IN
SIXTEEN HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
A TALE OF OLDEN TIMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF DIVERS UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPTS,
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. FLINT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR GEO. B. WHITTAKER,
AVE-MARIA LANE.
1825.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.
A
PEEP AT THE PILGRIMS.
CHAP. I.
To lands where foot hath seldom been,
Were it our fate to roam,
Still ’tis the heart that gilds the scene,
The heart that forms the home.
ANONYMOUS.
AS soon as Major Atherton left the
house of Mr. Grey, on the evening previous to his departure from Plymouth, —
Miriam, who had exerted a surprising command over her feelings during their
interview, found herself unable longer to sustain her firmness, and as the door
closed after him, and she felt that he was leaving her probably for the last
time, she yielded to her emotions, and leaning her head on Mrs. Weldon’s
shoulder, wept for a few moments without restraint. Mrs. Weldon forbore to
interrupt or question her; she could not mistake the cause of her unusual
excitement, and the appearance and conduct of Atherton convinced her, that
their recent conference had not terminated favourably to his wishes. Miriam
first broke the silence, and raising her blushing face, she said in an earnest
but unsteady voice,¾
“Forgive my folly, dearest Lois, and
believe that I have not intentionally deceived you.”
“I am most ready to believe it,” returned Mrs. Weldon, “and you will
now allow, Miriam, that I was better acquainted with your heart than you were
yourself.”
“I was indeed loth to think it so
very weak,” replied Miriam; “but this painful interview has opened my eyes, and
I thank God, that I have had strength to sacrifice my inclination to principle
and duty.”
“You have done well, my dear Miriam,
and the peace of your own conscience and your father’s approbation, will amply
compensate for your present unhappiness, and soon, I trust, restore your wonted
serenity.”
“I could endure every thing with
cheerfulness, were he less miserable,”
replied Miriam, and the tears again filled her eyes; “but I can never cease to
reproach myself for encouraging hopes, however inadvertently, which I have in
an instant crushed, and without daring to offer one soothing word, or even
leaving him the consolation of knowing that the pain was mutual.”
“Do not dwell on these gloomy
images, my dear Miriam; sincerely as Major Atherton loves you, believe me his
affection is not unconquerable; men are less tenacious in their attachments
than our sex, and their intercourse with the world, their more active sources
of amusements, soon wean their thoughts from one object, and leave them no
leisure to indulge in melancholy regrets.”
Miriam remained silent, probably
unconvinced or unwilling to admit the justice of her cousin’s assertion; which
as it regarded Atherton, would perhaps have occasioned inquietude rather than
consolation; for few women wish to regain their tranquillity at the expense of losing the affection of the man they
love, even if convinced their attachment can never lead to a more permanent
union. Approaching footsteps were at that moment heard, and Miriam hastily
rising, said,¾
“Do not betray my weakness, even to
your husband, dear Lois,” and hurried to her own apartment.
Major Atherton’s unexpected
departure from Plymouth on the following morning, occasioned much surprise and
conjecture among the inhabitants, and subjected
Miriam
Grey to many embarrassing enquiries. Mistress Rebecca Spindle, who possessed a
large share of the curiosity natural to her sex and condition, proved
particularly annoying; she found it convenient to pay an early visit to Mrs.
Weldon, and through the confusion of Miriam, when Atherton and the cause of his absence
were alluded to, she detected enough of the truth combined with her own
conjectures, to satisfy the inquisitive disposition of all the gossips in the
village.
Mr. Calvert, who had long considered
Atherton as a formidable rival, was delighted by his abrupt departure, which he
doubted not was occasioned by the refusal of Miriam; and from that supposition,
he drew the most favourable inferences in regard to his own prospects. He found
her as cheerful, and apparently happy as usual; for in society at least, she
successfully rallied her spirits, and appeared with her accustomed gaiety. Her
manner towards him was frank and unreserved, as it had ever been; and
encouraged by his hopes, he ventured to disclose the passion with which she had
inspired him, and to solicit a return. Miriam listened to him with surprise, but without any
flattering emotion; she had always found him an agreeable companion, and
believed him worthy of her esteem; but even had her heart been entirely free,
he could never have been the man whom she would have selected for her husband.
Feeling no partiality for him, she had scarcely suspected that his regard for
her exceeded the limits of friendly interest; and indeed he had considered it
politic to conceal its extent, particularly while under her father’s eye,
believing his handsome person and insinuating address would make a due
impression on her, whenever he thought proper to reveal his sentiments. The
gentle but decided refusal of Miriam, perplexed him, and he endeavoured to win
a more favourable answer, by exerting all the persuasive eloquence he could
command. Finding her inflexible, he tried the force of argument; her objections
to his religion, his country, her father’s disapprobation, her own
indifference, he at first considered merely as the capricious whims of a pretty
woman, who wished to be flattered into compliance; but he at length became
irritated by her continued firmness, and gave way to the bitterness of his
disappointment in the most violent reproaches. The feelings of Miriam were
deeply wounded
by his language, which was equally unmerited and unexpected, and betrayed an
absence of principle and delicacy that shocked and surprised her. Without
deigning to repel his accusations, or to enter into controversy with him, she
retired from his presence with an air of dignity, which for a moment awed him,
and prevented his endeavouring to detain her. Yet his pride, as much perhaps as
his affection, was piqued, and he made repeated attempts to be admitted to
another interview. But Miriam steadily refused his request, and he resorted to
the expedient of interesting Mrs. Weldon in his behalf. She, however, declined
all interference, believing Miriam possessed of prudence sufficient to direct
herself, and in reality not at all inclined to favour the addresses of a man,
whose religious principles were alone an insurmountable objection. As a dernier
resource, Mr. Calvert addressed a letter to Miriam, filled with humble
acknowledgements and passionate professions, entreating her to receive him at least on probation, and allow him to
hope that he might even at a distant period, regain her good opinion, if he
could not obtain her affections.
Miriam returned him the letter
briefly expressing on the envelope her continued wishes for his prosperity and happiness, but declining any further
intercourse with him. Calvert’s mortification was excessive, and he would have
quitted Plymouth, without delay, but his vessel was yet unprepared for the
voyage; and in the meanwhile he availed himself of an oft-repeated invitation
from Captain Standish to pass some time at his house, happy to remove from the
immediate scene of his disappointment.
