gate which led through
the inclosure, when the door unexpectedly opened, and Miriam Grey, with a
smiling face, sprang lightly from its steps upon the velvet turf. She did not
observe him, but, stooping down, seemed busied in training her rosebushes; and
Atherton ventured to pause an instant to admire the grace of her attitudes, and
the loveliness of her figure. Without perceiving it, Miriam Grey had dropped a
knot of ribands, that was eagerly seized upon by a frisking kitten which
bounded after her mistress, and forthwith began to toss it high in air, and
unmercifully twist it around whatever came in contact with it.
But
Rover, who held his eye fixed on his hereditary enemy, could not long brook her
insulting mirth, and set up a bark of defiance, which at once changed the
frolick of her face into a gaze of fear and aversion¾her mottled back rose with astonishing dignity, and, retreating a few
steps, she stood on the defensive, elevating one paw to retain the riband; but
a second and fiercer shout from Rover drove her within the door, with a
portentous growl, where she remained secure; her dilated eyes and long whiskers
occasionally protruded from her lurking-place, to ascertain the movements of
the enemy. The dog was about to leap the wicket in pursuit of her, when the
voice and well-known whistle of his master recalled him; and at the same time
attracted the attention of Miriam Grey. She started in confusion, and blushed
deeply at finding herself so closely observed. Major Atherton bowed, and passed
on; but could not refrain from turning his head to look back at her. She was at
the moment examining her disfigured riband, and then patting her affrighted
pet, retired into the house, and closed the door.
“What
is the matter with you, Miriam?” inquired Lois Grey, as her cousin entered the
room where she was sitting with a few female visitors; “has any thing alarmed
you?”
“Nothing
in the world, Lois; but see my beautiful ribands, which were the pride of my
new cap, and now they are quite spoiled.”
“It
is a mere trifle, Miriam; but you are always so heedless.”
“Dear
cousin, you must blame my mischievous kitten. I would not care,” she added in a
lower tone, “but I have been saving them so long to grace your wedding, Lois!”
“Nonsense!”
said Lois, quickly; “give me the knot, Miriam: you think me ingenious, and
perhaps I can make it look tolerable again.”
“Such
worldly vanities,” observed an elderly female, “are empty and unsatisfying as
the wind; and I do fear, Miriam Grey, that your heart is too much bound up in them.”
“Not
my heart, good mistress Gilbert,” returned the damsel; “these vanities reach no
farther than my head; and sometimes touch only the outside of that.”
“They
are all relics of popery,” replied the other; “we read that the heathenish
Egyptians were decked out in ornaments of gold and goodly apparel, and were
they not fearfully punished for their idolatry?”
“Yet,”
returned Miriam, “the Israelites borrowed these same ornaments for their own
use, and were permitted to carry them from the land of Egypt.”
“And
the Lord gave them up to their wicked imaginations,” replied the dame, “and
they made a golden calf in the wilderness, and bowed down before it, and
worshipped it.”
“Well,
Mistress Gilbert, I cannot make a calf of this poor knot of ribands; and I am
sure nobody will ever admire it now.”
Miriam
Grey rose from her seat, as she finished speaking, and the brief pause which
ensued was broken by a female somewhat past the bloom of youth, who was looking
earnestly from a window.
“Was
not that the stranger they call Major Atherton,” she asked, “who past just as
you left the door, Miriam?”
“I
believe it was the same.”
“He
has left the crag, then,” whispered Lois Grey to her cousin; “I thought the
blue knot gave you an unusual colour.”
“That
must be the youth whom they say is near akin to our Captain,” observed another
female who had remained silent in a corner, until her companions began to
imagine she had fallen asleep, or gone into a trance.
“It
is,” said Lois Grey; “he arrived here during his kinsman’s absence, and the
Governor entertained him in his own house till Captain Standish returned from
the Massachusetts. It is said he is courteous and well disposed.”
“And
yet,” said the spinster, “he has a strange way of staring with his eyes; he
looked so bold at the window as he passed, I was fain to turn away.”
“Indeed!”
said Miriam, gravely, though her brow slightly curved; “he was probably
admiring the view.”
“I
wonder what has brought him to this country,” said Lois Grey; “he does not seem
of our religion, and has been in the service of the king.”
The
female whose silence rendered her quite a prodigy in the group, answered in a
mysterious tone.
“They
do say that he is a papist, sent
over by the queen to spy out the ‘nakedness of the land,’ as scripture hath it;
by which I mean, to watch the chosen people of this country, to whom the rulers
of the kingdom bear no good will.”
“I
cannot believe that,” said the spinster; “such a comely and well-favoured
youth!”¾for, like most maidens, even old ones, her feelings balanced in favour
of a handsome young man.
“The
Lord forgive him, if it is so!” cried Mistress Gilbert, with uplifted eyes;
“and now I think of it, did you see how he stood at the meeting when he first
went in, with his face covered, praying to himself, as it were?”
“He
is probably of the Church of England,” said Lois; “and that is one of its
forms.”
“It
is an evil form which savoureth of the mark of the beast,” returned Mistress
Gilbert; “and I do much marvel that our worthy Governor could harbour such an
one in his family.”
“And,”
resumed the silent one, who seemed suddenly inspired, “his hair was like unto
Absalom’s, falling over his neck and forehead to please the eyes of the vain
and worldly.”
“It
is an awful thing,” said Mistress Gilbert, “to see young people given up to
follow the devices of the sons of Belial. Now I think, Miriam Grey, that worthy
Master Ashly is an example to our youths; it does one good to see how closely
his hair is clipped.”
“His
head certainly contains very little,” replied Miriam, with the utmost gravity.
“That
it does not,” returned the dame; “there is not on it a hair more than our godly
ministers have, in their pulpits and assemblies, thought proper to recommend.”
“True,”
answered Miriam, “it is as smooth and round as a green pumpkin.”
“And
it is edifying,” continued the other, “to hear him prophesy in our meetings;
his ‘words are like arrows,’ and they enter into the ‘bones and marrow.’”
“They
are apt to stick long in the ear,” observed the damsel.
“Yes,”
replied Mistress Gilbert, “he is gifted with the spirit of utterance; and it is
thought that if one of our pious deacons should be called to ‘put off his
fleshly tabernacle,’ he would be chosen to fill up the breach.’”
“May
our worthy deacons be long continued to us,” said Miriam Grey, “that our
churches may have peace and be edified.”
“We
must leave the event to Providence, Miriam Grey; but as the aged Eli waxed in
years, the people cast their eyes upon young Samuel to minister in his place.”
“Your
doctrine savours of worldly wisdom, Mistress Gilbert.”
“God
forbid,” ejaculated the dame, “that our spiritual concerns should have ought to
do with the affairs of this transitory state.”
Their
dialogue was here interrupted by the sound of footsteps; and the subject of
their conversation, after a preparatory hem and a slight scraping of his feet,
entered the apartment. The female visitors exchanged knowing looks, and then
fixed their eyes on Miriam Grey, probably to discover from her countenance what
effect the unexpected appearance of her guest might produce upon her feelings;
and her easy and unembarrassed manner evidently perplexed them. Mr. Ashly paid
his respects to the company with great civility, reserving his last bow for
Miriam, and perhaps intending it for his best; but by one of those unluckly
chances that often defeat our favourite projects, it proved particularly
awkward; a circumstance which not only excited a slight smile on the lips of
the damsel, but likewise covered the young man with confusion, who plunged into
the nearest chair and thrice crossed his legs before he could assume a
comfortable position.
Benjamin
Ashly had long been considered the lover of Miriam Grey; nor did he ever deny
his pretensions, though he had not as yet been able to extort from the maiden a
word or look to support them; while her alternate reserve and playful
familiarity, kept him in a state of anxious suspense. Still he was encouraged
by the kindness of her father, who openly favoured his suit; and unable to command
sufficient resolution to learn his destiny from her own lips, he remained the
prey of doubt and distrust; and with the diffidence which sincere affection
invariably produces on a timid mind, his wish to please and dread of offending,
continually embarrassed him, and destroyed the advantages he might otherwise
have acquired in the eyes of his mistress. His person and countenance were
naturally rather agreeable than otherwise; though the puritanical cut of his
head, which Mistress Gilbert so highly commended, was certainly unbecoming; and
the excessive gravity of his features presented a strong and almost absurd
contrast to their youthful appearance. Educated in the strictest manner of his
sect, he was early taught to consider an outward conformity to its prescribed
forms of essential importance; and though really upright in conduct and sincere
in his professions, the bigotry of his principles had tended to narrow his
intellect, and prematurely to destroy the vivacity and cheerfulness of youth.
“Here
is my father’s elbow-chair, will you take it, Mr. Ashly?” said Miriam Grey,
rising with alacrity, and really anxious to dispel his embarrassment.
“Thank
you, Miriam;” and he settled into it with a grateful look, and a smile
reflected from her own countenance: “I hope,” he added, “the good man is well!”
“Quite
well, but very busy; our loaded corn-fields require much labour, and he has yet
to prepare for his intended voyage.”
“Captain
Martin will sail shortly, I understand,” observed Mr. Ashly; “the departure of
your father, Miriam, will remove a candlestick from our temple.”
“Do
not speak of it, Mr. Ashly: I cannot yet endure the thought of a separation
from him,”¾and Miriam bent her head to conceal a tear
which she in vain struggled to suppress.
“He
is in the keeping of One, who will never forsake those who put their trust in
him,” said the youth in a softened voice, “and you have many friends, Miriam,
to comfort you during his brief absence.”
“I
do not indulge in idle fears for his safety,” returned Miriam; “but if I might
be allowed to share his fatigues and dangers, I should be happy.”
“And
would you leave me alone, and in solitude?” asked Lois Grey, reproachfully.
“Not
alone, dear Lois!” replied Miriam, her face again brightening into smiles, “but
with one whose society is far dearer to you than mine can be.”
Miriam
spoke in a low voice, which, however, reached the ears of the spinster, who was
remarkably acute in detecting sounds of mysterious import.
“I
thought,” she said, “something like that would happen before Mr. Grey left the
country; but we shall know all about it in good time, I suppose.”
“Are
you speaking of a wedding, Rebecca Spindle?” asked Mistress Gilbert. “Well, you
need not blush about it, Lois Grey; marriage is a divine institution, and
wisely ordained for the happiness of mankind, as it is written, ‘it is not good
for man to be alone.’”
“That
is as people choose to think, Mistress Gilbert,” said Rebecca Spindle, “as the
apostle hath it, ‘the married woman careth for the things of the world that she
may please her husband; but the unmarried woman seeketh to please the Lord,’
and I have hitherto experienced the benefit of the exhortation and resisted all
temptations to alter my present state.”
“Your
temptations have doubtless been manifold,” said Miriam Grey; “but I trust you
will now have strength to persevere unto the end.”
“God
willing, it is my intention,” she replied, “unless it should be clearly my duty
to enter into a wedded state. But I would not blame you, Mistress Lois, for holding
a different mind.”
“Perhaps
our opinions on the subject are not so very different;” said Lois, smiling.
“But do
you know, Benjamin Ashly, if any passengers go out in the ship with my uncle?”
“I
have heard of none; but there was a young gentleman, a kinsman of Captain
Standish, came hither in her, as I am informed, to view the country; perchance,
he may be ready to return at that time.”
“I
wish he may,” said Miriam; “my father would find much pleasure in the society
of an agreeable companion.”
“Do
you know aught of him?” asked Mr. Ashly in an anxious tone.
“Nothing,
but our Governor commends his courtesy and polite accomplishments, and his
countenance speaks well for him.”
“You
have seen him, then?” rejoined Master Ashly.
“By
chance only, once or twice; but I think he can hardly have satisfied his
curiosity yet, in looking at this new world.”
“He
is a son of the church,” observed Mistress Gilbert; “and what lot or portion
can he have in our favoured Zion?”
“Churchman
or not, he is certainly a most comely looking young gentleman;” said Mistress
Spindle, whose thoughts evidently reverted with pleasure to the handsome
stranger.
“Judge
not by the outward appearance, Rebecca Spindle,” returned the matron; “but
remember that the ‘Lord looketh at the heart:’ these time-serving idolators of
images and ceremonies are well likened unto white sepulchres, which are,
indeed, ‘outwardly fair,’ but within full of ‘all uncleanness.’”
“And
we also read,” said Miriam Grey, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged;’ and what
right have we to condemn one, of whom we have heard no evil?”
“The
Lord forgive you, Miriam Grey! I should have expected the child of one, so
godly and gifted as thy father is, would have too much regard for our
privileged mode of worship, which, as our minister hath it, is derived from the
apostles themselves, and the rites of the primitive church, and is the only
sure method of salvation, to be upholding the vain superfluities of those
disciples of Antichrist.”
“I
can value my own privileges and opinions, Mistress Gilbert, and yet have some
charity for those who differ from me. I doubt not there are many sincere
Christians, even in the church of England.”
“It
may be so,” returned Mistress Gilbert, with an incredulous shake of the head,
“I would not be uncharitable; but there are older and wiser ones than you,
child, who believe them to have gone clean astray from the word, following the
devices of Balaam son of Beor, who loved the wages of iniquity.”
“I
think,” observed Benjamin Ashly, first stealing a hesitating look at Miriam, “I
think, Mistress Gilbert is very able in her reference to the scriptures, which
are in truth our only sure guides; and my poor memory might furnish me with
divers illustrations of what she hath spoken therefrom; but, but”¾he stopped abruptly, for the eye of Miriam was fixed upon him, and he
found it impossible to withdraw his gaze from the face, whose arch expression
completely disconcerted him; but at length relieved by a fit of coughing, he
ventured to proceed:
“I
believe we can no where find any foundation for the Popish custom of reading
prayers from a printed book, which must have been a conceit and invention of
the evil one, to save careless and worldly-minded men, the trouble of
composing, and digesting their own thoughts; neither can I find the custom of
kneeling to repeat such prayers, authorized in the pages of Holy Writ; and I
know not by what arguments you can seek to uphold it, Miriam Grey.”
“You
entirely mistake me, Master Ashly,” returned Miriam. “Heaven forbid that I
should seek to justify the errors and superstitions of a church, which has
loaded with calumny and persecution those who presumed to differ from her in
forms and faith; or that I should cease to prize, far above every earthly
blessing, the pure and simple worship which our fathers have established in
this wilderness, and for which they have sacrificed ease and comfort, endured
the scorn of enemies, the reproach of friends, and the loss of all that the
world esteems most dear and desirable. No!” she added with energy, “the
daughter of a devoted, self-denying Christian, of one who forsook fortune,
kindred, and country, to plant the truth, and establish a Christian church and
colony, in an unknown, savage land, would not exchange her proud title, to
become the jewelled empress of a world.”
Mr.
