V. THE SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND
The Northern or Plymouth Branch of the Virginia Company, which had been chartered by James I in 1606, did, to some extent, for the north what the sister company did for the south. Sir Ferdinando Gorges was its Raleigh, and sent out a number of exploring ships, one of which made what is now reckoned the first permanent settlement in New England. Captain George Popham was in command, and in August, 1607, three months after the planting of Jamestown, built Fort Popham, or Fort St. George, at the mouth of the Kennebec. But it is not this settlement which has been celebrated in song and story. It is that made at New Plymouth in the winter of 1620 by a shipload of Separatists from the Church of England, who have come down through history as the "Pilgrim Fathers."
Driven from England by religious persecution, the Separatist congregation from the little town of Scrooby, about a hundred in number, had fled to Amsterdam, and finally, in 1609, to Leyden. But they were not in sympathy with the Dutch, and their thoughts turned to America. The Plymouth company was approached, but could not guarantee religious freedom. It gave the suppliants to understand, however, that there was little likelihood they would be interfered with, and after long debate and hesitation, they decided to take the risk.
THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME
[August 15 (N. S.), 1620]
The word of God to Leyden came, Dutch town by Zuyder Zee: Rise up, my children of no name, My kings and priests to be. There is an empire in the West, Which I will soon unfold; A thousand harvests in her breast, Rocks ribbed with iron and gold.
Rise up, my children, time is ripe! Old things are passed away. Bishops and kings from earth I wipe; Too long they've had their day. A little ship have I prepared To bear you o'er the seas; And in your souls my will declared Shall grow by slow degrees.
Beneath my throne the martyrs cry; I hear their voice, How long? It mingles with their praises high, And with their victor song. The thing they longed and waited for, But died without the sight; So, this shall be! I wrong abhor, The world I'll now set right.
Leave, then, the hammer and the loom, You've other work to do; For Freedom's commonwealth there's room, And you shall build it too. I'm tired of bishops and their pride, I'm tired of kings as well; Henceforth I take the people's side, And with the people dwell.
Tear off the mitre from the priest, And from the king, his crown; Let all my captives be released; Lift up, whom men cast down. Their pastors let the people choose, And choose their rulers too; Whom they select, I'll not refuse, But bless the work they do.
The Pilgrims rose, at this, God's word, And sailed the wintry seas: With their own flesh nor blood conferred, Nor thought of wealth or ease. They left the towers of Leyden town, They left the Zuyder Zee; And where they cast their anchor down, Rose Freedom's realm to be.
JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN.
A vessel of one hundred and eighty tons, named the Mayflower, was fitted out, and, on August 5 (N. S. 15), 1620, the emigrants sailed from Southampton, whither they had gone to join the ship. There were ninety persons aboard the Mayflower and thirty aboard a smaller vessel, the Speedwell. But the Speedwell proved unseaworthy, and after twice putting back for repairs, twelve of her passengers were crowded into the Mayflower, which finally, on September 6 (N. S. 16), turned her prow to the west, and began the most famous voyage in American history, after that of Columbus.
SONG OF THE PILGRIMS
[September 16 (N. S.), 1620]
The breeze has swelled the whitening sail, The blue waves curl beneath the gale, And, bounding with the wave and wind, We leave Old England's shores behind-- Leave behind our native shore, Homes, and all we loved before.
The deep may dash, the winds may blow, The storm spread out its wings of woe, Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud Hung in the folds of every cloud; Still, as long as life shall last, From that shore we'll speed us fast.
For we would rather never be, Than dwell where mind cannot be free, But bows beneath a despot's rod Even where it seeks to worship God. Blasts of heaven, onward sweep! Bear us o'er the troubled deep!
O see what wonders meet our eyes! Another land, and other skies! Columbian hills have met our view! Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu! Here, at length, our feet shall rest, Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.
As long as yonder firs shall spread Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,-- As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, Where join the ocean and the land,-- Shall those cliffs and mountains be Proud retreats for liberty.
Now to the King of kings we'll raise The pæan loud of sacred praise; More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, More loud than speak the rolling seas! Happier lands have met our view! England's shores, adieu! adieu!
THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAM.
On November 19 (N. S.), nine weeks after leaving Plymouth, land was sighted, and in the evening of that day, the "band of exiles moored their bark" in Cape Cod harbor.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS
[November 19 (N. S.), 1620]
The breaking waves dashed high On the stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came: Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear,-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!
The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared: This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why have they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Aye, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to worship God!
FELICIA HEMANS.
Two days later, on Saturday, November 21, the Mayflower dropped her anchor in what is now the harbor of Provincetown, and a force of sixteen, "every one his Musket, Sword and Corslet, under the command of Captaine Myles Standish," went ashore to explore. The next day, being Sunday, praise service was held on board, and on the following Monday occurred the first washing-day.
THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH
[November 23 (N. S.), 1620]
"Ho, Rose!" quoth the stout Miles Standish, As he stood on the Mayflower's deck, And gazed on the sandy coast-line That loomed as a misty speck
On the edge of the distant offing,-- "See! yonder we have in view Bartholomew Gosnold's 'headlands.' 'Twas in sixteen hundred and two
"That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored Just there where the beach is broad, And the merry old captain named it (Half swamped by the fish)--Cape Cod.
"And so as his mighty 'headlands' Are scarcely a league away, What say you to landing, sweetheart, And having a washing-day?
"For did not the mighty Leader Who guided the chosen band Pause under the peaks of Sinai, And issue his strict command--
"(For even the least assoilment Of Egypt the spirit loathes)-- Or ever they entered Canaan, The people should wash their clothes?
"The land we have left is noisome,-- And rank with the smirch of sin; The land that we seek should find us Clean-vestured without and within."
"Dear heart"--and the sweet Rose Standish Looked up with a tear in her eye; She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen Where she watched, in the days gone by,
Her mother among her maidens (She should watch them no more, alas!), And saw as they stretched the linen To bleach on the Suffolk grass.
In a moment her brow was cloudless, As she leaned on the vessel's rail, And thought of the sea-stained garments, Of coif and of farthingale;
And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel, The tuckers and homespun gowns, And the piles of the hosen knitted From the wool of the Devon downs.
So the matrons aboard the Mayflower Made ready with eager hand To drop from the deck their baskets As soon as the prow touched land.
And there did the Pilgrim Mothers, "On a Monday," the record says, Ordain for their new-found England The first of her washing-days.
And there did the Pilgrim Fathers, With matchlock and axe well slung, Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles That propt on the crotches hung.
For the trail of the startled savage Was over the marshy grass, And the glint of his eyes kept peering Through cedar and sassafras.
And the children were mad with pleasure As they gathered the twigs in sheaves, And piled on the fire the fagots, And heaped up the autumn leaves.
"Do the thing that is next," saith the proverb, And a nobler shall yet succeed:-- 'Tis the motive exalts the action; 'Tis the doing, and not the deed;
For the earliest act of the heroes Whose fame has a world-wide sway Was--to fashion a crane for a kettle, And order a washing-day!
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.
A shallop which the Pilgrims had brought with them in the Mayflower was put together, and in it a party explored the neighboring shores, in search of a suitable place for the settlement. They finally selected Plymouth Harbor, and on Monday, December 21 (O. S. 11), they "marched into the land and found divers corn-fields and little running brooks,--a place (as they supposed) fit for situation; at least it was the best they could find."
THE MAYFLOWER
Down in the bleak December bay The ghostly vessel stands away; Her spars and halyards white with ice, Under the dark December skies. A hundred souls, in company, Have left the vessel pensively,-- Have reached the frosty desert there, And touched it with the knees of prayer. And now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower.
Neither the desert nor the sea Imposes rites: their prayers are free; Danger and toil the wild imposes, And thorns must grow before the roses. And who are these?--and what distress The savage-acred wilderness On mother, maid, and child may bring, Beseems them for a fearful thing; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower.
But Carver leads (in heart and health A hero of the commonwealth) The axes that the camp requires, To build the lodge and heap the fires, And Standish from his warlike store Arrays his men along the shore, Distributes weapons resonant, And dons his harness militant; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower;
And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest-- She sees a Book, in vellum drest, She drops a tear and kisses the tome, Thinking of England and of home: Might they--the Pilgrims, there and then Ordained to do the work of men-- Have seen, in visions of the air, While pillowed on the breast of prayer (When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower),
The Canaan of their wilderness A boundless empire of success; And seen the years of future nights Jewelled with myriad household lights; And seen the honey fill the hive; And seen a thousand ships arrive; And heard the wheels of travel go; It would have cheered a thought of woe, When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower.
ERASTUS WOLCOTT ELLSWORTH.
On March 16 an Indian came into the hamlet, and in broken English bade the strangers "Welcome." He said his name was Samoset, that he came from Monhegan, distant five days' journey toward the southeast, where he had learned something of the language from the crews of fishing-boats, and that he was an envoy from "the greatest commander in the country," a sachem named Massasoit. Massasoit himself appeared a few days later (March 21), and a treaty offensive and defensive was entered into, which remained in force for fifty-four years.
