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THE BAY PATH 
 
 A TALE OF 
 
 ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE 
 
 WHEN NEW ENGLAND WAS A COLONY 
 
 BY 
 
 J. G. HOLLAND 
 
 Chicago 
 
 HOMEWOOD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 18730 
 
Copyright, 1899, 
 By S. C. ANDREWS. 
 
TU€ C * <af*tp 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Fiction, though much abused by those who write it, and 
 persistently traduced by those who do not comprehend its 
 true mission, has always been a favorite mode of communi- 
 cating truth, and has, for its support, the highest sanctions 
 of Christianity. The Author of the Christian system spake 
 evermore in parables in the illustration of important practi- 
 cal truth. In fact (let it be reverently uttered), the great 
 principle in human nature which called Him into the world, 
 is identical with that on which the claims and power of legit- 
 imate fiction rest. He came to embody abstract truth in 
 human relations, and the naked, incomprehensible idea of 
 God, in the human form. He came to exhibit in human 
 development the true nature of the divine life, and to de- 
 monstrate, in human experience, under the influence of 
 legitimate human motives, the beauty of holiness. It was 
 upon this principle that his wonderful parables were based. 
 The necessity was to exhibit truth in its relations to the 
 feeling, thinking, acting soul ; and, in order to meet that 
 necessity at that day, it was requisite that the case should 
 be imagined and the relations created. In the birth of new 
 questions, in the revolution of opinions, and in the shifting 
 aspect of affairs, this great necessity becomes perpetual, 
 and the requisites for its satisfaction remain the same. 
 
 With this view of the legitimate aim and high office of 
 fiction, the following pages were written. They were written 
 for New England people at home and abroad, and with the 
 conviction that the basis of New England character is 
 essentially religious. They were written, also, with the 
 belief that the early colonial life of New England, though 
 cramped in its creeds, rigid in its governmental policy, 
 formal in its society, and homely in its details, was neither 
 without its romantic aspects nor its heroes, in high and humble 
 position, with whose full hearts, independent wills, and 
 manly struggles, the largest spirit of this age may fully sym- 
 
 5 
 
 883496 
 
6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 pathize. The colonial age of New England was its true age 
 of romance. It was in that age that its institutions were 
 born, its habits established, and its principles planted ; and 
 it is to that age that we must look for those exaggerated 
 forms of social, religious, and political life, whose remote 
 or direct relations with the present illuminate them with an 
 interest which everywhere and in all ages informs the child- 
 hood of a nation. 
 
 For whatever of plot there may be in the following tale, 
 history must, in a general way, be held responsible. The 
 names, localities, characters, and leading incidents are his- 
 torical. The tale is, in reality, a section or segment of his- 
 tory, withdrawn from its location and relations, and endowed 
 with a life and spirit which aim to be consistent and har- 
 monious with the body of facts with which they are brought 
 into association. Had the writer felt at liberty to develop 
 his plot entirely at his will, or, rather, had he not felt that 
 history was a more reliable guide to the ends sought to be 
 attained than imagination, some portions of the work, which 
 may not be deemed artistic, would have been differently 
 constructed. 
 
 In the title of the book, the reader is at liberty to see 
 more than the simple designation of the channel of travel 
 and transportation between the colonial center and the dis- 
 tant settlement; for, along its pages, the writer has en- 
 deavored to trace, through dim forests of superstition, by the 
 side of life-giving streams of thought, over barren hills of big- 
 otry, among rocks of passion, and across mountain-tops of high 
 resolution and noble action, the path over which those in- 
 fluences passed which shaped the policy of the governing 
 power and molded the destiny of the governed. 
 
 It is not necessary, perhaps, to say that, in the execution 
 of this work, the writer is conscious of having fallen not only 
 below his own ideal, but below the high claims of his sub- 
 ject ; yet the extremely kind and cordial treatment which 
 the public have already extended to it, in another and less 
 permanent form, emboldens him to hope for many readers, 
 and for their considerate indulgence. 
 
 Republican Office, Springfield, 
 
 January , 1857 , 
 
T snowed incessantly, 
 in the fathomless gray the 
 shooting flakes mingled in dim 
 confusion, or crossed each 
 other’s lines in momentary 
 angles, or came calmly down for a brief 
 space, and then fled traceless into the 
 tempest ; and all, as they met the breath 
 of the blast, became its burden, and were swept in blinding 
 and spiteful clouds to the earth. All around, the storm was 
 vocal. The pines hissed like serpents, and the old oak, 
 catching the wild roar of his children in the far northeast, 
 as it came on and on, over writhing and bowing forests, 
 took up the same strong strain, and, struggling like a giant, 
 sent it off triumphantly to the southwestern hills. 
 
 But the storm was skilful as well as strong. It wove a 
 wreath in the hair of the splintered stump ; * it chiseled fair 
 ' capitals upon rude gate-posts it crowned stone chimneys 
 
 7 
 
8 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 with layers of marble ; it veneered rough house walls with 
 ivory ; it made soft pillows and spotless shrouds for dead 
 old trees ; it wrought fair cornices for rough cabins ; it 
 clothed with ermine unsheltered beasts, and sought fan- 
 tastic shapes around every corner and in every nook where 
 there was sufficient quiet for the quest. 
 
 It had snowed thus all day, and the, wind had roared thus, 
 and the new-born shapes had piled, and shifted, and changed 
 thus ; and the storm had its witnesses. From the windows 
 of a row of humble cabins, scattered at wide distances from 
 each other, impatient eyes looked out, from time to time, 
 and, occasionally, a muffled form issued forth to the unpro- 
 tected wood-pile, to gather materials for keeping the storm 
 out of doors. 
 
 From the glazed window of the only framed house in the 
 settlement, peered out a wonderful pair of eyes. They were 
 dark, clear and bright, and mild and meaningless. Their 
 owner was a deer, a pet of the house, who stood through 
 long passages of the storm, and watched the falling snow 
 and the driving* clouds of sleet, and winked as the arrowy 
 needles struck the window pane. Then, turning his head 
 without stirring a foot, he gazed intently upon the inmates 
 of the room, seated round the roaring fire. Or, his hoofs 
 tapping sharply upon the floor, he retreated from the win- 
 dow, and looked closely and calmly into the faces of those 
 who loved him best, or rubbed his sprouting antlers upon 
 kind shoulders, or begged for bread at the hand — the fairest 
 hand in the settlement — of her who fed him. 
 
 The other occupants of this room were a man who had 
 reached nearly fifty years of age,_and who, undisturbed by 
 the storm without, was busily engaged in examining papers, 
 and in writing ; a prim, silent lady of the same age, who 
 sat quietly in the corner, mending some rough article of 
 male apparel ; and a maid of twenty years, who was em- 
 ployed in teaching a boy of twelve. 
 
 It was a singular group. The old man, with his large, 
 pleasant eye, looked up amid the pauses of his labor, and 
 regarded his children with affectionate interest ; the grave 
 dame pursued her labor in reverence and silence ; while the 
 dumb companion, walking from one to the other of the 
 group, or passing between the window and the fire, and 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 9 
 
 attracting the eyes of the maiden and the boy, formed a pic- 
 ture of wild and civilized life, beautifully representative of 
 the mixed materials and strange combinations and compan- 
 ionships of a new settlement. 
 
 The scene thus opened is in the Agawam of 1638. The 
 family thus introduced is that of William Pynchon, the 
 founder of the settlement, and one of the principal men of 
 
 Mr. Pynchon, Magistrate of Agawam. 
 
 the colony of the Massachusetts Bay. He emigrated from 
 England in 1630, was one of the patentees of the colony 
 named in the charter of 1628, and originally settled at Rox- 
 bury, of which town he was the principal founder. Soon 
 after landing in New England, he lost his wife, a woman 
 dearly loved and much lamented, — the mother of children 
 who needed her guidance, comfort, and counsel. 
 
 A few years passed away, amidst the scenes of the new 
 settlement, and the pressure of new and heavy public re- 
 
10 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 sponsibilities, when Mr. Pynchon, with a memory still true 
 to the mother of his children, married Mrs. Frances Sam- 
 ford, “ a grave matron of the church of Dorchester/’ to 
 whom he had been attracted by an event in his family with 
 which she was intimately associated. Henry Smith was her 
 son by a former husband, and he had married Ann, the 
 oldest daughter of Mr. Pynchon. Thus connected, they 
 had all removed, in 1636, to Agawam (the Springfield of 
 the present) ; and two years, with their hardships and 
 changes, had passed over the family at the date of their 
 introduction to the reader. 
 
 Incessantly fell the snow, until, as the short day drew to 
 a close, the wind lulled, the sun shone through a golden rift 
 in the west, and the storm had passed. And, everywhere, 
 deep, and white, and soft, lay the snow. Once more the 
 village was astir. The ax that had hung idle all day swung 
 lustily at each cabin door ; boys whose confinement had 
 been torture burst forth into the air with a wild whoop and 
 halloo ; and before the sun had set, the few cattle and horses 
 of the settlement were yoked to a sled which held a full 
 freight of joyous boyhood, and with shouts the motley pro- 
 cession passed through the street. Paths were shoveled 
 from each door to this, thus made, and the arteries for the 
 circulation of the social life-blood were again established. 
 
 Through all the shouting, and all the boisterous demon- 
 strations of freedom that reached his ear from without, the 
 boy John Pynchon sat unmoved, or only lifted his head 
 from his book with a smile, as the chattering throng passed 
 by, 
 
 “ John,” said his father, “ why do you not go out, and 
 enjoy yourself with the rest of the boys ? ” 
 
 “ Because I do not wish to, sir,” was the dignified and 
 respectful reply. 
 
 “ But why do you not wish to ? ” inquired the father. 
 
 “ I don’t know, sir, — I can’t tell you exactly,” hesitated 
 John. 
 
 “ I think, with all respect to you, sir,” said Mrs. Pynchon, 
 bowing to her husband, “ that John is afraid of tearing his 
 clothes, which is very good and very proper in him, I’m 
 sure.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon looked at John with a quiet smile, and John 
 

 
 THft BAY PATH. 
 
 II 
 
 looked at Mary, his sister and teacher, and the two latter 
 laughed good-naturedly and heartily at the profound solu- 
 tion. The old lady bent on them a not unkind look of in- 
 quiry, and subsided to the patch and the needle. 
 
 Old Times in New England. The Bay Path during a Snow Storm. 
 
 The question remained unanswered, save in the mind of 
 him who proposed it. He had no difficulty in tracing, in 
 the memory of his own youth, the reason of the change 
 
 18730 
 
12 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 which had passed over his son. In high natures the transi- 
 tion from boyhood to manhood is instantaneous, even if not 
 recognized in the Consciousness. Under some deep impres- 
 sion, or by some strange inspiration, the young spirit catches 
 a glimpse of its own depth and destiny, and, immediately, 
 the sports and toys of boyhood have lost their power to 
 charm. Or, perhaps, the eye comprehends the grace of 
 some fair form, and the heart, older than the head, traces 
 the outlines of a relation more beautiful and blissful than all 
 other relations, and throws a flood of light upon a future, 
 by the side of which all the present, and all the past, be- 
 come tame and tasteless. 
 
 John Pynchon had grown up by the side, and under the 
 influence of one who was to him mother and instructor, as 
 well as sister. Mary Pynchon ! The light of a father’s heart, 
 the light of a wilderness home, the light of every eye that 
 beheld her — beautiful, lovely, noble Mary Pynchon ! She 
 had lived with this young brother, and had become a portion 
 of his experience. They had walked through the dim old 
 woods together, and she had told him of England, and of 
 his mother, and the long voyage across the ocean, which he 
 remembered as a dream ; and she had patiently assisted 
 him in the acquisition of the elements of education, and had 
 been his comforter and companion, in sickness and health, 
 in joy\ and sorrow, while his father was absorbed in the 
 affairs of the plantation or his constant studies, and while 
 Mrs. Pynchon busied herself in the congenial pursuits of a 
 thrifty housewife. It was not strange that with such culture 
 the boy ripened early, and preferred the society of his sister 
 to that of the noisy rabble whose shouts had filled the air. 
 