Ashly regarded the glowing countenance of the maiden with mingled awe and
admiration, but quickly resuming her usual playfulness of manner, she
continued: ¾ “I did not intend to enter into the lists of
controversy with you, Mr. Ashly; and I crave your pardon, Mistress Gilbert, you
were speaking of Major Atherton.”
“Yes,
but I am sure I know no harm of the youth, apart from his false
doctrines¾of which, may he have grace given him to repent
and turn away from; and I do in truth wish him well, for the sake of his
kinsman, our brave Captain.”
“Our
Captain,” said Rebecca Spindle, “was himself once of the church, and don’t you
remember, Mistress Gilbert, when we first came over from Holland, I was then
but a child, as it were, that there were some who thought he was not over
sparing of Indian blood.”
“Yes,
I do,” returned the other; “they were wild savages, to be sure, who had no
bowels of mercy in them; but they had souls to be saved, as well as ourselves;
and as that man of God, Mr. Robinson¾the like of whom, I fear, will not rise up
again in our
Israel¾as he wrote from Leyden to our church of
Plymouth, in the grief of his righteous spirit, ‘he would that they had
converted some before they had killed any.’”
“I
am afraid,” said Miriam, “that none of us would have been left alive, either to
kill or convert them, if he had waited their time. No, our Captain is a good
man, as well as brave and fearless; as my father says, he is one who ‘chose to
suffer affliction with the people of God,’ and ‘through faith wax valiant in
fight, and turn to flight the armies of the aliens.’”
“And
his young kinsman has been long in the king’s army, I understand,” said Lois
Grey.
“I
thought as much,” observed Mistress Spindle; “he has such an upright carriage,
and moves so straight and easy, though he did twist aside, somewhat, to look
into this window.”
“And
is it not strange,” remarked Mistress Gilbert, “that a reasonable creature who
has been safely brought over the yawning deep, where he had seen the wonders of
the Lord, should not render public thanks in the tabernacle for his goodness? I
wonder, that, like Pharaoh and his host, he was not overturned in the sea, or,
as another Jonah, swallowed by a monster of the floods?”
“Probably
it is not the custom of his church,” said Miriam Grey.
“Very
likely,” returned the dame; “I doubt they are sparing of their offerings, these
children of an idolatrous and polluted church¾but when do our chosen people delay to put up a
note to ask the prayers of the congregation in seasons of mercy or affliction?”
“It
is, doubtless, a scriptural and edifying practice,” rejoined Mr. Ashly, “for it
is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord, and praise is comely in his
eyes.”
“If
the heart is sincere,” observed Lois, “our ignorance of forms will doubtless be
forgiven.”
Lois
Grey had at that moment put the finishing stroke to her cousin’s knot of
ribands, which formed the principal ornament to a new cap, of more courtly
fashion than was usually thought consistent with the extreme simplicity of
dress at that time adopted by the Puritans; and, in the height of her surprise
and pleasure at its renovated beauty, Miriam Grey forgot the recent reproof of
Mistress Gilbert, and flying to a looking-glass, began to arrange it on her
head. The whole assembly was mute during this proceeding. Mistress Gilbert
looked at her with the air of one who considered any farther words on the
subject as “pearls cast before swine;” the silent female nodded as usual¾Rebecca Spindle watched her with curiosity, Lois Grey with some
interest, and the quick eye of Miriam detected the figure of Mr. Ashly
reflected in the mirror, sitting, as he supposed, remote from her observation,
and regarding her with undisguised admiration. A spice of coquetry, perhaps¾and what girl of eighteen is quite
free from it? Induced Miriam Grey to push back the lawn cap, which partly
concealed her snowy brow, and leisurely arrange several braids of glossy brown
hair, then carefully adjusting her new head-gear, she turned suddenly to the
abashed young man and inquired in a tone of simplicity¾ “Do you like it, Benjamin Ashly?”
“I
like every thing of thine, Miriam,” he answered in a low voice, and quickly
approaching her, for once forgetful of his habitual reserve¾
“That
will do¾pray sit down again, Mr. Ashly,” said the
damsel in a hurried accent, herself completely abashed by his unexpected manner
and reply; nor had her heightened complexion quite faded to its usual delicacy,
when her father entered the room.
Mr.
Grey, after paying due courtesy to his guests, approached his daughter, and
surveyed her a moment in silence, with a look of peculiar meaning, which did
not at all lessen her confusion.
“What
are you looking at so steadfastly, dear father?” inquired Miriam, turning up
her face to him, perhaps to observe his countenance better, or it might be to
throw the blue knot into the back ground; for it was, in truth, the gayest she
had ever ventured to wear.
“It
is this which surprises me, Miriam,” returned her father, laying his hand upon
the riband, which at once yielded to his touch.
“Dear
father, pray do not crumple it so¾indeed you will quite spoil it.”
“And
is it in a Christian assembly, Miriam Grey, that you would exhibit this vain
bauble?”
“Any
where, no where, if you will spare it, father; my kitten has pulled it in
pieces once to-day, but she did it in sport, and Lois has been so kind as to
repair it for me.”
“It
is too, too gay,” said her father; “I would not see you, my child, decked out
in garlands, like a victim prepared for sacrifice, or a pagan image set up for
worship.”
“I
am sure, father, no one would liken a woman to an image who was within the
sound of her tongue.”
“And
where did you get this gaudy thing, Miriam?”
“My
aunt sent it me from England,” returned Miriam; “it came with my new hood and
scarf; and you remember that you thought they
looked very brave at first, but in a little time you grew familiar with them,
and said they would do for a giddy young thing like me;¾now, dear father,” and she laid her hand playfully on his arm, “my head
is not much older or wiser than it was then, so I think this will not displease you by and bye.”
“Do
you know, Miriam,” resumed Mr. Grey, “that a law of our land has enacted fines
and penalties against those who indulge in costly apparel and immodest
fashions.”
“I
remember it well, father; for, at that very time, my kind aunt had given me an
embroidered ‘kerchief, which I was compelled to lay aside till it was quite
ruined. But I am sure this cap is not immodest, and it cost me nothing, but the
trouble of writing an epistle of thanks.”
“Your
aunt is very mindful of you, Miriam; but she is apt to forget that we have
renounced those vanities which allure the worldly to their destruction. What says
the apostle Paul upon the subject?”
“I
forget the exact words,” said Miriam; “something it is about plaiting the hair,
and wearing goodly apparel.”
“Go,
learn the passage from your bible, Miriam, and I will leave the application to
your own conscience.”
“Indeed
I will not wear any thing which is displeasing to you, dear father; and, in
truth, the sacrifice is too trifling to cause one moment’s regret.”
“Consult
your inclinations, my child,” returned her father; “I know you would not
willingly give the world occasion to speak reproachfully of yourself or me; and
I am only anxious to see you adorned with the ‘ornament of a meek and quiet
spirit,’ which is indeed a ‘jewel of great price.’”
When
Lois Grey retired to her chamber at night, she found her cousin busily engaged
in twining the obnoxious ribands around the frame of a small picture which
ornamented the apartment, representing a thick-waisted Dutch peasant girl,
glowing in the richness of Flemish colours, though divers fearful cracks in the
canvas bore undoubted witness to her great antiquity. Miriam turned round with
a smiling countenance as Lois Grey entered the room.
“I
am hanging this up for a peace-offering, Lois,” she said; “and I am sure good
Mistress Gilbert herself would not do it with greater pleasure, though she
might bring forward more texts of scripture than I can just now think of, to
prove the necessity of it.”
“Are
you quite willing to give it up,
Miriam?”
“Do
I look unwilling, Lois? No, it is rather gay for me; and, on the whole, I think
something else will look as well for the wedding.”
“The
wedding seems a great event with you, Miriam; is it because Benjamin Ashly is
to be invited?”
“Benjamin
Ashly! Good night, Lois, I am fast asleep. But I will just ask you, if one
would not think it must take him a long time to close his enormous eyes! Why, I
thought to-day they looked as big as chocolate basins.”
“Is
that a dream, Miriam?”
“Yes;
you need not wake up to interpret it. Good night, Lois, once again.”
CHAP.
VII.
Scenes
must be beautiful, which daily view’d,
Please
daily. COWPER.
MAJOR
ATHERTON, after a long interview with Captain Martin, repaired to the
Governor’s, where the remainder of the evening glided swiftly away: and, if the
testimony of Mistress Rebecca Spindle may be relied on, who related the
circumstance with an air of mysterious caution to some half dozen of wondering
female friends on the following day, he was seen loitering around the dwelling
of Miriam Grey, precisely at the hour when the music of the vesper psalm was
heard to issue from a room, where occasionally a figure flitting before the
shaded windows, denoted the family were assembled.
Perhaps
it was a gossip’s story; but, however that may be, his absence was prolonged
till Captain Standish became uneasy; and, fearful that he had missed his way in
the forest, dispatched a stout young man, who served him in various capacities,
both within doors and without, to search for his kinsman, and guide him back.
But the heart of the emissary quaked when he found himself alone at the
entrance of a forest of lofty trees, so thickly matted, that scarcely a ray of
the rising moon could pierce their foliage; and, after listening with trembling
nerves till fancy had conjured up a thousand terrific sounds, he thought fit to
retire from the danger, and, ashamed to encounter his master’s eye, entered an
outbuilding, and threw himself on a bundle of straw. There he lay listening for
the returning steps of Atherton, as a signal to sally out; but, unfortunately,
long before they reached his ears, he sunk into a deep slumber, from which he
was at length unceremoniously aroused by a smart blow from the flat side of the
Captain’s broad sword, accompanied by the angry tones of his voice.
“Is
this the way you obey my commands, you lazy loon?”
The
man started on his feet, simultaneously rubbing his eyes, and the shoulder
which had received the blow; and, more alarmed than he had been in the woods,
began to stammer forth an apology.
“I
did go, please your honour; but the wolves made a fearful howling, and I
thought no Christian man would want me to put myself in their mouths.”
“The
wolves! you poltroon! no fear that they would relish such a cowardly
knave;¾no, no, David, even the wild beasts would snuff
at thee; they love to pick the bones of braver men than thou art. But the next
time you escape their jaws in this way I’ll have you tied to the whipping-post,
or put in the stocks till your legs ache; so away with you.”
David,
obedient to orders, commenced his retreat with as much alacrity as his
illustrious namesake evinced when eluding the javelin of Saul, but, on the way,
he received another stroke in the rear, which not a little accelerated his
speed. Captain Standish and his attendants then left the building, to which they
had been attracted by observing the dog which followed David, lying at the
entrance, where the sonorous music of the young man’s nose betrayed his
situation within; for Major Atherton had returned without meeting him, and the
party set out to learn his fate.
“Well,
cousin Atherton,” said Captain Standish, as they rose from breakfast the next
morning, “since you have not engaged a passage back to England with Captain
Martin, I conclude you intend to winter amongst us; and, before spring arrives,
perhaps we may persuade you to pitch your tent with us for life,¾ha, Major?”
“You
may find it necessary to exert your persuasive powers in the opposite scale,”
replied Atherton; “I confess I am so happy here, that the time of my return
seems every day more distant and uncertain. I am here, too, removed from the
scene of active duties which lately occupied me, and feel less keenly the
sacrifice I have been compelled to make in relinquishing my profession.”
“Ah,
you left both that and your country in good time, Major Atherton, if you have
no mind to be set about fighting with your own flesh and blood. There must be
warm work in England before long, if King Charles makes such a fuss about his
parliaments, and continues to persecute his dissenting subjects as he has lately
done.”
“He
has bad counsellors,” said Atherton; “but is himself a virtuous and humane
prince, and really solicitous for the happiness of his people.”
“I
believe it, from my heart,” replied the Captain; “and I would cheerfully shed
the last drop of my blood to sustain the honour of his illustrious name; but I
still maintain, that every man has a right to judge for himself, in matters of
faith and conscience; and, so long as we remain peaceable and loyal subjects,
neither king nor bishop is privileged to molest us, for thinking differently
from themselves.”
“An
established religion is certainly desirable,” said Atherton, “and I am inclined
to believe, that those who fled from persecution, and have here founded a
church on what you term apostolic principles, would be as severe towards those
of different modes and opinions, and as much influenced by prejudice, as the
church of England has ever been, in regard to her dissenting children.”
“Well,
well, cousin Atherton, we will not begin with calling you to account, unless
some amongst us should see fit to imitate the Massachusetts people, who are
always fond of raising a breeze. But they have got a woman in hand now, who, I
doubt not, will give them trouble enough with her Antinomianism, and other
conceits of the devil, who has been a friend to the sex, ever since he had such
good luck with mother Eve. But I am going to walk, now; and if you have no
better way of amusing yourself, will ask you to accompany me.”
“With
all my heart: shall we try the woods again?”
“No,
I should like to give you a glimpse of our Canaan, from the top of mount
Pisgah, yonder,” replied the Captain, pointing to a hill which rose to a
considerable height above the level of the Bay; and, to this day, is known by
the name of the Captain’s Hill.
“This,”
he continued, as he led the way to its summit, by a tolerable easy ascent,
“this hill, and the beautiful stretch of land
which you see running into the Bay, was assigned to me, by the Plymouth
Company; and I think I may say without boasting, that my farm looks as well as
any of my neighbours, though I hardly knew a hoe from a pitchfork, till I was
obliged to use them to satisfy the cravings of hunger; for we had scanty
rations when we first came over here.”
“And
why were you located so far from the first settlement?” asked Atherton.
“We
found it necessary to remove as our numbers increased, to give each other
elbow-room, and land enough to cultivate; and
the old colony is still sending forth her children to people new settlements.
That village, lying at a short distance north of us, is called Scituate, and is
the only town that has yet been incorporated; even Plymouth has no bounds
affixed to it, though the little clusters of houses which you see here and
there, bid fair to limit it, ere long.”
“Have
you given any name to this tract of land?” asked Atherton; “you seem to have
already gathered a flourishing village around you.”
“The
Indian name is Mattakeeset; but we begin to call it Duxborough, and hope, at
the next sitting of our court, to have it incorporated. It is now nearly ten
years since we first felled the trees, and began to build our houses; and, till
within two or three I continued to reside at Plymouth during the winter season,
that being our head-quarters; and it was a long march through the snow-banks to
do military duty; for we were obliged to keep on the look-out, lest the
barbarous savages should rally their undisciplined tribes, and come howling
upon us, unawares.”
“This
is, indeed, a glorious view,” said Atherton; who, lost in admiration at the
prospect opening before him, had scarcely heeded the last remark. “With what
grandeur the swelling ocean tosses its troubled waves, till, lost as it were in
the immensity of space, it mingles with the dusky clouds that rise, like
gigantic mountains, from its foaming bosom! Here it seems lulled to rest, and
scarcely ripples upon the silver beach; and, again, it rolls proudly along the
indented shore, and, curving into a broad full basin, breaks against the sandy
and barren promontory which stretches yonder, as if in defiance of its fury.”
