A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS.
A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS
IN
SIXTEEN
HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
A
Tale Of Olden Times.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF DIVERS UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPTS,
&c. &c.
Come,
listen to my story,
Tho’
often told before,
Of
men who passed to glory
Thro’
toil and travail sore;
Of
men who did for conscience’ sake,
Their
native land forego,
And
sought a home and freedom here,
Two hundred years ago.
IN
THREE VOLUMES.
VOL.
1.
PRINTED
FOR GEO. B. WHITTAKER,
1825.
A
PEEP
AT THE PILGRIMS
CHAP.
I.
From
native shores by tempest driven
He sought a purer sky,
And
found beneath a wilder heaven
The home of
MELLEN.
EARLY
in the autumn of 1636 a British vessel approached the coast of
Apart
from his companions, stood a young man whose countenance and figure were
singularly prepossessing. In an attitude of deep attention, he regarded the new
world which stretched around him—his dark eyes now sparkling with admiration,
then softening into sadness; and, again, some object of sublimity or beauty
kindling the glow of enthusiasm on his cheek. To him they seemed approaching a
wilderness; for already the forests were enveloped in darkness, and the
gigantic hills invested with the shadows of twilight. Presently a dim speck
appeared on the horizon: —it was the little
The
stranger experienced a momentary disappointment, as he rapidly surveyed the
limited dimensions, and rude architecture of that new “city of refuge.” His
fancy had sketched scenes of Arcadian loveliness, and coloured the picture
which it drew with the fairy tints of romance; but he only saw, rising from the
rocky and sea-girt shore the humble roofs of the Pilgrims, clustered together
in two compact lines, and thinly shaded by native trees; each tenement
encircled by a patch of vegetation, then wearing the seared and fading hues of
autumn. The English colours waved gaily from the battlements of a square fort,
which crowned the summit of a commanding eminence, and its flat roof was paced
by several persons, who watched with curiosity the approaching vessel.
“And
this is my adopted country!” was his first reflection, accompanied by a deep
sigh, as his thoughts reverted to the refinements of polished life to which he
had been accustomed. But this involuntary chagrin gave place to other feelings
as the ship rode gallantly into the shallow but extensive harbour, and anchored
beneath the very rock which, seventeen years before, received the intrepid band
of adventurers, who had forsaken the enjoyments and comforts of civilized life,
braved the howlings of the wintry blast, the horrors of famine, and the terrors
of an unknown wilderness, for
“conscience’ sake,”—reposing an unwavering
confidence in Him, who had hitherto sustained and kept them, as in the “hollow
of his hand.”
Major
Atherton, in the enthusiasm which the scene inspired, remained lost in a train
of reflections, till accosted by the captain of the vessel, who inquired if he
had any friend to welcome him on shore.
“No,
I am friendless and a stranger,” he replied, and never had the loneliness of
his situation struck so forcibly on his heart; for, looking around, he
perceived the vessel was almost deserted, and there were few of his
fellow-passengers who had not recognized some old acquaintance, and received a
cordial greeting. The inhabitants of the town hastened towards the ship, eager to
learn tidings from the friends and relatives they had left in their native, and
still fondly remembered country; and it was pleasant to witness the interchange
of kind inquirers, the mutual expressions of good-will, and the heartfelt
earnestness with which they listened to even the minutest incidents relating to
those with whom, though perhaps for ever separated, they still felt united by
the ties of kindred affection, the sweet sympathies of one common country, and
the delightful associations of childhood and youth.
Atherton
indulged but a moment in gloomy reflections:—naturally cheerful, and always
sanguine, he turned to the captain, who still regarded him with an air of
kindness, and said—
“Pardon
me, that I have so long trespassed on your patience; but I feel like one in a
dream, to whom every object is strange and incongruous; we seem to have passed
the threshold of earth, and to verge on a new creation.”
“To
me it is not new,” replied his companion; “I have thrice before visited this
rocky coast, and am well known to most of the inhabitants; and, if my services
can be of use to you, I pray you to command them.”
“I
thank you,” returned the young man, fervently; “but I have one kinsman in this
land of strangers, to whom my first respects are due; Captain Standish, sir,
with whom you are probably acquainted. I am personally unknown to him, but we
are nearly allied by blood, and I would crave your courtesy to shew me the
place of his residence.”
“The
military commander of New Plymouth,” said the Captain. “You will find a warm
heart, as well as a brave one, in him; and I will gladly go with you to his
house, as soon as I can find a moment of leisure.”
So
saying, they both sprang on shore, and Atherton continued walking alone, to and
fro on the beach, until the crowd had dispersed, and he was rejoined by the
Captain, from whom he learned with chagrin, that Captain Standish had gone to
the Massachusetts Bay, to transact some public business, and that the period of
his return was uncertain.
“It
was an unlucky planet which presided at my birth,” he said, “but patience must
be my counter-charm; and so, if it please you, Captain, I will return to your
floating castle to-night, and the morrow may bring me better fortune.”
They,
however, continued to walk on, for a considerable time, and almost in silence;
it was a mild evening, in the early part of September; and, just escaped from
the monotony of a long and tedious voyage, the bright and beautiful moonlight
scenery floated before their eyes, like a vision of enchantment. Every object,
half hid and half revealed, in the pale and uncertain light, was mellowed into
grace; and not a sound was heard, except the sighing of the wind among the
trees of the forest, which hung, like a cloud, around the skirts of the settlement;
and the low murmuring of the ocean slowly rolling its waves upon the strand.
The village of Plymouth, with its lowly houses and cultivated fields, alone
interrupted the wild magnificence of nature; and, unimportant as it seemed
amidst her vast dominions, was a striking monument of the enterprise of man,
and the freedom and independence of his spirit.
The
scene produced, in the mind of Atherton, sensations of mingled awe and delight;
he felt as if translated to a holier and happier sphere; and, for a while, the
passions, and hopes, and disappointments of earth, were lost in the novelty and
intenseness of his emotions. He stopped, and gazed around; and his companion,
who, if he did not comprehend the nature of his feelings, at least, forbore to
interrupt them, retired within the shadow of a dwelling-house, apart from
Atherton, who stood leaning against the twisted and gnarled trunk of a
venerable oak, quite unconscious of his vicinity to the residence of man.
The
evening was far advanced, the busy hum of voices had ceased, and a few feeble
lights streaming through the narrow casements, and then suddenly extinguished,
shewed, that the inhabitants were fast seeking their repose.
Suddenly,
a low, sweet strain of vocal music stole upon the ear;—it gradually rose, and
swelled into full cadence; and a female voice, soft, rich, and powerful,
predominated in a slow and solemn tune of sacred melody. Atherton started, and
looked round; but his half uttered exclamation of surprise was interrupted by
the Captain, who softly approached, motioning him to silence.
“Hush,”
said he in a whisper, “or we shall disturb the family, who are now at their
evening worship; it is the custom here to begin and close each day with
devotional exercises, in which the singing of a psalm is included.”
“And
whose voice is that, so full of sweetness and harmony,” asked Atherton.
“It
is Miriam Grey’s, the fairest maiden of New-England,” replied his friend; “but
had we not better withdraw? I would not, for the world, be discovered loitering
beneath the windows.”
