THE

SALEM BELLE:

A Tale of 1692.

BOSTON:

TAPPAN & DENNET,
114 Washington Street.
1842.

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

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

INTRODUCTION.

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

Cumberland County, Va., July, 1841.

Dear Sir:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CONTENTS

THE SALEM BELLE.

CHAPTER FIRST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SECOND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'He led the fathers and inspires the sons.'

CHAPTER THIRD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOURTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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