 The room in which this family were sitting was not devoid 
 of articles that gave even to its rough walls an air of ele- 
 gance. Gov. Winthrop’s “ blessing of the Bay ” had brought 
 from Roxbury many articles of furniture, in keeping with 
 the wealth and position of their owner. An elegantly 
 mounted hunting-piece stood in one corner, while a pair of 
 well wrought snow-shoes hung by its side. A tall case of 
 drawers and a small oak secretaire occupied opposite ends 
 of the apartment ; while a bed, shielded by curtains, was 
 lifted against the wall that opposed the huge fireplace. 
 
 The shadows of evening fell around the house, as the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Plymouth Rock, upon which the First Pilgrims Landed. 
 
 thing, and his voice, as he saluted the master of the house, 
 was mild and nervously — querulously — -musical, although the 
 growl of a bear *would have been more in consonance with 
 his size and appearance. 
 
 “ Ah ! Mr. Moxon,” said Mr. Pynchon, courteously, “ I 
 am glad to see you. We have both had a day pretty much 
 at our own disposal, I imagine, and we can afford to spend 
 the evening together. I hope you are very well to-night.” 
 
 “ I am well, sir — well in body — better, perhaps, than is 
 well for me. Madam, I beg your pardon (bowing to Mrs. 
 Pynchon, of whose presence he had thus far been oblivious). 
 Yes, sir — better than is well for me. I feel as if greater 
 
 family partook of their homely supper, and the meal had 
 but just been cleared away, and the candle-wood set blazing 
 upon the hearth, when a strong rap resounded at the door. 
 John answered the summons and admitted a large, muffled 
 figure — a man who stamped his boots furiously, but who 
 said not a word until he had fairly reached the middle of the 
 room, when, as Mr. Pynchon entered from the other side, 
 he effected a most obsequious bow, with a burly head of 
 bristling hair. The eyes of the newcomer were small organs 
 that had an uncertain, vacillating way of looking at every- 
 
14 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 trials were necessary to me — necessary to my peace. This 
 poor weak heart of mine needs to be driven' to its faith — • 
 Ah 1 Mary! John! (an accidental recognition of two faces 
 hitherto unobserved) — driven to it, or else I relapse into 
 doubt, and especially here, where I am so much alone.” 
 During this brief and disconnected address, Mrs. Pynchon 
 had dropped her work, and sat drinking in the words with- 
 out a very perfect comprehension of their import. It was 
 enough to know that the speaker was her minister, and his 
 subject religion, and she had no doubt that he was dropping 
 pearls ; and so, while he removed his muffler and cloak, she 
 said, “ how true ! ” — an unguarded expression, as she had 
 not heard her husband’s opinion, which she gracefully sought 
 to cover by brushing up the hearth with a turkey’s wing. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon sat down, and gazed for some moments into 
 the fire, and then, in his calm way, said — “ Mr. Moxon, un- 
 belief never troubles me here. It never troubles me when I 
 am alone. Here, in these solitudes, I live with God. I 
 know, and constantly realize that He is above me, and 
 around me. It is only in crowds that I tremble. When I 
 see a throng— an innumerable multitude — suggestive, as it is, 
 of the number of a nation, and that, in turn, of the number 
 of a generation, and that, again, of all the generations that 
 have come and gone in the world’s history, I stagger at the 
 thought of their immortality, and doubt whether there is 
 room for them, even in their destiny.” 
 
 “ Mr. Pynchon, you and I have been frank with each 
 other,” replied the minister, shifting uneasily in his chair, 
 and looking suspiciously around the room, “ and I confess 
 to you that my great want is faith — faith. Sometimes I feel 
 as if I had it — as if I had grasped it — as if (and he looked 
 up excitedly) — as if my arm were thrown around a pillar 
 of God’s throne, — and then it goes from me — vanishes — and 
 leaves me weak and miserable. Sir, where you are the 
 strongest, I am the weakest. Here, alone, with nothing but 
 the wilderness and wild men around me, I feel as if I were 
 astray in God’s universe ; as if I were lost to His care, and 
 forgotten in Plis knowledge. I want more support,, more 
 companionship of belief, so that my faith shall be able to 
 fall in no direction without striking a firmer faith that shall 
 throw it back to its position. I am comforted here to-night. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 15 
 
 with you, and strengthened by being near you, and yet ” — 
 (and he abruptly and hurriedly arose, and crossed the 
 room) — “I am the spiritual teacher of this settlement ! ” 
 The last sentence was uttered in a tone of deep self-abase- 
 ment and condemnation. 
 
 This exhibition had no novelty with Mr. Pynchon, but it 
 was new in a great measure to the family, who sat in silence 
 and deep interest during its continuance. Mrs. Pynchon 
 was bewildered, while Mary listened, both to her father and 
 to Mr. Moxon, with the most intense interest. Her bright 
 countenance caught the eye of her father, and, turning 
 ✓kindly to her, he said, “ Come, my good child, my Christian 
 philosopher, tell your minister and your father what the 
 trouble is with them.” 
 
 Mary’s cheek became suffused with a modest blush, and 
 her blue eye bright with the truth and intelligence within it, 
 as she replied : 
 
 “ Father, I cannot explain the difference between you and 
 Mr. Moxon, or, perhaps, I should say, the difference in your 
 views and feelings under the same circumstances, but it 
 seems to me that the great differences in religious experience 
 grow out of the fact that there is a great difference between 
 our being in religion, and religion being within us. There 
 are many, too many it seems to me, who are simply in 
 religion. They move in a religious atmosphere, and handle 
 religious things, and eat religious food, for their daily 
 necessities or occasional emergencies, and are thus at the 
 mercy of their temperaments and the sport of circumstances. 
 There are others whose spirits religion occupies and pos- 
 sesses, and it seems to me that with such God is present, 
 both in the crowd and in the wilderness, and that they have 
 no need to seek for faith anywhere, for faith possesses them 
 everywhere.” 
 
 “ Well done ! my daughter. We are both reproved,” 
 replied Mr. Pynchon, placing his hand upon her earnestly 
 up-turned forehead ; but Mr. Moxon, who had stood listen- 
 ing to her without looking at her, remained silent, and in 
 motionless reflection. A new light seemed to open upon 
 him, and severe self-questionings were in almost unconscious 
 progress within his troubled and uncertain nature. Was 
 that the solution of his struggle ? Was he in religion or 
 
1 6 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 religion in him ? The voice of an angel could not have 
 aroused him more powerfully than the maiden’s simple but 
 positive revelations. The assurance of a firmly poised reason, 
 and the confidence of a steadfast heart, were rocks against 
 which his bark could not dash without instantaneous wreck. 
 Its timbers were too loosely joined — too poorly fitted. This 
 child of his flock, this girl, with her fine instincts and her 
 well instructed heart, had thrown his soul into entire con- 
 fusion, and he certainly seemed likely to have all the trials 
 which he felt that his happiness and security demanded. 
 
 Mary became instantly conscious of the effect she had 
 produced on her minister’s mind, and would have erased it, % 
 if possible ; for she believed that his eccentricities were 
 more attributable to a defective mental and physical organi- 
 zation than to a lack of genuine religious experience ; but, 
 just as she had opened her lips to speak, Mr. Moxon started, 
 turned his head suddenly, and, snuffing the air nervously, 
 exclaimed, “ musk ! ” 
 
 “Ah! Commuk! Commuk!” shouted John, breaking a 
 silence he had maintained since the advent of the minister, 
 and leaping, at one bound, half way to the uncurtained win- 
 dow. # 
 
 All turned their eyes in that direction, and there, staring 
 steadily in upon the group, the fitful light of the burning 
 candle-wood flashing full ip his tawny face, stood a tall 
 Indian, holding up to view a package of beaver skins, whose 
 proximity Mr. Moxon had so readily detected. 
 
 “ Tell him to come in, John,” said Mr. Pynchon. John 
 was at the door in a moment, and, releasing Commuk from 
 his burden of peltry, brought it in, and laid it upon the 
 hearth. The Indian, with whom John was a favorite, and 
 who was no less a favorite of the boy, followed the latter 
 with a brace of partridges, which he insisted upon putting 
 into no hands but those of Mary, who received them With 
 a smile of acknowledgment, and passed them into an adjoin- 
 ing apartment. 
 
 This strange interruption broke up the whole current of 
 thought and conversation. Mrs. Pynchon, to whom the 
 singular appearance of the minister had become extremely 
 oppressive, was immediately alive to the new order of things. 
 She had seen the partridges, and given expression to her 
 
’’THE BAY PATH. 
 
 1 7 
 
 gratification in an exclamation that hung upon the letter m 
 with a singing tone, as if her imagination were already 
 feasting orn the broiled and buttered birds. The prospect 
 of the trade which was wrapped up in that valuable package 
 of beaver skins had also tended to enliven the good old 
 lady. It looked like living. It looked like business. 
 
 Commuk had said nothing. Nothing but grunts, of 
 greater or less significance, had escaped him, in response to 
 the various remarks that had been addressed to him. Mrs. 
 Pynchon gave up to him her corner, and John, who seemed 
 to anticipateThe Indian’s wants more readily than the rest, 
 soon deposited a pewter plate in his lap, charged with boun- 
 tiful slices of corn bread and cold venison. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Moxon had busied himself with a read- 
 justment of his muffler, had replied to Mary’s kind inquiries 
 concerning his wife and children, and was hurrying on his 
 cloak, apparently holding his breath, so far as possible, 
 when the family gathered respectfully around him and re- 
 sponded pleasantly to his hurried “ good evening.” The 
 beaver skins and th,e Indian were loo much for his fastidious 
 sensibilities, and the told, clear air outside was as grateful 
 to him as balm. Commuk had watched him through the 
 process of leave-taking without tasting his food, but when 
 the door closed he gave a satisfied grunt and settled back to 
 silence and his supper. 
 
 While the newcomer is thus engaged, and the family 
 carry on their conversation in a quiet tone, watching John 
 as he unties and holds up, one by one, the beaver skins that 
 are to be transferred in sale to Mr. Pynchon, it will be well 
 to give a brief history of the gentleman who has just en- 
 gaged our attention. 
 
 The Rev. George Moxon received Episcopal ordination 
 in England, and sought within the regular forms and lofty 
 sanctions of the established church that peace of mind and 
 stability of belief for which he had longed and prayed ; but 
 he sought in vain. He then studied the Puritans, and the 
 vitality of their sturdy virtues became attractive by degrees, 
 as it was developed in fixedness of purpose, determina- 
 tion of will, devotion to duty, and steadfastness of faith, 
 until he lost his hold of the mother’s hand, and passed over 
 to the non-coaformists. At this time he was serving as 
 
i8 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 chaplain to Sir William Brereton, and preachings in St. 
 Helen’s Chapel, near Warrington, in Lancashire, from which 
 place he was obliged to flee in disguise, a citation for his 
 appearance having been placed upon the door of his chapel. 
 He embarked at Bristol, crossed the Atlantic, became a free- 
 man at Boston in 1637, and, during the same year, com- 
 menced his labors as the first minister of the church in Aga- 
 wam. 
 
 In Mr. Pynchon he had found a mind self-poised, a clear 
 judgment, a steady friendship, and a true Christian charity. 
 To such a nature as^ his, Mr. Pynchon was a fountain of 
 strength, and light, and encouragement ; and, as that gen- 
 tleman was his patron in a certain sense, and a man who 
 was his equal in education, and eminently his superior in 
 social and political position, he felt no humiliation in reveal- 
 ing to him his trials, and throwing himself upon his counsels 
 and sympathies. 
 