“That
is Cape Cod,” said Captain Standish; “the most southerly point of the
Massachusetts Bay; and a dreary place we found it, when we landed there, in the
frosts of November. Our ship was driven in amongst dreadful shoals and
breakers, and right thankful we were to step ashore on almost any spot. It was
there we combined ourselves into a body politic, enacted our first laws, and
elected a Governor for the following year; but the place being found
inconvenient to winter in, we made several voyages around the coast, to
discover a better situation, and Providence at length guided us to this
harbour. We put into it in a storm of wind and snow, in a dark and fearful
night, and landed on the fine wooded island which you see just below us, near
by the beach. It is named Clark’s island, from the mate of the ship who first
stepped upon it; that other one, joined to the Gurnet’s Nose by a strip of
sand, is called Sanguish.”
“They
are pleasant objects,” replied Atherton; “and agreeably diversify the scene;
but how magnificent is the distant view! how beautifully the flitting clouds
riot, for a moment, on the dark and undulating forests, and then pass off and
leave them glittering in the morning sun, and varied with the thousand tints of
autumn! And, to the north, far as my eye can stretch, beyond these sloping
hills, and hanging woodlands, and above the summits of the tallest trees, I see
a range of lofty mountains, blue as the skies which shelter them, rising like
monarchs of the surrounding wilderness.”
“Those
are the blue hills of Massachusetts,” answered the Captain; “they are the
highest in the colony, and the first point of land visible, as you approach
this coast. This is, indeed, a noble prospect, and well worth the trouble of
scrambling up here, to gaze at. Look down, now, upon my house; and see how
warmly it is sheltered in that sunny valley. Those trees, which shade it, were
but saplings when I first knew the spot; and no foot, but the wild Indian’s,
had trod those fields, where the ripened grains now wave in the light
sea-breeze.”
“I
think, sir,” said Atherton, “you have discovered much taste, as well as good
husbandry, in your improvements. Those groups of trees are finely disposed
about the dwelling; but what is that single one, shooting its branches with so
much regularity from the aspiring trunk, and dropping its leaves into the
stream, which rushes by it? It is tricked out in gaudy colours, and, at this
distance, might be mistaken for a crimson banner, floating on a citadel.”
“To
me,” said the Captain, laughing, “it looks more like a fair-weather officer,
dressed up for a gala day; and, like many who strut well at a field review, is
the first to shrink from peril. The slightest touch of frost changes its hue,
and its gay foliage is conspicuous in our forests, long before any other tree
has dropped a withered leaf; it is the Maple, and I planted that one with my
own hand. I lived long enough in England, Major Atherton, to learn the value of
fine trees, though many here seem to think there are enough in the woods,
without keeping them around their doors. Perhaps my taste arises from the
predilections of youth; for, I well remember, my father would as soon have seen
the old walls of Standish Hall rased to the foundations, as an old tree cut
down from the lawn.”
“They
are certainly no novelty in this country,” returned Atherton; “but, to me, it
seems a strange perversion of taste, which can induce any one to prefer those
blackened stumps, or desert plains, to the living green, which would so
agreeably shelter their roofs. I perceive, too, sir, that you have paid some
regard to minor ornaments; that luxuriant sweet-briar, chequering the casement
with its dancing leaves, reminds me of the simplicity and neatness of an
English cottage.”
“Ah,
that is not to my liking,” replied the Captain; “the prickly things are
springing up, every where, and tearing one, without mercy; but I left that
growing, to please my little rose-bud, Miriam Grey, who is for having every
thing sweet and flowering about her. She took a great fancy to this one, and
begged its life of me; and, I know not how it is, but these pretty maidens will
contrive to make us do any thing they like.”
“It
is even so,” said Atherton, smiling; “but that bush certainly looks very well,
though it seems to require the pruning knife, just now; and, if you will allow
me, I will try my skill in training those crooked branches.”
“Do,
if your fingers are proof against the thorns; and now we will return to the
house, if it please you;¾yet stop a moment, cousin Atherton, and look
once again around you.”
“I
could scarcely weary of doing so,” replied Atherton, “and shall often ascend
this hill, when I wish to regale my eyes with the charms of nature.”
“And
could you be content to remain here for life?” asked the Captain. “If you
could, cast your eyes on the spot which pleases you, and it is yours.”
“And
would you have me renounce my country and religion?” said Atherton.
“Your
country will shortly renounce you,” replied the Captain, “unless you unsheath
your sword against the defenders of a faith which your mother loved; you must
become persecutor, or persecuted.”
“And
who will sustain the honour of my father’s name, if the last, who bears it,
flies from the land which gave him birth?”
“It
is only transplanting it to another region; our country is the same, and we are
all subjects of the same gracious king.”
“Consider,
dear sir,” said Atherton, “that I am yet but just landed on your shores; all is
novelty to me; and though I am at present well pleased and happy, time alone
can strengthen or remove my prepossessions.”
“True,”
said the Captain, who perceived he had been premature in disclosing his wishes.
“We will wait patiently till spring arrives; young men are apt to waver in
their minds, I know. At your age, I little dreamed of ending my days in that
cottage; but we know not what is before us; those who deprived me of my lawful
inheritance, and obliged me to resign the privileges of my rank, and the home which
sheltered my infancy, to seek a name and subsistence in a foreign land,
doubtless intended it for evil to me; but Providence, I trust, has made it
instrumental of good to myself and those who have relied on my arm for defence,
in this wilderness; and I can now truly say, I would not exchange my situation
for all the luxuries of my youth, and all the distinctions, which then seemed
within my grasp.”
“It
is well,” said Atherton, “that happiness is not confined to any particular
place or circumstances; I am even inclined to think, that I could pass the
remainder of my life in such a cottage, without casting many fond looks after
the gay world which I have left behind me; but at present I am a wanderer on
the face of the earth, and shall probably visit many climes before I return to
England.”
“We
will think of that another time,” returned the Captain, “and now that you have
seen the goodliness of the land, I have but to shew you some of its comely
daughters, and we can boast of many ruddy cheeks and bright eyes here, Major
Atherton.”
“So
I have seen, Captain; but spare my heart, in pity. You know I cannot give that
away to one of your demure little puritans, without shaving my head; and I
should by no means relish the alternative.”
“We
shall see,” answered the Captain, as they descended the hill; and, after
walking for a time about his farm¾for he would explain all its arrangements and
conveniences¾they returned to the house, at an early dinner
hour.
When
the repast was ended, Major Atherton left his kinsman to enjoy a solitary pipe
of tobacco, and commenced a zealous attack upon the sweet-briar, which he
intended to make resemble, as nearly as possible, the beautiful one he had
observed around the windows of Miriam Grey; but owing to his want of skill, perhaps,
he lopped away branch after branch, till nothing but a mere skeleton remained.
Dissatisfied with his own work, he was in the act of abandoning it, when the
dashing of oars in the water attracted his attention; and looking round, he
perceived a small boat approaching the shore, and occupied by four persons, two
of whom were regarding him with particular attention. These he quickly
discovered to be Miriam Grey and Peregrine White, who seemed engaged in a merry
conversation, of which Atherton fancied himself the subject, though the damsel
averted her eyes, and half turned her light figure from him, when she found
herself observed. On the seat beside her reclined her father, with folded arms,
as if engrossed by his own meditations: his eyes now fixed upon the watery
deep, and then turned upwards, apparently to watch the swelling clouds which
began to flit rapidly before a rising autumnal blast. Benjamin Ashly wielded
the oars with slow but determined accuracy, and evidently listened to the
conversation of his companions with a degree of interest that rendered him
inattentive to his manual exertions; for the boat was gliding past the spot
where Major Atherton stood, when Peregrine White, starting on his feet and
standing firm and erect in the tossing bark, seized the arm of Ashly with a
force and suddenness that almost ejected the oar from his hand, and bowed the
side of the vessel to the water’s edge.
“Bless
me, Peregrine,” said Miriam Grey, catching her father’s arm; “you give us more
exercise than the winds, and in truth I think they are less rude than your
boyish tricks.”
“Now
don’t be angry, Miriam, for it was not me after all, but this grampus
floundering about here. Ho! Benjamin Ashly, are you asleep again? I believe, on
my conscience, you were nodding at the oars just now.”
“It
would be well, Master Peregrine, if you would be quiet a little oftener,”
replied the other in a grave voice.
“Better
said than done, that, Mr. Ashly; but are you steering out to Cape Cod?” and,
without ceremony, he snatched the oars from his hand, and dashed them into the
water with quick and powerful strokes, which brought them in a moment to the
strand.
“Why
do you bring us here, young man?” said Mr. Grey, sternly; “is it to serve thy
gamesome humour at our expense?”
“No,
sir,” replied Peregrine; an air of respect mingling with his habitual levity;
“but I wish to speak with Major Atherton who stands gazing at us from under the
rose-bush, yonder; and I am mistaken if my absence be much regretted here.”
“None
on my word, as we value our lives and comfort,” said Miriam Grey; and the sweet
and sportive tunes of her voice fell like music on the ear of Atherton.
“Fare
you well then,” said Peregrine, springing on the shore; “here are the paddles
Master Benjamin Ashly, so paddle yourself off swiftly, and dexterously; but
have a care that you don’t flounce about and upset: for the damsel there,
though she is light enough, cannot float for ever, and you would shoot to the
bottom like a bullet.”
“Methinks
our voyage will prosper,” said Miriam, “now that we are no longer burthened
with a Jonas to endanger us.”
“You
will see me again in season to pilot you home,” said Peregrine, elevating his
voice, as they receded from the shore, “and I shall bring the Captain with me;
shall I, Miriam?”
Miriam nodded assent.
“And
Major Atherton?” he added; but the damsel probably did not hear, for she turned
at the moment to address her father, and Peregrine laughing, proceeded towards
the house.
“Well
now, Major Atherton,” exclaimed the youth, “why don’t you speak to me, instead
of staring at the water as if there was a whale spouting in it!”
“I
am truly glad to see you,” returned Atherton; “but I was busily watching the
boat you have just left¾see how fast it scuds before the wind!”
“It
is a trim little bark enough,” replied Peregrine, “and decked out with fair
lading, as I doubt not you were thinking.”
“It
dances like an egg-shell,” pursued Atherton, “and I should think there are few
females who would not feel some degree of alarm on such tossing waves.”
“There
is really no danger,” said Peregrine; “and Miriam Grey would be the last person
in the world to imagine it: she is used to such things, and never plagues one
with her idle fears like other women.”
“How
far are they going?” asked Atherton.
“Just
round the bay, to a house near the beach, north of us. I fell in with them by
good luck, as they were pushing off from Plymouth, and I was thinking how I
should get here this afternoon without taxing my legs with the trouble of
bringing me. It was long though before I could make that round-eared Ashly hear
my call, for which I owe him a ducking, and I have some idea that the old man
himself would have been as well pleased if I had staid behind.”
“You
mean to wait here till they return?” asked Atherton.
“No,
I’ll not trust to their stopping for me, and I want you and Captain Standish to
go with me and meet them at Worthy Mr. Woodman’s. You shall have a treat from
Benjamin Ashly, who, I know, means to hold forth like a saint; and Miriam Grey
will look¾”
“Like
an angel, I suppose you would say,” interrupted Atherton with a smile; “but
here comes the Captain, who can speak for himself.”
“Ah!”
said Captain Standish, at that moment thrusting his head from the door. “I
thought you were here, Master Peregrine; I can no more mistake the sound of
your tongue than I could the clapper of a wind-mill.”
“You
mean that they both make a noise, I suppose,” said Peregrine; “and in my mind
they were both made for that purpose.”
“Yes,
and they are both used to grinding out chaff,” said the Captain.
“Which
shews that there is some good grain at the bottom, and so Captain, I expect
mine will sprout up, and produce a wonderful harvest some of these days.”
“May
the time be hastened,” said the Captain, “or we shall begin to think it is
choked by the tares.”
“All
in good time, Captain. And now I will deliver my message, if it please you to
hear.”
“Speak
on, young man.”
“Well,”
continued Peregrine, “you see yon skiff dipping into the waves like a sea-gull!
It landed me safe in your dominions, and a certain laughing damsel, called
Miriam Grey.”
“Ah!
my little rose-bud!” interrupted the Captain, “and why did she come so near
without stopping to see me?”
“I
do not know, indeed,” replied the youth, “unless Major Atherton, who was
standing there, like a giant to defend your castle, frightened her away.”
“I
should be sorry to produce such an effect on her,” said Atherton, laughing.
“You
are right,” returned Peregrine archly. “I am thinking you meditated something
entirely different.”
“Young
maidens are not apt to be alarmed at the sight of a gallant young man,”
observed the Captain: “but, bless me, Major Atherton, what have you been doing
to this briar-bush?”
“Trimming
it,” said Atherton; “though I must confess it is done clumsily enough. I
intended it should look precisely like Miriam Grey’s.”
“It
looks as much like hers,” said Peregrine White, “as she does like mistress
Rebecca Spindle; but I crave your pardon, Captain, perhaps the spinster is a
favourite of yours.”
“You
are a saucy lad, Peregrine, and not worth the minding, or I should try to mend
your manners with the point of my sword.”
“With
your leave, Captain, I think it might help to make a breach in my manners; but
I doubt if it would readily mend them.”
“No,
no, boy; they are past all mending; but, if it please you, unburthen yourself
of the remainder of that message: I am waiting to hear it now.”
“The
message? oh! It is, that you will go with me to Master Woodman’s, and spend an
hour or so. Miriam Grey expects you, and likewise Major Atherton.”
“Take
care, master Peregrine,” said Atherton! “remember I was near to you, and could
hear all that past.”
“True;
and now I recollect, Major, she did not want you: but you do not know what she
said before we reached the shore.”
“Perhaps
it was something I should not care to hear.”
“It
was nothing very remarkable,” said Peregrine; “she only wondered who that tall
savage could be who was hacking up her rose bush so unmercifully, and said¾”
“That
is quite enough,” interrupted Atherton.
“Oho,
you have not had the cream of it! She says¾”
“Never
mind the girl,” interposed the Captain; “she is privileged to say any thing
that suits her; and now let me know, Peregrine, who is with her in the boat. But
the wind grows raw and blustering, and it is my mind that we have stood in it
long enough.”
“Her
father and Benjamin Ashly,” said Peregrine, as he followed into the house; “and
the last-mentioned personage, I believe, has been putting his brains in order,
to settle the dubious points of faith and doctrine to-night; for he towed us
along, like a snail dragging a cockle-shell.”
“And
do you mean to render him assistance with your knowledge and experience?” asked
Atherton.