“Oh
no, not yet; hark!” said Atherton, almost breathless with attention; and again
he listened, till the last notes died away; and even then lingered, hoping
again to hear the voice, or at least to catch a glimpse of the fair musician:
but he waited in vain; all continued silent; and, though a faint light shewed
the apartment in which the family was assembled; they were screened from
observation by a curtain, which hung against the casement. At that moment, too,
a favourite dog, who had long shared the fortunes of Atherton, began to bark at
some offensive object, threatening a speedy discovery; and he reluctantly
turned from the spot.
During
the remainder of their walk, Major Atherton sunk into a deep reverie: and his
imagination was so excited by the events of the evening, and the novelty of his
situation, that it was long after he retired to rest, before sleep visited his
eyelids; —and, then, the sweet voice of Miriam Grey haunted his dreams. He
awoke and heard only the waves lashing the sides of the vessel, and the wind
whistling among the shrouds; and again closing his eyes, to exclude the
day-light, which was beginning to steal into the cabin, he fell into a long and
profound slumber.
CHAP.
II.
Scenes
of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes
that former thoughts renew,
Scenes
of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now
a last and sad adieu! BURNS.
THE
father of Major Atherton was left an orphan in early childhood; and, with an
only sister, consigned to the guardianship of his maternal uncle, Sir Robert
Fenly; who, in receiving his young charge from the hands of their dying mother,
promised to watch over them with care, and faithfully discharge the duties of
his interesting and responsible office; —a promise which he fulfilled, at least,
to his own satisfaction, by entrusting their education and morals entirely to
strangers; while, engaged in an eager pursuit of pleasure, which left no
leisure from its selfish and absorbing engagements to observe the intellectual
progress of his wards, he contented himself with remarking, from time to time,
their proficiency in the outward accomplishments suited to their rank and age;
and which, in his opinion, were alone of essential importance. But the
gentleman he selected, as tutor to his nephew, was fortunately possessed of
excellent principles, a vigorous understanding, and those attaching qualities
of the mind and heart, which secured the entire confidence and affection of his
pupil, and effectually counteracted his own pernicious example.
Young
Atherton was naturally grave and reflective, but cheerful and unreserved in the
society of those he loved, and susceptible of a depth and ardour of attachment,
which could only be appreciated by those who knew him most intimately. Deeply
feeling the indifference of his uncle, whose blind partiality to an only son
seemed to exclude every other object of regard from his heart; and with few
natural ties to interest his affections, they became almost entirely centered
in his sister. Miss Atherton regarded her brother with enthusiastic tenderness;
she was gay, innocent, and lovely; and, till her seventeenth year, scarcely
experienced a pleasure, of which he was not the source, or participator. But,
at that time, Atherton began to watch the progress of a still stronger and more
engrossing passion; nor was it without many painful efforts, he could reconcile
himself to the idea, that, in future, her heart would be devoted to another,
and their pursuits and interests no longer united. But he was destined to receive
a deeper and more lasting wound. The week previous to that appointed for her
marriage, Miss Atherton was seized with a violent disorder, which brought her
to an untimely grave, in the spring-tide of life and beauty, when all around
her breathed of love and happiness, and the future seemed strewed with
thornless and unfading flowers.
The
health and spirits of Atherton sunk under the withering blow; nor was it till
months of wretchedness had passed away, that a new misfortune aroused the
dormant energy of his mind. Sir Robert Fenly died suddenly, leaving his affairs
in a state of extreme derangement, and his improvidence and dissipation had not
only ruined himself, but induced him to borrow freely from the inheritance of
his ward, to support his extravagance, and pay the arrears of the
gambling-table: and though he probably intended to refund it before his nephew
became of age, death surprised him in the midst of his days, with his plan and
schemes unaccomplished, and all that remained of a once noble fortune, was an
entailed estate, which descended to his son and heir.
These
tidings awoke Atherton from his lethargy of grief; stript at once of
independence, and by the hand which ought to have cherished his interests, he
felt the necessity of immediate exertion; and the effort happily diverted his
mind from the calamity which had long entirely occupied it. Inclination decided
him to embrace the profession of arms, and he obtained an ensign’s commission
in a regiment of foot, then quartered in the village of ——, in Lancashire.
Atherton
there became acquainted with Eleanor Standish, the heiress of an ancient
family, whose hereditary estates were watered by the Douglas; and, deeply
touched by the charms of her mind and person, he, for the first time, felt the
full extent of his uncle’s injustice. It was no longer in his power to offer
her an establishment suitable to her rank and expectations; and too generous to
seek her affections under circumstances which must involve her in difficulties,
he withdrew, in doubt and sadness, from her dangerous society.
The
pacific reign of James the First, admitted few opportunities for military
distinction; and, eager to engage in active duty, and acquire an honourable
rank in his profession, Atherton obtained a furlough, and repaired to Holland,
then the scene of contention between the disciples of Calvin and Arminius, each
of whose followers had resorted to the sword to decide their controversy.
The
intrepid bravery of the young Ensign, united with a prudence and judgment beyond
his years, procured him the favour of the Prince of Orange, who distinguished
him by his personal regard, and rewarded his services by promoting him to the
command of a regiment. But amidst the bustle of a camp, Eleanor Standish
retained her influence over his imagination, and occupied his thoughts in every
moment of repose; for nearly two years he had been self-banished from her
presence, and anxiety respecting her often weighed heavily on his spirits: he
was, therefore, rejoiced when a suspension of hostilities at length permitted
him to retire from the field, and return to his native country.
Colonel
Atherton, on arriving in England, proceeded directly to Lancashire, impatient
of a moment’s delay, until he reached the residence of Miss Standish. As he
rode through the stately avenue, and looked wistfully at the mansion which used
to be hospitably thrown open to admit the stranger, he was struck by the gloom
and silence that surrounded it; and something like a melancholy foreboding
damped the ardour of expectation. He knocked long and loudly at the door before
he could make himself heard, and it was at last opened by an old domestic,
whose countenance was familiar to him, though changed and sorrowful since the
days when he had last seen it. His inquiries respecting the family were minute;
but though he had fancied himself prepared for the worst, he was inexpressibly
shocked by the intelligence he received.
Eleanor
Standish had embraced the tenets of the Puritans; and with some others of her
distinguished house, formally renounced the faith and worship of her ancestors.
Her father, incensed at her conduct, and unable to effect a change in her newly
adopted opinions, which were fixed by the dictates of conscience, banished her
from his presence, and bequeathed his whole estate to a distant branch of the
family. But a few months of loneliness, succeeded by a mortal illness, softened
his heart towards his only child; and, in his last hours, she was again folded
in his embrace, and blessed with his forgiveness. The arguments of the
interested and prejudiced, however, had persuaded him that it would be criminal
to leave his fortune at the disposal of one who would doubtless appropriate it
to the use of a sect, which had already set at defiance the established laws
and religion of their country; and he, therefore, made no alteration in his
will; but added a codicil, which left his daughter heiress to her mother’s
estate, sufficient to render her independent, but not rich. Eleanor was too
happy at being restored to her father’s affection to regret the loss of
superfluous wealth; though it was not without deep and painful emotion, that
she bade farewell to the home of her youth, and retired to the house of a
widowed relative in a distant part of the country.