 Commuk, the Indian, who sat devouring his supper in the 
 corner, was altogether less civilized than his dress indicated, 
 for that was, at least, half English. He was one of the 
 thirteen Indians who conveyed by deed the territory of Aga- 
 wam to Mr. Pynchon and his associates, and at this time 
 had upon his back one of the “ eighteen coats ” received as 
 the principal consideration named in the conveyance. The 
 deer-skin leggings" and moccasins that appeared below it, 
 and the long hair and nondescript head-gear exhibited above, 
 produced a figure hardly less ludicrous than wild and pic: 
 turesque. — 
 
 The effect of the warm fire and of the supper upon Com- 
 muk was such as to interfere entirely with the progress of 
 the trade, for he had no sooner completed his meal than, 
 securing his peltry, he stretched himself upon the floor near 
 the fire, and went to sleep. This was a step beyond Mrs. 
 Pynchon’s calculations. It interfered with all her ideas of 
 good housekeeping. Besides, he might, if allowed to remain 
 there, set the house on fire. She had no special fear of the 
 Indian, but she would not consent to sleep in the room with 
 him ; so she and Mary retired together, and left John and 
 his father to occupy the apartment with the Indian. The 
 fire was replenished with heavy logs, and, at an early hour, 
 silence and sleep had settled upgn the household. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 T the time Mr. Moxon 
 issued from the house 
 of Mr.Pynchon, the stars 
 were sparkling brightly 
 in the heavens, and the 
 deep snow lay still and white be- 
 neath them. His own house was 
 not far off, but the night was so 
 still that he walked past it, wrapped 
 in his thoughts, and unmindful of 
 the biting cold. He walked on 
 until a fox, out upon a marauding 
 excursion, crossed the path but a 
 few feet in advance of him, when he 
 paused, and followed with his eye 
 the suspicious prowler, as, with a 
 quickened bound, he fled to the woods upon the eastern hill. 
 
 Still pausing, he looked upward and around. There, from 
 above, looked down the stars, glowing and flashing upon him 
 by thousands, and yet those stars were worlds — parts of great 
 systems, freighted with wonderful life and stupendous des- 
 tinies ! There they wheeled in their calm cycles, and filled 
 the abysses with light and order, and the music of their end- 
 less song 1 There was no clash, no jar, no rebellion there ! 
 There they hung, and swung, as if they were the lamps that 
 lighted the passage between the two eternities. 
 
 He looked at them long, and then dropped his eyes upon 
 the dim outline of cabins, scattered along the distance, re- 
 vealing from an occasional glazed aperture the light that 
 . gleamed from blazing hearths ; and they seemed so lonely 
 
 19 
 
 2 
 
1% 
 
 20 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 and so small, that it appeared almost blasphemy to think that 
 they should come within the cognizance and care of the in- 
 finite God of an infinite universe. And then he came back 
 to himself, a poor unit, a weak atom, at war with itself, and 
 inharmonious with its accidents ; and he sank down, down, 
 into depths of conscious insignificance, so fearfully profound, 
 that death and despair cbuld hardly have been darker. 
 
 He started from his reverie with a pang, and began to re- 
 trace his steps. He had walked but n few jods when, in 
 passing a cabin, he heard a boisterous laugh, and loud voices 
 in merry conversation. He knew the inmate, and disliked 
 him. He was a newcomer in the plantation, and he had al- 
 ready had an altercation with him. The minister stood irre- 
 solutely before the door, questioning whether it were his duty 
 to enter or pass on. He felt sure that there were apprentices ^ 
 in the house who had stolen from their homes to listen to John 
 Woodcock’s stories. 
 
 At length, the half sarcastic, half good-natured -voice of 
 the .occupant broke out with — “ Come, gal, ain’t it about time 
 you was climbin’ them ’ere wooden notches ? ” 
 
 The reply came in the voice of a petulant, ill-trained girl 
 — “ No, dajd, I know what you want. I know what you’re 
 goin’ to do — you’re goin’ to play cards.” 
 
 “ Well, little one, we won’t trouble you to keep tally. 
 ’Twould be oncommon perlite in you to do it, but we’re gen- 
 tlemen — we can’t ’low it.” 
 
 “ I \von’t go up-stairs to-night, in the snow, anyway,” re- 
 plied the girl determinedly. “ I know what you want.” 
 
 “ You’re an oncommon smart child,” responded the father, 
 growing bitter in tone. “ Didn’t you never hear of a little 
 gal, about your size, that went up-stairs one night, and went 
 to bed, and while she w^s sound asleep the booggers come, 
 and carried off her poor old father, and several particular 
 friends, and didn’t touch the little gal, ’cause they had such 
 long toe-nails they couldn’t get up-stairs ? ” 
 
 An impatient, disdainful ejaculation from the girl, and 
 a loud, coarse laugh from the company present, were the 
 response to this flight of the father’s fancy. 
 
 “ Mary, gal,” pursued the father, “ do you see that picter ? 
 That’s a beautiful picter, ain’t it? ’Seems to me that picter 
 looks considerable like your great-grandmother. Now if you’ll 
 
THE BAY PATH 
 
 21 
 
 come here, you’ll find them features will put you in mind of 
 somethin’.” 
 
 This characteristic allusion to a rod that hung upon the 
 wall was complimented with another coarse laugh from the 
 
 The Home of John Woodcock the Hunter. 
 
 speaker’s companions. The girl was still determined and 
 silent. 
 
 The minister, who had overheard all, and had become 
 deeply interested; approached the door, and through a small 
 
22 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 window, looked into the room. There sat the girl, staring 
 into the fire, with her thin lips pressed firmly together, and 
 her eyes strong with anger. 
 
 At length feeling that the storm of her father’s wrath was 
 about to burst upon her in a form more dreadful than that 
 of mockery, she burst into a fit of uncontrollable crying. 
 Then her tongue was loosed, and she poured out upon her 
 father her insane wrath in one voluble stream, which at last sub- 
 sided into a hysterical alternation of sobbing and scolding. 
 The scene seemed rather to amuse her father, who sat looking 
 at her coolly during its continuance, and then asked her what 
 she was going to do about it.” 
 
 “ I’ll tell Mr. Pynchon, and Mr. Moxon, too,” spitefully 
 replied the child. 
 
 The matter had at last proceeded too far to be decidedly 
 pleasant, even to Woodcock, for it had produced a painful 
 silence in his company, and he dared not then lay a finger 
 on his child. So, referring to her threat, he said, “ Do tell 
 em : — happy to have you go up and invite the gentlemen 
 down here. Give ’em John Woodcock’s respects — happy to 
 seem ’em at eight o’clock — business of importance — messen- 
 ger jest in from the Bay — arrival of the Church of England 
 on wheels — Oh ! (arising and going over the mock ceremony 
 of receiving the gentlemen alluded to) , Mr. Pynchon ! I 
 trust your worship is well to-night. Sit down T sir ; how’s the 
 old woman, and what’s the price of beaver ? I expect Mr. 
 Moxon here soon, and then we’ll have a quiet game of cards, 
 and something hot, p’raps.” 
 
 “ I wish Mr. Moxon would come,” exclaimed the girl, 
 rising and looking intently at the door. 
 
 There was something in her action and manner that at- 
 tracted every eye, and even her father paused, and looked 
 with the company at the door. 
 
 They had been in that position but a moment, when the 
 wooden latch was slowly raised, the door was opened, and 
 Mr. Moxon stood, at his full height and broad dimensions, in 
 the room. There were three lads there, who did not belong 
 there. Pale with fright, they slunk back from the light, and 
 pulling their caps down over their faces, endeavored to pass 
 behind him out of the door. He turned, and recognized each 
 as he passed, and closed the door after them as they retired. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 23 
 
 Then turning to Woodcock, he addressed him in a voice in 
 which sadness and sternness were equal ingredients : 
 
 “ Goodman Woodcock, those apprentices have been se- 
 duced here by you, and it becomes my duty, as the minister 
 of this place, to reprimand you for your great sin in this 
 thing. You have also abused that child, who, without a 
 mother, is as much your slave as your daughter. ” 
 
 Woodcock was no coward, but he was taken by surprise, 
 and a moment's reflection restored him to himself. Look- 
 ing the minister doggedly in the face, he replied, “ If I 
 was somebody else and somebody else was John Wood- 
 cock, and a gentleman had walked into his house, and 
 no questions asked, and stepped between him and his 
 friends, sayin’ nothin’ about his own flesh and blood, and 
 given him cold sass and what’s tantamount to a Pope’s bull, 
 I should say to John Woodcock, ‘My friend, when you 
 skin your own skunks, in your own cabin, and a neigh- 
 bor who comes snuffln’ round the latch-string, says the smell is 
 onpleasant, say to that gentleman you presume there’s roses 
 in the next house, and people dyin’ to have him come and 
 smell on ’em.’ ” 
 
 “ I understand you, John, and am not to be offended by 
 your uncharitable, not to say impertinent, remarks. You 
 will very probably hear of this again. In the mean time, I 
 beg that you will treat this child kindly and cease to sacri- 
 fice her comfort, and everything good in her character to — 
 to—” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t be bashful, Mr. Moxon ; now you’re here, you 
 might as well finish up the business, and do your duty — in 
 season and out of season, you know v said the cool hard- 
 faced man, with a sneer. 
 
 “ To your recklessness of religion, and your depraved 
 tastes,” continued the minister. 
 
 “Yes, that’s it — there’s where it comes. I don’-t know 
 what would become of religion in this colony if it wasn’t for 
 John Woodcock. There’s been a great many saints made, 
 improvin’ their gifts on me, sir. It sort o’ polishes ’em up, 
 and finishes ’em off, to practise on me. I’ve had people 
 come forty or fifty miles sometimes to see a real sinner- 
 one of the genuine article. You see they’re rare in this 
 country. There's so many Christians here that people 
 
24 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 have to depend on their neighbors for sins enough to talk 
 about.” 
 
 The minister looked at the speaker sadly, as he went on 
 in his tone of biting sarcasm, and seeing that he could effect 
 nothing further, withdrew, and, closing the door after him, 
 sought his home. 
 
 The evening had been an eventful one to him. The 
 cabin of Woodcock and the incidents there had transformed 
 him. He had performed what he believed to be Christian 
 duty, and though it had not produced a single good result 
 towards him who had engaged it, so far as he could see, he 
 felt like a new man. He was refreshed and invigorated. 
 Turning from the great things of God to the small things of 
 duty ; from infinite^ spheres of motion, to the modest circle 
 of his own . responsibilities, from the passive reception of 
 humbling thoughts, to the active exertion of humble power 
 upon objects morally and intellectually inferior to himself, 
 he had grown in stature and in strength, measured by his 
 own emotions, until he had come near to God, by a faith 
 that satisfied, and that bathed his heart in perfect peace. 
 
 After he left Woodcock’s cabin, that individual sat before 
 his fire, for some time, in silence. At length, turning to- 
 wards his daughter, who sat looking into the fire, and pre- 
 paring her mind for whatever turn affairs might take, he 
 said, in softened tones, “ Mary, gal, get into my bunk, and 
 go to sleep. I’ll manage somehow.” 
 
 The girl started to her feet, and seemed, at first, as if she 
 were about to rush into her father’s arms, but she passed by 
 him, and commenced gathering a bed upon the floor, com- 
 posed of blankets and skins. As soon as this ffisk was com- 
 pleted, she hastily prepared herself for the night, and lying 
 down upon her rude bed, was soon asleep. The father 
 waited until the bonds of unconsciousness were sufficiently 
 strong upon her, and then, lifting her gently from the floor, 
 he laid her upon his own rough couch, and covering her 
 warmly, resumed his seat before the fire. 
 
 Well,” exclaimed he at last, commencing a rambling 
 soliloquy, “ the gate’s h’isted, the floom’s full o’ water, and 
 John Woodcock’s the grist. I wonder if the gentleman 
 that’s jest took toll likes the grain. It don’t make no differ- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 25 
 
 ence whether he does or not. What business had he to 
 come in, and disturb my hen-roost, and scare my chickens ? 
 But that’s the way here— jest so in Roxbury. Ministers and 
 magistrates always nosin’ round, ’tendin’ to > their duties. 
 Duties ! who made ’em duties ? This ’ere cabin’s mine, and 
 I’m myself — John Woodcock. I don’t look like a baby. I 
 hav’n’t asked anybody to come and watch over me, and be 
 
 Early Architecture at Agawam. The Pioneer’s Home. 
 
 my guardeen. Here they’ve been to work, makm’ a deviL 
 of me ever since I landed, tryin’ to make me a saint — get- 
 ting me mad so’s to make me better. And there’s them 
 boys. I’ve got ’em into a scrape, I s’pose, but 1 couldn’t 
 help it. I’ve got to fellowship with somebody, and so 
 have they, but we ain’t any of us pious enough for the 
 parson, nor perlite enough for the Square, and that’s 
 enough to drive the saints out of sight and bearin’. Won- 
 
26 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 der if they think it’s natur to live here all alone, and say 
 nothin’ to nobody. 
 