Soon after these events, Mr. Weldon
received intelligence from the new colony of Hartford, which excited the utmost
alarm and anxiety. He had invested his whole property in a plantation at that
place, and with the laborious care attendant on the first attempts at
cultivating a wilderness, had prepared a suitable place for a garden, and
cleared several acres of land ready
to receive the seed, early in the ensuing
spring. He had also built a comfortable dwelling-house, which, with his cattle and implements of husbandry he left with a
trusty agent, intending to pass the winter at Plymouth, from whence he felt
reluctant to remove his wife at that inauspicious season.
But the Pequod Indians, a fierce and
warlike tribe, inhabiting the country near the mouth of Connecticut river,
began to spread terror among the scattered settlements in their vicinity; and
every man was obliged to use the utmost vigilance to secure himself, his family
and property from their depredations. They often penetrated to the abodes of
the white people, lay in ambush for the solitary and unsuspicious, and if
opportunity offered, burned houses and destroyed every thing within their
reach. Their enmity to the English was inveterate and unceasing; they inhumanly
murdered in cold blood, even innocent children and defenceless women; and their unfortunate captives
were subjected to the most cruel tortures. At that time three towns only were
settled within the limits of Connecticut: the whole of which did not contain
more than two hundred and fifty men capable of bearing arms, and surrounded as
they were by savage enemies, their situation became perilous in the extreme.
Mr. Weldon received a detail of
these particulars in a letter from Hartford, and he was sensible that his
absence at such a time would place his worldly concerns in hazard, and that it
might subject him to the reproach of cowardice to remain in security, and at a
distance, when every man was girding on his armour to repel a barbarous enemy.
He had assisted in establishing the church and colony at that place, and deeply
interested in their existence and prosperity, he resolved at whatever cost, to
return and share the perils of his fellow citizens. Mrs. Weldon at once
determined to follow her husband, wherever his duty called him, nor were any
entreaties, or the prospect of any dangers, able to shake her resolution.
Indeed she suffered far less anxiety for herself than he had experienced on her
account; she was naturally of a cheerful disposition, and had acquired an
habitual
self-command,
which enabled her to meet every exigence with firmness, every misfortune with resignation. With a constant
reliance on divine protection, and the most devoted affection for her husband,
she was ready to undertake any enterprise which circumstances rendered
expedient.
But the situation of Miriam Grey
occasioned Mrs. Weldon much perplexity and deliberation. She was unwilling to
leave her during her father’s absence, and particularly while the gaiety of her
spirits were clouded by recent disappointment, which all her endeavours could
not conceal from the solicitous affection of her cousin.
Major Atherton’s name had not passed
the lips of either since the evening he had quitted them. Miriam engaged in her
daily employments with as much apparent interest as usual; but her sportive
smile was often checked by a sigh and a casual allusion or sudden remembrance,
sometimes filled her eyes with tears, even in the moment of mirth; while
imperceptible to any but the watchful eye of Lois, her countenance seemed
gradually losing the brilliant bloom of health and happiness.
Mrs. Weldon was too delicate to
mention her fears even to her husband; and therefore left entirely to the
counsel of her own judgment, she determined to be guided in a great measure by
the wishes of Miriam. The Governor and Mrs. Winslow earnestly desired Miriam to
remain with them until her father’s return; but though gratified by their
kindness and attention, she declined their request, and solicited permission to
accompany Lois, to share her fortunes, and still enjoy the solace of her
society and friendship. Nothing could have been more grateful to Mrs. Weldon’s
feelings than such a proposal; but fearful that it would not meet the
approbation of Mr. Grey, and might endanger Miriam’s safety, she generously endeavoured to
dissuade her from her purpose by representing all the evils to which she would
be exposed, and her father’s unhappiness, should any misfortune befal her. But
Miriam opposed arguments and entreaties to her cousin’s objections, and was so
decided in the belief that her father would approve her conduct, and that she
acted consistently with duty, as well as inclination, that Mrs. Weldon
considered further discussion useless, and with mingled pleasure and
apprehension, consented to admit her as the companion of her hazardous
enterprize.
Miriam Grey commenced the
preparations for her expected departure with an alacrity which surprised her
friends, who considered an expedition to that distant
part of the country, at any time, and especially in a season of public alarm,
as too dangerous to be undertaken, except in cases of urgent necessity. For be
it remembered, the conveniences of steam-boats and stage-coaches, which now
traverse our country from the lakes of Canada to the shores of Mexico, were
then unknown; and a removal to the savage borders of the great Connecticut, was
an undertaking more formidable than a voyage of discovery to the North Pole, or
an exploring mission to the interior of Africa in these days of improvement,
when a love of scientific research, or rage for novelty; a desire to instruct
the world or to amuse themselves, is daily leading men to the remotest regions
of the earth, and has even suggested the ingenious theory of penetrating
through its centre, as a ready way of facilitating intercourse between the
antipodes. Nay, when the earth itself has become too grovelling a sphere of
action, and the dominions of the air are threatened with invasion by a recent
petition to Congress, praying that honourable body for a patent to confine the
profitable sale of wings to the sole benefit of the aspiring inventor.
But Miriam did not allow herself to
indulge imaginary fears, or even to dwell on such as wore an appearance of
reality; once resolved, she was unwavering, and those most interested in her
happiness, while they regretted, ceased to oppose her design. Captain Standish
was the most persevering of her opponents; but, like all others, he was finally
obliged to yield to her fixed determination, though so highly irritated at his
defeat, that it is said he gave vent to an almost forgotten Dutch oath, which
had served him when fighting for queen Elizabeth in the Low–Countries,—and
which, if whispered among his puritan brethren, was probably overlooked on
account of his important services.
“These confounded women,” he said to
Calvert, still a guest at his house, “are as wrong-headed and obstinate as
mules; but who could have thought my little rose-bud, with all her sweetness
and smiles, would set up for a will of her own.”
“The fairest and best of them have a
bit of the old serpent in their hearts;” answered Calvert, with a bitter smile.
“No, no, you are wrong, Calvert,”
replied the Captain: “their hearts would be well enough, if it were not for
their light heads and fickle minds which are always leading them into error,
and turning them aside in search of novelty. But I do believe,” he added to
himself, rather than to his companion, “my poor Miriam has lost her senses,
gone mad outright,—to turn off my cousin Atherton, as handsome and gallant a
young fellow as ever sued for maiden’s favour, or drew sword against the king’s
enemies,—and now to leave friends and home, and throw herself into the very
jaws of these ravenous, heathenish savages.”