THE PEACE MESSAGE
[March 16, 1621]
At the door of his hut sat Massasoit, And his face was lined with care, For the Yellow Pest had stalked from the West And swept his wigwams bare; Mother and child had it stricken down, And the warrior in his pride, Till for one that lived when the plague was past, A full half-score had died.
Now from the Eastern Shore there came Word of a white-skinned race Who had risen from out the mighty deep In search of a dwelling-place. Houses they fashioned of tree and stone, Turkey and deer they slew With a breath of flame like the lightning-flash Of the great God, Manitu.
Was it war or peace? The Chief looked round On the wreck of his mighty band. His heart was sad as he rose from the ground And held on high his hand. "We must treat with the stranger, my children," he said, And he called to him Samoset: "You will go to the men on the Eastern Shore With wampum and calumet."
Warm was the welcome he received, For the Pilgrims' hearts did thrill At the message he brought from Massasoit, With its earnest of good-will. They bade him eat and they bade him drink, Gave bracelet, knife, and ring, And sent him again to Monhegan To lay them before his king.
So the treaty was made, and the treaty was kept For fifty years and four; The white men wrought, and waked, and slept Secure on the Eastern Shore; From the door of his hut, old Massasoit Noted their swift increase, And blessed the day he had sent that way His messenger of peace.
BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.
The colonists set about the work of planting their fields as soon as spring opened. The harvest proved a good one; "there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison," the fowlers having been sent out by the governor, "that so they might, after a special manner, rejoice together after they had gathered the fruit of their labors." This festival was New England's "First Thanksgiving Day." For three days a great feast was spread not only for the colonists, but for Massasoit and some ninety of his people, who had contributed five deer to the larder.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY
[November, 1621]
"And now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er, "'Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain; 'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain.
"And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace of God to-day, And the franchise of this good people), Governor of Plymouth, say, Through virtue of vested power--ye shall gather with one accord, And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord.
"He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long; He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong; And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden, that he may know We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow.
"So shoulder your matchlocks, masters: there is hunting of all degrees; And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas; And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of joy!
"We fail of the fruits and dainties--we fail of the old home cheer; Ah, these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us here; But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie; Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!"
So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn feast; The deer and the bear were slaughtered; wild game from the greatest to least Was heaped in the colony cabins; brown home-brew served for wine, And the plum and the grape of the forest, for orange and peach and pine.
At length came the day appointed: the snow had begun to fall, But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily over all, And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord.
In his seat sate Governor Bradford; men, matrons, and maidens fair; Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there; And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway, For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving Day.
And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves, And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves, And looked on the granaried harvest,--with a blow on his brawny chest, He muttered, "The good Great Spirit loves His white children best!"
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.
The colonists, through the friendship of Massasoit, had had little trouble with the Indians, but in April, 1622, a messenger from the Narragansetts brought to Plymouth a sheaf of arrows tied round with a rattlesnake skin, which the Indians there interpreted as a declaration of war. Governor Bradford, at the advice of the doughty Standish, stuffed the skin with powder and ball, and sent it back to the Narragansetts. Their chief, Canonicus, was so alarmed at the look of this missive that he refused to receive it, and it finally found its way back to Plymouth.
THE WAR-TOKEN
From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"
[April 1, 1622]
Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming; Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior! Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, "What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!" Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: "Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!" But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: "Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!"
Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!" Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The period of prosperity, which had been marked by the first Thanksgiving, was short-lived. Through nearly the whole of the next two years, the colony was pinched with famine. A crisis was reached in the month of April, 1622, when, so tradition says, the daily ration for each person was reduced to five kernels of corn.
FIVE KERNELS OF CORN
[April, 1622]
I
'Twas the year of the famine in Plymouth of old, The ice and the snow from the thatched roofs had rolled; Through the warm purple skies steered the geese o'er the seas, And the woodpeckers tapped in the clocks of the trees; And the boughs on the slopes to the south winds lay bare, And dreaming of summer, the buds swelled in the air. The pale Pilgrims welcomed each reddening morn; There were left but for rations Five Kernels of Corn. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! But to Bradford a feast were Five Kernels of Corn!
II
"Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! Ye people, be glad for Five Kernels of Corn!" So Bradford cried out on bleak Burial Hill, And the thin women stood in their doors, white and still. "Lo, the harbor of Plymouth rolls bright in the Spring, The maples grow red, and the wood robins sing, The west wind is blowing, and fading the snow, And the pleasant pines sing, and the arbutuses blow. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! To each one be given Five Kernels of Corn!"
III
O Bradford of Austerfield haste on thy way. The west winds are blowing o'er Provincetown Bay, The white avens bloom, but the pine domes are chill, And new graves have furrowed Precisioners' Hill! "Give thanks, all ye people, the warm skies have come, The hilltops are sunny, and green grows the holm, And the trumpets of winds, and the white March is gone, And ye still have left you Five Kernels of Corn. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! Ye have for Thanksgiving Five Kernels of Corn!"
IV
"The raven's gift eat and be humble and pray, A new light is breaking, and Truth leads your way; One taper a thousand shall kindle: rejoice That to you has been given the wilderness voice!" O Bradford of Austerfield, daring the wave, And safe through the sounding blasts leading the brave, Of deeds such as thine was the free nation born, And the festal world sings the "Five Kernels of Corn." Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! The nation gives thanks for Five Kernels of Corn! To the Thanksgiving Feast bring Five Kernels of Corn!
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
In June, 1622, a colony of adventurers from England settled at Wessagusset, now Weymouth, and when their supplies ran short, the following winter, broke open and robbed some of the Indian granaries. The Indians were naturally enraged, and formed a plot for the extirpation of the whites. Warned by Massasoit, the Plymouth settlers determined to strike the first blow, and on March 23, 1623, Standish and eight men were dispatched to Wessagusset. The poem tells the story of the events which followed.
THE EXPEDITION TO WESSAGUSSET
From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"
[March, 1623]
Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth; Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, "Forward!" Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,-- Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning; Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward, Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore.
* * * * *
After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; Women at work by the tents, and warriors, horrid with war-paint, Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together; Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature, Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan; One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. "Welcome, English!" they said,--these words they had learned from the traders Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man! But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain: "Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat Is not afraid of the sight. He was not born of a woman, But on a mountain at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?'" Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle; Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: "I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle; By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!"
Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish: While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, "By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not! This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!"
Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop. And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it. Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.
There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:-- "Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature,-- Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!"
Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress, All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
By the end of 1624 Plymouth was in a thriving condition. Its inhabitants numbered nearly two hundred, and it boasted thirty-two dwelling-houses. Other colonies soon sprang up about the Bay--Piscataqua (Portsmouth), Naumkeag (Salem), Nantasket (Hull), and Winnisimmet (Chelsea). The trials and pleasures of life in New England at about this time are humorously described in what are perhaps the first verses written by an American colonist.
NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES
[1630]
New England's annoyances, you that would know them, Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth shew them.
The Place where we live is a wilderness Wood, Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good: Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below Being commonly cover'd with Ice and with Snow; And when the North-west Wind with violence blows, Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose: But if any's so hardy and will it withstand, He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand.
But when the Spring opens, we then take the Hoe, And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow; Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown, The Worms destroy much before it is grown; And when it is growing, some spoil there is made By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade; And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear, It is often destroy'd by Raccoon and by Deer.
And now do our Garments begin to grow thin, And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin; If we can get a Garment to cover without, Our other In-Garments are Clout upon Clout: Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn, They need to be clouted soon after they're worn; But clouting our Garments they hinder us nothing: Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing.
If fresh Meat be wanting, to fill up our Dish, We have Carrots and Turnips as much as we wish; And is there a mind for a delicate Dish, We repair to the Clam-banks, and there we catch Fish. For Pottage and Puddings, and Custards and Pies, Our Pumpkins and Parsnips are common supplies; We have Pumpkins at morning, and Pumpkins at noon; If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone.
If Barley be wanting to make into Malt, We must be contented, and think it no fault; For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and Walnut-Tree Chips.
* * * * *
Now while some are going let others be coming, For while Liquor's boiling it must have a scumming; But I will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather, By seeking their Fellows, are flocking together. But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring, Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting; But bring both a quiet and contented Mind, And all needful Blessings you surely will find.
The Old Colony's palmy days were of short duration, for it was soon overshadowed by a more wealthy and vigorous neighbor, founded by the powerful Puritan party.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS
I
Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for Sinners died.
II
From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred, In worship neither raised nor limited Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore, For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.-- Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace, Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
When Charles I came to the throne, in 1625, with the expressed determination to harry the Puritans out of England, the latter decided to seek an asylum in the New World. In 1628 John Endicott and a few others secured a patent from the New England Council for a trading-company, the grant including a strip of land across the continent from a line three miles north of the Merrimac to another three miles south of the Charles. It was into this colony, known as Massachusetts, that the older colony of Plymouth was finally absorbed.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS
The Pilgrim Fathers,--where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow.