 “ Arter all, the Square is a pretty good man. He thinks 
 I don’t know what he come here from Roxbury for, but I’ll 
 bet my head agin a pewter mug that his reason for cornin' 
 here and mine look enough alike to be twins. I see it plain 
 enough long ago. The Bay folks was too stiff for him. 
 He didn’t like bein’ crowded better ’n I do.” 
 
 Here he was disturbed by words from his child, who, 
 dreaming, was deprecating some punishment from his hand. 
 “ Poor gal,” continued he, “ I haven’t but just found you 
 out. You’re just like me, too, and I’ve been crowdin’ you 
 just as other folks crowd me. I’ve been too hard on you, 
 Mary. But you’re strange — strange. I guess we’ll get along 
 better, after this — I guess we will.” 
 
 Woodcock then added a huge log to his fire, took a few 
 economical whiffs from a short pipe, and committed himself 
 to rest. 
 
 John Woodcock has introduced himself to the reader 
 with sufficient detail, perhaps, but it will be proper to give 
 a brief sketch of his more' recent history. lie, with John 
 Cabel, was the first white man who erected a house in the 
 Connecticut Valley. In 1635, he was sent from Roxbury, 
 in advance, by William Pynchon and his associates, to pre- 
 pare a dwelling and plant corn, tie was just the man to 
 undertake the task. At the distance of many miles from 
 any white settlement, Windsor and Hartford being the near- 
 est, he had sufficient room and felt no restraint. With a 
 strong, original nature, he spurned all control, and ohly 
 asked for the privilege of minding his own business, or of 
 doing his business in his own time and way. He was not 
 ill-natured, but he had grown wilful by being badgered by 
 church and police, until he was sensitive in the extreme. 
 
 His daughter Mary was his only child, the only child of 
 a wife who had been dead for some years. Her father’s 
 peculiarities had debarred her from the associations so 
 necessary to the development of soft and childlike traits, 
 and she had grown to the age of twelve with passions un- 
 checked, and with a character whose affinities were coarse, 
 even to masculineness It was the first time that he had ever 
 caught a glimpse of the secret of her singular development 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 27 
 
 of character. He had thought her wilful and stubborn, and 
 so she was ; but as soon as he began to trace in her a like- 
 ness to himself, his heart softened with a kindly sympathy, 
 and he resolved to treat her more tenderly. 
 
 fa ***** OjZLtfovj. 
 
 e ^tU_ Sw iU'M. 
 
 < =^: spvw.u. -c/J. g^/v/X. 
 
 Signatures to the First Puritan Compact on the Mayflower. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 N the morning following 
 the events that have 
 been recorded, the first 
 person moving in the 
 house of Mr. Pynchon 
 Commuk, the Indian, who, 
 long before daylight, had exhaust- 
 ed sleep, and newly fed the ex- 
 piring fire. The earliest beams of 
 the morning found the family again assembled, and while 
 the thick smoke of. the kindling pine was ascending from 
 each cabin chimney in the settlement, through the still, icy 
 air, Commuk made his way to the principal village of his 
 tribe, but a short distance southward. The price of his 
 beaver skins — a hatchet and a balance of wampum — hung in 
 his belt, while a few trinkets, presents from John and Mary, 
 found a less exposed receptacle in the honest English pockets 
 of his coat. ' 
 
 Soon after the morning devotions were concluded, Mary, 
 who was standing at the window, exclaimed, “ I wonder 
 where Mr. Moxon can be going at so early an hour this 
 morning 1 ” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon joined his daughter at the window, but 
 neither attracted the attention of the reverend gentleman, as 
 he made his way past the dwelling, apparently very much 
 absorbed in thought, and bent upon the attainment of an 
 immediate object. At length he passed beyond the range 
 of the window, and disappeared, but, in a short time, again 
 came hr sight, on his way back, and directed his steps 
 towards Mr. Pynchon’s house. 
 
 28 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 29 
 
 Mary met him at the door with a cordial grasp of the 
 hand, but he had hardly crossed the threshold when he drew 
 back, as if suddenly recollecting himself, and inquired 
 whether the Indian had gone. On being assured that that 
 individual and his offensive burden were both out of the way, 
 he came forward, and, without removing his coat and muffler, 
 related to Mr. Pynchon the events of the previous evening, 
 in connection with his visit to the cabin of Woodcock ; and 
 
 stated that he had started out that morning to inform the 
 masters of the three apprentices he had found there of their 
 delinquency, and its cause and probable consequences, in 
 order that they might take such steps with Woodcock and the 
 boys as they might deem proper. After arriving at the house 
 of the first of these masters, he had changed his mind, and 
 come back to ask Mr. Pynchon’s advice in the premises. 
 
 Mr. Moxon watched that gentleman as he received the 
 narrative, and when, as it closed, he perceived that his hearer 
 
3o 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 hesitated, his own positiveness of mind, or whatever amount 
 of that quality he possessed, entirely left him, and he sat 
 down, irresolute, and with the old symptoms of dejection. 
 
 At length Mr. Pyn'chon said: “I know John Woodcock 
 very well. I have known him for several years, and I have 
 seen the effect upon him of the efforts that have been made 
 to curb his naturally independent spirit. I think the best 
 thing to be done is to get him to come here, and have a quiet 
 talk with us upon the subject, and to treat him in a friendly 
 way. It is the thing to be done first, I am certain.” 
 
 As Mr. Moxon made no objection to this arrangement, a 
 messenger was sent to Woodcock, requesting him to call, as 
 soon as convenient, at Mr. Pynchon’s house, and, at the 
 desire of Mary, to bring his child. 
 
 The temporary suspension of this matter gave to both of 
 the gentlemen an opportunity to recur to the subject always 
 uppermost in their thoughts when together — religion ; and 
 in this they engaged until the return of the messenger, who 
 reported that he had found Woodcock waiting for him, and 
 quite impatient -that he had not come before, as he declared 
 he had been expecting him for half an hour. The only 
 thing to delay him was the bringing of his daughter, a matter 
 for which he had not calculated. While they were talking, 
 Woodcock came in sight, bearing his child upon his back, 
 his burden being completely covered by a wolfskin that 
 dangled downward to his heels. 
 
 The poorly suppressed mirth excited by his appearance 
 was a good preparation for his reception, and, when he ap- 
 peared at the door, there was not a frown in the room to 
 throw a cloud upon his coming. Even the grave lady of the 
 house, softened by the influences around her, looked up 
 kindly at the old culprit, as he entered, Woodcock paused, 
 and without letting go his grasp of the child’s hands, held 
 her still suspended upon his shoulders, as he bowed to one 
 and another of the group ; and then, after the most con- 
 vulsive workings of his features, he burst into a hearty 
 boisterous fit of laughter. 
 
 This, of course, changed the aspect of things at once. 
 The dignity of the house and the presence had been violated, 
 and with such an effect as to assist him very much in regain- 
 ing control of his emotions. In the meantime, Mary Pynchon 
 
THE BAY PATH. 31 
 
 had relieved him of his burden, and had led the poorly clad, 
 haggard-looking child from the room. 
 
 As soon as he could speak, Woodcock commenced an 
 apology. “ Mr. Pynchon, I beg pardon — I meant no offense 
 to your honor, or your house, but I took a consait just as I 
 
 Commuk, the Pequod Hunter. 
 
 came in, that this ’ere old wolfskin is a very remarkable strip 
 of luther. It took twenty men two days to get this skin, sir. 
 They chased the critter that wore it one day, and dug for 
 him another, and when they brung him home, it struck me 
 that the animal was a mighty sight too small for so big a fuss. 
 So, says I to myself, here’s the old skin agin, and a miserable 
 
32 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 critter inside of it, and a big onreasonable fuss outside. I 
 meant no offense to you, sir, but the consait was a little too 
 much for me, and I couldn’t hold in. ,, 
 
 Having concluded what he honestly meant should be a 
 satisfactory apology for his rudeness, Woodcock threw his 
 wolfskin over a chair, sat down, and looked at Mr. Pynchon 
 in a way to indicate that he was ready for business. 
 
 That gentleman regarded him gravely for a moment, and 
 then said, u Goodman Woodcock, I am informed by Mr. 
 Moxon that you are pursuing disorderly practises in the 
 plantation by enticing apprentices to your house, and har- 
 boring them at unseasonable hours ; and that, when repri- 
 manded by him, you gave him disrespectful replies, to his 
 great grief and scandal. He proposed, at first, to bring the 
 matter before me as a magistrate, but I thought we had 
 better see you, and talk it over first, and ascertain what you 
 had to say about it.” 
 
 A bitter smile passed over the face of the old woodman, 
 as he replied, “ I thank you, Square, for considerin’ me, but 
 I’m afraid it’s too late to do me any good this way. I’ve 
 been thinking how this man pushed into my cabin last night, 
 and I know ’twant right , and for me to set down here to 
 be labored with, and him to set there with his pious face a 
 lookin’ on, as if he’d done nothin’ wrong, goes agin my grain 
 and makes me wicked.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon sat very uneasily during this speech, and, 
 turning to Mr. Pynchon at its close, remarked, “ I think, sir, 
 that you will conclude with me that my first impulse was the 
 true one, for I doubt not that the man is given over to a 
 reprobate mind, and utter hardness of heart.” 
 
 This was sufficient to throw Woodcock back upon his 
 old ground of mockery ; and, turning sharply upon the 
 minister, and giving him his characteristically dogged look 
 of defiance, he replied, “ When a man tells me in a sermon 
 that I have got a precious soul, and that his heart is runnin’ 
 over with love for me, and that the Lord above loves me, 
 too, and then comes into my house to get me to tread on his 
 toes, and calls me names for hurtin’ his corns, I’m thankful 
 I got hold of the name of John Woodcock before such a one 
 as George Moxon was mixed up and baked.” 
 
 “ Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon, sternly, “ I insist on no 
 
THE BAY PATH. 33 
 
 such language towards your minister, and shall not allow it 
 in this house.” 
 
 “ Well, there it is, sir ; you turn agin me as soon as I 
 . touch the minister. It’s jest so down t’ the Bay. Magis- 
 trates and ministers all hang together. They seem to think 
 the colony was made for them ; but who does the work ? 
 They have all the honors, and the rest on us have to stand 
 back. It’s ‘ Mister,’ and ‘ Goodman ’ ; and it’s ‘ set here,’ 
 and ‘ stand there ’ ; and it’s the top o’ the milk to one, and 
 skim milk to the other. Here you are a rulin’ on us, and I 
 don’t see the justice on it. P’raps my memory is unsartin, 
 but it seems to me I have read somewhere that it’s the busi- 
 ness of them that wants to be great to serve them that ain’t 
 so particular about it.” 
 
 Both gentlemen sat somewhat uneasily during this criticism 
 of the spirit of the institutions of the day, and the homely 
 but pointed reproofs connected with it. Mr. Pynchon re- 
 sponded briefly, to the effect that he did not propose a dis- 
 cussion of questions of theology or state. Woodcock had 
 been invited there as a man who had honorable feelings, to 
 settle a matter in which he was evidently at fault, in a 
 manner which should neither injure his pride nor be a sub- 
 ject of scandal in the plantation. He hoped no more trouble 
 would arise in relation to this affair, and that Woodcock 
 would cease to give occasion for complaint. As for Mr. 
 Moxon, he had done simply what he deemed it his duty to 
 do, and in the execution of his duty had not transcended the 
 sphere warranted by the usages of the colony or the opinion 
 of the church. 
 