“Not
I truly; they would look upon me with as much astonishment as the people of old
did when they found Saul among the prophets.”
“You
had better stay the evening with us then,” said the Captain; “it is far to go;
and unless Major Atherton wishes it, I had rather remain at home.”
“Certainly
not; I should by no means wish to intrude myself into the house of an entire
stranger.”
“I
wish I had kept on in the boat then,” said Peregrine White; “for I have no
fancy for a lonely jaunt, with nothing but a dog or my walking stick to speak with.
But where is Alexander?”
“He
has been out with Hobamock to fish since morning,” said the Captain. “I believe
the boy will turn Indian before long, he is so won over by their wandering sort
of life.”
“I
should like very well to walk part of the way with you, Peregrine,” said
Atherton; “but you can stay with us yet an hour or two.”
“Be
it so then,” replied Peregrine; “the savoury smell of a venison pasty, which
reaches me from the kitchen, is very refreshing, and will, doubtless, prove as
substantial as Benjamin Ashly’s exhortations, and be far more quickly
despatched.”
The
evening proved dark and chilly; but, with health and spirits which bade
defiance to its inclemency, the young men at a seasonable hour commenced their
walk towards the house of Mr. Woodman. It was two or three miles from the
residence of
Captain Standish; and the few stars that now
and then broke through the general gloom, served to direct their course; which,
after a short distance, seemed to diverge from the abodes of man, and at one
moment, led them through the intricacies of a wood, and the next, brought them
to the shore of the restless ocean.
“Heaven
defend us from a cold bath!” said Peregrine White. “I am not inclined to try my
skill in swimming on such a night as this!”
“Since
we have escaped those breakneck stumps which threatened our downfall in the
woods,” said Atherton, “I think we may find our path clear for the remainder of
the way. Yonder is a light, if I mistake not.”
“Yes,
and that is the end of our journey,” said Peregrine, joyfully.
“Here
then we must part,” rejoined Atherton.
“Go
with us,” replied Peregrine, “and we can land you at the Captain’s on our
return, without the least difficulty. It is a tedious walk for you alone.”
“No,
Rover and I shall be there before you; so look up to the window for a signal
light as you pass by.”
“I
must then bid you good bye, Major; for see! the door is this moment opening,
and they are all sallying forth.”
“Good
night, then; but let me intreat you to be prudent, and manage your boat
cautiously; it is a trying night, and I fear your voyage will be uncomfortable
at the best.”
“Never
doubt me,” said Peregrine; “I know the paths of the ocean as well as the fish
that swim in it; so fare you well.”
CHAP.
VIII.
¾¾¾ To hear
The roaring of the raging elements
To
know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail
not; to look round and only see
The
mountain-wave incumbent with its weight
Of
bursting waters, o’er the reeling bark,¾
Oh
God! this is indeed a dreadful thing! SOUTHEY.
THE
house to which Peregrine White directed his steps, was situated near the
extremity of a narrow beach which separated the ocean from a projecting bay,
and Atherton paused till the little party had exchanged their last adieus; and Miriam
Grey, leaning on her father’s arm, approached the bark, which was loosed from
the moorings, and shortly commenced its passage across the Bay. The morning of
that day had been serene and brilliant; but, with the variableness so common in
the capricious climate of New-England, its noon-tide splendour was overcast by
dark, though passing clouds, and the setting sun was shrouded in a lurid mist,
portending an approaching change of weather. Still, however, the clouds hung
back, as if unwilling to collect, and to blacken the pure arch of heaven; and
as Major Atherton yet lingered on the spot where his companion had left him,
the heavy masses seemed rolling away, leaving large tracts of blue and spangled
sky; and the waning moon, encircled by a broad zone of crimson vapour, began to
rise from her watery bed, and to shoot a trembling light across the track of
the lonely voyagers.
Actuated
by a latent interest, which he however ascribed to the mere impulse of
curiosity, Major Atherton enveloped himself more closely in the ample folds of
a military cloak, to ward off the piercing blast; and turning from the path
that led back to his kinsman’s house, proceeded with rapid steps along the
beach, which, extending nearly three miles in a south-easterly direction, terminated
in an eminence called the Gurnet’s Nose, then joined to the Sanguish by a strip
of sand, though it is now many years since the encroaching waves have insulated
it. On his left, the Atlantic tossed its foaming billows, sending forth
suppressed and sullen murmurs, and seeming to await the rising blast to lash
them into fury; while on the other side, the agitated waters of the bay dashed
fearfully against the strand, as if seeking to submerge the slight barrier
which separated them from the boundless deep. The moon was struggling with the
clouds that constantly flitted across her disk, affording to Atherton but
partial glimpses of the little bark, which he continued to watch with an
anxiety that rendered him insensible to personal inconvenience. It rode
manfully on a heavy sea, and in the eye of the wind, which rendered its
management difficult, and even dangerous, and required the most strenuous
efforts of the young men, who plied the oars with a dexterity and skill that
promised ultimate and well-earned success. They were still near the beach, to
which, in spite of their exertions, the wind continually impelled them; and as
a ray of light occasionally glanced on the countenance of Miriam Grey, Atherton
remarked with admiration the serenity of its expression, and the air of
calmness, mingled with awe, with which she regarded the angry elements.
Apparently unmoved by fear or anxiety, she gently reclined on her father’s
protecting arm, while both maintained a profound and unbroken silence. Indeed
all were so much engrossed by their peculiar situation or reflections, that
Atherton was entirely disregarded, though frequently so near, that the sound of
his footsteps, on a calm evening, might have been distinctly heard by them.
Presently, the voice of Miriam Grey, more sweet and touching from the contrast
of discordant sounds which raved around her, stole upon the ear of Atherton, as
in solemn measure she sung the following psalm:
“The Lord doth reign, and cloth’d is
he
With majesty most bright:
His works do shew him cloth’d to be,
And girt about with might.
The world is also ’stablished,
That it cannot depart:
Thy throne is fix’d of old, and thou
From everlasting art.
The floods, O Lord, have lifted up,
They lifted up their voice,
The floods have lifted up their
waves,
And made a mighty noise.
But yet the Lord that is on high
Is more of might, by far,
Than noise of many waters is,
Or great sea-billows are.”
As
she proceeded in the last verse, her voice became slightly tremulous; for the
wind, which at the commencement of it seemed dying away, as if lulled to
silence by her melody, suddenly rose with redoubled energy, and the darkened
sky almost concealed from his view the frail bark, which was at one moment
borne on the top of a tremendous wave, and the next almost ingulphed beneath
it. They were now nearly opposite the Gurnet’s Nose; and the wind, eddying
around the point of land, rendered their endeavours to keep out in the open bay
every instant more precarious.
Major
Atherton could no longer distinguish any object amidst the deepening gloom; but
he still occasionally caught the cheerful voice of Peregrine White, and once
distinctly heard Mr. Grey with his usual calmness, say,
“Bear
off from the shore, and by the leave of Heaven, I trust we shall soon be in
safety.”
Atherton
listened for another voice, and longed to know if the countenance of Miriam
still retained the sweet tranquillity he had just remarked on it, and which
struck him as even more fascinating than its usual sportive gaiety. But he
heard only the heavy strokes of the oars which became momently more and more
distant; and satisfied that they were well acquainted with the navigation of
the Bay, his fears for their safety gradually subsided; though it was not till
convinced they were beyond his observation, that he began to feel his own
situation to be uncomfortable, if not hazardous.
The
wind, which had exhausted its fury, and seemed to be sinking away in hollow
murmurs, had indeed enabled the party in the boat to make some progress in the
direction they wished; but its violence was shortly redoubled, and the light
skiff appeared totally unable to resist the combined force of the winds and
waves, that threatened to dash it among the shoals and rocks around the Gurnet.
The only hope of safety remaining to them, was the chance of reaching a spot
where they could land in safety; but at which, amidst the darkness of the night
and the roaring of the waves, it seemed almost impossible to arrive.
Until
the moment of extreme peril, Mr. Grey remained by the side of his daughter, and
while pressed by his encircling arm, Miriam felt in comparative safety; but
when the danger became more pressing, and required his experience and skill to
assist the exertions of his younger companions, all the fortitude and
resignation of a vigorous and well principled mind could hardly support her
amidst the terrors of a scene, which might have appalled even the stoutest
heart.
Mr. Grey, agonized with apprehensions for his daughter, which rendered him almost insensible to personal danger, pressed her to his bosom with the mingled sorrow and affection which the danger inspired; and silently commending her to the protection of Him, who directs the storm, and controls the raging winds, he applied himself with all the promptitude and energy which the exigence demanded, to guide the tossing bark amidst the jarring of the contending elements. Miriam Grey covered her face with both her hands, if possible, to screen her eyes from the threatening danger, though she could not shut her ears against the terrific sounds; and endeavouring to collect her agitated thoughts, and compose her mind to meet the will of Providence, awaited in profound stillness the event. Benjamin Ashly, who felt a double pang in prospect of the fate which seemed to await himself and the woman whom he devotedly loved¾feeling his affection rising above its usual reserve, approached with language that expressed his powerful interest, and endeavouring to inspire her with a hope which she felt to be fast gliding away.
“Leave
me, I entreat you,” she faltered out¾“as you value our safety, suffer no thought, no
fear for me, to distract your attention at this critical moment.”
Ashly
pressed her hand with silent emotion.
“God
reward you for all your kindness to me,” added the maiden, the tears quickly
coursing each other down her cheeks; “and forgive me, Ashly, if I have at any
time done aught to give you pain.”
Before
he had time to reply, Peregrine White exclaimed joyfully, “yonder is a deep
cove¾I know it well¾pull away like a man, Ashly, and if we can pass
these breakers, with the help of Heaven, we shall find safe landing.”
The
young man seized the oar which Mr. Grey relinquished to him, and for one moment
every heart beat high with renovated hope; the next, Ashly cried in a tone of
despair, “We are lost!” and at the same instant a loud crash proceeding from
the oar which had broken in his hand, struck like a knell on every ear. The
boat, propelled by the sudden shock, swung swiftly round; and though Peregrine
White, with admirable presence of mind, endeavoured to counteract the danger by
his skilful management of the remaining oar, it was swept back by a tremendous
wave rolling towards the strand, and left fast grounded on a rock, surrounded
by foaming breakers which threatened its speedy destruction. The violence of
the gale had passed away, and the moon breaking through the clouds, served but
to render their situation more frightful, by exhibiting all its horrors,
embittered by their recent hopes of reaching the wished-for shore that lay at a
short distance, now visibly inaccessible by reason of a boiling surge. A deadly
chill seemed to have seized on every heart; but the rushing of the waves, which
soon began to fill the shallow bark, renewed their energies with the additional
consciousness of their extreme peril.
“Now may God have mercy on us! there is no
longer any hope from man!” ejaculated Mr. Grey in a solemn voice; and he folded
his daughter in his arms with the tenderness of a last embrace.
“Say
not so!” said Peregrine White, vainly endeavouring to speak with firmness¾“we will not give up life without an effort to preserve it; we can swim,
and perhaps¾”
“And
Miriam Grey,” interrupted Ashly in great agitation¾“think you that she can
struggle with these waves?”
“If
you can save my child,” exclaimed the father, with deep emotion, “I shall die
contented.”
“No,
we will perish together,” said Miriam¾and she twined her arms more closely around her
father’s neck.
“Dearest
father,” she added, “it is but a brief, though stormy passage to a world, where
all will be sunshine and happiness for ever.”
Scarcely
had she spoken, when the loud barking of a dog was heard from the shore; and
with a sudden revulsion of feeling, every heart bounded with the hope of
approaching succour. A sound, as of some one plunging into the water instantly
followed; and through the gloom, they could perceive a figure buffeting with
the waves, another moment of expectation, and Miriam Grey felt herself gently,
but firmly grasped, and a well-remembered voice said to her, “fear not but
trust yourself to me, and you will soon be in safety.”
“Major Atherton! Is that you?” said
Peregrine White.
“Yes¾follow me, and we shall shortly reach the
strand.”
Atherton
leaped first into the surge with his half lifeless burthen, whom he firmly
supported with one arm, while with the other he resisted the violence of the
tide, and at length reached the shore, though nearly exhausted by the effort,
which his uncommon muscular strength alone had enabled him to make. Atherton
thought only of the lovely being whom he had rescued from an early grave; and
wrapping his warm and dry cloak around her, he gently seated her on a bank at
some distance from the water’s edge; and kneeling by her side, supported her
head against his shoulder, holding her wet and chilled hands between his own.
Miriam had not fainted, but conflicting emotions and acute feeling, for a time,
nearly deprived her of sensation; and when she began to revive, it was with
difficulty she could arrange her bewildered thoughts, or comprehend her
singular situation. Atherton, by the imperfect light, which still glimmered
from the heavens, watched with intense interest the returning animation of her
countenance, and saw with delight a faint colour stealing over her pale
features.
As
Miriam revived to perfect consciousness, she withdrew, in maiden bashfulness,
from the support of Atherton; and disengaging her hand, which he felt slightly
tremble between his own, leaned against the trunk of a pine, at the foot of
which she was seated. Atherton arose from his lowly posture, and respectfully
withdrew a few paces from her. Miriam also rose, and in an instant Atherton was
again by her side. She looked at him with a countenance full of gratitude; but
felt that language was powerless to express the deep emotions which his
disinrested exertions had inspired. In silent eloquence, she again offered him
the hand that she had just withdrawn; and Atherton pressed it to his heart,
with all the passion which his active ardour and a newly awakened enthusiasm
could inspire. Miriam bent her head upon her bosom; she could only articulate,
in a tone of deep anxiety, “my father!” and burst into a flood of tears.
“Your
father is safe, I trust,” said Atherton; “I even now hear his voice from the
beach, and will go and bring him to you;” and he left her, believing that, at
such a moment, solitude would be most acceptable to her.
The party had all reached the shore in safety; and Atherton found the young men reclining on the ground, and Mr. Grey standing apart, with folded arms, while Rover lay motionless and panting at his feet; though, the moment he saw his master, the faithful animal flew to meet him, wagging his tail, and whining to attract his notice and caresses, as a reward for his exertions. He had, indeed, been of essential service to Mr. Grey, whom, with the sagacity of his nature, he discovered to be the most indifferent swimmer, and, by keeping fast hold of his clothes, had greatly assisted him in struggling through the waves. Atherton patted him, with many kind expressions, which the dog seemed perfectly to understand; but, at the sound of his voice, Mr. Grey started, and turned suddenly round, with a degree of animation that strongly contrasted with his usual calmness; and, grasping his hand, he said, with energy¾
“To
you, young man, under God, I am this night indebted for the life of my only
child; accept a father’s blessing; and may the God of mercy reward you!”