The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone,-- As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The pilgrim exile,--sainted name! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head,-- But the Pilgrim! where is he?
The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last.
The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.
JOHN PIERPONT.
King Charles, little suspecting that he was providing an asylum for the Puritans, confirmed the patent by a royal charter to "The Governor and Company of the Massachusetts Bay in New England." No place for the meetings of the company had been named in the charter, and the audacious plan was formed to remove it, patents, charter, and all, to New England. Secret meetings were held, the old officers were finally got rid of, and John Winthrop was elected governor. Winthrop sailed for America on April 7, 1630, and arrived at Salem June 12. It was the beginning of a great emigration, for, in the four months that followed, seventeen ships arrived, with nearly a thousand passengers.
THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR
[June 12, 1630]
"Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day Still rises on our ears, Borne from the hills of Boston Bay Through five times fifty years, When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept Out to the open main, And through the widening waters swept, In April sun and rain. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships As faded Yarmouth Bay.
They passed the Scilly Isles that day, And May-days came, and June, And thrice upon the ocean lay The full orb of the moon. And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay, Ere England sunk from view, While yet the rippling Solent lay In April skies of blue, "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Each morn was shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay;
Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas, Through Maytime morns, and June, Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, Low 'neath the summer moon; And as Cape Ann arose to view, And Norman's Woe they passed, The wood-doves came the white mists through, And circled round each mast. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Then called the leader, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay.
Above the sea the hill-tops fair-- God's towers--began to rise, And odors rare breathe through the air, Like balms of Paradise. Through burning skies the ospreys flew, And near the pine-cooled shores Danced airy boat and thin canoe, To flash of sunlit oars. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray!" Then prayer arose, and all the ships Sailed into Boston Bay.
The white wings folded, anchors down, The sea-worn fleet in line, Fair rose the hills where Boston town Should rise from clouds of pine; Fair was the harbor, summit-walled, And placid lay the sea. "Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; "Praise ye the Lord," spake he. "Give thanks to God with fervent lips, Give thanks to God to-day," The anthem rose from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay.
"Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods First heard the ancient song, And summer hills and solitudes The echoes rolled along. The Red Cross flag of England blew Above the fleet that day, While Shawmut's triple peaks in view In amber hazes lay. "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day," The anthem rose from all the ships Safe moored in Boston Bay.
The Arabella leads the song-- The Mayflower sings below, That erst the Pilgrims bore along The Plymouth reefs of snow. Oh! never be that psalm forgot That rose o'er Boston Bay, When Winthrop sang, and Endicott, And Saltonstall, that day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" And praise arose from all the ships, Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.
That psalm our fathers sang we sing, That psalm of peace and wars, While o'er our heads unfolds its wing The flag of forty stars. And while the nation finds a tongue For nobler gifts to pray, 'Twill ever sing the song they sung That first Thanksgiving Day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" So rose the song from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay.
Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms, As David's treasures old Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, To lily-work of gold. Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, Ho! ships of Boston Bay, Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide To this Thanksgiving Day! We pray to God with fervent lips, We praise the Lord to-day, As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, But psalms from Boston Bay.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
But the condition of the colonists was for the most part pitiful, and food was so scarce that shell-fish served for meat and acorns for bread. Winthrop had foreseen this and had engaged Captain William Pierce, of the ship Lion, to go in all haste to the nearest port in Ireland for provisions. Food-stuffs were nearly as scarce there as in America, and Pierce was forced to go on to London, where he was again delayed. A fast was appointed throughout the settlements for February 22, 1631, to implore divine succor. On the 21st, as Winthrop "was distributing the last handful of meal in the barrel unto a poor man distressed by the wolf at the door, at that instant they spied a ship arrived at the harbour's mouth, laden with provisions for them all." The ship was the Lion, and the fast day was changed into a day of feasting and thanksgiving.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING
[February 22, 1631]
It was Captain Pierce of the Lion who strode the streets of London, Who stalked the streets in the blear of morn and growled in his grisly beard; By Neptune! quoth this grim sea-dog, I fear that my master's undone! 'Tis a bitter thing if all for naught through the drench of the deep I've steered!
He had come from out of the ultimate West through the spinning drift and the smother, Come for a guerdon of golden grain for a hungry land afar; And he thought of many a wasting maid, and of many a sad-eyed mother, And how their gaze would turn and turn for a sail at the harbor bar.
But famine lay on the English isle, and grain was a hoarded treasure, So ruddy the coin must gleam to loose the lock of the store-house door; And under his breath the Captain groaned because of his meagre measure, And the grasping souls of those that held the keys to the precious store.
But he flung a laugh and a fleer at doubt, and braving the roaring city He faced them out--those moiling men whose greed had grown to a curse-- Till at last he found in the strenuous press a heart that was moved to pity, And he gave the Governor's bond and word for what he lacked in his purse.
So the Lion put her prow to the West in the wild and windy weather, Her sails all set, though her decks were wet with the driving scud and the foam; Never an hour would the Captain hold his staunch little craft in tether, For the haunting thought of hungry eyes was the lure that called him home.
Sooth, in the streets of Boston-town was the heavy sound of sorrow, For an iron frost had bound the wold, and the sky hung bleak and dread; Despair sat dark on the face of him who dared to think of the morrow, When not a crust could the goodwife give if the children moaned for bread.
But hark, from the wintry waterside a loud and lusty cheering, That sweeps the sullen streets of the town as a wave the level strand! A sail! a sail! upswelled the cry, speeding the vessel steering Out of the vast of the misty sea in to the waiting land.
Turn the dimming page of the past that the dust of the years is dry on. And see the tears in the eyes of Joy as the ship draws in to the shore, And see the genial glow on the face of Captain Pierce of the Lion, As the Governor grips his faithful hand and blesses him o'er and o'er!
Oh, the rapture of that release! Feasting instead of fasting! Happiness in the heart of the home, and hope with its silver ray! Oh, the songs of prayer and praise to the Lord God everlasting That mounted morn and noon and eve on that first Thanksgiving Day!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
In the four years that followed, the worst hardships of the new plantation were outlived, and between three and four thousand Englishmen were distributed among the twenty hamlets along and near the sea-shore. The fight for a foothold had been won.
NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH
From a fragmentary poem on "New England"
Famine once we had, But other things God gave us in full store, As fish and ground-nuts to supply our strait, That we might learn on Providence to wait; And know, by bread man lives not in his need. But by each word that doth from God proceed. But a while after plenty did come in, From His hand only who doth pardon sin, And all did flourish like the pleasant green, Which in the joyful spring is to be seen.
Almost ten years we lived here alone, In other places there were few or none; For Salem was the next of any fame, That began to augment New England's name; But after multitudes began to flow, More than well knew themselves where to bestow; Boston then began her roots to spread, And quickly soon she grew to be the head, Not only of the Massachusetts Bay, But all trade and commerce fell in her way. And truly it was admirable to know, How greatly all things here began to grow. New plantations were in each place begun, And with inhabitants were filled soon. All sorts of grain which our own land doth yield, Was hither brought and sown in every field: As wheat and rye, barley, oats, beans and pease, Here all thrive, and they profit from them raise. All sorts of roots and herbs in gardens grow, Parsnips, carrots, turnips, or what you'll sow. Onions, melons, cucumbers, radishes, Skirets, beets, coleworts, and fair cabbages. Here grow fine flowers many, and 'mongst those, The fair white lily and sweet fragrant rose. Many good wholesome berries here you'll find, Fit for man's use, almost of every kind, Pears, apples, cherries, plumbs, quinces, and peach, Are now no dainties; you may have of each. Nuts and grapes of several sorts are here, If you will take the pains them to seek for.
WILLIAM BRADFORD.
There remained but one danger, the Indians; and most feared of all were the Pequots, who dwelt just west of what is now Rhode Island, and in 1637 began open hostilities. A force of about a hundred men marched against the principal Pequot stronghold, a palisaded village which stood on a hilltop near the Mystic. The attack was made on the night of May 25, 1637, the Indians were taken by surprise, their thatched houses were set on fire, and of the six or seven hundred persons in the village, scarcely one escaped.
THE ASSAULT ON THE FORTRESS
From "The Destruction of the Pequods"
[May 25, 1637]
Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide, Long held the Pequods an extensive sway; Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride, And bidding all the circling realms obey. Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the sea, Plant in their climes; and towns, and cities, rise; Ascending castles foreign flags display; Mysterious art new scenes of life devise; And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies.
The rising clouds the savage chief descried, And, round the forest, bade his heroes arm; To arms the painted warriors proudly hied, And through surrounding nations rung the alarm. The nations heard; but smiled, to see the storm, With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven And felt infernal joy the bosom warm, To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even, And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven.
Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped, Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom; A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread; Where oft the embowelled captive met his doom, And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb, Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd; Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb, With howls the Powow fill'd the dark abode, And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god.