As Captain Standish paced the room
with hurried steps, and thus yielded to his anger and regret, he quite forgot
in the excitement of his feelings, the caution he had hitherto used in regard
to the disappointment of Major Atherton, which the art of Calvert had not been
able to extort from him; but to which he now listened with extreme pleasure,
feeling his own mortification diminished by the conviction that it was shared
by his rival.
Mr. Weldon in the meantime, resolved
to take passage in a small vessel which had put into Plymouth on its way from Cape-Cod to Boston; being informed that a
vessel was then loading with provisions at the latter place for the
ill-supplied colonists at Connecticut, in
which they would embark for the place of their destination.
But as the time of their departure
drew near, Benjamin Ashly, who had certainly said less, and probably thought
more on the subject than any other person, became tormented by his
apprehensions, and excited by a thousand wild hopes and inconsistent plans. The
coldness of Miriam, her occasional raillery and suspected preference for
another, had not diminished his affection for her, and if he sometimes doubted
of success, hope was never entirely banished from his breast. His disposition
was rather reserved than phlegmatic; he had loved her from childhood, his attachment had increased with his
years, and was decidedly encouraged by the friends of both. The world, which
always takes the liberty of interfering in such affairs, had early declared, in
consonance with the young man’s wishes, that it would be a match; and more than
once had Master Ashly been on the point of ascertaining from the lips of the
damsel, if the said world prophesied truly. But at the fated moment of disclosure,
a feeling of unconquerable timidity, or an arch smile lurking on the
countenance of the fair one, invariably called forth his awkward bashfulness
and completely overawed him. Thus years passed on in a state of uncertainty,
till at length the assiduities of Major Atherton and
Mr. Calvert aroused his most anxious fears, and caused him bitterly to repent
the irresolution which had so long held him in ignorance of his fate. The
sudden removal of these formidable rivals, however, with the inference naturally
drawn from it, relieved his mind of an oppressive weight; and again finding the
field his own, like many other indolent and
undecided persons, he concluded to enjoy his leisure and wait a favourable
opportunity to decide the combat. His mother in vain entreated him to secure
the prize, while there was no opponent to dispute it with him; for she
earnestly desired the marriage might take place, though sometimes piqued to
observe the gaiety of Miriam rather increased by the presence of her son; and
inclined to think her strangely deficient in judgment to withhold her regard
from so worthy an object. But a strong belief which she entertained, in common
with many other superficial observers, that young women are not apt to be
sincere in affairs of the heart, and that they generally possess the art of
veiling their real sentiments, or affecting false ones, to suit their caprice
or designs,¾still led her to hope for the best; and
after all, she could not think that Miriam Grey,¾giddy as the young thing sometimes seemed,¾would really be so foolish as to refuse
her son, who was born to a good inheritance, and withal esteemed comely and
well-favoured.
When Benjamin Ashly, however, found
that Miriam was actually on the point of leaving Plymouth, he became emboldened
by fears for her safety, and the dread of losing her; and resolved, if
possible, to dissuade her from prosecuting her hazardous voyage. Yet his
resolution was more than once frustrated by some trifling interruption, or his
habitual timidity, when fortune at last presented him with an opportunity too
favourable to be neglected. He one day entered the setting-parlour at Mr. Grey’s, where Miriam chanced to be entirely
alone, and busily engaged with her needle. She received him with her usual
courtesy, and after a few trifling questions, resumed her occupation and with
it the train of reflections which his entrance had interrupted. Ashly improved
the silence in framing a suitable prologue to his intended declaration; and to
prepare the way, he began with three distinct hems, which startled Miriam, who
had almost forgotten his presence, and looking up to repair her error, she
first observed the ominous length of his countenance, and the unnatural flush
which agitated it. His eyes were fixed on her with an expression of anxiety,
not to say alarm, mingled with tenderness, but which as she did not perfectly
comprehend their meaning, struck her as rather ludicrous, and an involuntary
smile overspread her features. Benjamin Ashly somewhat abashed, cast his eyes
upon the floor— the ceiling—and finally they rested on a looking-glass; and as
Miriam had diligently renewed her employment, he improved the moment to arrange
the knot of his neck-kerchief, and smooth his short brown hair,—for the best of
people love to look well, particularly at such critical times, when a lady’s
favour is often decided by trifles. Miriam was revolving in her mind on what
subject to address him,—for as if it was a matter of the utmost importance, she
could not at the moment think of anything to say,—when Ashly prevented her any
farther trouble, by crossing the room with the utmost gravity, and seating
himself close beside her. After a brief pause he said to her,—
“You are about to leave us, Miriam,
and sojourn amidst the perils of a wilderness.”
“You should not speak to me of
perils,” said Miriam, smiling, “rather be so benevolent as to encourage me with
the hope of better things.”
“I would fain,” said Ashly, “by
exciting your alarm, prevail on you to alter a determination, which has caused
so much grief and anxiety to your friends.”
“Your purpose is vain,” replied
Miriam;” I have already ‘counted the cost,’ and am resolved to abide by the
consequences.”
“Dear Miriam,” returned Ashly,
gaining courage as he proceeded, “will nothing prevail with you? will you
indeed leave all the comforts and delights of life, to dwell in a far country,
even among the tents of the wandering savages, whose hands are against every
man?”
“I have no fears for my safety,”
returned Miriam; “and if I had, it would be my duty to conquer them, for the
sake of my cousin Lois, whose unvarying kindness to me from infancy, deserves
this slight return of grateful attention.”
“Before you decide,” replied Ashly,
“consider, I entreat you, —”
“I am already decided,” interrupted
Miriam, a little impatient at his persecution; “so I pray you, Master Ashly,
give up the subject, and suffer me to follow my inclination in peace.”
“May the Lord be with you, and
prosper you;” said Ashly, emphatically; but after a moment’s pause, he ventured
to add, “Miriam Grey, your father hath sometimes encouraged me to open my heart
unto you, and I would now urge a request which nearly concerns my happiness.”
“Be brief then, if it please you;
for time is pressing, and I have many engagements,” replied Miriam, hoping by
an air of indifference again to avert an avowal which she dreaded.
But Mr. Ashly had apparently nerved
himself for the undertaking: and though trembling like an aspen leaf, he
replied,—
“Miriam, I have long loved you, with
a love passing that of women; and even as the patriarch Jacob served seven
years for the daughter of Laban, so have I waited patiently to obtain your
favour, and it hath seemed unto me but a few days.”
“This is some new plan, to divert me
from my purpose,” said Miriam, in confusion; “but it is as vain as every other.