 Woodcock heard him through, and then inquired if they 
 were done with him. 
 
 “ I am done,” said Mr. Pynchon, with a bow to Mr. Moxon, 
 intimating that the man was at his disposal. 
 
 “ I wish,” said Mr. Moxon, with an earnest, solemn air, 
 “to say a few words of warning, and then I shall feel as if 
 my duty had been discharged. Goodman Woodcock, you 
 are placing your soul in peril by your course of life, and even 
 now there is reason to fear that it is given over to destruc- 
 tion. Your heart, which should be humble and penitent, is 
 stubborn and rebellious. In your foolish pride, you speak 
 evil of dignities, despise the religion of Christ and its 
 
34 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 ministers, and meet the reproof due to your course of life 
 and conduct with mockery. I warn you of the terrible end 
 of all this, and may God have mercy on you, and, in his in- 
 finite grace, save your soul ! ” 
 
 All this was uttered with genuine feeling, and under the 
 dictates of a sense of duty that even Woodcock did not fail 
 to recognize, but he looked at the minister sadly and bitterly, 
 and replied, “ ’Tain’t no use for you to talk to me that way. 
 You can’t do me no good. You’re too far up, and I’m too 
 low down. Your words come down jest like rain spatterin’ 
 on a rock. They don’t soak in any. You ain’t the ’pothecary 
 to give me physic, and that ain’t the right kind of stuff if 
 you was. It only raises the devil in me, and riles me all up. 
 What’s the use trying to drive a y man, and running agin his 
 pluck, if he’s got any, when you might be kind o’ human 
 with him ? No, sir, you’ve made up your mind agin me, I 
 know that — and when I know you don’t understand how I 
 feel, and what I’m talking to you about, it’s no use for you 
 and me to make any more words.” 
 
 The minister drew a long sigh, and Mr. Pynchon turned 
 to his writing-desk as if to hint to Mr. Moxon that the quicker 
 the interview was terminated the better. 
 
 “ Where’s the gal ? ” inquired Woodcock, rising. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon stepped to the door opening into the apart- 
 ment occupied by the remainder of the family, and told Mary 
 that the child’s father was about to depart. The door was 
 closed for a moment, then it was reopened, and in bounded 
 Mary Woodcock, wild with delight, clothed anew with articles 
 from Mary Pynchon’s stores of the well preserved garments 
 of her childhood, a snug pair of moccasins on her feet, and 
 a warm hood upon her head. 
 
 “ Oh, father ! father ! ” exclaimed the delighted child ; 
 and unable to express her own feelings, or give direction to 
 his, she stood on tiptoe before him, and stretched up first 
 one arm for his inspection, then the other, then turned 
 around, put her hand upon her head, lifted, one after the 
 other, her feet, and exhausted every childish ingenuity to 
 exhibit the extent and beauty of her newly gotten treasures ; 
 and then, as she could do no more, she threw her head upon 
 his lap, and burst into tears. 
 
 In the meantime, Mary Pynchon and the pet deer had 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 35 
 
 entered the room. Tom (the name of the pet), went from 
 one to the other of the company, lifting his slender neck to- 
 wards their faces, and making himself generally* though 
 inoffensively inquisitive, until he came to Mary Woodcock* 
 when he put his cool nose down to her cheek* and brought 
 her once more to her feet. Seeing the eyes of all bent upon 
 
 A Puritan Home : Hasty Pudding for Supper. 
 
 her, she moved off with Tom to the window, as if deeply 
 chagrined at having made herself so conspicuous. 
 
 Woodcock sat still for a few moments, his lips quivering 
 with an emotion that he could not suppress, and then, rising, 
 he approached Mary Pynchon, and said, “ Miss Pynchon, I 
 haven’t no words for such as you, and you don’t need ’em. 
 You’ve got plenty of better ones made a purpose for you. 
 That old Bible up there is full on ’em, and when you find 
 
 3 
 
 18730 
 
36 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 some in it that are jest as thankful and jest as hiimble as they 
 can be, I want you should remember John Woodcock, and 
 think he’s sayin’ ’em to you.” 
 
 Mary was touched by his emotion, and, taking his rough 
 hand, said, “ I am very glad if I have done anything to 
 make you and your little girl happy. I hope you will be 
 very kind to Mary, for she has no mother, and must be very 
 much alone. Do let her come and see me sometimes.” 
 
 “ Do you understand that, sir ? ” said Woodcock, turning 
 to Mr. Moxon. '“'That’s what I call preachin’. I hain’t 
 been much used to such preachin’ as that, but I know it’s 
 genuine. It’s the only kind for my case. Do you s’pose 
 I’d lay a finger on that gal of mine with a heart like Mary 
 Pynchon’s lovin’ her ? Do you ’spose I wouldn’t work for 
 her, and bear with her, strange and offish as she is some- 
 times, when I see such a woman fussin’ over her, and makin’ 
 her comfortable and happy ? I feel as if my gal had just 
 been baptized, which she never was, and I couldn’t feel 
 much better myself, if I’d been took into the church, which 
 I ain’t fit for, the Lord knows. That’s the kind o’ preachin’ 
 that docs me good.” 
 
 So saying, he walked up to his little girl, and was about 
 to lift her upon his back, but she begged to be allowed to 
 go by herself. He then threw the wolfskin over his shoulders, 
 bade a homely good morning to the silent family, and, pre- 
 ceded by his child, who, elated with her new possessions, 
 went bounding through the snow before him, sought his own 
 cabin. 
 
 “ God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to con- 
 found the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of the 
 world to confound the things which are mighty,” said Mr. 
 Pynchon, looking with a smile at his daughter, as Woodcock 
 closed the door. 
 
 “ I am afraid,” returned Mary, archly, “ that we shall 
 quarrel in dividing that quotation satisfactorily among our- 
 selves, and it is pity John Woodcock had not remained a 
 little longer, as he might have assisted us.” 
 
 “ What portion of it do you suppose he would wish to ap- 
 propriate to himself ? ” inquired Mr. Moxon, looking up. 
 
 “ He would claim for himself neither wisdom nor might, 
 I presume,” replied Mary. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Hum 1 No — that belongs to the confounded party, of 
 course,” replied the minister, slightly nettled. “ I do not 
 approve of playing with texts of Scripture, but it seems to 
 me that, with this application, the quotation should have 
 been extended. ‘ And the base things of the world, and 
 things which are despised/ would more fully complete the 
 description of the man, in my opinion.” 
 
 Mary did not like the tone in which these remarks were 
 uttered, and playfully sought to divert the course of con- 
 versation by saying that she thought they were compliment- 
 ing Woodcock too highly. She claimed a little credit for 
 herself, and even Woodcock had accorded to her the merit 
 of being a good preacher ; though for her part, she could 
 not see as her sermon had more than one head, and that 
 had a hood on it, or that its application consisted of more 
 than an old frock and a pair of moccasins. She would pre- 
 fer that those articles of apparel receive the compliments 
 bestowed on Woodcock rather than he should have them all 
 to himself. 
 
 Mrs. Pynchon, who abounded especially in the grace of 
 silence, and who leally had excellent traits of character, 
 springing from a basis of practical common sense, was accus- 
 tomed, in the course of any family scene or social interview, 
 to make some remark which, with a fatal perversity, rarely 
 failed to be one that amused its hearers with its utter inno- 
 cence of pertinency and point. This seemed to spring from 
 Ae fact that she did not remember the conversation and 
 events out of which grew the peculiar aspect of the subject 
 upon which she might happen to remark ; and it was for 
 this reason, doubtless, that her choice speeches were irrel- 
 — evant by rule, and rarely failed to excite a smile, even 
 among those who respected her most and loved her best. 
 Her reverence for her husband was thoroughly sincere, and 
 as formal as sincere, and, with many of the matrons of her 
 day, she believed that her special duties pertained to the 
 good ordering of the house, the economical administration 
 of the kitchen and the wardrobe, and that when this was 
 done, and well done, there was little time for anything else. 
 
 In regard to the frock that 3)dary had just given away so 
 readily, she felt some sensitiveness, as it was only through 
 her own considerate economy that it had been brought from 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 38 
 
 the Bay. So the frock became the prominent object in her 
 thoughts, and the one around which all the events and asso- 
 ciations of the morning clustered ; and when she felt moved 
 to speak, she stated that the frock was really a very good 
 one, and she was sorry it had made so much trouble. She 
 had taken care of it, thinking that perhaps by and by Mary 
 might get married, when she was sure she would find it very 
 handy. 
 
 “ Mother ! ” exclaimed the girl, blushing to her temples, 
 and then turning quickly to the pet she said, “ Come, Tom, 
 let us go,” and retired from the room. But the blush retired 
 with her, as well as Tom, and her thoughts wandered off 
 and away, along the Bay Path, through the thick, dark 
 woods, and over the streams, and across the bills — the weary 
 path over which she had traveled nearly two years before — 
 and there came up to her mind the form of one who had 
 moved with grace and majesty in her dreams, and whose 
 bright, bold face, and mild, resolute eye, had been to her, 
 through all the months of her lonely dwelling at Agawam, 
 a charming presence and a kindly power. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon, Mr. Moxon, and Woodcock, were not im- 
 proper .representatives of three prominent classes of men in 
 the early days of the Massachusetts Bay colony. The first 
 represented the highest and noblest class in the colony. He 
 was as intelligently orthodox in faith as any of his contem- 
 poraries, but much less bigoted and intolerant than most of 
 them. He had the sense to see that the rigid policy of the 
 government of the colony, intimately connected, as it was, 
 not only with the government of the church, but with its 
 type of religious faith and life, had the double tendency of 
 dwarfing and perverting the development of those who came 
 willingly and conscientiously under its yoke, and of driving 
 into recklessness and desperation those free and strong 
 spirits who felt the yoke to be an intolerable, if not an igno- 
 minious, burden. To the last class Woodcock belonged. 
 The spirit which he manifested in his interview with Mr. 
 Moxon was the legitimate result of the treatment to which 
 he had been subjected. He had grown morose and quar- 
 relsome under it, until he had come to regard a minister 
 with hatred and contempt, and to look upon the leading 
 men in the colony, as in league with the ministers to do him 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 39 
 
 evil. He seemed, however, to appreciate the difference 
 that existed between Mr. Pynchon and most of his class, 
 and to regard him with a sympathetic respect that betrayed 
 a nature still, in many respects, true to itself. 
 
 It was with the more rigid class of political religionists 
 that Mr. Moxon sympathized ; and that class was in power, 
 and maintained their position for many years, until at last 
 the church became separate from the government, and more 
 liberal and enlightened counsels prevailed in both bodies. 
 
 Consequently it was that, as the minister left the house 
 of Mr. Pynchon, he left it poorly satisfied with the result of 
 the morning’s operations. He thought too lenient a course 
 had been pursued with Woodcock — one calculated to make 
 him regard his sin as of little account — one, even, that 
 seemed to reward him for his obstinacy. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HE Sabbath 
 morning fol- 
 lowing these 
 occurre n c e s 
 was still, clear, 
 and frosty ; not a soul 
 was stirring, and it 
 seemed almost as if the 
 lonely cows- of the set- 
 tlement had forgotten 
 to call to each other from 
 their scattered sheds. 
 
 At length, when the morning had well advanced, a Win- 
 dow in the house of Mr. Pynchon was raised, and a small 
 white signal hung out— an announcement of the hour, by 
 the only timepiece in the settlement. Immediately, from a 
 house within sight, a sturdy figure came forth, bearing a 
 very singular looking Sabbath burden. It was a drum, on 
 which the bearer proceeded to beat a brisk tattoo, which he 
 continued from one end of the street to the other, with such 
 interruptions in his rhythm as occasional snow-drifts and 
 unavoidable missteps would naturally produce. 
 
 The drum-beat changed the aspect of the village imme- 
 diately. Men, women, and children poured out of their 
 humble dwellings, and bent their steps towards Mr.^ Pyn- 
 chon’s house, no meeting-house having been built, and that 
 being the largest house in the settlement, — large enough, 
 too, to hold all the white inhabitants without discomfort. 
 