But now no awful rites, nor potent spell, To silence charm'd the peals of coming war; Or told the dread recesses of the dell, Where glowing Mason led his bands from far; No spirit, buoyant on his airy car, Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight: Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling star Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light, And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark night.
On the drear walls a sudden splendor glow'd, There Mason shone, and there his veterans pour'd. Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood, While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd, And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored. Alone, he burst the gate; the forest round Reëchoed death; the peal of onset roar'd, In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was drown'd; And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground.
Not long in dubious fight the host had striven, When, kindled by the musket's potent flame, In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to heaven, And gloom'd the world, with melancholy beam. Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, came; And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd: Nor e'en these ills the savage breast could tame; Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region yell'd, Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste the hostile field.
TIMOTHY DWIGHT.
Sassacus, the Pequot chief, escaped and sought refuge with the Mohawks, but was slain by them.
DEATH SONG
[1673]
Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores, Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars, For the white men came from the world afar, And their fury burnt like the bison star.
His sannops were slain by their thunder's power, And his children fell like the star-eyed flower; His wigwams were burnt by the white man's flame, And the home of his youth has a stranger name--
His ancestor once was our countryman's foe, And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow, The wild deer ranged through the forest free, While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea.
But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent, With his hair untied, and his bow unbent, And found not the blood of the wild deer shed, And the calumet lit and the bear-skin bed.
But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine, And bid its broad light like his valor to shine; Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps, And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps.
ALONZO LEWIS.
OUR COUNTRY
On primal rocks she wrote her name; Her towers were reared on holy graves; The golden seed that bore her came Swift-winged with prayer o'er ocean waves.
The Forest bowed his solemn crest, And open flung his sylvan doors; Meek Rivers led the appointed guest To clasp the wide-embracing shores;
Till, fold by fold, the broidered land To swell her virgin vestments grew, While sages, strong in heart and hand, Her virtue's fiery girdle drew.
O Exile of the wrath of kings! O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty! The refuge of divinest things, Their record must abide in thee!
First in the glories of thy front Let the crown-jewel, Truth, be found; Thy right hand fling, with generous wont, Love's happy chain to farthest bound!
Let Justice, with the faultless scales, Hold fast the worship of thy sons; Thy Commerce spread her shining sails Where no dark tide of rapine runs!
So link thy ways to those of God, So follow firm the heavenly laws, That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed, And storm-sped angels hail thy cause!
O Lord, the measure of our prayers, Hope of the world in grief and wrong, Be thine the tribute of the years, The gift of Faith, the crown of Song!
JULIA WARD HOWE.
VI. RELIGIOUS PERSECUTIONS IN NEW ENGLAND
The Puritans, who had come to New England to escape a religious despotism, lost no time in establishing one of their own. At the first meeting of the General Council, in the autumn of 1630, it was agreed that no one should be admitted to membership in the company who was not a member of some church approved by it, and a religious oligarchy was thus established which kept itself in power for over thirty years.
Prologue
From "John Endicott"
To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest; And bring to light, upon the blotted page, The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.
Rise, then, O buried city that hast been; Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door, The meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes, The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!
Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last; Let us behold your faces, let us hear The words ye uttered in those days of fear! Revisit your familiar haunts again,-- The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain, And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet Once more upon the pavement of the street!
Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart; For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene.
"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away?" I answer: "For the lesson that they teach: The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three; And greatest of them all is Charity."
Let us remember, if these words be true, That unto all men Charity is due; Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, Lest we become copartners in the shame, Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, And persecute the dead for conscience' sake.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
One of the earliest to feel the displeasure of the ruling powers of the Colony was Roger Williams, who came to Boston in 1631. He made himself obnoxious to the government by denying the right of the magistrates to punish Sabbath breaking; and continued to occasion so much excitement that it was decided to send him back to England. Williams got wind of this, and took to the woods in January, 1636.
ROGER WILLIAMS
[January, 1636]
Why do I sleep amid the snows, Why do the pine boughs cover me, While dark the wind of winter blows Across the Narragansett's sea?
O sense of right! O sense of right, Whate'er my lot in life may be, Thou art to me God's inner light, And these tired feet must follow thee.
Yes, still my feet must onward go, With nothing for my hope but prayer, Amid the winds, amid the snow, And trust the ravens of the air.
But though alone, and grieved at heart, Bereft of human brotherhood, I trust the whole and not the part, And know that Providence is good.
Self-sacrifice is never lost, But bears the seed of its reward; They who for others leave the most, For others gain the most from God.
O sense of right! I must obey, And hope and trust, whate'er betide; I cannot always know my way, But I can always know my Guide.
And so for me the winter blows Across the Narragansett's sea. And so I sleep beneath the snows, And so the pine boughs cover me.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
Williams had a hard time of it. Thirty years later, he related how he was "sorely tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter winter season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean."
GOD MAKES A PATH
God makes a path, provides a guide, And feeds in wilderness! His glorious name while breath remains, O that I may confess.
Lost many a time, I have had no guide, No house, but hollow tree! In stormy winter night no fire, No food, no company:
In him I found a house, a bed, A table, company: No cup so bitter, but's made sweet, When God shall sweetning be.
ROGER WILLIAMS.
Williams went to Narragansett Bay, where he bargained with Canonicus for the land he wanted, and laid the foundations of the present city of Providence.
CANONICUS AND ROGER WILLIAMS
[1636]
Content within his wigwam warm, Canonicus sate by the fire; Without, the voices of the storm Shrieked ever high and higher.
Eager and wild, the spiteful wind Tore at the thatch with fingers strong; The Sachem fed the fire within And hummed a hunting-song.
Sudden upon the crusted snow He caught a sound not of the storm-- A sound of footsteps dragging slow Towards his shelter warm.
He drew aside the flap of skin; A stranger at the threshold stood; Canonicus bade him enter in, And gave him drink and food.
His hand he gave in friendship true, Land for a home gave he; And he learned of the love of Christ Jesu, Who died upon the tree.
To the stranger guest sweet life he gave; For a State he saved its Sire; Yea, and his own soul did he save From burning in hell-fire.
Scarcely were the Massachusetts magistrates rid of Williams, when they found themselves engaged in a much more threatening controversy with Mrs. Anne Hutchinson and her adherents, who believed in various "dangerous errors," and carried their contempt for the constituted ministry to the point of rising and marching out of the Boston church when its respected pastor, John Wilson, arose to speak. The other ministers of the colony rallied to Wilson's support, the General Court summoned Mrs. Hutchinson before it in November, 1637, and pronounced sentence of banishment, which was put into effect March 28, 1638.
ANNE HUTCHINSON'S EXILE
[March 28, 1638]
"Home, home--where's my baby's home? Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find. Come, come, come, my baby, come! We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!"
The baby clings; the mother sings; the pony stumbles on; The father leads the beast along the tangled, muddy way; The boys and girls trail on behind; the sun will soon be gone, And starlight bright will take again the place of sunny day. "Home, home--where's my baby's home? Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find. Come, come, come, my baby, come! We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!"
The sun goes down behind the lake; the night fogs gather chill, The children's clothes are torn; and the children's feet are sore. "Keep on, my boys, keep on, my girls, till all have passed the hill; Then ho, my girls, and ho, my boys, for fire and sleep once more!" And all the time she sings to the baby on her breast, "Home, my darling, sleep, my darling, find a place for rest; Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird a nest. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!"
He lifts the mother from the beast; the hemlock boughs they spread, And make the baby's cradle sweet with fern-leaves and with bays. The baby and her mother are resting on their bed; He strikes the flint, he blows the spark, and sets the twigs ablaze. "Sleep, my child; sleep, my child! Baby, find her rest, Here beneath the gracious skies, upon her father's breast; Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird her nest. Come, come, with her mother, come! Home, home, find my baby's home!"
The guardian stars above the trees their loving vigil keep; The cricket sings her lullaby, the whippoorwill his cheer. The father knows his Father's arms are round them as they sleep; The mother knows that in His arms her darling need not fear. "Home, home, my baby's home is here; With God we seek, with God we find the place for baby's rest. Hist, my child, list, my child; angels guard us here. The God of heaven is here to make and keep my birdie's nest. Home, home, here's my baby's home!"
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
Among the converts made by Mrs. Hutchinson during her stay in Boston was John Underhill, commander of the colony's troops. He became involved in the controversy that followed, and as a result was disarmed, disfranchised, and finally banished. In September, 1638, he betook himself to Cocheco (Dover), on the Piscataqua, where some of Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents had started a settlement, and where he afterwards held various offices.
JOHN UNDERHILL
[September, 1638]
A score of years had come and gone Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, When Captain Underhill, bearing scars From Indian ambush and Flemish wars, Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down, East by north, to Cocheco town.
With Vane the younger, in council sweet, He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet, And, when the bolt of banishment fell On the head of his saintly oracle, He had shared her ill as her good report, And braved the wrath of the General Court.
He shook from his feet as he rode away The dust of the Massachusetts Bay. The world might bless and the world might ban, What did it matter the perfect man, To whom the freedom of earth was given, Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?