“You
esteem my services too highly, sir,” said Atherton; “they were nothing more
than duty and humanity enjoined; and I shall ever bless God for conducting me
hither in such an hour of need.”
“Again
I thank you, young man,” said Mr. Grey, in an accent of strong feeling; “and I
trust we shall shortly meet again; but, at present, my heart yearns to behold
my daughter.”
“I
will conduct you to her, sir,” returned Atherton; and he led the way to Miriam;
but, without intruding upon their interview, immediately returned to the beach.
“You
have done us good service to-night, Major Atherton,” said Peregrine White,
rising to meet him, with extreme seriousness; “and I hold myself deeply
indebted to you.”
“To
your own exertions, rather say,” replied Atherton; “you must have managed
skilfully, to keep afloat so long on such a sea.”
“Ah!
but when we struck on that rock!” answered Peregrine; “I shall never think of
it without shuddering; and I am sure we should never, all of us, have got away
from it, but for your assistance. As for Mr. Grey, he would not have held out
long but for the help of your dog; and I am sure none of us could have beat the
waves as you did, with Miriam tugging at your arm.”
“You
speak without knowledge, Master Peregrine,” said Benjamin Ashly, who perhaps
felt a twinge of jealousy at Atherton’s success; “of this be assured, that my
arm should not have been slack to uphold the maiden amidst the buffetings of
the waves.”
“Your
arm! Master Ashly,” said Peregrine, losing his brief fit of gravity “why, you
puffed like a porpoise, man, and moreover, pulled at my arm ever and anon, to
keep your nostrils out of water, so that, for my own safety, I was obliged to
shake you off, as the apostle Paul did the viper.”
“It
is your custom to use unseemly jests, Peregrine White,” answered the other,
somewhat disconcerted; “but, nevertheless, I tell you that I would have saved
the damsel, Miriam Grey, or perished with her.”
“Now,
from the last mentioned act of kindness, Mr. Ashly,” said Peregrine, “I think
she would hold herself excused. It is my mind that she has seen enough of you
in this world, without going out of it in your company. So, after all, we are
obliged to my friend Major Atherton for his assistance.”
“Truly,
I esteem him for his works’ sake,” returned Ashly; and he turned rather stiffly
to Atherton, “yet we are bound to remember that we are but as ‘clay in the
potter’s hand,’ and, after all we can do, it is ‘of the Lord’s mercies that we
are not consumed.’”
“Consumed!
friend Ashly,” said Peregrine, “say drowned, washed away¾any thing but consumed; it is a most far-fetched word in this frozen
region, though I wish most truly that some of these trees were consuming, for
us to warm ourselves by; I am shivering with the cold;” and, as he spoke, his
teeth began to chatter violently.
“Our
quarters are indeed uncomfortable,” said Atherton, “and, in our wet condition,
it is perilous to remain here long; we had better make some arrangements to
depart.”
“If
yonder good man has done rejoicing over his lost sheep,” returned Peregrine,
“we will consult his pleasure, though we are in
none of the best plight either to go or stay.”
“The
wind has subsided, and the tide is going down,” said Atherton; “perhaps we can
get the boat off, and return in it.”
“It
has got itself off,” replied Peregrine, “went to pieces as my last leg came out
of it; so that scheme is up; we must walk round by the beach. But there is
Miriam, poor thing! tired enough, I suppose, and soaked through like a sponge,
withal. I doubt, Major, you did not bring her through the water dry, though you
darted along like a flying-fish with a bug in its mouth; and I think, too, you
must have flown to this spot just in the time of need; for I left you far off,
plodding alone through the woods.”
Atherton
smiled, but made no answer; for they at that instant reached the spot occupied
by Mr. Grey and his daughter. The latter, on seeing them approach, flung back
from her face a profusion of dark brown hair, out of which she had been
wringing the moisture; and drew the cloak more closely around her, to conceal
her wet and disordered dress. Rover, who preceded his master, began to fawn
about her feet.
“This
is one of our deliverers, Miriam,” said her father; “and he craves your notice
for his late services.”
“Thou
art a brave fellow,” said Miriam, stooping down to caress him; “and I can
never, never forget thy services, but to-night I feel unable to express my
obligations as I ought to any one.” She stole a timid glance at Atherton, and
again bent her face upon the short curly hair of his dumb favourite.
“What
arrangements shall we make, sir, for our return home?” said Atherton,
addressing Mr. Grey: “if we can
endure cold and wet, I fear your daughter will suffer severely from this long
exposure.”
“I
find a warm shelter within your cloak,” said Miriam; “though I ought not,
perhaps, to deprive you of its comforts.”
“It
would be rather an incumbrance to me,” replied Atherton; “and I fear you will
hardly endure its weight in walking: it was made for a soldier’s wear, rough
weather and a camp, not to shield the delicate form of woman, though I am most
happy if it can contribute to your comfort or protect you from danger.”
A
short consultation was then held, but it was presently broken off by the
unexpected appearance of a bright flame rising at a short distance from behind
a copse of evergreens, and flashing its red light upon the still troubled
waters. While they were yet looking and wondering, Peregrine White, whose
absence for a few moments they had scarcely observed, came running towards them
with an exulting air.
“Come
and warm yourselves,” said he, “I found a few embers which were doubtless left
by some charitable fishermen for our use, and have kindled a fire to cheer us
before we take up our line of march.”
So
saying, he seized the arm of Miriam Grey, and hurried her along with great
velocity in spite of the cumbrous cloak which impeded her progress: the rest of
the party followed more leisurely, and found a huge pile of underwood and dried
branches lighted up, which soon rendered them dry and comfortable.
“Here
are some of the planks of our poor boat,” said Peregrine, “which the sea has
washed ashore, and we may be thankful that none of us are clinging to them; but
they make a bright flame to warm us.”
“Master
White,” said Mr. Grey, “methinks your levity is ill-timed and unbecoming. After
the signal mercy we have this night experienced, it behoves us to shew our
thankfulness by a composed and cheerful deportment, but not to indulge in idle
mirth.”
“I
was never more serious in my life, sir, than I have been to-night,” returned
Peregrine, “and that for an unusual length of time. But now, like David of old,
I have washed myself, and would like him, eat and drink with a hearty
good-will, if there was any thing to set before me.”
“Hark!”
exclaimed Atherton, starting up, “if I mistake not, I hear the distant sound of
oars.”
“It
is so,” said Ashly, “and yonder is a boat moving over the waters.”
“You
must be akin to the owl, Master Ashly, if you can see so far in the dark,” said
Peregrine; “but blow up the flame for a beacon, and I will crawl up the
Gurnet’s Nose with this brand: it would be a bad joke if they should pass us.”
Snatching
a flaming stick from the fire, he ran quickly up the highest eminence, where
now stands the light-house, and waved it aloft as a signal of distress; and
they soon saw a stout boat with three men in it, advancing towards the cove
which they had vainly endeavoured to reach before striking upon the rock. Every
one approached the spot with more or less haste, except Miriam Grey, who
retained her station on the trunk of an uprooted pine, from whence she could
distinguish the various figures in the broad glare of the flame, and distinctly
hear most of their conversation. Atherton was the last to leave her; indeed he
lingered near the spot under various pretexts, till Miriam observed, with a
smile,¾
“I
suspect, Major Atherton, you fear from my drowsy countenance that I shall fall
asleep by this warm fire; but curiosity will keep me wakeful, for I am really
all eagerness to learn who has visited our barren island.”
“Some
one I hope who will soon convey you to a comfortable shelter,” said Atherton.
“Your looks do indeed betray your fatigue and need of repose.”
“Nay,
but you pay me an ill compliment,” returned Miriam playfully; “though I have no
glass to consult, I had fancied this cloak extremely becoming, and thought that
bright flame would not deny me the ruddy tinge it lavishes so freely on every
other object.”
“Shall
I be more gallant then,” replied Atherton, “and declare that Miriam Grey can
require no artificial aid to render her lovely!”
“No,”
returned Miriam, in some confusion, “I did not intend to extort flattery from
your lips.”
“The
language of flattery is unknown to me,” said Atherton, turning his dark eyes
full upon her blushing face; “I speak only what truth and feeling dictate;” and
bowing low, he reluctantly quitted her.
Miriam
Grey looked after him a moment with a thoughtful air; then leaning back her
head, seemed to regard attentively the wild scenery which surrounded her, and
particularly the group collected on the shore, where the crimson flame glanced
brightly, giving a peculiar, and at times, fantastic expression to their
features, and reflecting their dark shadows in the broken waves.
CHAP.
IX.
Mild
hospitality spreads wide her door,
And,
with the loaded banquet, courts the stay
Of
passing stranger. COTTLE.
“WELL,
how now,” exclaimed Captain Standish, springing from the boat, “what sort of a
frolic is this, good people? a pretty tune you have made us dance to this
stormy night!”
“One
of Beelzebub’s tunes, I think, Captain,” said Peregrine White; “and here is
Hobamock, on my life, looking like one of his fiddlers, with the blaze dancing
on his copper-coloured visage!”
“Explain
boy, explain,” said the Captain, impatiently, “or hold your peace, and let some
one older and wiser speak for you. But what means this? Cousin Atherton here
too!” and he looked in surprise as his kinsman that moment approached the spot.
“Yes,”
resumed Peregrine; “he has been chief actor in the tragedy.”
“Tragedy!”
interrupted the Captain; “I can well believe, jack-a-napes, that you would keep
away from any thing tragic; so now you mean to teaze us with your nonsense.”
“He
jumped into the sea,” pursued Peregrine, with the utmost gravity, “seized the
damsel, and swam off with her like a fish.”
“Who?
Miriam Grey? where is she, where is my rose-bud?” said the Captain, quickly; “I
hoped they had kept her on solid ground this dark night.”
“My
daughter,” said Mr. Grey, “is safe and well, thanks to Heaven, and the courage
of your young kinsman, who has indeed stepped between us and death.”
“You
have done well, Edward,” said the Captain with warmth; “as I said before, you
have Standish blood in your veins; and ne’er a one of us has ever yet turned
his back upon danger! But I must know all, every thing that has happened.”
“The
substance of the matter is this;” answered Peregrine White; “our boat was
driven on a rock by a violent head wind, and stove to pieces; and so being all
fairly ducked in the sea, we made use of our fins to good advantage, and with
the help of Major Atherton and his dog, who chanced to be near, I know not how,
we reached this Melita, safe and
sound; but unluckily found no ‘barbarous people’ to ‘shew us kindness.’”
“You
were not in the boat then, cousin Atherton,” said the Captain; “and how came
you near them in their distress?”
“I
was wandering on the beach,” said Atherton, evading a direct answer, “and
fortunately perceived their danger in time to render some assistance.”
“You
missed the road I suppose,” returned the Captain, “and it is no odd mistake for
a stranger; we have not made broad English highways through our woods as yet;
and you would hardly understand our rustic land-marks.”
“To
what cause,” asked Atherton, “are we indebted for the unexpected pleasure of
seeing you?”
“Principally
to Mr. Calvert,” replied the Captain, “with whom I must make you acquainted;”¾and he turned to address a young man who had accompanied him in the
boat, and was talking apart with Mr. Grey and Benjamin Ashly.
“Calvert!”
repeated Atherton thoughtfully; for the name sounded familiar, and he regarded
with more attention the stranger, whom he had before scarcely remarked. His
figure was slight, but peculiarly graceful; his complexion sallow; his
countenance strongly marked, and animated by intelligent features and piercing
black eyes, with hair of the most jetty hue. There was a degree of singularity
in his appearance rather attractive than pleasing; and Atherton, as soon as he
had heard his voice, identified him as a native Virginian who had been sent to
England for education, and served some time as lieutenant in the same regiment
with himself; but quitted the profession about two years previous, being
recalled by the death of his father, to take possession of a valuable
plantation. Major Atherton knew that he was insinuating and unprincipled, and
master of those specious talents and artful manners which enabled him to
support any character that suited his inclination; and he was therefore not
surprised to find him treated with marked attention even by the scrupulous Mr.
Grey.
As
Atherton advanced towards Mr. Calvert, he expressed his recognition by politely
bowing, which the latter instantly returned, at the same time observing,¾
“I
did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting with Major Atherton in this new
world.”
“And
the pleasure of seeing you, sir, was equally unexpected,” returned Atherton. “A
voyage from your distant province I have always considered nearly as formidable
as one from the parent country.”
“We
endeavour to keep up a good neighbourhood,” said Calvert; “and it is quite a
deed of charity to convey intelligence occasionally through our thinly
scattered settlements; not to mention the powerful suggestions of interest, or
the old fashioned claims of friendship.”
“It
was a good chance at any rate which brought you here to-night,” said Peregrine
White; “for though I don’t exactly know how, the Captain says we are indebted to
you for succour.”
“Not
exactly so,” returned Mr. Calvert. “I arrived at Plymouth about noon to-day,
and early in the evening crossed the Bay to visit Captain Standish. I found him
very uneasy about his friends; and as I had felt the violence of the wind in my
short passage, which boded no good to so light a skiff as he told me you were
in, I proposed enlisting Hobamock in my service and sailing out in quest of
you. The Captain insisted on accompanying me, and we were soon directed in our
course by your blazing watch fire; though it also excited considerable anxiety
respecting your situation.”
“We
have cause to regret the trouble and concern you have sustained on our
account,” said Mr. Grey, “though Providence has doubtless permitted it for some
wise and benevolent purpose.”
“Peradventure
for the trial of our faith and love,” said Benjamin Ashly.
“I
dare say there will some love come out of it,” whispered Peregrine White to
Atherton; “and I do believe, after all, Master Ashly would rather have been drowned
with Miriam than have had you save her.”
“It
is my mind,” said Captain Standish, “that we had better think of returning
home; the night wanes, and my little rose-bud I know begins to droop her head.”
So
saying he walked with hasty steps to Miriam Grey, and had exhausted a score of
congratulations before his more tardy companions could overtake him; though the
echo of a hearty salute which he bestowed on her cheek, reached them even at a
distance.
“That
went off like a cannon ball!” cried Peregrine White. “I should think, Captain,
you were charging the enemy with a full round of grape shot!”
“Have
a care, young man,” said the Captain, “or I will give you a shot about the
ears, that will make you cry out for quarter, before you can have time to retreat.”
Miriam
at that moment rose to receive Mr. Calvert, who greeted her with the
familiarity of long acquaintance; and taking her passive hand, conveyed it to
his lips with the most easy gallantry, leaving Atherton at a loss whether the
bright blush which mantled her cheeks was excited by pleasure or bashfulness;
and before he could solve the doubt to his own satisfaction, she was leaning on
her father’s arm, and directing her steps to the boat. The sea was still rough,
and the wind keen, though it had tacked about to a point more favourable for
their progress; but Miriam could not avoid shuddering as she entered the boat,
and again entrusted her safety to the keeping of the elements, from whose wrath
she had so severely and recently suffered. These natural emotions were,
however, transient, and passed away even before the bark had glided from the
cove which was still burnished with the light of the expiring fire.