 4 ° 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 41 
 
 The first individuals who arrived were those the least 
 interested in the occasion — the apprentice boys. Among 
 them were those already introduced to the reader under 
 somewhat suspicious circumstances. The leader of this 
 little company was one Peter Trimble, It was he who 
 opened the door, put his head in to see if everything was 
 right, put it out again to assure his friends that the survey 
 was satisfactory, walked in, beckoned the others to follow, 
 walked across the floor, took his seat upon a rough-board, 
 temporary bench, motioned to the others to do the same, 
 and then winked significantly at John Pynchon. John looked 
 at him with gravity, but when he saw Peter thrust his hand 
 into his pocket, and change his little mass of features into a 
 physiognomical interjection, and give two or three emphatic 
 forward dodges of his head, as if he would have said, “ Oh ! 
 John Pynchon, you haven’t the smallest possible idea what 
 I’ve got in my pocket — I’m dying to show it to you,” John 
 could not withstand the temptation, and, passing quietly 
 across the room, he took his seat near the mysterious Peter. 
 
 Peter’s object was accomplished, and so, without making 
 any further allusion to the contents of a pocket that never 
 had a presentable occupant, except in chestnut time, he pro- 
 ceeded to unroll, with slyly rustling whispers, the budget of 
 his gossip. 
 
 “ Seen old Woodcock lately, John ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ What did he say ? ” 
 
 John looked around the room to see if he was observed, 
 but made no answer. As soon as the stamping at the door 
 gave opportunity, however, Peter resumed : 
 
 “ When have you sten old Moxon ? ” 
 
 “ I saw Mr. Moxon yesterday,” replied John, a little in- 
 dignant, as he knew that his father was liable to similar 
 familiar treatment. 
 
 “ Oh! Mr. Moxon — yes ! well — what did he say ? ” 
 
 “ Said a good many things,” replied John, with his eyes 
 on his father. 
 
 “ Anything about me ? ” . 
 
 “ I didn’t hear anything ; why ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! the greatest row you ever see.” 
 
 “ What was it ? ” inquired John. 
 
42 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ Oh ! the darndest row — you’ve no idea.” 
 
 “ Anybody hurt ? ” 
 
 “ Well, no — not exactly hurt, but ’twas an old row, now.” 
 
 “ Don’t talk quite so loud — tell me about it,” said John 
 cautiously, his curiosity having been considerably excited. 
 
 “ Well,” said Peter — “ down to old Woodcock’s on a time 
 t’other night — game o’ cards on the board — pipes all round 
 — in come old Moxon, and pitched into us ; — old Woodcock 
 drew off, and let him have — doubled him up — these two 
 fellows left — scat to death — we locked the door, and I made 
 the parson promise not to tell.” 
 
 “ Peter,” said John, “ I believe you are lying to me. I’ll 
 ask the other boys to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Well — ’twas a great row, waan’t it ? Oh ! you ought to 
 ’a been there.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe a word of it,” said John, his curiosity 
 having sunk into solemn disappointment and vexation at be- 
 ing so heartlessly betrayed. Then rising, he took his seat 
 in another part of the room. 
 
 Peter had only made a commencement of his business. 
 His next care was to cover up his tracks. So, turning to his 
 companions, he informed them in broken whispers of the 
 story he had told John, and how John had swallowed the 
 whole thing, and only wished he had been one of the com- 
 pany at Woodcock’s. 
 
 “ Now mind,” said Peter to the boys, “ if John says any- 
 thing about this to you, you just back me up, and we’ll have 
 the greatest kind of sport out of it.” This last assurance was 
 eked out with various animated nods and expressive winks, 
 tending to impress upon their minds the infinite degree of 
 satisfaction in store for them, if they would but follow his in- 
 structions. 
 
 Peter was not exactly satisfied with the kind of assent he had 
 ^obtained to his propositions, and as soon as opportunity was 
 'Offered, by the noise occasioned by a new arrival, he turned 
 to his companions, and, assuming a threatening aspect of 
 countenance, and executing several Tierce diagonal ,mod§, 
 said, “ You do just as I tell you, now ; if you don’t yoUill 
 catch it. I’ll duck you — I’ll rub your face in the snow till you 
 can’t see. You just try that once — I’ll take it out of your hide.” 
 
 How much further the; ^redoubtable Peterjwould have pro- 
 
THE BAY BATH. 
 
 43 
 
 Ceeded, had it not been for a slight interruption that occurred 
 nt this moment, it is impossible to tell, but, as adverse for- 
 tune would have it, he had become so much absorbed in his 
 own proceedings as to forget to keep an eye out for those in 
 progress around him, and just as he was about to launch 
 another thunderbolt at the heads of his dumb and fearful 
 friends, he felt a sharp rap upon his own head, and looking 
 up hurriedly, he saw above him a long stick, while at the 
 other end of it stood Henry Smith, looking at him in solid re- 
 proof. Peter immediately appeared to have a vision of an 
 infinitely attenuated cobweb, swinging somewhere in in- 
 finite space, and to have brought to mind some favorite 
 passage of Scripture which, through the almost unconscious 
 machinery of his lips, he endeavored to render verbatim to 
 his inmost soul. When the bearer of the rod became satis- 
 fied with the impression he had made, he withdrew it, and 
 gave it a convenient standing place near his seat. 
 
 The assembly had become, during the few brief minutes 
 occupied by this side scene, an interesting and impressive 
 one. The most striking figure of the group — made so by his 
 age, intellectual appearance and dress — was Mr. Pynchon. 
 Draped in a long, silver-buttoned coat that nearly concealed 
 his deerskin small-clothes, and the puffs and rosettes that 
 marked the junction of the latter with his hose, with abroad 
 collar or band of linen lying fiat upon his shoulders, and a 
 closely fitting cap upon his head, he was the impersonation 
 v.of quiet dignity and patriarchal grace. 
 
 Near him sat his family — Mrs. Pynchon with her stiffly 
 starched and formidable ruff, that cast into comparative in- 
 significance the quiet face above and the prim form below ; 
 Mary and John, side by side; and Henry Smith and his 
 wife, already introduced as the children, respectively, of Mr. 
 and Mrs, Pynchon. Henry Smith was, as an ancient record 
 of him declares, “ a godly, wise young man,” and both he and 
 Jiis wife bore that expression of earnest seriousness that 
 marked them as the possessors of a religion that to them was 
 an all-comprehending, all-informing reality. There, too, was 
 Jehu Burr, the carpenter, short, pompous man, who had 
 within a few months become greatly important in his own 
 eyes for-having been sent, in company with Mr. Moxon, a 
 deputy to Hartford ; and by the side of him his family. 
 
 1B730 
 
44 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Others, whose names need not be called, filled up the large 
 room ; and in each corner, near their owners stood the faith- 
 ful muskets, which were the companions of the colonists, 
 alike in the field, the forest, and the house of God. 
 
 It was not until after all these were seated that Mr. Moxon 
 appeared, with his wife and one little child following him. Mrs. 
 Moxon was a small, nervous-looking woman, with a sad expres- 
 sion of countenance, and a wild, wan look about her dark 
 eyes that indicated poor health, and a familiar acquaintance 
 with suffering. While the minister took a central seat re- 
 served for him, his wife and child found an unobtrusive loca- 
 tion among the audience, and sat down. 
 
 Then all was still for a moment, when the door was again 
 opened, and John Woodcock walked in, attended by his 
 daughter. He looked around upon the group, and the cold 
 looks which he met in return performed their usual office 
 upon him. His heart hardened as he stood, and he sat 
 down, steeled against every appropriate influence of the time 
 and place. Taking his seat near the door, and drawing his 
 girl between his knees, he gave himself up to his old rebel- 
 lious thoughts and bitter reflections. 
 
 All was silence again. The minister sat turning over a 
 book of the Psalms, and giving occasional utterance to an 
 ejaculation intended to prepare his throat for speaking, 
 each time recovering from the effort by an inhalation 
 through his nose, that gave forth a peculiar whistling sound 
 which had become familiar to the boys, and ludicrous 
 through Peter Trimble’s attempts to imitate it. The ejacula- 
 tion and the whistle were given, at last, with unusual power, 
 when Peter, who sat with his arms folded very circumspectly, 
 managed to give a sly thrust with his finger into the ribs of 
 his next neighbor, when that individual, already fully charged, 
 gave utterance to an explosive snicker that brought the long 
 stick again into use, and smartly down upon his hard little 
 head. 
 
 Peter’s vision of the infinitely attenuated cobweb, swing- 
 ing somewhere in infinite space, was renewed. 
 
 The space of time between the whistle and the laugh was 
 so small, that they assumed, in every mind, the relation of 
 cause and effect, — so much so, in fact, that Mr. Moxon was 
 sensibly irritated and discomposed, and, perhaps, without a 
 
THE BAY PATH, 
 
 45 
 
 thought of what he was doing, he looked around and caught 
 Woodcock’s eye. The expression that he met there did not 
 tend to reassure him, but he arose and offered the opening 
 prayer, and then gave out, to be sung, the first Psalm : 
 
 “ That man hath perfect blessedness, 
 who walketh not astray 
 In counsel of ungodly men, 
 nor stands in sinners’ way; 
 
 Nqr sitteth in the scorner’s chair > 
 but placeth his delight 
 Upon God’s law, and meditates 
 on his law day and night. 
 
 “ He shall be like a tree that grows, 
 near planted by a river, 
 
 Which in his season yields his fruit, 
 and his leaf fadeth never ; 
 
 And all he doth shall prosper well. 
 
 The wicked are not so, 
 
 But like they are unto the chaff, 
 which wind drives to and fro. 
 
 “ In judgment therefore shall not stand 
 such as ungodly are ; 
 
 Nor in th’ assembly of the just 
 shall wicked men appear. 
 
 For why ? the way of godly men 
 unto the Lord is known : 
 
 Whereas the way of wicked men 
 shall quite be overthrown^.” 
 
 Woodcock listened to the reading of the psalm, and grew 
 angry until it closed. He felt it to be-, in effect, a public 
 reprimand, as well as a means of private revenge. So far 
 had he become incensed towards Mr. Moxon, by dwelling 
 on his supposed wrongs, that he believed him incapable of a 
 Christian feeling, — incapable of any feeling, in fact, in which 
 he had, or by possibility could have, any sympathy. But 
 when the singing was commenced, and the full, clear voice 
 of Mary Pynchon — rich in its revelations of hope and trust 
 and peace — interfused itself with, and rose above the harmony 
 of the simple choral, Woodcock closed his eyes, and bowed 
 his head upon his child’s shoulder in deep emotion. The 
 huge logs were steaming on the hearth, and the sound, 
 mingling with the solemn song, brought back a vision of his 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 46 
 
 boyhood. Through the gathering mists of the past he caught 
 a glimpse of his mother singing at her distaff, and of himself, 
 sitting at the door, looking out into the sweet sunujier rain. 
 
 And still the voice sang on, and the old logs hissed on 
 the hearth. 
 
 And then came up before him a calm, patient face — 
 courageous and resolute in its calmness and patience — the 
 face of one so true to him, so loving and so loyal, that at 
 last, traveling willingly in the hard path over which he had 
 called her to walk with him, she had fainted, lain down, and 
 died. 
 
 And still the voice sang on, and the old logs hissed on the 
 hearth. 
 
 And then came to him a realization — vague, perhaps, but 
 genuine — of the waywardness of his own heart, and its utter 
 perverseness under the influences which rested upon it, and, 
 as he apprehended the softening effect of the music of that 
 only voice that he heard or cared to hear, he wished that the 
 old logs would hiss on and the voice sing on for years, and 
 that at last he might arise a changed and happy man. He 
 felt that he was far from the possession of that perfect blessed- 
 ness attributed to the subject of the psalm whose serious 
 lesson was falling upon his ears ; and yet he needed it and 
 longed for it, and felt that if circumstances were different 
 with him, he might have it yet, and be able at last to lie 
 down in the grave, wrapped in the confidence of a blessed 
 hope. 
 