Colonel
Atherton listened with interest to the simple tale of the garrulous domestic¾he had been taught, from childhood, to believe the church of England
infallible; and that, on the existence of its forms and privileges, depended
the security of the crown, and all that was valuable to a loyalist. He had
viewed with abhorrence, not unmixed with contempt, the surprising increase and
firm resistance of the non-conformists, and conceived it the bounden duty of
every faithful subject, to check their audacious pretensions. With these
sentiments he naturally heard, with the keenest disappointment, that Eleanor
Standish had united herself to that despised and persecuted sect; and, fondly
as he loved her, pride and principle revolted from the idea of receiving a
Puritan for the bosom companion of his future life.
Still,
however, he would not at once relinquish his long cherished hopes; nor would he
believe it possible that one so young and gentle could long remain blinded by
the spirit of fanaticism. He resolved, at all events, to see her once more,
were it only from respect to the memory of her father, and sympathy in her own
misfortunes; and during his rapid journey thither he almost persuaded himself
that these were the leading objects of his visit.
Colonel
Atherton felt his heart beat quicker, as he drew near her sequestered dwelling;
and, whatever had been his feelings and resolutions, prejudice vanished, and
creeds and sects were forgotten, when he found himself again and alone in the
presence of his beloved Eleanor. She looked paler than formerly, and her
countenance was pensive, almost to sadness; but her smile was as sweet as ever,
and her blushing confusion, more eloquent than language, revealed the untold
secret of her heart.
Colonel
Atherton, too happy to think of reason or resolve, yielded to the impulse of
passionate tenderness, and whispered a tale of love, and hope, and constancy,
which drew from her lips a confession, that her affections had been long
devoted to him, nor did she shrink from a firm but modest avowal of the
principles she had adopted, in the earnestness of sincere conviction, candidly
acknowledging, that no worldly advantage would ever tempt her to forsake them;
and her lover, convinced that arguments would be vain, freely conceded to her
the rights of conscience, and promised her the full exercise of her religious
principles and worship.
Their
union, which shortly took place, proved happy beyond the common lot of mortals,
and though Colonel Atherton had probably indulged the hope, that the tacit
influence, or mild persuasions of the husband, would eventually restore his
wife to the bosom of the church, a more intimate knowledge of her character
satisfied him, that the opinions she had deliberately chosen, would continue to
guide her through life. Mrs. Atherton was firm, but not bigotted; and, though
strongly attached to her own creed, was far from condemning all others as
erroneous. She reverenced the virtues of her husband, and happily exercised the
rare prudence to avoid all religious controversy with him; while he, though
unwavering in his faith, could not but respect the doctrines, which she so
beautifully exemplified, by a life of uniform and unobtrusive piety and
benevolence.
This mutual forbearance and liberality produced
the desired effect on the mind of their only child, who, though educated in the
forms of the established church, honoured the more austere principles of his
mother, and listened, with submissive attention, to the pure and virtuous
precepts, which distilled, like the ‘dews of Hermon,’ from her lips. His mind
thus unprejudiced, and left to the guidance of reason and scripture, in all
matters of mere nominal importance, escaped the infection of party-spirit,
which excited so much rancour during his youth, and, afterwards burst forth,
and subverted the pillars of church and state.
Edward
Atherton grew up, gay, spirited and handsome; with all the vigour and
enthusiasm of his father’s character, happily tempered by the vivacity and
gentleness of his mother’s. Educated in retirement, and accustomed to little
society, beyond his family circle, he entered into manhood with an ingenuous
and well disciplined mind, a sanguine and adventurous disposition, and spirits
buoyant with hope and happiness. Active in his pursuits, he betrayed an early
pre-deliction for a military life, and, though not without many scruples, his
parents at length consented to his wishes; and, at the age of eighteen, he
received a lieutenant’s commission, in a regiment then commanded by his father.
The regiment soon after received orders to sail with the army of the Duke of
Buckingham, to succour the Huguenots of Rochelle; and, in that ill starred
expedition, both father and son were distinguished by their courage and
address; but Colonel Atherton received a mortal wound in the engagement, and
died, a few hours after, in the arms of his afflicted son.
Edward
Atherton, stricken in heart with the irreparable loss he had sustained,
returned to the desolate mansion of his mother with the fatal intelligence;
and, though it was disclosed to her with the utmost precaution, the shock
produced an effect upon her health and spirits, from which she never entirely
recovered.
Atherton’s
talents and zeal in his profession, acquired him many friends, and he was
advanced to the rank of major far sooner than he had anticipated; but, though
surrounded by every allurement to pleasure and dissipation, his principles were
untainted, and his heart ever turned, with affectionate solicitude, to the
scenes of his earliest enjoyments; and, in every interval of duty, he flew to
their quiet shades, and almost regretted, when the call of honour again forced
him from the society of his beloved parent.
Mrs.
Atherton survived her husband several years; they were passed in profound
retirement, but filled up with active duties, employed in noiseless efforts to
promote a cause, in which she believed the interests of religion involved; in
works of charity and benevolence, particularly towards the persecuted Puritans,
who were relieved by her bounty, and often sheltered beneath her roof. In the
meridian of her days, she awaited, with perfect composure, the expected moment
of her departure from a world, which had ceased to charm, happy in the virtue
and prosperity of her son, and soothed in the last stages of a lingering
decline, by his affectionate and unwearied attention. Never was a parent more
deeply and justly lamented; and it was fortunate for Major Atherton that
professional engagements drew him from the indulgence of his solitary grief.
Public
events, at that time, engaged the attention of every one, and the affairs of
the kingdom seemed daily assuming a more dark and threatening aspect. The
number and influence of the Puritans was rapidly augmenting. Far from being
intimidated by threats, they opposed a determined and zealous resistance to the
arbitrary measures, which the impolitic obstinacy of Charles, instigated by the
implacable Archbishop Laud, had adopted. An alarming insurrection had taken
place in the Scottish capital, when, in compliance with a royal mandate, an
attempt was made to read the Liturgy in its churches; and, already, a military
force was regarded by many as indispensably necessary to crush the power and
check the progress of the rebels.
Major
Atherton was firmly attached to his father’s religion, and would cheerfully
have encountered death, to advance the interests of his sovereign, and the
glory of his country. But his conscience revolted from the idea of aiding in a
war of persecution, against an inoffensive sect of Christians, who claimed
nothing but the privilege of enjoying their opinions unmolested, and of
sharing, with their fellow-subjects, the protection of the government, to which
they acknowledged allegiance. Respect for the memory of his mother, and
subduing recollections of her tenderness, her purity, her unaffected piety,
strengthened these lenient sentiments. He could not cherish harsh and
groundless prejudices against a sect which she had loved, and his father
favoured; and, though he was daily accustomed to hear them derided and
denounced, his judgment remained unbiassed, and, in spite of arguments and
raillery, and against interest itself, he remained convinced that their cause
was just, however mistaken, and that the rights of conscience were too sacred
to be infringed by the arbitrary will of a monarch.
Still,
however, an ardent love of his profession, and the natural desire to attain the
honours which tempted his ambition, and seemed within his grasp, struggled long
and powerfully against the convictions of reason and conscience. But the
generous impulse of a candid and well-principled mind finally prevailed over
every selfish consideration, and determined him to resign his commission, and
with it the dreams of glory, which had so long delighted his imagination.