He cheered his heart as he rode along With screed of Scripture and holy song, Or thought how he rode with his lances free By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee, Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road, And Hilton Point in the distance showed.
He saw the church with the block-house nigh, The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby, And, tacking to windward, low and crank, The little shallop from Strawberry Bank; And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad Over land and water, and praised the Lord.
Goodly and stately and grave to see, Into the clearing's space rode he, With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath, And his silver buckles and spurs beneath, And the settlers welcomed him, one and all, From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.
And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come As the way seemed open to seek a home. Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands In the Narragansett and Netherlands, And if here ye have work for a Christian man, I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.
"I boast not of gifts, but fain would own The wonderful favor God hath shown, The special mercy vouchsafed one day On the shore of Narragansett Bay, As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside, And mused like Isaac at eventide.
"A sudden sweetness of peace I found, A garment of gladness wrapped me round; I felt from the law of works released, The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased, My faith to a full assurance grew, And all I had hoped for myself I knew.
"Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way, I shall not stumble, I shall not stray; He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress, I wear the robe of His righteousness; And the shafts of Satan no more avail Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."
"Tarry with us," the settlers cried, "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide." And Captain Underhill bowed his head, "The will of the Lord be done!" he said. And the morrow beheld him sitting down In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.
And he judged therein as a just man should; His words were wise and his rule was good; He coveted not his neighbor's land, From the holding of bribes he shook his hand; And through the camps of the heathen ran A wholesome fear of the valiant man.
But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith, And life hath ever a savor of death. Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls, And whoso thinketh he standeth falls. Alas! ere their round the seasons ran, There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.
The tempter's arrows that rarely fail Had found the joints of his spiritual mail; And men took note of his gloomy air, The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer, The signs of a battle lost within, The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.
Then a whisper of scandal linked his name With broken vows and a life of blame; And the people looked askance on him As he walked among them sullen and grim, Ill at ease, and bitter of word, And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.
None knew how, with prayer and fasting still, He strove in the bonds of his evil will; But he shook himself like Samson at length, And girded anew his loins of strength, And bade the crier go up and down And call together the wondering town.
Jeer and murmur and shaking of head Ceased as he rose in his place and said: "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know How I came among you a year ago, Strong in the faith that my soul was freed From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.
"I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame, But not with a lie on my lips I came. In my blindness I verily thought my heart Swept and garnished in every part. He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?
"I urge no plea. At your feet I lay The trust you gave me, and go my way. Hate me or pity me, as you will, The Lord will have mercy on sinners still; And I, who am chiefest, say to all, Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."
No voice made answer: a sob so low That only his quickened ear could know Smote his heart with a bitter pain, As into the forest he rode again, And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.
Crystal-clear on the man of sin The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in; On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew, The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew, And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.
Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze Sang in their saddest of minor keys? What was it the mournful wood-thrush said? What whispered the pine-trees overhead? Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way That Adam heard in the cool of day?
Into the desert alone rode he, Alone with the Infinite Purity; And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke, As Peter did to the Master's look, He measured his path with prayers of pain For peace with God and nature again.
And in after years to Cocheco came The bruit of a once familiar name; How among the Dutch of New Netherlands, From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands, A penitent soldier preached the Word, And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!
And the heart of Boston was glad to hear How he harried the foe on the long frontier. And heaped on the land against him barred The coals of his generous watch and ward. Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still Counts with her worthies John Underhill.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
In 1656 a new danger threatened, for in July the first Quakers landed in New England. The preachers of this sect were generally believed to be either Franciscan monks in disguise, or publishers of irreligious fancies, and in an evil hour the authorities resolved to keep them out of Massachusetts. When the General Court met in October, it passed the law of which Mr. Longfellow gives an accurate résumé. This law was "forthwith published, in several places of Boston, by beat of drum," October 21, 1656.
THE PROCLAMATION
From "John Endicott"
[October 21, 1656]
COLE
Here comes the Marshal.
MERRY (within)
Make room for the Marshal.
KEMPTHORN
How pompous and imposing he appears! His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail, And all his streamers fluttering in the wind. What holds he in his hand?
COLE
A proclamation.
Enter the MARSHAL, with a proclamation; and MERRY, with a halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among whom are UPSALL and JOHN ENDICOTT. A pile is made of the books.
MERRY
Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend To the new laws enacted by the Court.
MARSHAL (reads)
"Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers, Who take upon themselves to be commissioned Immediately of God, and furthermore Infallibly assisted by the Spirit To write and utter blasphemous opinions, Despising Government and the order of God In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking To turn the people from their faith, and thus Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;-- This Court, considering the premises, And to prevent like mischief as is wrought By their means in our land, doth hereby order, That whatsoever master or commander Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth One hundred pounds, and for default thereof Be put in prison, and continue there Till the said sum be satisfied and paid."
COLE
Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that?
KEMPTHORN
I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds!
MARSHAL (reads)
"If any one within this Jurisdiction Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal Quakers, or other blasphemous Heretics, Knowing them so to be, every such person Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings For each hour's entertainment or concealment, And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid, Until the forfeiture be wholly paid."
Murmurs in the crowd.
KEMPTHORN
Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come!
COLE
Knowing them so to be!
KEMPTHORN
At forty shillings The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds!
COLE
Knowing them so to be! That is the law.
MARSHAL (reads)
"And it is further ordered and enacted, If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction, Every male Quaker for the first offence Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept At labor in the Workhouse, till such time As he be sent away at his own charge. And for the repetition of the offence Shall have his other ear cut off, and then Be branded in the palm of his right hand. And every woman Quaker shall be whipt Severely in three towns; and every Quaker, Or he or she, that shall for a third time Herein again offend, shall have their tongues Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death."
Loud murmurs. The voice of CHRISTISON in the crowd
O patience of the Lord! How long, how long, Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect?
MERRY
Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace!
MARSHAL (reads)
"Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction Who shall defend the horrible opinions Of Quakers, by denying due respect To equals and superiors, and withdrawing From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving The abusive and destructive practices Of this accursed sect, in opposition To all the orthodox received opinions Of godly men, shall be forthwith committed Unto close prison for one month; and then Refusing to retract and to reform The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death. By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary." Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books.
Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted.
UPSALL
I testify against these cruel laws! Forerunners are they of some judgment on us; And, in the love and tenderness I bear Unto this town and people, I beseech you, O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found As fighters against God!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The law was soon to be enforced, and among the earliest to endure its penalties were Christopher Holden and John Copeland, who were whipped and imprisoned, while Lawrence and Cassandra Southwick, of Salem, were also imprisoned for having harbored them. The Southwicks were in advanced years, and had three grown children--Provided, Josiah, and Daniel. The whole family had united with the Society of Friends, and the parents were banished from the colony upon pain of death. While they and one son, Josiah, were in prison, Provided and Daniel were fined ten pounds for not attending public worship at Salem. They refused to pay, and were ordered to be sold into slavery in Virginia or Barbadoes, but no master of a vessel could be found to carry out the sentence.
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK
[1658]
To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away; Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free!
Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime.
Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;
All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold!
Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there,--the shrinking and the shame; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came: "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said, "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?
"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street? Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?
"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?--Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm, bright hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.
"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.
"O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound, And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound,--
"Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.
"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"
Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there!
I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.
Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt; When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.
Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.
At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.
And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak: "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt."
Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all."
We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky.
And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land.
And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.
I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak! Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!"
Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns his child!"
But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.
Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said,-- "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid? In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor."
Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,-- "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!"
A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,-- I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,--
"Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me!--I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!"
"Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?"
I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn; Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track.
Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released."
Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.
Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.
Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid!
Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told.
And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour!
But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad. For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
In September, 1661, Edward Burrough, a prominent Quaker of England, obtained an audience of King Charles II and laid the grievances of the New England Quakers before him. That careless King, who always found it more easy to grant a request than to refuse it, so long as it cost him nothing, directed that a letter be written to Endicott and the governors of the other New England colonies, commanding that "if there were any of those people called Quakers amongst them, now already condemned to suffer death, or other corporal punishment, or that were imprisoned, and obnoxious to the like condemnation, they were to forbear to proceed any further therein," and to send such persons to England for trial. This letter was given in charge to Samuel Shattuck, a Quaker of Salem, then in England under sentence of banishment, with the usual condition of being hanged should he return. He reached Boston in November, 1661, and presented himself with all haste at the governor's door. The ballad very accurately describes the interview which followed.
THE KING'S MISSIVE
[November, 1661]
Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will.
He had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, Harried the heathen round about, And whipped the Quakers from town to town. Earnest and honest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal The gate of the holy common weal.
His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path! Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.
"Did we count on this? Did we leave behind The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease Of our English hearths and homes, to find Troublers of Israel such as these? Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid! I will do as the prophet to Agag did: They come to poison the wells of the Word, I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"
The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk Entered, and whispered under breath, "There waits below for the hangman's work A fellow banished on pain of death-- Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip, Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship At anchor here in a Christian port, With freight of the devil and all his sort!"