Captain
Standish would allow no one to share with himself and Hobamock the toil of
rowing, insisting that they were fresh and vigorous, and the others wearied by
exertion; and claimed, as his only recompence, that they would proceed no
farther than his house that night; where he had ordered preparations to be made
for their accommodation, in case of need. His hospitality was cheerfully
accepted by all but Mr. Calvert, whose affairs obliged him to return to
Plymouth; and as it was agreed that Hobamock should go with him to convey
intelligence of their safety to the friends of those who remained behind.
The
little party then sunk into almost total silence, each apparently exhausted in
spirits; and the boat moved slowly over the heavy waves, while at intervals,
the Indian burst into a low solemn chaunt in the harsh and guttural language of
his nation. The animated voice of the Captain at length roused them.
“Haul
up, Hobamock,” he said; “here we are safe and ready to land.”
As
he spoke the boat was made fast to the shore, and all, except Mr. Calvert and
the Indian, leaped from it with joyful hearts, and proceeded to the house,
which stood at no great distance.
Mistress
Saveall, Captain Standish’s provident housekeeper, rightly judging from her
master’s prolonged absence, that he would not return unaccompanied by those
whom he went out to succour, had piled high the blazing logs in the ample
fire-place, and marshalled round it a goodly row of comfortable elbow chairs
ready for their reception. As they entered the room she was, with bustling
activity, preparing a liberal table to satisfy their farther wants¾though the disordered appearance of the guests so strongly excited her
curiosity, and her ears were so fully engrossed by the conversation, from which
she hoped to gather an account of what had passed, that her task proceeded very
slowly: when a sharp rebuke from the Captain, whose commands were equally
peremptory in his house and garrison, discharged her from the room with the
swiftness of an arrow, though her countenance, for some time, marked her
resentment of the indignity. In a few minutes a substantial repast engrossed
the attention of every one; and the culinary skill of Mistress Saveall was
discussed so much to her satisfaction (for the worthy dame was seldom out of
hearing), that her smiles and exertions were speedily redoubled, and the late
affront seemed quite forgotten.
“Let
Mistress Saveall alone for cooking to my liking, at least,” said the Captain;
“she has a curious way of seasoning her viands
just to suit the palate; and if you have a mind to take some lessons of her,
Miriam, I’ll be bound they will stand you in good service when you have a house
of your own to look after.”
“I
am an experienced housewife already, sir,” replied Miriam; “I believe my father
is very well satisfied with my abilities.”
“With
the help of your cousin Lois,” said Mr. Grey, “you have hitherto been pretty
expert in the duties of your sex.”
“But
Mistress Lois will not be with you long, I suppose,” returned the Captain; “and
we shall see if the garrison is well victualled, and fit for duty then.”
“I
doubt not,” Benjamin Ashly ventured to say, “that Miriam Grey is competent,
albeit alone and unassisted, to manage the affairs of a household with
discretion.”
“And
so you have a mind,” said Peregrine White, “to make her chief ruler over your
affairs!¾ha, master Ashly?” and he added in a whisper,
though loud enough to be heard by all at the table¾”But the deuce take me, if you don’t find it
hard tugging to get the pinnace into that harbour!”
Mr.
Ashly coloured with resentment, but made no answer; aware from experience, that
it would only provoke a retort; nor could Atherton refrain from smiling as he
glanced from him to Miriam Grey, whose countenance evinced a slight degree of
vexation, mingled with an expression of archness which increased as she stole a
glance from under her long eye-lashes at her abashed lover; while Captain
Standish indulged in a long and loud laugh.
“You
whisper over loud, Master Peregrine,” he said at its conclusion¾ “but we never mind you¾so no offence. And now lay your mirth aside, and
help Miriam to a slice from that sirloin by you.”
“I
should prefer a share of that dish which you seem to keep for your sole
benefit, Peregrine,” said Miriam.
“Of
the dish? the corn that is in it you mean,” replied Peregrine; “though if you
had spoken a moment later, I doubt if there would have been any thing left but
the platter:” and as he heaped her plate with a quantity of broken corn,
boiled, and called Samp, or Nasaump by the Indians, he continued¾“I dare say, Captain, this corn is descended from the very ears you had
the Christian charity to steal from the poor Indians when you first landed in
their dominions.”
“Young
man,” said Mr. Grey in a severe tone, “you speak lightly, or are ill-informed
of that which your fathers have done in this wilderness. Providence, which
manifestly brought us out from our native land, and watched over us in all our
straits, was pleased, in our hour of extremity, to avert the horrors of famine
by conducting our steps to the subterranean granaries of the idolatrous heathen,
whereby we were supplied with food to eat, and seed for the future harvest.”
“And
left the owners thereof to starve,” returned the unabashed youth. “That was a
way of cutting off the enemy without the trouble of driving them out before you
to come into possession of their goodly inheritance.”
“We
did them no injustice,” resumed Mr. Grey; “we found the country desolate and
deserted for many leagues from the coast, as we afterwards learned by reason of
a great plague which the Lord had visited upon this people who knew him not. In
the succeeding autumn we sent an embassy to Aspinet, sachem of the Nauset
tribe, from whom we had taken the corn, to repay them from our substance that
which they demanded as recompense; and they having sufficient left for their
own use, were well satisfied to truck
with us.”
“I
suppose,” said Peregrine, “you paid them for their grain with rusty penknives
and glass beads.”
“They
have found to their cost,” replied the Captain, “that we know how to pay off
our debts, even with good round shot and cold steel. It is my mind they would
not greet us again with a shower of arrows when we came to take peaceable
possession of the land in God’s name and the king’s.”
“Strange
enough,” observed Peregrine White, “that the dusky rascals should not be
willing to give up their rights to us comely white people.”
“At
least,” said the Captain, “they have leaned to fear us, and that with a very
few lessons¾aye, they took to their heels at the first
musket shot; only one fellow dared to defend himself behind a tree, and he soon
ran after the rest, with half a score of our bullets in him.”
“Hark!
it is raining fast,” exclaimed Peregrine White¾“I am right glad that we went no farther
to-night.”
“I
wish we had prevailed on Calvert to remain,” said the Captain; “he will be half
drowned ere he get to Plymouth.”
“Why
did you not persuade him to stay, Miriam?” asked Peregrine.
“To
tell the truth, I scarcely thought of it,” returned the damsel; “and if I had,
should probably have had no interest with him.”
“Do
you think so?” said Peregrine, significantly; “with your leave I should like to
whisper a word in your ear.”
“You
will not have my leave to be so uncivil,” said Miriam, smiling; “besides, your
whispers are apt to be very audible.”
“Another
time will do, then,” returned Peregrine, as they all rose from the table; and
soon after Captain Standish caused his household to assemble and close the day
with their customary devotions, which on that evening were rendered peculiarly
impressive, by the circumstances of danger and difficulty from which so many
present had been providentially delivered. The psalm selected as a portion of
the exercise, chanced to be one which Atherton had often heard warbled from the
lips of his mother, and it awakened associations that thrilled his heart with
sad yet pleasing recollections, and compelled him almost involuntarily to unite
in the song of praise and thanksgiving, which arose like a cloud of incense
from the family altar of the puritans. He caught the eye of Miriam Grey as his
fine and manly voice mingled with her own, and false note from which she
instantly recovered, shewed a momentary abstraction of mind, that was however
perfectly natural, and perhaps shared with her by all who heard him; for in
those days of rigid separation, when every sect proclaimed by actions, if not
in words, “stand off, for I am holier than thou;” the act of countenancing,
much more of assisting each other in their different forms of worship, argued
an unusual degree of lenity or an unpardonable indifference to prevailing modes
and opinions. The family and guests soon after separated for the night; and
Mistress Saveall insisted on attending Miriam Grey to her chamber, to
administer a composing draught which she had prepared to ward off the effects
of her recent exposure.
The
opening and closing of doors, and tread of footsteps above and around the
apartment of Major Atherton, was succeeded by a profound silence throughout the
house, long before he could divert his thoughts from the events of the evening;
and the occurrences of the few last
weeks, which had so strongly impressed his imagination, as to banish from his
pillow the repose which his late exertions rendered necessary. The situation
into which he was so unexpectedly cast, possessed a tinge of romance peculiarly
calculated to excite the enthusiasm of his character, at a moment, too, when he
was gradually recovering from a deep depression of spirits, occasioned by the
loss of a parent whom he devotedly loved, and the subsequent abandonment of a
profession on which he had, with well founded ambition, rested his future hopes
of glory and advancement.
Till
that period arms had been his passion, and fame his mistress; and when obliged
to relinquish them, he had turned with restless eagerness to the shores of the
new world, as a scene where he might again find exercise for the energy and
activity of his mind. At a distance, he had listened with interest to
descriptions of its local advantages, its majestic scenery, and its rising importance.
He had regarded it as an asylum for the persecuted, and the future home of a
free and virtuous people. On a near approach, he found that description had
fallen short of reality, and fancy but faintly portrayed the magnificence of
its untamed landscapes. He viewed with astonishment and admiration its gigantic
mountains, its lofty hills and fruitful valleys, its boundless forests, its
dashing torrents, and broad and fertilizing rivers. Where the wildness of
nature had yielded to the hand of cultivation, villages were arising, and the
soil teemed with all the rich and varied bounties which could spring up to
reward the labours of the husbandman. He regarded, too, the men whom the
prejudiced and worldly-minded stigmatized as bigots and seditious enthusiasts;
they were men who had forsaken power and riches and distinction for the
“gospel’s sake;” who with holy lives and blameless conversation shared with
each other the tender charities of life, and the sweetness of social and
domestic intercourse; while many, whom opportunity favoured, had drank deeply
at the fountain of intellectual knowledge. He admired the wisdom of their
political compact, which, while it rendered them subservient to the laws of
England, provided for the internal peace and prosperity of the colony, the
administration of justice, and the promotion of order, piety and learning. If
their doctrines were censured as intolerant, and their morals as too rigid, it
was an extreme produced by the spirit of the times, and which might naturally
appear essential to those who had separated from a church, which, under the
influence of a dissolute court and vindictive prelacy, openly countenanced
vice, and secretly connived at bribery and corruption.
Yet
there were softer thoughts and fairer images imprinted on the mind of Atherton.
The lovely figure of Miriam Grey, her playful sweetness, the brilliant beauty
of her countenance, its spirit and intelligence, the graceful timidity and
unaffected artlessness of her manners, were all registered in his memory, and
delineated on his heart. In his native land he had seen as fair, perhaps fairer
maidens; the gay, the beautiful, and high-born; the smiling idol of a courtly
throng, and the rustic belle, whose charms relieved the dulness of country
quarters, had alternately claimed from him the brief homage of a compliment, or
the passing tribute of a sigh; but never till now had he felt the sorcery of a
woman’s eye, or the resistless spell which sports in her smile, and lurks
beneath her blushes. Romance lent her aid to heighten the enchantment, and
involved him in her shadowy but delightful mazes. A lover of music, and himself
well skilled in the harmony of sweet sounds, from the moment he had listened to
the voice of Miriam on the evening of his arrival, his curiosity had been
awakened, and the transient glimpse he soon obtained of her, deepened that
curiosity to a powerful interest. It was a vision, of which he had never
dreamed, and, least of all, expected to realize, amidst the wild scenery of
New-England. Every succeeding interview increased his interest, and the late
scene, which seemed so closely to connect them, kindled the latent spark into
enthusiasm. As yet, however, it had not become a sentiment, but a pleasing
fancy, which future circumstances were to enliven or destroy; but it was
already sufficiently powerful to engross his midnight thoughts, and the rain
had ceased to beat against the casements, and the moon shone brightly on his
uncurtained bed, long before his eyelids were closed in slumber.
Major
Atherton slept long enough on the following morning, to make amends for the
restlessness of the night; and Captain Standish and his guests had been some
time assembled before he joined them in the breakfast room. He was apprised of
his remissness as he was descending the stairs by the impatient voice of
Mistress Saveall rising from the kitchen, who declared to David, that “the
venison steak were well nigh done to death, and all because the Captain would
wait for the young Major to get up.”¾ “And I
am sure,” responded David, who was pounding corn with all his might between two
stones, “if Master Ashly should be for making one of his long prayers, the
chocolate will be clear boiled away.”
Major
Atherton, thus warned of his tardiness, expected to be greeted with raillery by
his kinsman, but the Captain was struck with the unusual languor of his
countenance, and, as he entered the parlour, exclaimed¾
“Well,
cousin Atherton, I thought something must ail you, to keep you in bed so long;
and here you are, looking as pale as a Dutch ghost.”
“I
know not how I could oversleep myself so strangely on so bright a morning as
this,” returned Atherton; “you have a capricious climate, Captain, and storms
and sunshine succeed each other so rapidly, that we have scarcely time to guard
against the one or enjoy the other. Last evening, I scarcely expected to see
blue sky again for a week at least.”
“Our
southerly gales,” said the Captain, “are short and violent; and, had you asked
me, I could have told you last night that it would be fair weather today. But
that is nothing to the purpose; so tell me truly now, if that confounded game
of swimming has not washed away your colour, and given you a cold.”
“I
am perfectly well,” replied Atherton; “and I believe my colour is not on the
surface, to be rubbed off so easily.”
“As
for that,” said the Captain, “my little rosebud here has generally as bright a
tinge as most damsels on her cheek; but just look at her now, she is as wan and
drooping as a lily.”
Atherton
was looking at her, and with an
anxious expression, which, as his eyes encountered those of Miriam Grey,
suffused her face with the deepest blush, which again gradually faded into its
former paleness.
“How
now?” said the Captain, regarding her with attention; “I believe the girl is
feverish¾such a flush, and all for nothing. Mistress
Saveall must steep you some more of her herbs, and mess you up in her way.”
“No,
no,” said Miriam, laughing, “I only wanted to contradict you, Captain; and, not
daring to do it with my lips, conjured up that colour, which was a modest way
of saying you are mistaken, sir.”
“And
a very pretty way, truly,” returned the Captain; “and were I a few years
younger, Miriam, there is no knowing what effect it would have upon my heart.”
“Now
I pray you, Captain,” said Miriam, blushing more deeply than before, probably
from observing the gaze of Atherton, who was admiring the bright glow, “do not
give me the trouble of trying it again. To tell you the truth, I have a keen
appetite this morning, and have been wishing for breakfast for the last half
hour or two.”
“I
am sorry to have caused so much delay by my indolence,” said Atherton.
“Nay,”
said Miriam, gaily, “but you must take more leisure if you mean to apologize,
Major Atherton. There is Master Peregrine looking very hungry; and my father, I
know, is in haste to return home.”