I have put my hand to the plough, and I cannot look back.”
“You do not understand me, Miriam,”
replied Ashly. “I would no longer seek to detain you here; but I pray you, if I have found favour in your
eyes, suffer me to go with you; as your husband, I would cheerfully toil for
you, nay, I would hazard my life to preserve you from danger or distress.”
“Would you,” asked Miriam, “leave
your widowed mother, who doats on you, and her children, who look up to you for
guidance and protection, to gratify this vain and unprofitable desire?”
“Yes, I would quit every thing,”
replied Ashly, his features glowing with hope, and for once yielding to the
excitement of his feelings. “Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to return from
following after thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou diest,
there will I be buried.”
“Say not so,” replied Miriam,
affected by the earnestness of his appeal; and after a moment of painful
hesitation, she added, “I should be unworthy of your regard were I capable of
misleading you by any false expectations. I have never sought to deceive you, Benjamin, but on the
contrary, have always discouraged the preference which you early professed for
me, and which has long been sanctioned by our friends; circumstances have
brought us much together, and this familiar intercourse has discovered to me
the integrity of your character, and interested me in your happiness; but
forgive my frankness, Ashly; I must add, our destinies can never be united; believe me still your friend, and may the affection
of a deserving object soon lead your thoughts from one who can only regard you
with esteem and gratitude.”
“Never, never, Miriam Grey,”
exclaimed Ashly, vehemently; “I have loved you through life, and I will love
you, and you only, to the last hour of my existence.”
He rose from his seat with a flushed
countenance, and crossed the room with rapid strides, as he finished speaking;
while Miriam remained silent and embarrassed, surprised by a display of feeling
so foreign to his character, and which was probably more violent from having
been long repressed. Ashly continued standing for several moments, apparently
striving to regain his usual firmness, which his habitual self-controul soon
enabled him to effect; and when Miriam again raised her eyes, every trace of
emotion was gone, and his features had resumed their customary expression of calm and rather gloomy immobility.
Nothing could have been less becoming or more unfavourable to his suit, than
this sudden return of composure; it instantly relieved the mind of Miriam, and
convinced her that he would not long suffer under the sting of disappointed
hope. She was wondering that he remained so long standing and silent, and
endeavouring to frame some excuse for quitting the room, when the voice of Mrs.
Weldon, singing in a low tone, was heard approaching them. Benjamin Ashly
started as if electrified, threw a hurried glance at the door, and not daring
to trust his voice in bidding Miriam farewell, he took her hand and held it for
an instant in his own, which trembled violently, while his features were again
strongly agitated, and without speaking, he precipitately left the room.
Miriam, deeply regretting the pain
she had unwillingly inflicted, concealed the object of his visit even from her
cousin, who had, however, her own suspicions on the subject, which were
increased by the absence of Ashly, who prudently refrained from seeing Miriam
again. But three days after, at a distance and unobserved, he indulged in a
parting glimpse, at the moment she was embarking on her voyage, surrounded by
friends, amongst whom an embarrassing consciousness
and dread of exposing his feelings, restrained
him from mingling.
The emotions of Miriam Grey were
almost overpowering, when she found herself actually quitting the home and
friends who had long been dear and familiar to her; and, for a time, she was
tempted to consider her project rash, and to fear she had been governed by
feelings, rather than prudence. But as the village of Plymouth became
indistinct, and newer prospects opened around her, her thoughts were insensibly diverted to
other subjects, and her spirits gradually recovered their usual buoyancy, and
much of their accustomed gaiety. A brisk wind carried them forward, and in less
than the ordinary time they were within the spacious Bay of Massachusetts. As
they entered the harbour of Boston, Miriam became again silent and abstracted;
she observed with restless curiosity the different persons who were collected
on the shore; and Mrs. Weldon was at no loss to conjecture that Major Atherton
was present to her thoughts; but in the imperfect light he was not recognized
by either of them,¾and immediately on landing they proceeded
to the public inn.
CHAP. II.
I
must admire thee more for so denying,
Than I had
dared if thou had’st fondly granted;
Thou dost
devote thyself to utterest peril,
And me to deepest anguish; yet even
now
Thou
art lovelier to me in thy cold severity,
Flying me,
leaving me without a joy,
Without a hope on earth, without
thyself;
Thou
art lovelier now, than if thy yielding soul
Had smiled
on me a passionate consent.”
MILMAN.
MIRIAM GREY was in the act of
speaking as she entered the room, where the landlady of the inn had prepared
their evening repast; but the words died on her lips the instant she recognized
the features of Major Atherton, whose eyes were fixed on her with an expression
of extreme pleasure, which for the moment absorbed every other sensation. Mrs.
Weldon, who did not at first observe him, was surprised at the sudden pause,
and feeling her cousin lean heavily on her arm, she looked round to ascertain
the cause, and beheld her pale as death, and apparently on the verge of
fainting. But the emotion of Miriam was as transient, as involuntary; and when
Atherton sprang forward to support her, she recovered her presence of mind, and
gently extricating herself from the grasp of Lois, stood erect with an air of
maidenly pride, and a countenance glowing with blushes. Atherton respected the
delicacy of her feelings, while his heart thrilled with the delightful
consciousness, that he possessed an influence over them; and without appearing
to notice her embarrassment, he merely bowed, and turning to Mrs. Weldon, said,
—
“I scarcely hoped for the pleasure
of seeing my Plymouth friends so soon; and even now my pleasure is mingled with
apprehension.”
“We have become travellers from
necessity more than inclination,” returned
Mrs.
Weldon; “but, if our
voyage continues as prosperous as it has been hitherto, we shall have cause to
‘sing of mercy,’ rather than of ‘judgment.’“
“You must have suffered from cold
and sickness and fatigue,” said Atherton addressing Miriam, “at this inclement
season, when even the weather-beaten fishermen gladly retreat to the shelter of
their cabins.”
“We have not suffered from any
cause,” replied Miriam; “and indeed, our short voyage has been in every respect
more comfortable and pleasant than we had any reason to expect.”
“But you do look ill;” said
Atherton, regarding her with anxiety, and she was really much thinner than when
he saw her last, “you cannot, ought not to pursue this voyage Miriam, if, as
Mr. Weldon has intimated, you have formed the rash design of going to the
savage regions of Connecticut.”
“And why,” asked Miriam with
simplicity, “is it more rash in me than in my cousin Lois, who has never
hesitated for a moment
on its propriety or necessity?”