Major
Atherton returned to Lancashire, depressed in spirits, and his father’s house
no longer cheered by the smiles of those he had so fondly loved, awakened the
most melancholy reminiscences. He had few around him to excite interest or
affection, and in relinquishing the active duties, which had so long occupied
his attention, he felt as if he had resigned the gay and busy world, and had no
object worthy of pursuit and exertion. With such sombre feelings, the winter
passed away drearily enough; but a dejection so foreign to his natural
disposition could not long retain its influence; and the return of spring, with
its train of rural pleasures, and varied occupations, gradually withdrew his
thoughts from the past. An unexpected occurrence also took place, which gave a
new impulse and direction to his mind.
Mr.
Fullerton, an intelligent young man, who had resided several years in the
colony of New-Plymouth, just at that time chanced to revisit England, and
frequently met with Major Atherton at the house of a mutual friend. Warm and
sanguine in his feelings, he confidently believed that New-England would soon
become the most happy and favoured region of the earth; and painted its charms
and advantages with an enthusiasm which completely dazzled the imagination of
Atherton. Mr. Fullerton, without dreaming of such an effect, was daily imbuing
him with a portion of his own spirit; and, from repeated conversations
respecting the early colonists of America, he began to wish himself transported
to their land of simple habits and uncorrupted morals. It was not long before
these incipient desires became confirmed and active; and Major Atherton,
romantic, fond of novelty and adventure, and rapid in his decisions, made
speedy preparations for a voyage to the western world. Mr. Fullerton was
pleased with his determination, and regretted that he could not accompany him;
but business detained him in England, whence it was his intention to proceed to
the Continent, and the period of his return was uncertain.
Major
Atherton, eager to execute his project, committed his affairs to a trusty
agent, and hastened to Falmouth, where a vessel was in readiness to cross the
Atlantic. He arrived there just in time to secure a passage; in a few moments
the moorings were loosed, and the white cliffs of his native land receded fast
from his view. He stood with his eyes fixed on the shore he had left, perhaps
for ever, till the highest stretch of land dwindled to a point, and hung like a
light cloud in the distant heavens, and at last faded from his sight. He looked
around¾the vessel pursued its tranquil course, cutting
the deep green waves, and leaving far behind a foamy track; a strong breeze
swelled the canvas, and, all around the circling horizon, the vast ocean
mingled with the blue and cloudless sky.
CHAP.
III.
¾¾¾ A man in chiefest trust,
Whose
life was sweet and conversation just,
Whose
parts and wisdom most men did excel;
An
honour to his place, as all can tell.
NEW
ENGLAND’S MEMORIAL.
THE
day after his arrival at Plymouth, Major Atherton delivered several letters of
introduction, with which Mr. Fullerton had furnished him, and, among others,
one to Mr. Winslow, then governor of the colony. He was received by that
gentleman with the most cordial hospitality, and so earnestly solicited to
remain his guest, at least till he had arranged his future plans, that Atherton
could not, without an appearance of affectation, refuse the offered courtesy.
It was, indeed, a courtesy truly grateful to his feelings. Exhausted by the
fatigues of a long voyage, and cast on a world of strangers, the society of an
intelligent friend, and the comforts of a well-ordered family, were peculiarly
soothing to his spirits. The unobtrusive attentions of all around him, which
delicately inferred that they received rather than bestowed obligations, and
the ease with which he found himself included in their domestic arrangements,
removed from his mind every idea of intrusion, and he soon felt as perfectly at
home, and free from restraint, as if only renewing an intercourse with his
early and familiar friends.
Mr.
Winslow, himself an experienced traveller, had too often enjoyed the kindness
of strangers not to appreciate its value, and the native benevolence of his
heart led him to embrace every opportunity to confer on others such civilities
as he had gratefully received, under various circumstances, during his eventful
life. A zealous adherent to the principles of the non-conformists, he attached
himself to the church at Leyden, and embarked with the first adventurers for
the then inhospitable region of North America. Possessed of uncommon activity
and address, a sound judgment and discriminating mind, he acquired great
influence with the colonists, and was early associated with others of approved
worth in the management of their civil affairs. Every action of his life was
dictated by the purest motives, and rendered subservient to their interests,
and the advancement of that religion for which they had made such astonishing
sacrifices. His prudence and gentleness rendered him particularly agreeable to
the Indians, with whom he was often selected to negotiate; and the goodness of
his heart and lenity of his disposition were, perhaps, as useful in maintaining
harmony with them, as the more prompt and severe measures of the military
commander.
Mr.
Winslow, at the time of Major Atherton’s introduction to him, was still in the
prime of life; he had experienced many vicissitudes of fortune, and, in
travelling through various countries, had acquired an intimate knowledge of human
nature, and that variety of information, which rendered him a most useful and
entertaining companion. There was in his manners nothing of the gloom, so
generally, and, too often, justly attributed to the Puritans; and Atherton
ceased to remember the distinctions of party, in the freedom of social
intercourse, and the interchange of liberal and enlightened sentiments.
At
the hour of sunset,¾for it was Saturday¾the labours of the week were ended, and the
Sabbath commenced. Every worldly employment was suspended, and the children
forsook their playthings, and gathered in submissive silence around the knees
of their parents. Books of devotion, religious conversation, and instruction,
filled up the evening; and, at the customary hour, the assembled family united
in the evening sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving.
It
was so long since Major Atherton had enjoyed the luxury of a neat and quiet
bed, that he would, perhaps, have slept till an unseasonable hour on the
following morning, had he not been awakened by a concert of young voices in an
adjoining apartment. They were audibly repeating their Sabbath lessons; and,
every now and then, a young urchin, more learned than his brethren, assumed the
office of prompter, though generally hushed to silence by the mild command of
Mrs. Winslow.
Atherton
thought it rather uncomfortable to rise before the sun in a chilly September
morning; but civility required him to observe the regulations of the house, and
he hastened to join the family in the sitting-room. The duties of that holy
day, as of every other, were commenced with religious exercises; a practice
which the early settlers of New-England never omitted, though like many others
which were their “glory and defence,” it has since become unfashionable, and,
of course, too generally disregarded. Breakfast immediately followed, and all
the children, as usual on Sunday, enjoyed the privilege of sitting at table,
and sharing the wheaten loaf and a basin of chocolate, instead of their daily
nutritious fare of milk and Indian bread. Every countenance beamed with
cheerfulness and contentment; and Atherton thought he had never seen a more
interesting family group.
At
the accustomed hour, the governor and his whole household repaired to church,
or rather to meeting, for that was
the term which the dissenters substituted for one that savoured too much of
prelacy. The public funds had not yet permitted the erection of a house of
worship, but the fort already mentioned, which crowned the summit of a hill in
rear of the village, had been prepared for that purpose. It was built with two
stories; the upper planted with ordnance and flanked with battlements, and, in
the lower, benches were arranged to accommodate the audience, with a desk
elevated at one extremity for the minister, and, just below it, seats for the
ruling elders or deacons.
Thither
the inhabitants of the town were hastening, all arrayed in their best attire;
mothers leading their tottling little ones, and young people supporting their
aged parents, whom no consideration short of absolute necessity could detain
from the public duties of the day. Atherton was struck with the air of
reverence and respect with which every one seemed to approach the house of God;
no news was circulated, no scandal whispered, no dress or fashion discussed,
and even the mirthful faces of the children had assumed an expression of
gravity and reflection.