 The singing ceased, and still the head of the father was 
 bowed upon the shoulder of his child. Another prayer— 
 long, fervent, and full of the heartfelt expression of Christian 
 aspiration — was pronounced, and Woodcock, softened, and 
 longing for a peace which his heart told him was somewhere, 
 in something, waiting for him, joined in the supplication — 
 feebly and imperfectly, as a man unused to prayer — and laid 
 the burden of his soul upon the utterance of one whose 
 words, but a few brief moments before, had come to him only 
 with malevolent suggestions. When the prayer was closed, 
 he longed to hear the Bible read. He wished for no words 
 from man ; but the reading of the Great Book in the public 
 exercises of the Sabbath, at that day, was a forbidden service. 
 So, lifting his eyes to Mr. Moxon, with a stern resolution to 
 
THE BAY PATH. • 47 
 
 keep out his bad thoughts, if possible, he listened for the 
 announcement of his text. 
 
 44 But after thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasurest 
 up unto thyself hj rath against the day of wrath , and revelation 
 of the righteous judgment of God.” 
 
 Woodcock shook his head, arose from his seat, placed his 
 girl upon the bench, and then, taking his gun, opened the 
 door and retired from the house. The charm was broken — 
 the hallowed and hallowing influence dissipated. The transi- 
 tion to his old feeling of hardness and half-regretful defiance 
 was accompanied by a sigh as painful as it was profound, and 
 by the characteristic exclamation, 44 It’s no use.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon waited, before proceeding, for the restoration 
 of silence, but order and attention were not secured for some 
 minutes. Both Mr. Pynchon and Mary understood and ap- 
 preciated the cause of Woodcock’s withdrawal, and felt dis- 
 turbed. Peter Trimble’s curiosity was very much aroused. 
 Bending down in a mock effort to fix his shoe, he exclaimed 
 to the victim at his side, in a low whisper, 44 Indians 1 ” 
 
 The boy was instantaneously and involuntarily on his feet, 
 his neck stretched up, looking out of the window. Down 
 came the long stick of Henry Smith upon his head, and down 
 came the boy. The stick was so near to Peter that his 
 glimpse of the cobweb was this time extremely brief and 
 uncertain. 
 
 As soon as the sermon had begun to attract serious atten- 
 tion, Peter made another errand to his shoe, and whispered 
 44 What did you see ? ” 
 
 44 Stars,” replied the boy, unconscious of anything but his 
 last impression. 
 
 This reply came near proving too much for Peter’s gravity, 
 and it was a long time before he could command himself 
 with sufficient confidence to raise his head. 
 
 At the termination of the service of the morning, little 
 Mary Woodcock, who had sat with her eyes fixed upon 
 Mary Pynchon through the greater portion of the time they 
 had occupied, rose, and stood by the door, while the con- 
 gregation passed her in retiring. The look of recognition 
 and the smile for which she waited were at last secured, and 
 she turned half reluctantly to leave the house. 
 
 During all this time, Peter Trimble, with a respectfulness 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 48 
 
 for which he was not notorious, had lingered behind the 
 congregation, and allowed them to precede him in the way 
 homeward. As the little girl left the door, he was at her 
 side. 
 
 Slightly touching her arm, as if he imagined that he was 
 touching the most costly fabric, he said, in his most imper- 
 tinent and sly way, “ Some folks wear good clothes, and 
 some folks wear poor clothes. Some people’s fathers are 
 rich— and some ain’t. You don’t remember what that hood 
 cost, do you ? It*s beautiful, it’s — ” 
 
 “ I wish you’d go ’long off, and go home,” exclaimed 
 Mary, turning upon him, her eyes flashing with anger. 
 
 “ But, Molly, where d’you get your new clothes ? ” per- 
 sisted Peter, in his bantering way. 
 
 “ None of your business, you plague,” replied Mary, in 
 the same angry voice. 
 
 “ Well, do you know there’s been several things missed 
 from the clothes lines lately, round here ? ” insinuated the 
 remorseless Peter. “ Some people lays it to Injuns, and 
 some don’t.” 
 
 “ If you don’t let me alone, I’ll go back and tell Mr. 
 Pynchon,” said Mary stopping firmly in the path, and look- 
 ing Peter fiercely in the face. 
 
 “ Tell him of what ? ” inquired Peter, coolly. “ What 
 have I said ? Won’t you have the goodness to tell me what 
 I’ve said ? I hav’n’t said anything. I only said some people 
 lays it to Injuns and some don’t. I think it’s wild cats.” 
 
 There was something so tormentingly insulting in the last 
 insinuation, that Mary involuntarily, and as quick as light- 
 ning, struck him a stinging blow in his face. Peter, for the 
 moment, lost his temper, and, taking the girl by the shoulder, 
 he pitched her into the snow. The scream which she gave 
 as she fell brought the family to the window at Mr. Pynchon’s 
 house, and a beckoning hand called Peter back, while Mary 
 ran, crying at the top of her lungs, towards home. Peter 
 arrived at Mr. Pynchon’s, and was called in, as he expected 
 to be. His cheek was still red with the effect of Mary’s 
 blow, which he assured the family was given him by the girl 
 in return for his politeness in endeavoring to assist her to 
 rise, after she had accidentally fallen in the snow. 
 
 “ I am afraid that girl has a temper too much like that of 
 
THE BAY PATH. 49 
 
 her father,” remarked Henry Smith, who, with his wife, had 
 remained in the house. 
 
 “ I believe,” said Mary, earnestly, “ that this boy has not 
 told the truth. I think Mary Woodcock would never have 
 struck him had she not been seriously provoked. ” 
 
 Peter protested his innocence in a tone of voice that 
 showed that his tender spirit had been wounded to the quick 
 by so terrible an accusation. At this moment, the frugal 
 
 Old Colonial Times: Eati»g Hasty Pudding. 
 
 I 
 
 Sabbath dinner was declared to be in readiness, and he was 
 told to remain until its conclusion, that the matter of his 
 difficulty with the little girl might have a further examination. 
 
 * “ What do you suppose Woodcock retired for to-day ?” 
 inquired Ann Smith of her father, as they sat down to dinner. 
 
 “ I suppose that he did not like the text which Mr. Moxon 
 selected for his discourse/’ replied Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ The carnal mind is enmity against God,” said Henry 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 50 
 
 Smith, solemnly. “ How little the man understands that the 
 degree of offensiveness which God’s truth possesses for him 
 is the measure of his own iniquity, and of his need to have 
 that truth enforced upon him. How little he understands 
 that the more the medicine displeases him, the more he needs 
 it.” 
 
 “ This may all be very true,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “ but it 
 seems to me that a little wisdom is necessary in choosing 
 that class of Bible truths for Sabbath themes which will not 
 drive men beyond the reach of any truth.” 
 
 “All Scripture is_ profitable,” replied the son. “The 
 Word of God, in all its purity, is to be preached, whether 
 they will bear, or whether they will forbear. I see not how 
 a man of God can consult expediency in the slightest degree. 
 His duty is plain, and he may only go on and do it, and 
 leave the result with God.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon had been somewhat in the habit of masking 
 his real opinions and sentiments in relation to many impor- 
 tant subjects while in the presence of his family, because 
 they came in collision with the prevailing opinions and senti- 
 ments around him. He felt perhaps, that were his family to 
 think as freely as himself, they might get into difficulty by a 
 too frank expression of their thoughts, and he possibly 
 shrank from the responsibility of inflicting upon them the 
 doubts and disquietude that spring from conscious differ- 
 ences with a prevalent faith. But this occasion was too im- 
 portant, and the lesson too necessary, to be neglected. Ac- 
 cordingly, he very fully gave his opinions upon the subject 
 that had been introduced. 
 
 “ The office of the Christian minister,” said Mr. Pynchon, 
 “ I regard as the highest and the noblest which a man can 
 be called upon to assume. The minister is the man who 
 stands in Christ’s stead, beseeching his fellow men to be rec- 
 onciled to God. He is also, in the fullest sense, a servant 
 of Christ — bound to adopt his policy, to be filled with his 
 spirit, to be informed and inspired with his life, and to over- 
 flow, in every word and action, with that love to all man- 
 kind that shall lead him in his daily social intercourse, and 
 in his public religious duties, to choose hTs means of grace 
 with a wisdom and an unfailing perception of adaptedness 
 that shall reader impossible all serious offense. The 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 51 
 
 minister who dwells upon some favorite dogma, as if its 
 establishment were of more consequence than the salvation 
 of a soul ; who cares more for the maintenance of some 
 point of opinion, in which his personal pride is involved, 
 than the maintenance of faith in some trembling believer ; 
 who does not study every heart with which he comes in 
 contact, to see precisely the kind of spiritual food it requires ; 
 who deals out his store of threatenings and promises indis- 
 criminately ; or worse — deals out threatenings where prom- 
 ises were better, is a man not thoroughly furnished for his 
 position, and not fitted for his work. My opinion is that a 
 minister, perfectly fitted for his office, never offends, and 
 that, if he have any positiveness of character, the number 
 of his offensive applications of truth will indicate th£ measure 
 of his unfitness for his office. Men with the common share 
 of human reason, respect earnestness, honesty, and self- 
 devotion, wherever they see it ; and when those qualities 
 are united with an all comprehending love of those for 
 whom Christ died, that shines in every smile, is manifest in 
 every action, and modulates the tone of every utterance, 
 sin receives its rebuke in respectful silence, malice melts in 
 meekness, and error, pride, and even bigotry's self, bow, 
 for the moment at least, to an influence which they have 
 neither the power to resist nor the motive to resent." 
 
 “ I believe it — every word of it," responded Mary, 
 modestly, but firmly. 
 
 “ I would not dispute with my father, certainly," said 
 Henry Smith, who recognized parental respect as a Christian 
 duty, “ but it seems to me that he virtually apologizes for 
 John Woodcock, and blames Mr. Moxon." 
 
 “ And I will not dispute with my son," said Mr. Pynchon, 
 with a meaning smile. “ It is barely possible that John 
 Woodcock is not naturally so bad a man as he is thought to 
 be, and that Mr. Moxon has made a mistake in his treatment 
 of him." 
 
 “ Still," replied the son, with a deferential bow, “ I think 
 it is our duty to yield our assent to the teachings of our 
 ministers. They are placed in the church to watch over us 
 in matters of doctrine and duty, and while it is their duty to 
 be faithful, it is ours to yield to them the respect due their 
 high office." 
 
 4 
 
 u. OF ILL UB. 
 
52 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ You do not mean, brother,” said Mary, laughing, “that 
 you would cheat so innocent a thing as an office, of so valu- 
 able a thing as respect, by paying its due to its occupant, do 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ I do not chop logic on Sunday,” replied the brother, 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 During the progress of this conversation, Mrs. Pynchon 
 had been exercised in a somewhat singular manner. She 
 reverenced her husband, but loved her son, and she saw and 
 very thoroughly apprehended the nature of their difference. 
 Therefore with a wish to reconcile their views, and strike a 
 fair balance between them, she had arranged her ideas for a 
 remark or two, but, by a perverse misfortune, they became 
 confused before she had fairly commenced their utterance. 
 “ I think,” said the old lady, “ that anybody who gets of- 
 fended with a good gospel sermon, is not worth minding 
 anything about. I don’t say anything against Goodman 
 Woodcock, but I do say that when we’ve got a good minis- 
 ter, we ought to — to make the most of him ” (slightly break- 
 ing down) “especially — especially” — (losing the thread 
 entirely) “ as we pay him a better salary than we can afford, 
 and have settled the ministry lands on him.” 
 
 This resolution of the discussion was conclusive, if not 
 satisfactory, and as the family drew back from the table, 
 John pointed his finger to the window and exclaimed, some- 
 what excitedly, “ There comes John Woodcock r -father ! ” 
 
 All turned their eyes in the direction indicated. He came 
 towards the house with a lowering brow, bearing in his hand 
 a small bundle tied up in a cotton handkerchief. He 
 knocked at the door, and was admitted. 
 