“Probably,” said Atherton, a little
embarrassed by the question, “Mrs. Weldon considers herself bound to follow her
husband wherever his circumstances lead him; and I should scarcely venture to
obtrude my opinion, when she has one so much more capable of advising her.”
“And I,” returned Miriam, “have had
many sage advisers, but as you see, have turned a deaf ear to them all; Captain
Standish will tell you, Major Atherton, that I am a self-willed girl, because I
would not take heed to his counsels, for which, however, I am grateful, though he professes not to
believe it.”
“You would warn me not to adventure
where so many have failed,” said Atherton, smiling; “but if I submit, it will
be from necessity, not conviction, that my advice is incorrect.”
“Here is our hostess bringing in
supper, and it is truly welcome:” said Mr. Weldon. “You will sit down with us I
hope, Major Atherton, though your appetite is not like ours, sharpened by
sea-breezes.”
Atherton did not wait for the
invitation to be repeated; he seated himself opposite to Miriam, and the
cheerful meal was passed in animated and general conversation. Miriam was again
all gaiety and smiles, and both to her and Atherton, the past and future were
unthought of, the present a scene of exquisite enjoyment; and when Mrs. Weldon
reminded her cousin that it was time to retire, they separated with a sigh of
regret, as if awakened from a dream of enchantment. Atherton remained in a
musing posture for some moments after they left the room, till Mr. Weldon rose,
and bidding him good night, was about to follow them, when Atherton started
from his seat, and in an earnest voice said to him,—
“Is it too late, sir, to dissuade
Miriam Grey from her mad resolution? cannot we yet prevail on her to renounce
it and remain here in safety?”
“Remain with whom?” asked Mr.
Weldon, rather sarcastically; but he instantly continued in a graver tone, “not
I believe if there is stability in woman, and few even of maturer years possess
more than Miriam; she has resisted the entreaties of all her friends, and it is
not probable will now be induced to abandon her enterprize.”
“Is there no one who has influence
enough to detain her?” said Atherton. “Surely it is the duty of all who are
interested in her happiness to lift up their voices against an undertaking so
replete with dangers.”
“She has listened to the opinion of her
friends touching this matter,” returned Mr. Weldon; “but her father was wont to
entrust much to her discretion, and no person in his absence has authority to
controul her. For my own part I frankly confess my responsibility and anxiety
for her almost over-balance the pleasure which her society gives us.”
“Then,” said Atherton eagerly, “you
will consent to leave her, if any arguments can succeed in gaining her
acquiescence.”
“Her decision has been voluntary,”
said Mr. Weldon, “and I have reason to believe it unalterable; at all events, I
am sure she would sooner lay down her life than deviate in the least from the
straight line of duty and principle.”
“Far be it from me,” replied
Atherton, “to offer any inducements inconsistent with the purity and rectitude
of her mind and character; I may appear officious to you, sir, and perhaps to
her; but I cannot— I have no wish to conceal the deep interest which I feel in
her welfare and happiness.”
“I am convinced,” said Mr. Weldon
after a moment’s pause, “that nothing but the known wishes of her father would
now prevail with Miriam to relinquish her design; and indeed all circumstances
considered, I am far from wishing her to do so. To-morrow, if the wind is
favourable we shall proceed on our voyage; for we are now anxious to reach the
place of our destination.”
“I will not detain you longer from
your needful repose,” said Atherton; and with the usual compliments they
separated for the night.
Atherton retired to a small
ill-furnished apartment,— for he resigned his own to the travellers— but with a
mind too fully occupied by painful thoughts and anticipations, to regard its
deficiencies or incongruities. He thought the tedious night would never pass
away, and often through its heavy watches he looked anxiously from the window,
noted every twinkling star, and followed with his eye the light clouds which
flitted over the heavens, hoping they would collect and retard the departure of
Miriam for at least another day.
The sun, however, rose with unwonted
brilliancy on the following morning; but Atherton’s immediate apprehensions
were quieted, on learning that the wind was still unfavourable for a voyage to
the Connecticut. Delighted with this reprieve, and not doubting that he should
find an opportunity of conversing alone with Miriam in the course of the day,
he again yielded to the
illusions of hope; and joined Mrs. Weldon’s breakfast table with a countenance
from which every trace of sadness was banished. But Miriam, though cheerful,
was less gay than on the preceding evening; and as soon as the repast was
finished, she retired with Mrs. Weldon to their own apartments. Atherton
scarcely saw her again during the day, except at dinner, and though more than
once on the point of requesting a moment’s conversation with her, the dread of
refusal restrained him, and he deferred it, still hoping that accident would
favour him with the desired interview. He fancied too that Miriam intentionally
avoided him; and piqued by conduct so different from her usual frankness, he
was again inclined to accuse her of caprice and fickleness. When they met at
supper, Atherton was silent and abstracted; and the moment they rose from table
he pleaded an engagement at the Governor’s, and with a slight apology left them
for the evening. As he looked back on closing the door he caught the eye of
Miriam following him, with an expression so soft and almost tearful, that for
an instant his resolution wavered; but she turned from him with a deep blush, and
ashamed of his weakness he instantly retired. Yet the parting look of Miriam
still pursued him.
“I
am too hasty, I have judged her unkindly,” he thought;¾and instead of going to the Governor’s,
after walking and musing for about half an hour he returned to the inn in the
hope of seeing her.
Mr. and Mrs. Weldon were gone out, and Miriam had excused
herself from accompanying them by saying she had some arrangements to make for
her voyage, and wished to retire early to bed. She was alone in a parlour appropriated
particularly to their use, and looking attentively from a window which
commanded a view of the town and harbour, when Atherton returned and entered
the room, ignorant by whom it was occupied. It was yet early in the evening,
and the bright blaze of a wood fire threw a glare around the apartment, and
quite eclipsed the feeble light of a candle which flickered in its socket, and
whose long black wick showed that the thoughts of Miriam were wandering to
other subjects. As Atherton opened the door she looked hastily round to see who
was entering, and her recognition was evinced by her heightened complexion as
she again turned towards the window and continued to gaze on the scene without.
Atherton’s resentment, his suspicions— all were forgotten; and in an instant he
was by her side.
“Are you admiring this winter
scenery, Miriam?” asked Atherton. “I should think it too familiar, if not too
dreary to charm your eyes.”
“The most familiar scenes,” replied
Miriam with still averted face, “are generally those which give us the greatest
pleasure; they are associated in our minds with all that the heart most prizes
and best enjoys.”