The
people bowed respectfully as Mr. Winslow and his family entered, and passed on
to their usual places¾the governor’s rank entitling him to the upper
seat with the magistrates, while the females ranged themselves on the opposite
side of the edifice, separated by a broad passage from the other sex. Major
Atherton, according to the usage of the church, remained a few moments absorbed
in mental devotion, from which he was roused by a deep groan from an elderly
female, accompanied by a look of horror, which could scarcely have been more
profound had the whole hierarchy, or the Pope himself, stood before her.
Reminded by the incident that he was not in an English chapel, but amidst a
congregation of Puritans, who regarded the least approach to episcopacy with as
much abhorrence as an act of sacrilege, he resolved to abstain from a practice
which occasioned so much offence, and would probably excite many prejudices
against him. As these reflections were rapidly crossing his mind, Mr. Reyner,
the clergyman, a man of grave and solemn deportment, entered the assembly. He
commenced the duties of his sacred office with a devout and fervent prayer, and
then selected a psalm from the unharmonious version of the day, which he
briefly expounded, for the benefit of the ignorant and the prevention of any
false interpretation. One of the elders then arose and read the first line,
when all the audience who could, and many who could not sing, united their
melody to the words, and having completed the line, another was read, and so on
through the psalm.
Strangely
as this intermixture of reading and music sounded in the ears of Atherton, he
was impressed with the deep devotion which seemed to animate every countenance,
as they thus mingled their hearts and voices in the praises of their Maker.
There was a touching eloquence in this simple worship, that he had seldom felt
when listening to the most skilful performance that ever woke the tones of the
organ, amidst the more imposing ceremonies of his national religion. An
extemporaneous discourse succeeded this vocal harmony: and, though not
copiously sprinkled with the flowers of oratory, it breathed a spirit of ardent
piety, and strongly enforced the observance of moral duty, with a scrupulous
regard to the peculiar tenets of the sect. This sermon, which, in matter and
dimensions, exceeded half a score of modern ones, at length drew to a close;
and the singing of another psalm concluded the services.
In
this last exercise, Major Atherton was strangely attracted by a sweet and
powerful voice, which sometimes soared above the others, and then, as if
shrinking from the melody it created, murmured into silence, and again rose and
mingled in the general strain. It came over his memory like a half forgotten
dream of enchantment; nor was it till the lapse of several moments that he
could identify it with the one which had so lately held him lingering beneath
the windows of Miriam Grey. He looked around for the object which unexpectedly
revived the interest then so strongly excited; and, directed by the same
bewitching tones, his eye rested on a figure of uncommon delicacy and grace,
closely enveloped in the folds of a silken scarf, which, with a hood of the
same material, completely baffled his curiosity. Yet there was something
superior, Atherton thought, something more tasteful, in short, indescribable,
about this female. Young she must be, and how beautiful, he longed to know¾which rivetted his attention. Occupying a seat nearly parallel to her
own, he could watch every movement without altering his position so much as to
occasion remark; and the unconscious girl little suspected with what diligence
every article of her dress, and every motion of her person, was scanned.
As
soon as the congregation was dismissed with a blessing from the pastor,
Atherton, in his haste to intercept her retreat, and to obtain a glimpse of her
face, overturned a seat against the unlucky shins of a curly-pated boy, who,
forthwith, set up a cry, which resounded through the building, and fixed the
eyes of every one upon them. Miriam Grey turned, of course, and Atherton saw,
peeping from beneath her hood, a pair of laughing blue eyes, with the features
and complexion of a Hebe. Her cheeks were dimpled with smiles, which seemed
excited by his disaster; but the instant she met his fixed and admiring gaze,
she moved away with a deep and almost painful blush. Atherton could scarcely
regret an accident which had crowned his wishes with success, but he felt bound
in conscience to offer an apology for his carelessness, and, if possible, to
pacify the still sobbing child, who was kicking lustily, in utter contempt of
the tender caresses of several venerable damsels, who had gathered about him,
and whose sympathy seemed to have a most perverse effect upon his temper.
Major
Atherton, however, found his interference quite unavailing; and, as he was
looking round for Governor Winslow, his step-son, Peregrine White, came towards
him with a countenance which shewed how highly he was diverted by the passing
scene. They left the house together, and, as they descended the hill, the quick
eye of Peregrine readily detected the eagerness with which his companion
continued to regard the figure of Miriam Grey, who tripped lightly on before
them.
“There
goes the handsomest lass in Plymouth,” said the youth; “and there, too, is the
sanctimonious Benjamin Ashly walking by her side, whom her father wants her to
marry, because he is gifted, and makes a speech almost every sabbath day at
meeting, which generally lasts till the congregation are well nigh all asleep.”
“A
powerful recommendation truly!” returned Atherton; “and is it likely to prove
successful with the damsel?”
“It
may be so,” replied the other; “but she is a sly little witch, and nobody can
find out yet. I believe Master Ashly himself is as much at a loss to know as
any one.”
“That
respectable looking man, to whom she is now speaking, is her father, I
presume?” said Atherton.
“Yes,
and the most rigid sprig of orthodoxy that ever walked in the steps of Calvin:
he is thought a ‘burning and shining light’ in the church here, but I confess
there is too much smoke about it to enlighten my path, at least.”
“I
am afraid you are wilfully blind,” said Atherton, smiling: “but has he been a
long time in New-England?”
“Oh
yes, he came over in the Mayflower, with the first company of settlers, and
brought with him his wife, and Miriam, then scarcely a year old, and her cousin
Lois, whom you see leaning on her arm. Mrs. Grey, I have heard my mother say,
was very delicately brought up, and did not many years survive the change of
climate and situation.”
Mr.
Grey and his family, at that moment, reached the door of their residence; and,
shortly after, Atherton and Peregrine White entered the house of Governor
Winslow.
Peregrine
White was a tall, handsome youth of seventeen, with a frank, intelligent, and
very animated countenance, which was perfectly characteristic of his
disposition. He was the first English child born in New-England, and his birth
took place while the vessel, which had brought the Pilgrims to a frozen coast,
was lying exposed to the severity of the season, before they had found a spot
to rest upon, or a shelter for their wives and little ones. But neither these
gloomy circumstances, nor the hardships to which his childhood was exposed, had
left any traces on his mind. He was gay and thoughtless, loved a frolic better
than any thing else, and though perfectly good-humoured and affectionate, so
inconsiderate as to involve himself in frequent difficulties, and occasion
constant anxiety to his friends. His father died soon after his arrival at
Plymouth; and, in the following spring, Mrs. White was united to Mr. Edward
Winslow, whose wife had fallen a victim to the sickness which carried away more
than half their numbers, during the preceding winter; and this was the first
marriage that was celebrated in the colony.
Peregrine
White drew his hand over his face with a whimsical expression, as he threw open
the parlour door; and then, with the utmost gravity and composure, followed
Major Atherton into the room. The family were shortly reassembled, and partook,
rather sparingly, of some light refreshments which were placed before them.
Mrs. Winslow apologized to her guest for not having provided a dinner,
observing that it was an established custom with the colonists to refrain from
unnecessary labour on the Lord’s day, that their domestics might enjoy the
privilege of public worship, to which they were equally entitled with
themselves.
After
an hour’s intermission they returned to the meeting-house: and the afternoon
services differed considerably from those in the former part of the day. The
puritans, on leaving their native country, adopted many opinions and modes of
teaching, suited, perhaps, to their peculiar situation, but unpractised by
their brethren in England. Being at first destitute of clergymen, the ruling
elders, and others in esteem, were obliged to exercise their gifts to edify the
people; a practice which became too common, and often misused, even after the
settlement of a minister.