Twice and thrice on the chamber floor Striding fiercely from wall to wall, "The Lord do so to me and more," The Governor cried, "if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.
"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, "By the king's command I bear his message and stand in his stead." In the Governor's hand a missive he laid With the royal arms on its seal displayed, And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."
He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,-- "The king commandeth your friends' release; Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, His loyal servant, questioneth not. You are free! God grant the spirit you own May take you from us to parts unknown."
So the door of the jail was open cast, And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den Tender youth and girlhood passed, With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands
And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear, In the strength of a love that cast out fear, Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the cross beside.
One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side. And much scourged Wharton of Salem took His burden of prophecy up and cried: "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"
The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms; Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.
The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, The sumach added its crimson fleck, And double in air and water showed The tinted maples along the Neck; Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist, And gentian fringes of amethyst, And royal plumes of golden-rod, The grazing cattle on Centry trod.
But as they who see not, the Quakers saw The world about them; they only thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God had wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily followed them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer.
One brave voice rose above the din. Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn: "Men of Boston, give God the praise! No more shall innocent blood call down The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you, Is dear to all, and to all is due.
"I see the vision of days to come, When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blend And as one great prayer to God ascend, And hands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of praise."
So passed the Quakers through Boston town, Whose painful ministers sighed to see The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no wrong; With milder counsels the State grew strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright.
The Puritan spirit perishing not, To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot That severed the chains of a continent. With its gentler mission of peace and good-will The thought of the Quaker is living still, And the freedom of soul he prophesied Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
VII. KING PHILIP'S WAR AND THE WITCHCRAFT DELUSION
Metacomet, or Philip, had succeeded his father, Massasoit, as chief of the Wampanoags, and endeavored to maintain friendly relations with the English, but in June, 1675, some of his young men attacked the village of Swansea, and started the desperate struggle known as King Philip's War. For months the Indians ravaged the frontier, and on September 18 all but annihilated a picked force of eighty men, the "Flower of Essex," under Captain Thomas Lathrop, which had been sent to Deerfield to save a quantity of grain which had been abandoned there. Only nine of the eighty survived.
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK
[September 18, 1675]
Come listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,-- How they fought, how they died, When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then How they fell, in their pride, By Pocumtuck Side.
"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?" Said old Mosely to his men in Array. "Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again; But be sure that no Man stray All the Day, on the Way."
Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head, Wise and brave, bold and true. He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said, "Be there Many, be there Few, I will bring the Grain to you."
They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way Through the Woods which blazed like Fire. No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray, Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire, And the Beasts began to tire.
The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows, And then the Rear-Guard stays To pick the Purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs, When, crack!--to their Amaze, A hundred Fire-locks blaze!
Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried, "Each Man to his Tree," said he, "Let no one yield an Inch;" and so the Soldier died; And not a Man of all can see Where the Foe can be.
And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast, From behind and before, That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last. Every Man lies dead in his Gore To fight no more,--no more!
Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,-- The Flower of Essex they! The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side, But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide, And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride, From that dark and cruel Day,--cruel Day!
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed their store of winter provisions.
THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT
[December 19, 1675]
I
Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms, And hear the tale I tell, From Pettaquamscut town I come, Now hear what there befell.
The houses stand upon the hill, Not large, each house is full, But largest of them all there stood The house of Justice Bull.
'Twas there the court sat every year, The governor came in state, From there the couriers through the town Served summons soon and late.
And there, 'tis but three years agone, George Fox preached, you remember; That was in May when he preached peace, And now it is December.
Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God, How can there be true peace, When war and tumult stalk at night, And deeds of blood increase?
Revenge, revenge, good captains bold, Revenge, my people cry; Where stood the house of Justice Bull But piled-up ashes lie.
How fared it then, who may dare tell? The shutters barred the light, As one by one the windows closed, And all was black as night.
Strong was the house, and strong brave men All armed lay down to sleep, And women fair, and children, too, They were to guard and keep.
And then a horror in the night, And shouts, and fire, and knives, And demons yelling in delight, As men fought for their lives.
And where there stood that goodly house And lived those goodly men, Full seven goodly souls are gone. Revenge, we cry again!
II
Up, up, ye men of English blood! The gallant governor cried, And we shall dare to find their lair, Where'er it be they hide.
For never men of English blood Could brook so foul a deed, For all these sins the fierce redskins Shall reap their lawful meed.
Up rose the little army then, All armed as best they could, With pike and sword and axes broad, Flint-locks and staves of wood.
And motley was the company, Recruits from wood and field, But strong young men were with them then, Who'd sooner die than yield.
Connecticut had sent her men With Major Robert Treat; Each colony in its degree Sent in its quota meet.
And Massachusetts led the way, And Plymouth had next post, Winslow commands the gathered bands, A thousand men they boast.
The winter sun hung in the sky And frost bound all things fast; As they set forth, from out the north, There blew a bitter blast.
The meadow grass was stiff with rime, The frozen brook lay dead; Like stone did sound the frozen ground Beneath the martial tread.
All day they marched in bitter cold, And when, as fell the night, They reached the hill and gazed their fill Upon the piteous sight,
No need to urge the rapid chase, The cinders did that well, And in the air a woman's hair Told more than words could tell.
In stern resolve they lay them down, For rest they needed sore, But long ere dawn the swords were drawn And open stood the door.
Out to the gloom of morning passed Full silently those men, And what 'twixt light and fall of night Should come, no soul might ken.
III
They turned their faces toward the west, The morning air was cold, And softly stepped, while still men slept, With courage high and bold.
An Indian they met ere long, 'Twas Peter, whom they knew; They asked their way, naught would he say, To his own comrades true.
In anger cried the governor: Then let the man be hung, For he can tell, he knows full well, So let him find his tongue.
To save his life that wretched man Agreed to be their guide, As they marched on, the Indian Marched onward by their side.
And soon they reached a dreadful swamp, With cedar trees o'ergrown, And thick and dark with dead trees stark And great trunks lying prone.
'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there! They fired as they ran, And with a bound that spurned the ground, The fierce assault began.
And then a wonder in the wood,-- A little rising ground, With palisade for shelter made Of timber planted round.
And but one place of entrance there Across a watery way, A tall felled tree gave access free, From shore to shore it lay.
Full many a gallant man that day His life left at that tree, The bravest men pressed forward then, And there fell captains three.
A dreadful day, and of our men Short work would have been made, But that by grace they found a place Weak in the palisade.
Then they poured in, within the fort Soon filled with Indians dead, And many a one great deeds had done Within that place of dread.
Then with a torch the whole was fired, The wigwams caught the blaze, The fire roared and spread abroad And fed on tubs of maize.
The night came on, the governor called, The soldiers gathered round; The fort was theirs, and dying prayers Were rising from the ground.
With care they gathered up their dead, The few who had been spared, All through the cold, in pain untold, To Warwick they repaired.
So was the Indians' power gone, Avenged were Englishmen, For from the night of that Swamp fight They never rose again.
In Narragansett there was peace, The soldiers went their way, All that remains are some few grains Of corn parched on that day.
Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain, The Indians, they are gone. Please God we use, and not abuse The land so hardly won!
CAROLINE HAZARD.
This assault by the colonists drove the Narragansetts, who had hitherto taken no active part in the war, into alliance with Philip, and two months later, on February 21, 1676, Medfield, less than twenty miles from Boston, was attacked and partially burned. Groton soon suffered a similar fate, and the leaders of the savages boasted that they would march on Cambridge, Concord, Roxbury, and Boston itself. It was at this juncture that the "Amazonian Dames" mentioned in the poem became so frightened at the prospect that they resolved to fortify Boston neck.
ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN
DUX FOEMINA FACTI
[March, 1676]
A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames Contrive whereby to glorify their names, A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe, Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf, Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes, Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise. The wheel at home counts it an holiday, Since while the mistress worketh it may play. A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts, Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts, To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl, Their undulating silks they closely furl. The pick-axe one as a commandress holds, While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds. One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why Can't you promove your work so fast as I? Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel The little waggon's weight with single wheel. And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize, They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise. These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands, More like to dawbers than to marshal bands; These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise, But the beginners well deserve the praise.
BENJAMIN TOMPSON.
On April 21 an attack was made on Sudbury; a portion of the town was burned, and a relief party of over fifty which hurried up was lured into an ambush and all but annihilated. The Indians in this battle were bolder than they had ever been before, and their strategy was unusually effective.
THE SUDBURY FIGHT
[April 21, 1676]
Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name, Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame, Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a day of death and flame!
The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain; We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep, And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane: _Come hastily or never when the wild beast lusts for gore, And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more!_
The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills, Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills.
But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words, Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all; They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds, They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball; Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced.
A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening.
The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand, And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town; Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown; At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load, The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode.
By night, through generations, have the eager children come Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb.
The burning hours stretch slowly--then a welcome sight appears! Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years; Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard, They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side, And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide.