“But here,” said Atherton, “there is
nothing to awaken such associations; you are in a strange land, where there are
no objects to remind you of home and its enjoyments.”
“Indeed there are many, very many,”
replied Miriam: “these dazzling snows, and that boundless ocean, have been
familiar to me from infancy; and the ‘moon walking in her brightness through
the heavens,’ is even now shining on the forsaken home of my childhood; and
think you I can look upon it without emotions of melancholy pleasure?”
“Impossible!” said Atherton
earnestly, “and never, Miriam, have I gazed upon its calm beauty, since
banished from your presence, without thrilling recollections of those happy
moments, when with you I was wont to see it slowly rising above the shores of
Plymouth, and throwing its silver light through the vine-covered casement where
I was permitted to see and converse with you: where, dearest Miriam, I dared to
indulge those dreams of happiness which you have so cruelly disappointed.”
“Speak not of the past,” said
Miriam, hastily, and with a trembling voice; “it is like a vision of delight
which has faded away and ought to be forgotten; when this moon now shining in
glory begins to wane in her course, I shall behold its parting rays reflected
on the waves of the broad Connecticut.”
“Be it so,” said Atherton, with
impassioned energy, “and there also will I be beside you. It is in vain,
Miriam, that you fly from me, that you renounce me, that you seek to separate
my fate from yours; wherever your path may lead you, across the deep waters, or
through the trackless desert; in the sunshine of prosperity, or beneath the
dark sky of adversity; there will I be with you, and nought but death shall
have power to disunite us.”
“Why,” asked Miriam, reproachfully,
“will you force me to regret that I have ever known you? why, Atherton, do you
persecute me with a love which I can never recompense?”
“Say that you despise me, Miriam,
that I am an object of aversion to you, that, were there no other obstacle to
our union, your indifference would divide us— say all this, but do not look at
me with an eye of pity— do not cheat me with that voice of tenderness, which
creates a thousand hopes at the moment it seeks to annihilate them.”
“I do pity you from my heart,” said
Miriam, almost subdued by emotion; “but what avails it? we must separate, Atherton, and let not these
parting moments be embittered by unavailing regrets.”
“Pity me!” repeated Atherton, “say
that you love me, Miriam, that you will love me, and me alone, through weal and
woe, and on that sweet assurance I will rest my hopes of brighter and happier
days.”
“Why,” replied Miriam, “should you
wish to extort from me a confession which ought not to pass my lips! No,
Atherton, we must henceforth learn to think of each other as voyagers, who, for
a few brief and smiling days have floated together along the current of time,
till our frail barks were driven asunder, never perhaps to meet again, until
launched into the ocean of eternity.”
“And are you, Miriam, thus
indifferent? Thus reckless of the past, and careless for the future? does the
memory of joys that are gone, awaken no throb of tenderness? and can you look
through the long vista of coming years— darkened by disappointed hope— without
one sigh of regret? then, indeed, have I deeply, fatally deceived myself.”
“The wicked only can be long and
truly wretched,” answered Miriam, “and God I trust will give us grace to bear
whatever his Providence ordains. If you truly love me, Atherton, do not render
more keen the misery of this parting hour.— I have left the friends of my
childhood and youth, and forsaken the home of my father— I have looked with an
undaunted eye on the perils which may encompass me whither I am going, and till
now I have endured with fortitude— alas! if I had not again seen you, I should
have been spared the trial of this moment— the anguish of another, a final
separation!”
Miriam turned from him agitated and
confused, and fearful that she had expressed too much in the warmth of her
feelings; but Atherton, regarding her varying countenance with renovated hope,
exclaimed,—
“And why should we part, dearest
Miriam? I know, I feel that you love me, and surely the hearts which God has
united, it were impious in man to tear asunder!”
“If you would retain my esteem,”
said Miriam, “if you value my love, which I have perhaps too lightly given, do
not tempt me to forget my duty; believe me, Atherton, it is dearer to me than
any selfish gratification, even than your affection, much as I have learned to
prize it.”
“Dear Miriam,” replied Atherton,
with tenderness, and taking her passive hands between his own, “this is indeed
a recompense for all I suffered, and for all that fate may yet have in store
for me! But I would again ask, why should we part? have you not confidence
enough in my honour and principles to entrust your happiness in my keeping?
say, dearest Miriam, that you will be mine, and let us not delay to be united
by the most holy ties!”
“I entreat you to forbear,
Atherton,” replied Miriam; “you are led away by passion, and forget the
delicacy becoming my sex, and the respect due to your own character. Would not
the world justly name me with reproach, should I forsake the friends to whom my
father entrusted me, and abandon an enterprise in which I am engaged by every
feeling of gratitude and affection— to become the wife of a stranger—one, whose
attachment my father disapproves, and whose religion is regarded with aversion?
Nay, hear me patiently—would your esteem and confidence in me remain
undiminished, were my conduct such as to lessen me in the public estimation?”
“Yes, dear Miriam, I should love you the more
for rising superior to such illiberal prejudices.”
“Is the opinion of the wise and
virtuous to be regarded as an illiberal prejudice?” asked Miriam; “no,
Atherton, my own heart would be the first to condemn me, and for worlds I would
not tempt its upbraidings.”
“Miriam, you are too scrupulous,”
replied Atherton; “what is it you dread, what law are you transgressing, by
entering into an alliance with me? do we not worship the same God, and what
matters it that we differ in outward ceremonies? You know that I have ever
manifested the most sincere respect for the religious faith which is so dear to
you, which my mother taught me to love; and I should be far from wishing you to
renounce it for that which I profess; and surely under such circumstances it
would be bigoty in the extreme to condemn our union—your father cannot refuse
his sanction—he will not withhold his forgiveness, even if you wait not for his
consent—dearest Miriam, give me one smile of encouragement, or rather say that
you will receive me for your happy, your devoted husband.”
“I have encouraged you too much
already by my rash avowal,” said Miriam, after a moment’s pause; “I have
exposed to you the weakness of my heart, and you take advantage of it to urge a
request in which, however, I can never acquiesce. I fear your love is selfish,
Atherton, or you would not wish me to gratify it, at the expense of any
honourable feeling.”
“Forgive me, Miriam,” returned
Atherton, with emotion, “if I have said aught, which can justify that
conclusion. Heaven is my witness, that your happiness is dearer to me than any
earthly object, than life itself; and if I have urged you beyond the bounds of
prudence or delicacy, attribute it to the extent of my affection, and the dread
of losing you; and believe me, I will in future endeavour to submit more
cheerfully to your decisions.”