Instead
of a regular discourse, the Governor arose, and propounded a question, touching
certain controverted doctrines of their creed, and was answered in a brief and
comprehensive manner by the pastor. Mr. Brewster, a ruling elder, then
exhorted, or prophesied, as it was called, in a style of persuasive eloquence,
and with a force and clearness of expression, which always distinguished his
public teaching, and usually carried conviction to the heart and understanding
of his hearers. He was followed by several of the congregation, and, among
others, Benjamin Ashley spoke at some length, with a zeal, not exactly
according to knowledge, and which Atherton thought strongly tinctured with
arrogance and self-conceit. He certainly attended with more interest to the
father of Miriam Grey, whose strongly marked, and rather severe countenance,
energetic manner, and bold and searching language, rendered him a meet
representative of the eminent reformer whose doctrines he so strenuously
advocated. The assembly was then reminded of their duty in contributing to the
support of the church and the necessities of the poor; when all advanced to the
deacon’s seat, and put their mites into the bag destined to receive the
offering. The singing of psalms also formed a part of the exercises, and
Atherton again listened to a voice which had twice charmed him with its
unrivalled melody, though he fancied that Miriam Grey cautiously avoided his
observation; and, whether from accident or design, he was unable to obtain
another view of her features.
“You
will find our religious customs and opinions somewhat singular, Major
Atherton,” observed the Governor, when they had left the house; “but I hope
there has been nothing unpleasant to your feelings, though I am aware that our
ideas essentially differ.”
“Perhaps
not so very essentially, sir,” returned Atherton; “you will recollect that my
mother was a dissenter, and I should feel a regard for her religion, even if my
own experience did not bear witness to the purity and rectitude of many of its
professors, and the wisdom and piety which have adorned their lives.”
“Many
judicious and good men,” said Mr. Winslow, “have objected to the practice of
prophesying, as it is generally used amongst us, and which is allowed in no
other churches of New-England. It is a truth, and to our reproach be it spoken,
that dissensions have already disturbed our peace, and grievous wolves have
entered into the fold, and divided the sheep of the flock.”
“Do
you attribute these divisions,” asked Atherton, “to the admission of the custom
alluded to?”
“In
a certain degree,” returned the Governor; “were the liberty of speaking subject
to particular regulations, and confined to men who, like Elder Brewster, are
gifted with the spirit of grace, and prepared by education and habit, it would
doubtless tend to edification; and in the early period of the settlement, it
was our only method of public Christian instruction. But, in later days, many
godly ministers who have ‘cast in their lot’ with us, have been discouraged by
finding their office assumed by brethren who vainly imagine themselves
qualified to exhort; and thus a ‘door of contention’ has been opened, which our
adversaries have not failed to use to our disadvantage, and sometimes to the
hindrance of gospel ordinances.”
“I
thought,” said Atherton, “that here, at least, the church was at rest; and that
those free and virtuous spirits who braved so much for liberty of conscience,
and the enjoyment of their religious privileges, were now reaping the reward of
their laudable exertions, and sitting quietly under their ‘own vine and fig
tree.’”
“They
have done all that fallible man judged right and suitable,” replied the
Governor; “and though perfection and complete success are not the portion of
earth, we may still be permitted to hope, that what we have ‘sown in tears’ we
hall hereafter ‘reap in joy;’ and that He who has ‘planted a vine,’ in this wilderness,
will not cease to water it with his blessing. We are deemed enthusiasts, Major
Atherton,” he added, with a smile; “but slight disappointments will never
discourage those whose hearts are truly interested in a great design; and I
trust that our children, and children’s children, even to the remotest
posterity, will eat of the fruit of the tree which we have rooted and
nourished; and that New-England will yet become the most favoured country of
the world, even that ‘happy land whose God is the Lord.’”
CHAP.
IV.
Grave
in council,
Firm
in resolve, invincible in arms;
Yet
jocund in the hour of ease, he lov’d
The
merry jest and laughing brow of youth.
IN
the course of a week, Captain Standish returned to Plymouth, and being soon
apprised of his kinsman’s arrival, during his absence (for even in those early
days the good people found some leisure to discuss the affairs of the village),
he sent a message to the Governor’s, desiring Major Atherton to visit him as
soon as he found it convenient and agreeable. Atherton’s curiosity to see a man
who was regarded by the colonists as a second Joshua for valour and address,
induced him to accept the invitation without delay. Peregrine White attended
him as guide on the occasion; and after a walk of eight miles, they reached the
house of his relative just in the dusk of twilight.
Peregrine
White led the way without ceremony into a large, low apartment, brightly
illuminated by a huge fire, which was blazing on a hearth occupying no
inconsiderable part of the room, and which diffused a cheering warmth,
peculiarly agreeable in a cool autumnal evening. One recess of the
chimney-corner was occupied by a stout Indian, dressed after the English
fashion, with the addition of a wampum belt, and other savage ornaments, strangely
blended with his European costume. A fowling-piece rested beside him, and on a
ledge, over the fire-place, lay his still smoking pipe, which seemed to have
been put aside while he satisfied the cravings of hunger from a pewter basin of
savory pottage, occasionally adding a relish from the carcase of a fowl which
garnished his lap. His bold features were composed into the gravity peculiar to
his race, and his tawny complexion was rendered more dark by the fitful light
of the flame, which now flashed upon it, and again left him involved in shadow.
Captain
Standish, the early hero of New-England, was seated in a three-cornered elbow
chair, beside a round oaken table, discussing the merits of a brace of
partridges, from which, with the assistance of some dried fish, and a quantity
of Indian cakes, he was preparing to make a hearty supper. His repast was
shared by his only son, a robust lad, while two surly mastiffs sat erect on
each side of them, with their eyes fixed wistfully on the well-filled platter.
Captain
Standish was small of stature, but his well-proportioned figure denoted great
agility and muscular strength; his features were spirited and intelligent, his
eyes dark and piercing, and his whole countenance indicated a frank and hasty
temper, an active and decisive mind, and a warm and sanguine disposition.
This
group was first apprised of the approach of visitors by the portentous growling
of the dogs, who inhospitably attacked the defenceless favourite of Major
Atherton, which had followed, or rather preceded him into the room.
“Come
away, Towser, down with you, Bess,” cried the Captain in a loud voice, “shall I
never teach you to be civil! Ah, is it you, Master Peregrine,” he added, on
seeing his young acquaintance enter, “well, I am glad to see you, though you do
always bring noise and confusion with you.”
“Thank
you Captain,” said Peregrine White; “but, as it happens, I find the noise
already here, for once, and have brought with me something which I think will
be more acceptable.”
“Ah,
my cousin Atherton!” exclaimed the Captain, rising briskly from the table, and
seizing his hand, without the ceremony of an introduction; “you are truly
welcome to Plymouth, though I am sorry I was not here to tell you so sooner;
but sit down now, and we shall be better acquainted over our soldiers’ fare, if
you will share it with me.”
“I
am used to a soldier’s fare,” returned Atherton, “and thank you for a soldier’s
welcome; but I should judge from the appearance of your trencher, that your
campaigns had been made in a fruitful land; a camp does not often furnish such
a profusion of good things.”