There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood; In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood: Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood!
But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near, To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford, A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail: One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale.
Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn, Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn, And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn.
They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop-- All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief; They see the braves before them--with a cheer the little group Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief, His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire, The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire.
A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout, Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout; But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out.
He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed; With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay, Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced; Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope, And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope.
With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill, The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill, An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still.
But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass: The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes. No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass-- A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close, As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast.
Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there! The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair, As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare.
There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom; Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force; When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom, Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse! And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight, Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night.
Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den, Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men; In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again.
We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall: The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command; Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call, And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand; Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent.
In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas, The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees, Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.
Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped; Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams, And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led; How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away, And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day!
Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade, We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said, That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made.
WALLACE RICE.
The victory at Sudbury was the last considerable success the Indians gained in the war. Jealousies broke out among them, many deserted to the whites, and the final blow was struck when, at daybreak of August 12, 1676, Captain Church surprised Philip's camp at Mt. Hope, and Philip himself was shot by an Indian while trying to escape. His head was cut off, sent to Plymouth, and fixed upon a pole, where it remained for twenty years. His wife and son, a boy of nine, were taken prisoners and sold into slavery. With them, the race of Massasoit, that true and tried friend of the early settlers, vanishes from the pages of history.
KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND
[August 12, 1676]
'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown, And armèd cap-a-pie. Came ambling into Plymouth-town; And from far riding up and down A weary man was he.
Now, where is my good wife? he quoth Before the goodmen all; And they replied, What of thine oath? And he looked on them lorn and loath, As he were like to fall.
What of thine oath? to him they cried, _And wilt thou let him slip Who harrieth fair New England-side Till every path is slaughter-dyed,-- The murderous King Philip!_
His cheek went flush and swelled his girth; Upon him be God's ban! His voice ran loud in grisly mirth: _Now, who with me will run to earth This bloody Indiàn?_
Then I! and I! the lusty peal Made thrill the Plymouth air; And forth with him for woe or weal, Their hands agrip on musket-steel, Hied many a godly pair.
They sped them through the summer-land By ferry and by ford, Until they saw before them stand A redman of that cursèd band, His features ochre-scored.
Would the pale-faces find, he said, _Where lurks their fiercest foe? Now, by the spirit of the dead,-- My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,-- Follow, and they shall know!_
This Indian brave, they followed him; In caution crawled and crept; Till in a marish deep and dim They came to where the Sachem grim In leafy hiding slept.
(The quiet August morn's at bud, King Philip, woe's the day! And woe that one of thine own blood, Now that ill-fortune roars to flood, Should be the man to slay!)
Around him spread a girdling line; The fatal snare was laid; And when down aisles of birch and pine They saw the first slant sun-rays shine, They sprang their ambuscade.
And did he slink, or did he shrink From that relentless ring? Nay, not a coward did he sink, But leaped across Death's darkling brink A savage, yet a king!
Then unto him whose bolt of lead Had struck King Philip down, They gave the Sachem's hand and head; Then back they marched, with triumph tread, To joyful Plymouth-town.
On Philip's name a bloody blot The white man's writ has thrown,-- The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot; _And yet what one of us would not Do battle for his own!_
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness, and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history.
Prologue
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,-- These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past.
Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,-- Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,-- Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace?
'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead.
Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!"
Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone. This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched and who "cried out" against various persons. They were countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he used them to gratify his private enmities.
SALEM
[A.D. 1692]
Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne, How rides a witch when night-winds blowe? Folk say that you are none too goode To joyne the crewe in Salem woode, When one you wot of gives the signe: Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.
In meetinge-time I watched you well, Whiles godly Master Parris prayed: Your folded hands laye on your booke; But Richard answered to a looke That fain would tempt him unto hell, Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.
You looke into my Richard's eyes With evill glances shamelesse growne; I found about his wriste a hair, And guesse what fingers tyed it there! He shall not lightly be your prize-- Your Master first shall take his owne.
'Tis not in nature he should be (Who loved me soe when Springe was greene) A childe, to hange upon your gowne! He loved me well in Salem towne Until this wanton witcherie His heart and myne crept dark betweene.
Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye, Your goodman missed you from his side. He had no strength to move, until Agen, as if in slumber still, Beside him at the dawne you laye. Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.
Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete As drifts the Bay fogg overhead-- Or over yonder hill-topp, where There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse, seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill and hanged.
THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE
[July 19, 1692]
The chill New England sunshine Lay on the kitchen floor; The wild New England north wind Came rattling at the door.
And by the wide old fire-place, Deep in her cushioned chair, Lay back an ancient woman, With shining snow-white hair.
The peace of God was on her face, Her eyes were sweet and calm, And when you heard her earnest voice It sounded like a psalm.
In all the land they loved her well; From country and from town Came many a heart for counsel, And many a soul cast down.
Her hands had fed the hungry poor With blessing and with bread; Her face was like a comforting From out the Gospel read.
So weak and silent as she lay, Her warm hands clasped in prayer, A sudden knocking at the door Came on her unaware.
And as she turned her hoary head, Beside her chair there stood Four grim and grisly Puritans-- No visitants for good.
They came upon her like a host, And bade her speak and tell Why she had sworn a wicked oath To serve the powers of hell;
To work the works of darkness On children of the light, A witch they might not suffer here Who read the Word aright.
Like one who sees her fireside yawn, A pit of black despair, Or one who wakes from quiet dreams Within a lion's lair,
She glared at them with starting eyes, Her voice essayed no sound; She gasped like any hunted deer The eager dogs surround.
"Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry; She looked from side to side-- No human help--"Oh, gracious God!" In agony she cried.
Then, calling back her feeble life, The white lips uttered slow, "I am as pure as babe unborn From this foul thing, ye know.
"If God doth visit me for sin, Beneath His rod I bend," But pitiless and wroth were they, And bent upon their end.
They tortured her with taunt and jeer, They vexed her night and day-- No husband's arm nor sister's tears Availed their rage to stay.
Before the church they haled her then; The minister arose And poured upon her patient head The worst of all its woes:
He bade her be accursed of God Forever here and there; He cursed her with a heavy curse No mortal man may bear.
She stood among the cowering crowd As calm as saints in heaven, Her eyes as sweet as summer skies, Her face like summer's even.
The devils wrought their wicked will On matron and on maid. "Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all, But not a word she said.
They fastened chains about her feet, And carried her away; For many days in Salem jail Alone and ill she lay
She heard the scythe along the field Ring through the fragrant air, She smelt the wild-rose on the wind That bloweth everywhere.
Reviled and hated and bereft, The soul had plenteous rest, Though sorrow like a frantic flood Beat sore upon her breast.
At last the prison door stood wide, They led the saint abroad; By many an old familiar place Her trembling footsteps trod.
Till faint with weakness and distress, She climbed a hillside bleak, And faced the gallows built thereon, Still undisturbed and meek.
They hanged this weary woman there, Like any felon stout; Her white hairs on the cruel rope Were scattered all about.
The body swung upon the tree In every flitting wind, Reviled and mocked by passengers And folk of evil mind.
A woman old and innocent, To die a death of shame, With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby, And none to utter blame.
Oh, God, that such a thing should be On earth which Thou hast made! A voice from heaven answered me, "Father forgive," He said.
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course, condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August 5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy. Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.
A SALEM WITCH
[August 19, 1692]
The wind blows east,--the wind blows west,-- It blows upon the gallows tree: Oh, little babe beneath my breast, He died for thee!--he died for me!
The judges came,--the children came (Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned), They set their black lies on my name:-- "A God-accursèd witch who learned
"Each night (they said) the Devil's art, Through Salem wood by devils drawn."-- I, whose heart beat against his heart From dark till dawn!--from dark till dawn!
He faced them in his fearless scorn (The sun was on him as he stood): "No purer is her babe unborn; I prove her sinless with my blood."
They spared the babe beneath my breast,-- They bound his hands,--they set me free,-- Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest; He died for thee!--he died for me!
They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill (I saw the flowers among the grass); The women came,--I hear them still,-- They held their babes to see him pass.
God curse them!--Nay,--Oh God forgive! He said it while their lips reviled; He kissed my lips,--he whispered: "Live! The father loves thee in the child."
Then earth and sky grew black,--I fell-- I lay as stone beside their stone. They did their work. They earned their Hell. I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.
Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed, Shield him upon the gallows tree! O babe, his babe, beneath my breast, He died for thee!--he died for me!
EDNAH PROCTOR CLARKE.
The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court, he refused to plead--"stood mute," as the law termed it. The penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear, and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles Corey suffered.
THE TRIAL
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
[September 7, 1692]
SCENE II.--Interior of the Meeting-house. MATHER _and the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised platform._ MARTHA in chains. COREY near her. MARY WALCOT in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them GLOYD. Confusion and murmurs during the scene.
HATHORNE
CALL Martha Corey.
MARTHA
I am here.
HATHORNE
Come forward.
She ascends the platform.