“I am but too ready to believe all
that you wish too,” replied Miriam; “and it is only when duty interposes her
authority, that I can prove inexorable to your entreaties.”
“May her rigid interdiction be soon
removed,” said Atherton, earnestly. “And yet dear Miriam, I cannot without
trembling apprehension, think of your father’s prejudices,—his stern notions of
propriety, which may in an instant crush all my fondly raised expectations, and
again consign me to misery.”
“We will not borrow trouble from the
future,” answered Miriam, ‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ Still,
Atherton, let us not be too sanguine of success; — the result is uncertain, and
it is wise to prepare our minds for disappointment.”
“Do not speak of it, Miriam,” said
Atherton, impatiently; “suffer me at least to enjoy the future, since present
happiness is denied me. To part with you, were alone enough of misery; but to
see you go forth to danger and suffering—tell me, Miriam, what duty impels you
to such scenes? Why should you not even now abandon your rash design, and
return to the friends who you are assured will receive you with smiles of
affectionate welcome?”
“Do not speak of it, it is
impossible,” said Miriam with emotion; “suffer me to depart, Atherton; our
conference has already been too long.”
She endeavoured to withdraw her hand
from him, as she spoke; but he held it firmly, and said in an anxious voice,—
“Stay yet a moment, Miriam, and tell
me, if you have well considered the perils of your undertaking? the hardships
you may be called to encounter, from want and its attendant evils, and above
all, from the fury of those barbarous savages, who are even now spreading
terror throughout the scattered colonies? Oh, Miriam, my heart bleeds at the
bare possibility that you may be left to suffer in a land of strangers and
barbarians!”
“I have thought of all, of every
thing,” said Miriam; “but I am in the protection of One, who will keep me
‘under the shadow of his wings in safety,’ and who is alike present in every
place. Do not seek to persuade me, Atherton, you may agitate me by your fears,
but you cannot alter my determination.”
“I well know your perseverance, in
what you regard a duty,” returned Atherton; “but is it a duty, Miriam, to rush
into certain danger? think if evil should befall you, it will ‘bring down your
father’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.’”
“And should I shrink from a
dangerous duty?” asked Miriam; “would not that father blush for the weakness of
a daughter so unworthy of parents, who dared and suffered without fear, in the
cause of liberty and religion? No, Atherton, you entreat me in vain— it shall
not be said that I yielded to the language of passion, when I was deaf to the
voice of reason and friendship— or that like a weak girl, I turned back to
enjoy the society of one for whom with capricious fondness, I forsook the
friend who cherished me in infancy, and neglected the commands of an absent
father.”
“That shall not be said, dear
Miriam; only go to the safe shelter of the home you have abandoned, and the
most fastidious shall not have cause to reproach you. I will remove far from
you,—again become a wanderer on the earth, and however painful the
self-denial,
refrain from seeing you, until your father shall return and decide my destiny.”
“Do not urge me on this, on any
subject,” said Miriam, affected by his earnestness; “you will make me hate
myself, as the cause of your unhappiness and anxiety— let me leave you, Atherton;
I cannot, must not grant your request.”
“Then I will go with you,” returned
Atherton, again detaining her; “I will follow
you—be
ever near you—I would die to serve you; but I cannot leave you to contend with
dangers, which my arm might avert from you.”
“My trust is not in an arm of
flesh,” said Miriam; “but in Him, without whose permission not a sparrow falls
to the ground. Dear Atherton,” she added with a glowing cheek, and faultering
voice, “we must separate; but let
us remember each other daily in our prayers, and cherish the hope, that God, in
his own good time, will grant us a happier meeting: but should we not be
permitted to meet again in this vale of tears, there are brighter mansions
above, where the pain of parting is never felt, and the distinctions of faith
and worship are unknown.”
“Dearest Miriam,” said Atherton,
“there is not a moment of my existence, in which you are absent from my mind;
your image is blended with every thought, it is the spring of every hope, the
inspirer of every pleasure,— and can you blame me, that I reluctantly resign
the delight and treasure of my soul? Oh Miriam, the thought that your heart may
grow cold and change, is to me more bitter than death!”
“Fear it not!” said Miriam, raising
her tearful eyes to his; “Atherton, you have wrung from me the seceret of my
love, and now why should I blush to assure you, that neither time, nor
suffering, nor reproach, can ever eradicate it from my heart.”
“Ten thousand thanks, for this
assurance,” said Atherton; “it shall be like a precious talisman, to chase away
doubt and despair, in the gloomy moments of our separation.— Look up, my
beloved Miriam, on this lovely moon, and often as you gaze upon it, when far
away, think that my eyes are also raised to it, and may our thoughts mingle,
and the remembrance of this hour descend, like a balmy dew upon our spirits!”
Before Miriam could reply, the sound
of foot-steps was heard approaching: and in an instant she fled, like a young
doe, from the presence of Atherton.
CHAP. III.
Full
of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And
bears down all before him.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE following morning was bright and
cloudless, with a strong westerly wind, and soon after sun-rise, Mr. Weldon and
his fair companions re-commenced their wintry voyage towards the wilderness of
Connecticut. Major Atherton stood on the sea-shore, straining his eyes to catch
a last glimpse of the vessel as it rapidly disappeared; and feeling as if every
wave which bore it onward opposed an impassable barrier between himself and the
object of his affections. When it was no longer visible, and even the white
sails had fluttered for the last time in his view, and sunk below the horizon,
he continued to stand and gaze, till finding himself regarded with curiosity,
he reluctantly retired from the spot.
Week after week passed away, and
Atherton mingled as usual in society, though often with an abstracted mind, and
a heart filled with anxiety respecting the fate of Miriam. The return of the
vessel, however, at length brought him a few lines from Mr. Weldon, informing
him that they had reached Hartford in safety, after a prosperous voyage, and
were then comfortably situated and provided with all the necessaries of life.
The letter contained few particulars, but it greatly relieved Atherton’s apprehensions, and by
degrees the situation and prospects of Miriam became a subject of less painful
solicitude to his thoughts. Still with all his exertions and all his
resolutions, he passed many moments of extreme dejection; and the long and
gloomy months of winter seemed almost interminable.
The political and religious
dissensions, which disturbed the infancy of Boston, were about that time
carried to their height: and in every place, they became subjects of
discussion, often of rancour and personal animosity. The administration of
Governor Vane,¾which even at this day appears equivocal,¾was defended with zeal or arraigned with
acrimony, according to the different views and feelings of the individuals who
judged him, with a degree of freedom which is still considered lawful in the
subjects of a free government, who, whether competent or not, regard it as
their birth-right to speak unreservedly of the conduct and character of their
rulers.