“True,”
replied the Captain, “the Dutch burgo-masters know, as well as most people, how
to regale their palates; and I served long with them in the days of our good
Queen Elizabeth. But we will try what is set before us now, if you please,
Major Atherton. Alexander, my lad, get up and give your kinsman a seat; are you
so hungry as to forget your manners!”
The
boy, with a very good grace, arose and placed chairs for the guests, and the
important business of eating, was shortly resumed with alacrity.
“We
want a light here,” said Captain Standish, again attacking the partridges;
“Hobamock, throw away your pipe; it may not be quite so agreeable to every one,
as it is to you and me; and give us a candle here quickly; we are none of us
owls to see in the dark.”
The
Indian rolled a column of smoke from his mouth, knocked the ashes from his pipe
upon the hearth, and gravely rising, obeyed the Captain’s command. He then threw
some dry wood into the fire, which sent forth a crackling sound, and a heat
that penetrated to every recess of the apartment; after turning his eyes
deliberately round the room, to ascertain if any thing else required his
attention, reseated himself on a wooden stool, to doze away the evening.
The
candle, which had been placed on the table, first distinctly revealed to
Captain Standish the features of his kinsman; he examined them a moment in
silence, and then observed,
“I
see you have true Standish blood in your veins, Major Atherton; and I can now
trace in your countenance a strong resemblance to my cousin Eleanor, though it
is many long years since we met. She was just sixteen, when I left England, and
the comeliest lass in Lancashire. Many a joyous hour have we passed together in
the halls of our fathers; but I little thought, when I last bade her farewell,
that I should never see her or my country more.”
“My
mother often spoke of you, sir,” returned Atherton, “and always with
affectionate interest; but I was then far from anticipating, that we should
ever sit down together in this remote region of the earth.”
“It
is the fortune of war to encounter sudden reverses,” replied the Captain; “but
you have reached a quiet land at last, though if you love your profession, our
savage neighbours will contrive to keep your sword from rusting.”
“My
sword and best services will ever be at the command of any who stand in need of
them,” returned Atherton; “but I have resigned my commission in the army, and
expect, in future, to lead a retired and private life.”
“Well,
we can find employment that will suit you in either case, if you like to remain
with us. Your mother has brought you up in her own religion, I hope.”
“No,
I am of the Church of England.”
“Humph,
that is unlucky; but you need not make much stir about it; be regular and
peaceable, and no one has a right to intermeddle with your conscience, though,
to be sure, the good people here are rather fond of doing such things. But, may
I ask, have you any particular plans to execute.”
“None
at all. I am at present a citizen of the world; and have travelled hither from
mere curiosity, and the want of other employment. I admire the country, as far
as I have seen it; am charmed with the simplicity and goodness of those who
inhabit it; and, if nothing occurs to change my feelings, may yet sojourn with
you for a long time.”
“Admirable!”
cried the Captain, rising and leading the way to the fire. “I think we shall
fix you here for life. I tell you cousin Atherton, there is no country in the
world so happy, or that will be so glorious, as New-England. Had you seen it in
1620, when we landed, famishing and almost frozen, you might have turned back a
longing eye to the goodly fields of England; but, by the blaze of this warm
fire, and on the strength of our evening’s meal, I think we can arrange a
better prospect for you.
“And
what shall I do to keep myself out of mischief?” asked Atherton. “I have been
used to an active life, which gave constant exercise, both to my mind and
body.”
“We
will contrive to amuse you, through the winter,” answered the Captain; “and in
the spring you can learn to till a farm, and provide for a family, when you
have one, which will be exercise enough.”
“Rather
more than I had anticipated,” said Atherton, smiling; “a wife is a blessing I
have scarcely thought of as yet.”
“It
is a thought, which is very apt to run in a young man’s head, though,” replied
the Captain, “at least, till he is fairly tied to one. But we will not hurry
you in that matter; though I can shew you as comely maidens, and as prudent
ones withal, as you could meet with in Old England itself.”
“Now
I’ll wager any thing, Captain,” said Peregrine White, “that you are thinking of
Miriam Grey; but Major Atherton has seen her already.”
“What,
seen my little rose-bud, Major Atherton?” said the Captain. “You are a true
soldier, to be looking about for pretty damsels, as soon as you get into new
quarters.”
“It
was quite accidental,” returned Atherton; “and, after all, only a momentary
glimpse at church.”
“There
was no lack of peeping though,” rejoined Peregrine, archly; “but her new hood
is unluckily a very close covering; don’t you think so, Major? ”
“Never
mind, Peregrine,” said the Captain significantly; “as Benjamin Ashly is to be
her husband, what does it signify;” while he spoke he fixed his keen eye on
Atherton, who, without exactly knowing why, turned his towards the fire.
“And
what news do you bring us from England, Major,” resumed Captain Standish, after
a moment’s pause.
“None
particularly interesting, I believe,” answered Atherton:¾“indeed I have lived almost out of the world for the last few months;
and, to confess the truth, have been too much engrossed by my own concerns, to
observe what was passing around me.”
“Well,
and our good King Charles has lost none of his obstinacy, I suppose; I doubt
you would have heard of that.”
“Not
enough, I fear, for his own good, or the welfare of his subjects. His
hereditary zeal for kingly prerogative is likely to prove a fruitful source of
evils to the kingdom.”
“So
I thought; and that comes of having an obstinate father, and a papist wife; the
former he could not help, the more’s the pity; and for the last, the Lord help
us; but the women will have their own way; they would rule us all, if they
could, cousin Atherton.”
“Yet
Queen Henrietta is a beautiful and accomplished woman, with a high and
dauntless spirit, worthy of her descent from the most illustrious monarch, who
ever sat on the throne of France.”
“So
much the worse, if her husband cannot govern it,” persisted the Captain; “but
that Archbishop Laud,¾is he fining, imprisoning, and persecuting
yet?”
“I
did hear that a warrant had been issued, at his instigation, to prevent any
non-conformist ministers from leaving England; and the severities exercised
against the laity of that persuasion, are also attributed to his influence.
Great numbers have sold their estates, and intend, shortly, to embark for
America.”
“It
is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” said Peregrine White, who thought it
was quite time for him to speak; “I hope they will help us to clear out the
wilderness, when they get here.”
“The
great hurricane of last year,” replied the Captain, “felled a good many trees;
and, if it had moved them out of the way, I should have made more speed on my
journey homeward. And now tell me, Peregrine, what you have been doing since I
left Plymouth?”
“Me!
Captain? I have been hunting, and fishing, and¾”
“And
all sorts of good-for-nothing things, I warrant thee,
jack-a-napes,” interrupted the Captain; “I
don’t mean you, but the town, the colony, Master Peregrine.”
“Why
just what they have been doing ever since I came into it,” returned Peregrine;
“but I hope you have brought something to entertain us, from the Massachusetts.”
“I
heard of nothing there,” said the Captain, “but Mrs. Hutchinson, who has set
them all in a flame, and the new governor, with whom some are already
discontented. He has taken great state upon himself, and goes to the court and
meeting with four sergeants walking before him, carrying halberds in their
hands. Mr. Winthrop, who spent his fortune in the service of the people, had
more humility; and, I do believe, this Governor Vane, in spite of his quality,
and his grave visage, and clipped head, is imposing on them.”