The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you Of having on the tenth of June last past, And divers other times before and after, Wickedly used and practised certain arts Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations, Against one Mary Walcot, single woman, Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented, Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute Made and provided in that case. What say you?
MARTHA
Before I answer, give me leave to pray.
HATHORNE
We have not sent for you, nor are we here, To hear you pray, but to examine you In whatsoever is alleged against you Why do you hurt this person?
MARTHA
I do not. I am not guilty of the charge against me.
MARY
Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now! Avoid, avoid, Witch!
MARTHA
I am innocent. I never had to do with any Witchcraft Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.
MARY
You are a gospel Witch!
MARTHA (clasping her hands)
Ah me! ah me! Oh, give me leave to pray!
MARY (stretching out her hands)
She hurts me now. See, she has pinched my hands!
HATHORNE
Who made these marks Upon her hands?
MARTHA
I do not know. I stand Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.
HATHORNE
Who hurt her then?
MARTHA
I know not.
HATHORNE
Do you think She is bewitched?
MARTHA
Indeed I do not think so. I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.
HATHORNE
Then answer me: When certain persons came To see you yesterday, how did you know Beforehand why they came?
MARTHA
I had had speech; The children said I hurt them, and I thought These people came to question me about it.
HATHORNE
How did you know the children had been told To note the clothes you wore?
MARTHA
My husband told me What others said about it.
HATHORNE
Goodman Corey, Say, did you tell her?
COREY
I must speak the truth; I did not tell her. It was some one else.
HATHORNE
Did you not say your husband told you so? How dare you tell a lie in this assembly? Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.
MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent.
You bite your lips, but do not answer me!
MARY
Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!
HATHORNE
You said your husband told you.
MARTHA
Yes, he told me The children said I troubled them.
HATHORNE
Then tell me, Why do you trouble them?
MARTHA
I have denied it.
MARY
She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle; And, when my brother thrust her with his sword, He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.
Shows them.
HATHORNE
And there are persons here who know the truth Of what has now been said. What answer make you?
MARTHA
I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.
HATHORNE
Whom would you pray to?
MARTHA
To my God and Father.
HATHORNE
Who is your God and Father?
MARTHA
The Almighty!
HATHORNE
Doth he you pray to say that he is God? It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.
MARY
There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.
HATHORNE
What does it say to you?
MARTHA
I see no shape.
HATHORNE
Did you not hear it whisper?
MARTHA
I heard nothing.
MARY
What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!
Falls into a swoon.
HATHORNE
You see this woman cannot stand before you. If you would look for mercy, you must look In God's way, by confession of your guilt. Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?
MARTHA
I do not know. He who appeared of old In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!
COREY
O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.
HATHORNE
No; stand aside, old man.
MARY (starting up)
Look there! Look there! I see a little bird, a yellow bird, Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me. Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!
MARTHA
I see nothing.
HATHORNE
'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.
MARY
Now it has flown away. It sits up there Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.
MARTHA
Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.
She leans against the railing.
MARY
Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!
HATHORNE
Did you not carry once the Devil's Book To this young woman?
MARTHA
Never.
HATHORNE
Have you signed it, Or touched it?
MARTHA
No; I never saw it.
HATHORNE
Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?
MARTHA
No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, I cannot help it. I am innocent.
HATHORNE
Did you not say the Magistrates were blind? That you would open their eyes?
MARTHA (with a scornful laugh)
Yes, I said that; If you call me a sorceress, you are blind! If you accuse the innocent, you are blind! Can the innocent be guilty?
HATHORNE
Did you not On one occasion hide your husband's saddle To hinder him from coming to the Sessions?
MARTHA
I thought it was a folly in a farmer To waste his time pursuing such illusions.
HATHORNE
What was the bird that this young woman saw Just now upon your hand?
MARTHA
I know no bird.
HATHORNE
Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?
MARTHA
No, never, never!
HATHORNE
What then was the Book You showed to this young woman, and besought her To write in it?
MARTHA
Where should I have a book? I showed her none, nor have none.
MARY
The next Sabbath Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey Will not be there!
MARTHA
Ah, you are all against me. What can I do or say?
HATHORNE
You can confess.
MARTHA
No, I cannot, for I am innocent.
HATHORNE
We have the proof of many witnesses That you are guilty.
MARTHA
Give me leave to speak. Will you condemn me on such evidence,-- You who have known me for so many years? Will you condemn me in this house of God, Where I so long have worshipped with you all? Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine So many times at our Lord's Table with you? Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know That I have led a blameless life among you, That never any whisper of suspicion Was breathed against me till this accusation. And shall this count for nothing? Will you take My life away from me, because this girl, Who is distraught, and not in her right mind, Accuses me of things I blush to name?
HATHORNE
What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? Giles Corey!
COREY
I am here.
HATHORNE
Come forward, then.
COREY ascends the platform.
Is it not true, that on a certain night You were impeded strangely in your prayers? That something hindered you? and that you left This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone Upon the hearth?
COREY
Yes; I cannot deny it.
HATHORNE
Did you not say the Devil hindered you?
COREY
I think I said some words to that effect.
HATHORNE
Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle, To you belonging, broke from their enclosure And leaped into the river, and were drowned?
COREY
It is most true.
HATHORNE
And did you not then say That they were overlooked?
COREY
So much I said. I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer, A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!
(Aside.)
HATHORNE
Who did these things?
COREY
I do not know who did them.
HATHORNE
Then I will tell you. It is some one near you; You see her now; this woman, your own wife.
COREY
I call the heavens to witness, it is false! She never harmed me, never hindered me In anything but what I should not do. And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, And in God's house here, that I never knew her As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, A virtuous and industrious and good wife!
HATHORNE
Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech; You are a witness, not an advocate! Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.
MARTHA
O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!
MARY
Go, go and join the Witches at the door. Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them? Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late!
[Exit MARTHA; COREY following.
COREY
The dream! the dream! the dream!
HATHORNE
What does he say? Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?
COREY
I know my death is foreordained by you,-- Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.
During the rest of the scene he remains silent.
HATHORNE
Do you refuse to plead?--'Twere better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.-- Do you not hear me?--Answer, are you guilty? Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty? Where is John Gloyd?
GLOYD (coming forward)
Here am I.
HATHORNE
Tell the Court; Have you not seen the supernatural power Of this old man? Have you not seen him do Strange feats of strength?
GLOYD
I've seen him lead the field, On a hot day, in mowing, and against Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him. He threw me like a feather. I have seen him Lift up a barrel with his single hands, Which two strong men could hardly lift together, And, holding it above his head, drink from it.
HATHORNE
That is enough; we need not question further. What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?
MARY
See there! See there!
HATHORNE
What is it? I see nothing.
MARY
Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime! The crowd shrinks back from COREY in horror.
HATHORNE
Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! It might have been an easier death. Your doom Will be on your own head, and not on ours. Twice more will you be questioned of these things; Twice more have room to plead or to confess. If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, Then by the Statute you will be condemned To the peine forte et dure! To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
GILES COREY
[September 19, 1692]
Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong, A stubborn wretch was he; And fitt was he to hang on high Upon the Locust-tree.
So when before the magistrates For triall he did come, He would no true confession make, But was compleatlie dumbe.
"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate, "What hast thou heare to pleade To these that now accuse thy soule Of crimes and horrid deed?"
Giles Corey, he said not a worde, No single worde spoke he. "Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate, "We'll press it out of thee."
They got them then a heavy beam, They laid it on his breast; They loaded it with heavy stones, And hard upon him prest.
"More weight!" now said this wretched man; "More weight!" again he cried; And he did no confession make, But wickedly he dyed.
One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."
MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY
[October, 1692]
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold; The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold; Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down; Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.
No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awoke The silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke, Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,--and why? Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.
His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him now A weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow. A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear, Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.
She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face, And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace: And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale, "For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail.
"The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell; The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well, Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, beware Of touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!
"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done, Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun, Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways, And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?
"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not say She was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day. Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,--a swaggerer, it is true,-- Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too.
"And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side, What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wide Her scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain; How dared they take away the life they could not give again?
"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse, Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse? Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair, It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer.
"They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good, The vagrant's child--but four years old!--who says that baby could To Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind, As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind.
"Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton, Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun? Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled: Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!
"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive, To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive. If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I plead Than those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?
"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more! My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore! Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail, In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.
The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night: He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight, Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose, A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.
It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept; Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept; The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood; The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.
And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife, As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.-- "Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream, And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.
The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go, Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no. We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long; I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:
"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day." Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay, As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small, Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall.
"Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird, Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no word Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze Each fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.
But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor, One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more: For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth; Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.
The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast; His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast. "Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he; "Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"
Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose, Until across the ferry came a messenger with news That the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe; The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.
The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped down Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town: In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed The nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.
Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak; From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek; The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore; The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.
The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grieved That he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived; Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground, And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.
Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we know How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore To lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.
As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds, So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds. Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live: Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"
Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character, Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her; Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell, And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.
The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet; The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet. Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side, Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!
LUCY LARCOM.