Mr.
Grey had expressed a wish to return as early as possible to Plymouth. Captain
Standish, therefore, ordered a boat to be prepared; and, soon after breakfast,
they were all in readiness to depart. Atherton felt a strong desire to go with
them, which he was hesitating to make known, when the Captain said¾
“I
had thoughts of taking a trip with you, Mr. Grey, if it pleased you to accept
my company and cousin Atherton’s; but, on second thoughts, he had enough of the
water last night, and had better rest a while.”
“Indeed,
sir,” replied Atherton, “I am perfectly well; and, if not, this elastic air
might restore health to an invalid.”
“We
have many such days in autumn,” said the Captain; “and, if Hobamock were here,
I think he would predict an Indian summer to us after this storm; so we will
see you soon, Mr. Grey, and I will teach Major Atherton to harvest corn this
morning.”
Atherton
tried not to look vexed, though he really felt so; and Mr. Grey, with much
cordiality, expressed a hope that he should see him as soon, and as often as he
could find it convenient; a hope which Atherton fancied was confirmed by
Miriam’s eyes, and to which he yielded a ready assent.
“All’s
ready,” said Peregrine White; “so good bye to you all. And now, away, Master
Ashly; but take care that you do not break the oar, and set us all adrift
again:” and, looking back, he called out, “I pray you, Captain, to look sharp
at your corn, and not teach Major Atherton to bind it into sheafs like wheat,
as you did me once. I can tell you, the Governor had some trouble to unlearn
me.”
“It
would be well if he had no other trouble with you,” said the Captain. “Master
Peregrine,” he added to Atherton, “is like a king’s jester, privileged to say
aught that pleases him, without giving offence; and if he is rude at times, we
don’t mind him; for the lad means well and is kind at heart, though he has come
near being spoiled by indulgence. His father died soon after his birth, and I
suppose the Governor does not care to meddle much with his mother’s
management.”
“It
is natural that he should not,” said Atherton, who answered almost
mechanically; for his eyes were following the boat as it shot rapidly across
the Bay ¾and he was perhaps admiring the deep blue of
the heavens, the glassy smoothness of the waters dimpled by the dipping oars,
and slightly furrowed by the track of the light vessel, which soon dwindled to
a fairy skiff. The figure of Miriam Grey was no longer distinguishable; and
Atherton, whistling carelessly to his dog, returned to the house.
CHAP.
X.
What
is fanatic frenzy, scorn’d so much,
And
dreaded more than a contagious touch?
I grant it dang’rous,
and approve your fear,
That
fire is catching, if you draw too near;
But
sage observers oft mistake the flame,
And give true piety that
odious name. COWPER.
AS
Captain Standish was reviewing the labour of his fields after dinner with
Major Atherton, they observed Hobamock
approaching towards them, on the road from Plymouth.
“There
comes my trusty messenger,” said the Captain; “I wonder what brings him back
here to-day.”
“He
seems swift-footed,” returned Atherton; “and you must find him very serviceable
in your colony.”
“Yes,”
replied the Captain, “and he is shrewd and faithful, and moreover exceedingly
brave; being what the Indians call a Paniese,
which means, a chief of great courage, who they think has had intercourse with
the devil, to render him invincible.”
“Has
he resided long with you?” asked Atherton.
“He
came to us within a year after we landed, and we have since employed him in our
service. He has been our interpreter and guide amongst the savage tribes, and a
good soldier too, after his manner, in all our engagements. But he begins to
lose the agility of youth. I doubt civilization does not agree with him.”
Hobamock,
at that moment, stood before them bowing with profound respect.
“Well,
Hobamock, what news do you bring us?” said the Captain.
“No
news, Captain; come to walk, and see if you want me for do any thing.”
“No,
nothing,” returned the Captain; “but stop; have any vessels come into Plymouth
this day or two?”
“Yes,
one last night, from the Massachusetts, and young Master Weldon come in him.”
“Master
Weldon, ha! well, we must brush up for a wedding, Edward; that is Lois Grey’s
lover. You may go into the house Hobamock, and tell Mistress Saveall to give
you something to eat.”
The
Indian obeyed with alacrity.
“I
think,” continued the Captain, “if you please, cousin Atherton, we will go to
the old town this afternoon; I should like to see Henry Weldon, and it is long
since we were at the Governor’s.”
“I
will go with pleasure,” said Atherton; “do you try the land or water?”
“Land,
I think,” replied the Captain. “I have two horses, and you may take your choice
of them.”
In
a short time they were both mounted, and on the way to Plymouth; and quickly
clearing the intermediate woods, the village and harbour lay in full prospect
before them.
“There
is the Massachusetts’ shallop,” said the Captain; “she has been here before on
trading voyages; and that stout pinnace at anchor near her, must be the
Virginian. I will warrant there is a goodly hoard of tobacco stowed away in
her.”
“Mr.
Calvert seemed well known to you,” said Atherton; “has he made frequent voyages
to New-England?”
“Only
one, about a year since; but he cultivates a large plantation, and has often
sent vessels here and to the Massachusetts. He has ever dealt honourably with
us, and conducted himself discreetly, so as to gain the good-will of the
people; but you probably know more of him than we do?”
“I
saw him seldom, except on duty, even when we served together;” said Atherton.
“But here are two roads, which of them shall we take?”
“You
can go on to Mr. Grey’s, if you like,” returned the Captain, “and I will
shortly join you there; I have some business that leads me first in the
opposite direction.”
They
accordingly separated, and a few moments brought Major Atherton to the
residence of Mr. Grey. He alighted and fastening his horse to the wooden
paling, knocked at the outer door. No one appeared, and after repeating the
knock several times, without being heard, he ventured to lift the latch and
enter a small apartment, which seemed to be the usual sitting room. It was
extremely neat, and conveniently furnished, but unoccupied; and Atherton, while
waiting for some person to answer his summons, had leisure to examine every
object which it contained. True, there was nothing remarkable in it; the heavy
chairs; the wooden-framed looking-glass and carved oaken table, though brightly
polished by time and industry, might be seen in any other place; there was a
beaufet too, carefully decorated with china and a few vessels of massive plate;
and over the fire-place hung a piece of
embroidery, representing the garden of Paradise in all its original splendour.
It was crowded with a gay assortment of colours, wrought into flowers and
birds, and “all manner of four-footed beasts,” and some with no feet at all,¾with our first parents standing under the “tree of good and evil,” which
spread forth its goodly branches loaded with a kind of non-descript fruit, of a
tempting red and yellow. Around the trunk a serpent of prodigious dimensions
had awfully twined himself, stretching out his head to gaze at the guilty pair,
with eyes that resembled bullets.
This
ingenious specimen of female industry bore the date of 1616; it could not,
therefore, be the production of Miriam’s needle; and Atherton in turning from
it was attracted by a small Indian basket of curious workmanship. Some
unfinished work lay in it, with several implements of housewifery as if
recently left, and probably he thought by Miriam herself. He had taken up, and
was examining with the eye of a connoisseur, a pocket-book of famous
tent-stitch, when the door opened, and not Miriam, but a tidy looking housemaid
entered. She started with some surprise on seeing a stranger, and so employed,
and Atherton hastily replacing the basket and its contents, inquired for Mr.
Grey. The family were all from home, and it was uncertain when they would
return.
Atherton
left the house in disappointment; and remounting his horse struck into a
bye-way which led in a circuitous route to the Governor’s. He was presently
surprised to hear the quick trampling as of several horses approaching him in
that unfrequented road; and on turning a sudden angle, he came in full view of
two damsels mounted on a spirited palfry; nor did it require a second glance to
convince him that the light maiden, who rode with so much grace, and managed
her steed with such ease and dexterity, was Miriam Grey, and on a pillion
behind her he recollected the features of her cousin Lois. Mr. Calvert,
apparently in high spirits, followed close in the rear, for there was not room
for two abreast; and Atherton caught the gay tones of his voice as Miriam, at
the moment, looked back to speak with him.
Major
Atherton drew up on one side to let them pass; and Miriam as soon as she saw
him, checked her horse, and looked as if hesitating whether to speak or wait
for him to address her. But Atherton, from one of those unaccountable
sensations peculiar to lovers, particularly in the incipient stages of their
disease, contented himself with a passing salute, and continued his course in silence.
Miriam
seemed to regard him with surprise and perplexity; she however courteously
returned his salutation; but as they passed each other, with some difficulty in
the narrow defile, her slender foot caught in the stirrup of his saddle. He
instantly stopped, but she extricated herself before he had time to assist her,
or even speak, as he then felt strongly inclined; and slightly touching the
curved neck of her steed, she set off with speed that almost alarmed Atherton
for her safety. He bit his lip with vexation, and vainly deprecated the
perverse feeling which had suffered him to pass her in silence. He looked back
again¾she maintained her seat with the utmost
firmness, and in another moment had passed beyond his sight. Atherton sunk into
a deep reverie; and the animal he rode, which had been used to a plough, and
thereby lost the exuberance of his spirits, and become fond of his ease,
encouraged by the lenity of his rider and attracted by a spot of fresh grass,
endeavoured by a vigorous shake to free himself from all incumbrances, to enjoy
the tempting morsel at his leisure. But Atherton, completely aroused by the
exertion, plunged his spurs into the sides of the reluctant beast, and urged
him to a gallop which soon brought him to Mr. Winslow’s gate.
Peregrine
White saw him approaching from a window, and hastened to the door to welcome
him.
“I
am heartily glad to see you, Major,” said he; “though methinks you might as
well have come with us in the morning, as to burthen this miserable old sheep,
which looks as if it was going to baa
at this very moment. The Captain has a high-mettled steed that he might have
lent you, instead of this shaggy thing.”
“I
had my choice of the two,” returned Atherton; “but as he was coming with me, I
left the best for his own use.”
“That
was vastly civil of you,” said Peregrine; “but if you had been with us, I would
have treated you with some rare sport.”
“You
are very liberal with such entertainment,” said Atherton; “how was it served up
this morning?”
“Oh,
it was Benjamin Ashly’s own contrivance. You must know he was the last to leave
the boat, and twisting about in his clumsy fashion, he tipped it on one side,
and went souse into the water to his neck. I wish you could have seen him!
there he stood, with his jaws distended like a crocodile’s, and croaking for
all the world like a frog.”
“I
suppose you had no hand in the accident?” said Atherton.
“No
hand in it, on my honour; though I can’t say but my foot might possibly have
touched the keel; it was purely accidental, however.”
“Oh,
of course, we could not suppose you mischievous; but I hope you helped him out
of the difficulty.”
“He
crawled out like a great mud turtle,” said Peregrine; “and how he got home I
know not, for I came off with the pretty Miriam, who could not for her life
help laughing, though her father tried to frown us both into long faces to suit
the cut of the young deacon’s woeful visage.”
“I
should think Mr. Ashly would keep aloof from you,” said Atherton; “you are apt
to come into rude contact with him. But we had better go into the house now if
you are ready.”
“Whenever
you please; but I forgot to tell you there is some half dozen of good people in
there, who seem very well satisfied with themselves, but in my opinion are
terribly stupid.”
“Perhaps
I shall intrude on them,” said Atherton.
“Oh
no, you will not; and it may be you will enliven them a little; I am sure I
have been half asleep for an hour past, and once do verily believe my head
dropped on Mrs. Rebecca Spindle’s shoulder; the last thing in the world I
should choose for a pillow.”
“Let
us go then, said Atherton, “they will wonder that we stay so long on the
threshold.”
“No
matter,” returned the careless youth; “they have been talking about you all the
afternoon, and it will give them time to wind off with a good grace.”
So
saying, he entered and threw open the parlour door, at which Atherton was met
by the Governor with his habitual courtesy, and introduced to his guests. Mrs.
Winslow also rose with matronly dignity to receive him; and the usual
civilities being ended on all sides, she returned to her station with her
female friends, who were seated in a formal row on one side of the apartment,
and the conversation was resumed which had been suspended on the entrance of
Major Atherton.
The
subject in discussion was certain heretical opinions that were said to be
gaining ground in the Massachusetts Bay; and concerning which, reports,
probably exaggerated, had been received by the late arrival from that place.
These heresies were considered by all as dreadful, and till of late, unheard-of
enormities, though their precise nature seemed to be imperfectly understood,
and variously interpreted. That a woman should become the promulgator of such
doctrines, was evidently no slight addition to the crime.
“To
think,” as Mistress Spindle judiciously remarked, “that a frail woman should
take it on herself to set forth new, and strange doctrines! it was an awful
thing!”
“But,”
said Peregrine White, who could seldom keep silence, “all women are not so
frail, Mistress Spindle, as your experience may lead you to believe; and this
Mrs. Hutchinson, we are told, has the sense and
spirit of a lion.”
“The
spirit of a devil!” exclaimed a little austere-looking man; “and when our youth
rise up to defend such in their apostacy, well may we tremble for the ark which
we have builded here.”
“My
son did not mean to defend her principles,” said Mrs. Winslow; “but, with his
usual haste, has spoken unadvisedly with his lips.”
“No,
mother, I did not speak.”¾Peregrine began; but the Governor, in a mild,
though decisive tone, interposed.
“We
will waive that discussion at present, Peregrine, and, if it please you, attend
to what Mr. Bradford hath to say.”
Peregrine
yielded with a very good grace; and Mr. Bradford related the substance of
certain information he had received from Mr. Weldon, respecting the
ecclesiastical affairs of their Massachusetts’ brethren; and concluded with
some judicious remarks, which strikingly exhibited the candour and liberality of
his mind.
Mr.
Bradford had been eminently useful in the settlement and advancement of the
Plymouth colony; he was still in the meridian of life; his countenance and
deportment were prepossessing, dignified and grave, without austerity, and
strongly expressive of that good sense and benevolence, solid judgment and
fervent piety, which had early won the entire confidence and affection of the
people with whom he was associated. Their unanimous suffrages had continued him
in the executive chair from the death of the lamented Carver, through sixteen
successive years; with the exception of one only, when, at his own urgent
request, he was permitted to resign it to Mr. Winslow. It cannot be supposed
that the office of chief magistrate was considered otherwise than as a post of
honour, even in that early period of the country; but so far from being an
object of contention, or “root of bitterness,” the humility and
disinterestedness of the primitive settlers induced them rather to decline the
distinction, and prefer others before themselves; insomuch, that an act of the
general court was passed, imposing a fine of twenty pounds on any one who
should refuse the office of Governor, unless chosen two years successively; and
a penalty of ten pounds for rejecting an inferior office. Could the venerable
fathers of New-England look forth in these degenerate times, how would they
start back with horror and amazement, at beholding the electioneering columns
of our modern newspapers?
