Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIFTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SIXTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

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

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

'Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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