But the golden apple of discord, was
the ill-fated Mrs. Hutchinson,¾then, according to the opinion of her
friends, in the zenith of glory,¾and of her opponents, in the depths of
humiliation. The boldness of her spirit defied all opposition, and far from
yielding to the anathemas fulminated against her, she took up the gauntlet and
waged a zealous war with both magistrates and clergy. Her enthusiasm, and
apparent sincerity of devotion, with a winning address and most persuasive
eloquence, both in her private conversation and public exhortations, which were
always seasoned with the ‘odour of sanctity,’ gained her numerous converts,
particularly among her own sex. Encouraged by success, perhaps inclined to shew
her contempt for all authority, she set up a weekly lecture at her own house,
to instruct and edify the sisters, where it was her custom to repeat the
substances of the discourses which had been delivered on the preceding sabbath,
and to add her own remarks and expositions by way of improvement. A very few of
the clergy who adopted her sentiments, or at least palliated them, she declared
to be under a covenant of grace;
while those, who stigmatised her errors, and ceased not in public and private
to denounce her as a leader of Antinomianism,¾one who taught from the very dregs of Familism,¾ she pronounced to be under a covenant of works; and into these two
parties, the whole colony was at length divided.
It is not surprising that this
universal excitement alarmed the friends of peace and good order; but unfortunately
personal dislike and animosity, warped even the coolest judgments, and rankled
in the most benevolent hearts; with unchristian virulence they resorted to
threats and persecution, and like Saul of Tarsus, believed they were ‘doing God service.’ Even the calm and
lenient Winthrop, and the heavenly-minded Eliot, laid aside the spirit of
charity and forgiveness which usually influenced them, and took part in the
controversy, and assisted to condemn that unhappy woman. The ministers from the
neighbouring, and even distant towns, resorted to Boston, to learn the truth of
the reports which were rapidly circulated; and if needful to lend their aid to
suppress the disorder; but the contagion had spread too far, and Mrs.
Hutchinson daily increased the evil, by advancing some new and absurd doctrine
of theology, which she maintained with a subtlety of
argument, and a versatility of talent, perplexing the soundest minds, and giving to error the appearance of consistency and truth. She
was evidently favoured by Governor Vane; and it was probably owing to his
influence that her trial and consequent banishment were deferred until another
season.
Major Atherton prudently preserved a
strict neutrality on these subjects of contention; as he had been kindly
admonished to do by Mr. Winthrop, when in the warmth of his feelings, he once
ventured to defend the character of Mrs. Hutchinson, whom he really believed
far less culpable than her adversaries were willing to allow. Though led away
by an extreme of fanaticism, which had blighted her character, and perverted
her strong and highly gifted mind,¾a mind capable under other circumstances
of ranking her with the most distinguished of her sex,¾he thought she might, and doubtless did believe herself actuated by a sense of duty, and a desire of
being extensively useful. Atherton, however,
soon became weary of topics which were often introduced and discussed with
acrimony, even in the domestic and social circle; for from the Governor to the meanest dependent on his bounty, every individual
espoused the cause of one or other of the rival parties, and argued on the
different points of doctrine as inclination or interest or conviction dictated;
and with a zeal, which blazed without light, and a faith which had little
regard to the law of charity. Atherton vainly hoped to indulge again in the
interchange of rational and friendly sentiments, which he had so much enjoyed,
before the influence of passion and prejudice banished the kindlier feelings
from the heart, and substituted crude systems of divinity and polemic
disquisition for those subjects of general interest which at once exercised the
mind and affections, and gave indulgence to the flow of harmless wit and
chastened gaiety. He often resolved to return to Plymouth; but still delayed
from day to day, in the hope that by remaining in Boston he should sooner
receive intelligence from Connecticut,¾whither he would most gladly have gone,
had he not felt restrained by respect for the wishes of Miriam Grey; indeed, he
had promised her at the moment of parting, that none but the most urgent
motives should induce him to follow her.
Towards the close of winter these
local dissensions yielded, in a great measure, to subjects of more general
interest. The aggressions of the Pequod Indians, the most cruel and warlike
tribe of North America, became daily more alarming, and spread terror and
dismay throughout the colonies, particularly of Connecticut, which was marked
out for the first object of their vengeance. Sassacus, their sachem, a fierce and
daring prince, whose very name was a terror to his enemies, convened his
depending warriors, who readily acceded to his wishes, and sought an alliance
with the Mohegan and Narraganset tribes. But Providence mercifully overruled
his design, which, if successful, must have produced the most fatal
consequences, if indeed it had not annihilated the colonies of
New-England.
Uncas, sachem of the Mohegans, though sprung from the royal blood of
the Pequods, and connected with them by marriage, refused to negociate with
Sassacus. Having early entertained a friendship for the English, he remained
faithful to their interests, and proved of essential service to them in the
perilous struggle which at last closed the warfare.
Sassacus was at first most
successful with the Narragansets, a powerful nation bordering the Bay of that
name, and stretching inland through the now thriving State of Rhode Island;¾but Miantonimo, their sachem, though
usually politic and wary, in this instance suffered himself to be governed by
feelings of revenge, to the prejudice of his future interests. The Narragansets
had generally maintained a friendly intercourse with the English, though occasional acts of treachery, so
natural to the Indian character, proved that their friendship was the result of
fear, rather than affection. The Pequods they regarded with the jealous hatred
of hereditary rivalship. Though scarcely equal to themselves in population and
territory, their superior power and influence was a subject of envy and
mortification: and the warlike spirit of Sassacus, which had conquered all the
petty tribes that surrounded him, and held them as vassals to his will, gave
him a
pre-eminence which the haughty Miantonimo was most unwilling to
acknowledge.
Sassacus, in his treaty with the Narragansets,
represented the white people as intruders, and recapitulated the various
grievances they had received from them, in a manner calculated to stir up the
savage spirit of hatred and revenge. With consummate art he urged the necessity
of union against the common enemy, and detailed the means by which it would be
practicable, by a predatory warfare, to exterminate them, without the hazard of
resorting to open arms. He concluded by predicting that if the Narragansets
leagued with the English against the Pequods, they would eventually involve
themselves in certain destruction.
These arguments had well nigh proved successful; but the government of Massachusetts, learning the intrigues of the Pequ