“I
am well-pleased,” said the Governor, when Mr. Bradford had concluded, “that
young Weldon is so prosperous in his worldly estate; he seems modest and well
disposed, and is, moreover, about to bear away from us one of our choicest
vines.”
“I
think,” returned the little man, “we have no authority to speak with confidence
of him, seeing he is the blossom of a strange branch, and but a stranger and
sojourner amongst us.”
“We
are bound, in the judgment of charity, to think well of him, Mr. Scruple,”
replied Mrs. Winslow; “for he has ever borne himself discreetly with us, and
the church and people with whom he dwells bear testimony to the worthiness of
his character.”
“And
yet,” said Mistress Spindle, “to think that Lois Grey should be tempted by the
love of man, to turn from our ‘goodly tents of Kedar,’ and wander in the
wilderness, where the ‘dews of the sanctuary’ cannot abide.”
“Our
God is not confined to any spot, but is found in every place by those who seek
him aright,” replied Mr. Bradford; “and even as Moses and Aaron led the
children of Israel through the desert of Sinai, so have those godly ministers
of the word, Mr. Hooker and Mr. Stone, led their congregation through a
trackless wilderness, more than a hundred miles from the spot which their hands
had planted.”
“What,”
asked Atherton, “could induce them to remove so far from their first
settlement, and, it must be, into the midst of savages?”
“They
went forth in the name of the Lord,” said Mr. Bradford, “and trusted in his
mercy for protection. If you have not visited our sister colony of
Massachusetts, Major Atherton, you can scarcely form an idea of its rapid
growth and prosperity. The foundations of many flourishing towns are laid, even
to the extremest limits of the patent; and the increase of cattle, with the
great numbers who annually arrive from England, has caused many to remove to
distant parts. Plantations are already formed on the banks of the great river
Connecticut, which, being beyond the charter of Massachusetts, has been created
a separate jurisdiction, and is governed by its own laws, without being
considered amenable to the mother colony.”
“The
church of Newtown, to which Mr. Weldon belongs,” said the Governor to Atherton,
“was among the first that contemplated a removal thither; and, in the early
part of this summer, a new company arrived from England, which purchased their
estates, and left them at liberty to commence their toilsome march. They
penetrated through the pathless wilderness, upwards of an hundred and twenty
miles, to a place called Suckiang, now Hartford, which they had fixed upon for
their abode, and to which they were nearly a fortnight in travelling. They took
with them their wives and little ones, their cattle and all their substance.
Their only guide was the compass: the rocks were their pillows, and the heavens
their covering. They subsisted on the milk of their kine, and the herbs and
wild fruits of the earth; they had rivers to ford, and deep morasses and high
mountains beset their path: nevertheless, the Lord watched over them and led
them by the right way, and in peace, to the desired land. Mr. Hooker, their
minister, and Mr. Stone, teacher of their church, went with them ¾for in all their wanderings our people of New-England are encouraged and
edified, by the presence and council of the pastors, whom their own choice, and
the consent of the neighbouring churches, have connected with them.”
“Your
civil and religious concerns appear to be so closely blended,” said Atherton,
“that the clergy must possess an influence equal, if not superior, to that of
the secular rulers.”
“It
is an influence which we cheerfully yield to them,” returned Mr. Winslow, “and
which they must exercise so long as we retain the views and principles that led
us to endure reproach and exile, rather than submit to the discipline of a
church, which we consider unscriptural and corrupt.”
“Your
situation is peculiar,” resumed Atherton; “and, so far as my limited
observation enables me to judge, your laws and institutions approximate more
nearly to the ancient patriarchal government, than I should have supposed
practicable at this late period of the world.”
“We
may be said almost to possess a world of our own,” said Mr. Bradford; “we are
so remote from the countries of Europe, that the government, even of our own
sovereign, can only impose on us certain general laws, while the interior
regulations of the colony must rest entirely on ourselves; an in this, and all
our concerns, we endeavour to make the word of God our rule and guide.”
“It
is a guide which every church professes to follow,” said Atherton; “but its
political code, I believe, has not been found adapted to the genius of any
nation since the Christian era.”
“Yet,
as far as circumstances permit,” returned Mr. Bradford, “we have followed the
law of Moses, which, being delivered by the Most High, must be more perfect and
better suited to the capacity and wants of man, than any which human wisdom can
devise; and, therefore, most worthy the regard of Christians, who wish to
establish a colony, not from motives of human ambition, but for the advancement
of pure religion.”
“And
the Lord has conducted us, even as he did the children of Israel,” interrupted
Mr. Scruple, “and given unto us the inheritance of Jacob, whom he loved.”
“And
made us a chosen people,” responded Rebecca Spindle,” to whom he delighteth to
show favour.”
“Those
who are not of us, Mistress Spindle,” returned the other, glancing at Atherton,
“understand none of these things, and our words seem unto them like idle
tales.”
“Perhaps,
sir, your counsel may enlighten us,” said Atherton, looking at the little man
who had evidently intended the observation for him, and whose countenance
expressed no small degree of spiritual pride, with that long favoured contraction, if the term may be allowed, which always arises
from sectarian prejudice.
With
undaunted self-complacence, however, he replied: “They who wilfully indulge the
errors of prelacy, are like as the ‘deaf adder, which stoppeth her ears against
the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely:’ and it is but ‘casting
pearls before swine,’ to intermeddle with them.”
Atherton
could not repress a smile, but avoided any farther controversy with one, whose
narrow intellect seemed to admit but a single idea; and an embarrassing pause
of a moment was relieved by the entrance of Mr. Grey, and Captain Standish.
“Well,
cousin Atherton,” said the latter, when he had bowed with military precision to
the company, “I expected you would be here before me. I met my little rose-bud,
just now, riding off at full speed with the Virginian.”
“And
she told you,” interrupted Atherton, “that I did not find her or any one at
home.”
“No,
she did not,” replied the Captain. “I asked her if she had seen you, and she
said that she had met your spirit in the woods, but it was dumb, so she put no
questions to it.”
“She
seemed in haste,” returned Atherton, “and both her own horse and
Mr.
Calvert’s were fleet and spirited.”
“This
reminds me, sir,” said Mrs. Winslow to Mr. Grey, “of a report in circulation,
that Mr. Calvert has returned hither, in the hope of conveying your daughter
back to Virginia with him.”
“And
you gave no credit to such a rumour, I trust!” said Mr. Grey.
“I
was loth to believe it for a moment,” returned Mrs. Winslow. “I am sure Miriam
would not willingly remove so far from her father’s house, and the privileges
of her own people.”
“And
to marry an idolatrous churchman,” said Mistress Spindle, “and go amongst those
blind Egyptians, who know not the ways of Sion.” But as the good woman
concluded, she recollected the presence of Atherton; and, looking at him with
some confusion, hastily added¾“I mean, touching their outward observances;
for some, doubtless, may have pure hearts, though they are led astray to follow
‘cunningly devised fables.’”
“This
is a strange story,” said Captain Standish; “but I well know there can be no
truth in it.”
“You
judge rightly, Captain,” said Mr. Grey; “my daughter knows her duty too well to
enter into a covenant with the enemies of our faith.”
“Ay,
I thought as much,” replied the Captain; “but Calvert is a sober youth, and
well-disposed, and withal, of an honourable
descent.”
“He
claims kindred with the noble lord of Baltimore, I think,” said the Governor,
“to whom the king has granted a patent for the
territory of Maryland.”
“And
who,” said Mr. Grey, “has brought over the crafty inventions of popery to
corrupt this new world, which might otherwise have remained free from such
abominable delusions.”
“Yea,”
rejoined Mr. Scruple, “and did not the lord of Baltimore name his possessions
in honour of the papist queen of Charles? and when his brother, the Governor
Calvert, with upwards of two hundred souls, landed in the province, with
idolatrous mockery they set up a cross, that relic of superstition, and ensign
of the Pope, who is none other than the horned beast of the Revelations.”
“But,”
said Mrs. Winslow, “they appear to have been conscientious; and certainly
conducted their affairs with integrity and wisdom, so as to give no offence,
even to those who differed from them in modes of worship; and, if they act
honestly, according to the knowledge which is in them, nothing more can be
expected or required.”
“It
may be so,” returned the other; “but it is an awful thing to have the banner of
the Pope, that Prince of darkness, planted in the midst of our land, for an
example to the heathen and stumbling block to weak brethren.”
“It
is well that you are not there to be tempted, Mr. Scruple,” said Captain
Standish. “I acknowledge, for my part, a high respect for the character of
Governor Calvert, papist as he is. He has purchased the lands fairly of the
natives, which planters do not always think necessary, and established good
government, and granted liberty of conscience and equal privileges to all sects
of Christians,¾and what more or better could be done, I pray
you?”
“Truly
the outward part appeareth fair,” replied the other, “but the worshipping of
saints and images I hold to be a corruption of ‘the faith once delivered to the
saints.’”
“He
has brought forth good fruit,” said Mrs. Winslow; “and it is not for us to
judge his heart, or to speak uncharitably of his actions.”
“Spoken
like a true woman and a good one,” cried the Captain; “what say you to that,
Mr. Bradford?”
“He
has, doubtless, been an instrument in the hand of Providence,” said Mr.
Bradford, “of establishing a well-ordered colony, and flourishing according to
human wisdom; but it may be questioned if these benefits are not overbalanced
by the spiritual errors which are mingled with them.”
“We
must humbly trust,” said Mr. Winslow, “that these errors will in time be washed
away, even as they have gradually declined in the parent country.”
“And
what has followed to fill up the breach?” asked Mr. Scruple, “even the
blindness of prelacy, the putting on of robes and mitres, and kneeling down to
repeat prayers from printed books; these are the gods to whom the people have
bowed down.”
“Our
ancestors¾those of us who had any,” said the Captain,
“were all Catholics, for which reason we are bound to speak lightly of their errors.
My great grandfather’s uncle, who was Bishop of St. Asaph in the reign of Henry
the Eighth, was a learned prelate; and I have too much respect for his memory
not to be in charity with his persuasion. But here is Mr. Calvert, we will ask
his opinion.”
“You
have come just in time, Mr. Calvert,” said Mrs. Winslow, “to settle a disputed
question.”
“And
what is it, madam?” asked Mr. Calvert.
“It
is,” said Mrs. Winslow, “whether the settlement of Maryland has been
beneficial, or otherwise, to the country at large?”
“No
one would doubt the advantage, I think,” replied Calvert, “who could witness
its rapid improvement in the short space of the three years which have elapsed
since the arrival of the Governor and first planters, and the wise
administration, and salutary laws, which have marked its progress.”
“But
the religion which they have established,” said Mrs. Winslow; “have we not
cause to dread its consequences on our land?”
“Of
that I am incompetent to judge,” returned Calvert; “but I can say, from
personal observation, that no governor south of New-England has been more
beloved and respected by every sect and party. My opinion is disinterested, for
the patent of Lord Baltimore has dismembered many fair acres from our ancient
colony; and we have in vain sought redress from the monarch, whose favour to
that distinguished nobleman is exercised in defiance of our superior claims.”
“I
think we need not quarrel about waste lands in this country, till we have more
hands to plant them,” said Captain Standish; “but I hope what remains of your
fine province is in a flourishing state.”
“Extremely
so,” returned Calvert; “though I am sorry to say that our government has been
less liberal than that of Maryland, and that its recent laws against sectaries
have caused many to abandon the territory, and prevented others from coming
into it.”
“In
my humble judgment,” said the Captain, “you Virginians have ever been a
turbulent people, and apt to verge on extremes. At one time you were almost
exterminated by famine, and, when a supply reached you, it was wasted in
extravagance; again, you were all running wild without government, moral or
religious; and now you are for making every man worship in your own way, or pay
a penalty.”
“Spare
us, if you please,” said Calvert; “it was in the days of our infancy that we
were so undisciplined. We are now grown up into steady and orderly citizens;
though it will perhaps be long before we attain to the purity and strictness of
New-England principles.”
“The
early Virginia Companies,” said the Governor, “were too anxious for its rapid
settlement; and it must require many years to obliterate the effects of that
blind policy which induced them to transport dissolute and criminal persons
into a young country.”
“And
King James, in later days,” said Calvert, “graciously improved upon the hint,
and we have yet living mementos of his royal clemency, which let loose upon our
society the malefactors destined for his own prisons.”
“A
less acceptable cargo, I suppose,” said the Captain, “than the young and
handsome females whom the Company sent over to be helpmates for your
bachelors.”
“By
far,” said Calvert. “Sir Edwin Sandys did justice to Virginian gallantry in
proposing so fair a freight; and, as wives were in great requisition at that time,
a hundred and fifty pounds of tobacco, the price demanded, was not considered
too much for a good one.”
“I
think, though,” said the Captain, “your treasurer should have been more
impartial; and, instead of culling all the young and pretty maidens, have given
a few old and ugly ones a chance to get husbands in your ready market.”
“I
hope, Captain,” returned Calvert, “that if your Plymouth Colony should have
recourse to a foreign traffic for wives, you will adopt that amendment; but I
can answer for our southern planters, that Sir Edwin’s proposition is far
better suited to their taste.”
“I
do not doubt you,” said the Captain; “but I take it, you have enough of that
commodity now for home consumption, and have no need of an outward trade to
supply yourselves.”
“There
is certainly no necessity for it,” replied Calvert; “but it is well to keep up
a friendly commerce with our neighbours, particularly the few whom we can call
such on this side the Atlantic.”
“Well,
I heard Major Atherton talk about visiting Virginia the other day,” said the
Captain; “but whether he intends to turn merchant or married man, I hav’nt yet
discovered.”
“Neither
at present,” returned Atherton; “but I have ever felt a strong curiosity to see
that country, which, from its first discovery, has excited so much interest in
England, and is, moreover, associated with many pleasing and romantic
recollections. The adventurous courage of Smith, the chivalrous spirit of the
unfortunate Raleigh, and the devoted heroism of Pocahontas, would alone render
it immortal.”
“You
should add the raising of tobacco, cousin Edward,” said the Captain, laughing.
“You know it is a favourite plant of mine, and a great promoter of good-humour.
I hope, Mr. Calvert, it continues in demand, and produces good crops.”
“The
crops are plentiful enough,” returned Calvert; “but I think since King James’s
‘Counterblast’ is getting out of date, it rather declines in value. Courtly
opposition undoubtedly contributed to its circulation, and induced very many
persons to try the effect of a weed, which their sovereign deigned to exercise
his royal talents in writing a book to condemn.”
“I
never could agree with his Majesty on that subject,” said the Captain, “not to
mention some others; and I will not give up my comfortable pipe of tobacco,
though he is pleased to say it is only ‘fit to regale the devil after dinner.’”
A
summons to Mrs. Winslow’s hospitable supper, here interrupted the conversation;
and soon afterwards the company dispersed to their respective places of abode.
END
OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED
BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.