“And
what are they doing to Mrs. Hutchinson?” inquired Peregrine White¾
“Doing
to her!” returned the Captain with some warmth, “what, they fled from England
to avoid themselves!
These
Massachusetts are a meddling people, and they seem to have grown so fond of
persecution, since they escaped from the reach of it, that they have a mind to
try its efficacy in their own church, and undertake to discipline whomsoever
they choose. God knows there is little enough of charity in our colony; but it is some comfort to find
we are not quite so bad as our neighbours.”
“Who
is this female,” asked Atherton, “and of what crime has she been guilty, to
draw upon herself so much reproach?”
“The
crime of thinking differently from her opposers,” said the Captain. “She is a
respectable gentlewoman, and her husband was long a representative in the
court. But she is now accused of teaching false doctrines, holding unlawful
meetings, and divers other misdemeanors: and the whole country is divided into
parties, for and against her. I am sure it is no such strange thing for a
woman’s head to be filled with idle notions; and, if the magistrates would only
let her alone, she would soon come to her senses; but I am told she is to be
tried by a council, and, it is thought, will be banished from the colony.”
“Well,
peace go with her!” exclaimed Peregrine White, “I only hope she will not come
here; for we have meetings and exhortations enough now to keep the elders
employed, and Benjamin Ashly too. But did you hear any thing about the Pequods,
Captain? It is reported here, that they have murdered John Oldham at Block
Island, and are detected in plotting against the English.”
“It
is true; the traitorous savages!” said the Captain, “and instead of treating
for peace with them, the whole race ought to be exterminated. Oldham was a
pestilent fellow, to be sure, but that is no reason why he should be hacked up,
when trading peaceably with them, in their own country.”
“Was
the unfortunate man alone,” asked Atherton, “when the crime was perpetrated?”
“No,
he had with him two boys, and as many Narraganset Indians, whose lives were all
spared. The master of a bark from Connecticut accidentally fell upon the
wretches, soon after the deed was accomplished, and, assisted only by a man,
and two lads who were with him, retook Oldham’s vessel, which was filled with
hostile Indians, several of whom were drowned in attempting to escape. Block
Island is subject to the Narraganset tribe; but they seem to have had no hand
in the murder, which was, doubtless, instigated by the Pequods, with whom the
offenders have sought refuge.”
“Have
no further attempts been made to punish the murderers?” asked Atherton.
“Yes,
the Governor of Massachusetts sent four-score men, under Captain Endicot of
Salem, with offers of peace, if they would give them up; but after parleying
for some time, they refused, and fled into the woods.”
“And
Captain Endicot pursued them, I hope,” said Peregrine.
“No,
he burnt their wigwams, destroyed their corn, staved their canoes, and returned
home to seek more comfortable winter quarters. I wish I had been there,”
continued the Captain, with earnestness; “not a dog of them should have
escaped; I know their metal well; and, though generally fearless of death, a
few dauntless Englishmen can put half a tribe of them to flight. These savages,
Major Atherton, are so perfidious, that no treaty can bind them; and so jealous
of us, as to aim continually at our total ruin. Many a foul plot has been
revealed to us; and, in the days of our feebleness, nothing but the watchful
providence of God preserved us from their evil designs.”
“And
your own valour, Captain,” observed Peregrine White; “you always forget to
bring that into the account. But I can tell Major Atherton, how you went with
only eight men, to the settlement of Wessagusset, which was filled with
Indians, and boldly attacked the sachems Wittuwamet and Pecksuot, who were the
terror of the whole land; and a great many other wonderful stories.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Captain,
impatiently, “nobody doubts your ability to tell wonderful stories, Peregrine.
I have had proof enough of it from your youth up. But there is Hobamock nodding
in the corner, and Alexander fast asleep on a bench yonder. The boy seems
wearied by his long march yesterday; and, in truth, his young legs have never
executed so much in one day before.”
“And
I had forgotten,” said Atherton, rising, “that you had been travelling so
lately, and must need repose; indeed, the evening has passed so pleasantly,
that I scarcely thought of returning.”
“Oh,
we think lightly of a walk through the woods, once or twice a year, to the
Massachusetts,” said the Captain, “and should be half ashamed to acknowledge
ourselves fatigued by it. But you must not leave me to night, cousin Atherton;
I have a bed ready for you, such as it is, and you will not forsake the house
of your kinsman, for a stranger’s roof.”
“I
scarcely feel that any are strangers here,” returned Atherton, “I have been
treated with so much kindness and attention; but the Governor expects me to
return, and I cannot leave his hospitable family with so little ceremony.”
“Yes,
you must indeed, go home with me,” said Peregrine White, “or you will
disappoint us all; to-morrow, you know, we are to have some sport in the
shooting way, and the next day¾”
“Oh,
your endless plans,” interrupted the Captain. “I tell you, young man, they will
some day bring you into mischief.”
“Well,
I know, Captain, you will do your best to get me out of it.”
“Not
I, at least, till you have suffered enough for your folly to cure you of it,
which will be no brief period. An’t now, Major Atherton, promise to come back,
to-morrow, and take up your abode with me.”
“To-morrow,
then,” said Atherton, “I will see you again.” And cordially shaking hands, they
parted.
Peregrine
White lingered a moment behind, while Captain Standish attended Atherton to the
outer door; and, feeling his habitual love of mischief prevail, adroitly
contrived to roll the sleeping Alexander upon the floor. He fell with a dead
weight on one of the surly mastiffs, which set up a howl that awakened his
companion, who instantly joined in the chorus, producing a confusion of sounds,
that speedily recalled the Captain and Atherton to the room. They entered, just
as the lad was scrambling up, with a somniferous growling, and the Indian,
roused by the noise, was starting on his feet, and instinctively seizing his
fowling-piece. His straight black hair, which had been discomposed by his
recumbent posture, stood almost erect, and his dark eyes rolled wildly round,
as if seeking the cause of the unusual commotion. Captain Standish quickly
discovered the author of the bustle; but his intention of rebuking the culprit
vanished, the moment he saw him, and his gravity yielded to a fit of laughter,
in the midst of which, Peregrine White made his escape.
CHAP.
V.
From the crown of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all
mirth; he hath a heart as sound as a bell; and his tongue
is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE
broad disk of the sun was just visible above the horizon, when Major Atherton
and Peregrine White, with their fowling-pieces and dogs, left the house to
engage in the projected sports of the day.
They
were accompanied, a short distance by the Governor, whose agricultural pursuits
often required his early attendance in the field of labour; for, like the Roman
Cincinnatus, the primitive rulers of New-England were accustomed to mingle the
useful arts of husbandry with the higher duties of their office. Elected by a
grateful people, not from the prejudices of party spirit, or the paltry
attractions of outward state; but for sterling qualities of the mind, piety of
heart, and rectitude and uprightness of character, they presided with dignity,
and commanded respect, alike in the council chamber, and in the more humble
duties and familiar intercourse of life. Ambition had not then assumed the mask
of patriotism, nor were the unprincipled and licentious elevated to the “high places”
of the land.
As Mr. Winslow and his companions pursued their walk, they were continually greeted by the inhabitants of the village, who were scattering abroad on their daily vocations; and Atherton remarked with pleasure, the cordial salute of the Governor, equally removed from pride and meanness, and the respect and hearty good-will with which it was returned. He involuntarily compared it with the fatiguing splendours of royalty, and the often heartless shouts of applause, which follow the