 During all this time, Peter Trimble had stood, waiting in 
 the room the conclusion of the meal, and had not only taken 
 observation of everything within the reach of his active 
 vision, but had carefully noted and remembered the nature 
 and bearing of the conversation. No sooner was John 
 Woodcock’s coming announced, however, than he turned 
 extremely pale in the face, and trembled in every limb. 
 Flight was not feasible, or he would have fled. 
 
 As Woodcock entered the room, he walked up to the lad, 
 planted his huge hand upon his trembling head, and, gather- 
 ing his stiffly curling hair within the grasp of his fingers, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 53 
 
 turned his. face back in order to bring it to a proper angle 
 of observation. The tears began to ooze from the boy’s 
 eyes as if Woodcock were wringing water from his hair, or 
 had the fountain of tears directly under pressure. 
 
 “ You beautiful feller, you,” said Woodcock, “ how glad 
 you be to see me ! Don’t know when I’ve met anybody in 
 some time that was so overcome. You darlin’ boy! You 
 mustn’t let your feelin’s get the start of you in this ’ere way. 
 You’re too delicate for this country. P’raps you never 
 heerd of a little roastin’ pig that went squealin’ and. squealin’ 
 round, and stickin’ his nose into children’s porringers, and 
 rootin’ up people’s garden patches, till the butcher thought 
 he was too tender for this world, and accidentally run a 
 knife into him, did you ? It’s awful to be tender. I’ve 
 known people to lose all1;he hair they had that way.” 
 
 The boy had withstood the torture as long as he could, 
 without absolutely bellowing with pain, and as the premoni- 
 tions of an unpleasant outcry made themselves manifest, 
 Woodcock relaxed his grasp upon the hair, and, looking 
 him in the face a moment longer, removed his hand, and 
 apologetically expressed the hope that he had not detained 
 him from dinner, or interrupted any important business. 
 The lad needed no hint from any quarter to induce him to 
 retire, and the moment he was released he left the house. 
 John Pynchon watched him with a not ungratified air, as he 
 walked homewards jerking his head with a half-rotary nod, 
 which might have been taken as an expression of impotent 
 anger, or a wish to ascertain whether that organ was still in 
 location. 
 
 As he retired, Woodcock turned to the family, and, with 
 an earnest and respectful look, which was somehow tinged 
 with his late anger, he said, “ I beg pardon for skinning my 
 eels here, but I thought I’d ’tend to it, ’fore they slipped 
 out of my fingers. I didn’t come here to do it, ’cause I 
 didn’t know the boy was here, but I’m glad it’s done and 
 over with, and I guess he is. I come here to do a harder 
 job. I’ve been thinkin’, since I went out this mornin’, that 
 savin’ me won’t hardly pay, when you come to take it all 
 round — the trouble it’s costin’ others — and the trouble it’s 
 costin’ me. It’s so natural for me to hate a mean man, and 
 a narrer man, that I know I never’d learn to like one with- 
 
54 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 out gettin’ mean and narrer myself. Mr. Moxon and I can’t 
 hitch hosses together. Come to tie to the same post, there’ll 
 be bitin’ and kickin’.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon suggested that perhaps Woodcock had better 
 sleep upon his anger, or at least defer what he might have 
 to say until another day. 
 
 “ No, Square,” said Woodcock, “ you mustn’t choke me 
 off— let me go through this time, and I won’t bother you 
 again. I know it ain’t proper Sunday business, but I want 
 to get it off my mind. As I was sayin’, savin’ me won’t pay. 
 There ain’t but one way to do it, and it seems ’s ’ough that 
 would spile me. I can’t give up hatin’ men that it ain’t nater 
 to love, and if I did get so I could kind o’ stand ’em, I 
 couldn’t foller their halter nor work in their harness.” 
 
 The family listened to this singular demonstration in si- 
 lence. Henry Smith sat uneasily, as if he would like to 
 argue the point, and as if he deemed it the duty of some one 
 to do it ; but as his father made no reply, he said nothing. 
 No one except the favorite daughter, Mary, had the slight- 
 est apprehension of the impression that Woodcock made 
 upon Mr. Pynchon. This apprehension was vague, as it 
 must have been, with no more definite communication be- 
 tween them than that borne along the lines of a magnetic 
 sympathy, but it was none the less real for lacking expres- 
 sion. 
 
 The truth was, that Mr. Pynchon was hardly able to speak. 
 He saw in the rough man before him, himself — the form 
 dwarfed, the face distorted, and the features dimly defined, 
 perhaps, as if the mirror were an agitated pool of turbid 
 water — but still true to the essence of his constitution, and 
 the outline of his moral conformation. He despised Wood- 
 cock’s vices, he lamented his perversity of temper, and was 
 saddened in the view of his unchastened will ; but he honored 
 the frankness of his nature, and that unbending freedom of 
 his spirit, which led him to feel the touch of a shackle as he 
 would the sting of a viper, and to spurn the one with his 
 hand as he would the other with his heel. 
 
 Woodcock waited for a moment, for some one to speak, 
 but as every one remained silent, he walked up to where 
 Mary Pynchon was sitting, and untying, tremblingly and 
 in silence, the little bundle he still retained in his hand, he 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 55 
 
 placed, one after another, in her lap, the articles she had 
 given to his daughter. During this movement he had not 
 looked in her face, but as he concluded it, and placed his 
 handkerchief in his pocket, he caught a vision of her sad 
 eyes, brimming with tears. 
 
 “ God bless you, Miss Pynchon I Don’t cry, and don’t 
 think I ain’t human to fetch back these things, but I couldn’t 
 keep ’em. It’s kind to the gal to fetch ’em. Everybody 
 knows where they come from, and I’ve just had to pay off 
 one little runt for twittin’ her about it.” 
 
 “ You pain me very much,” replied Mary. “ I am sure 
 you are over-sensitive in this matter. Besides, your daugh- 
 ter really needs the clothes.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t dispute it, but if you won’t say anything 
 about it, the gal shall be took care of. She shall be took 
 care of for you. I can’t take these duds away with me, so 
 it’s no use talkin’, but I’m just as thankful to you as I ever 
 was, and love your good heart just as much.” 
 
 “ But,” said Mr. Pynchon, pleasantly, “ it seems to me 
 that your excuse for depriving your daughter of comfort- 
 able clothes does not amount to much.” 
 
 “ Well, Square, if I must tell the whole on’t,” said Wood' 
 cock, straightening up desperately, and extending his 
 brawny arm for an emphatic gesture, “ I don’t feel in fight- 
 in’ trim with them clothes on that gal. I feel as if an angel 
 had got a mortgage on me, and I’m af eared she’ll foreclose 
 some time when it ain’t convenient.” 
 
 No one could withhold a smile at this abrupt charac- 
 teristic conceit, and under the cover of the smile Woodcock 
 retreated, and bent his steps homeward, leaving Mary gaz- 
 ing downwards upon her present, thus strangely returned, 
 and busy in revolving the motive that bore it companion- 
 ship. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 OODCOCK’S allusions 
 to the strangeness of 
 his child, it will have 
 been seen, were not in- 
 frequent, in his conver- 
 sations with others concerning 
 her ; and it has already been 
 hinted that her eccentricities were 
 attributable in a great degree to 
 her early loss of a mother’s guidance, and her almost ex- 
 clusive association with her father and his usually coarse 
 companions. Some weeks had passed after Woodcock re- 
 turned to Mary Pynchon the clothes she had given to his 
 daughter, when, one morning, as he was cutting wood at the 
 door, he heard a very singular noise in his cabin. He 
 paused, with a curious, puzzled air, and said to himself, in' 
 a low tone, “ What ip Natur’s that? Well! she has broke 
 out in a new place, now ! ” As he stood, waiting for a rep- 
 etition of the strange sound, his ears were greeted with a 
 well executed imitation of the crow of a strong-lunged 
 cock. 
 
 “ What has got into that critternow!” exclaimed Wood- 
 cock, and then, dropping his ax, he assumed an unsuspi- 
 cious face, and walked into his cabin. He found Mary busy 
 in clearing away, and, in her poo^r manner, washing the rude 
 table furniture they had used for breakfast. He looked at 
 her a moment, and, in a kind tone of voice, said, “ What 
 are you thinkin’ about this morning Mary ? ” 
 
 s& . . . - 
 
THE BAY PATH. 57 
 
 “ Peter Trimble,” replied the girl, without pausing in her 
 operations. 
 
 “ What have you been thinkin’ about that little — little — 
 nimshi ? ” inquired the father, with the softest appellation of 
 contempt he could call to mind. 
 
 “ I was thinking” said Mary, “ how he run a race with 
 Tim Bristol yesterday, and when he’d clipped it clean by 
 him, how he jumped on to a stump, and crowed.” 
 
 “ And so you tried to crow, just as Peter Trimble crowed, 
 did you ? ” said the father. 
 
 “I? no! — I didn’t crow,” replied Mary, pausing .in her 
 work, and looking up with surprise. 
 
 “ Not then, but jest now, gal. 
 
 Jest now you crowed didn’t you? ” 
 
 And Woodcock looked at her en- 
 couragingly, as if he would have 
 said, “"Own up now, my child, I 
 won’t hurt you.” 
 
 “ I wish you wouldn’t talk so to 
 - me,” said the girl, growing impa- 
 tient. 
 
 “ Now don’t go into tantrums, 
 
 Mary,” said Woodcock deprecating- 
 ly ; “I heerd somebody crow, here, 
 in this ’ere cabin, and thinks I to 
 myself that’s the gal, a try in’ to see 
 what she can do.” Chair that Came Over in the 
 
 “ I wish you’d stop tryin’ to fool Mayflower, 
 
 me,” said the girl in a sharp tone, her temper rapidly 
 rising. 
 
 “ Well, go ’long, Mary, go ’long, I guess I didn’t hear 
 anything,” said Woodcock, “ only I didn’t know but when 
 you was thinkin’ how Peter Trimble crowed, you jest kind 
 o’ tried to see if you couldn’t do jest so — eh, now ? Didn’t 
 you do it, little tinker ? ” and Woodcock smiled, with an 
 anxious, distressed smile, that was meant for a demonstra- 
 tion of persuasive tenderness and amiability. 
 
 At this moment, Mary was holding a vessel of hot water 
 in her hands, and her first impulse was to dash it, with all 
 the force in her power, upon the cabin floor ; but she finally 
 set it down, and then went to her corner at the fireplace, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 58 
 
 and, throwing herself into her chair, hid her face in her lap, 
 and burst into her usual fit of crying and scolding. 
 
 Woodcock watched her for a few minutes with emotions 
 of unmingled pain. He did not know what to do with her. 
 She seemed at times to be insane, and to say and do things 
 of which she was unconscious. He had no doubt that she 
 had been in a waking dream, — moving in past scenes, and 
 amusing herself in the fields of memory, while engaged in 
 the performance of the light household duties intrusted to 
 her hands. And he had, within a few weeks, come to re- 
 gard the condition of her mind as, in some manner, con- 
 sequent upon his former treatment of her, and the hard, un- 
 childlike lot that had been her experience. He never had 
 forgotten how she looked when she came from the sweet 
 presence of Mary Pynchon, with the new clothes upon her, 
 and the new and altogether unwonted delight on her face, 
 and the joy that animated every motion of her limbs. She 
 was then a new child to him, and he would have given any- 
 thing in his power to make that transformation permanent. 
 
 Woodcock sat for some minutes in silence, and allowed 
 the paroxysm of the poor child to subside, and then said, 
 “ Mary, gal, come here to your poor old father.” 
 
 Mary looked up, and, through her tears, recognized a 
 look of thorough kindness bent upon her, which accorded 
 with the strangely sympathetic tone that had arrested her 
 attention. Instantly rising, she walked to her father’s side, 
 when, taking hold of her, he tried to lift her to his knee. 
 The fatherly act was so unusual that the girl shrank from 
 his grasp, and stood away from him, to see what he meant. 
 
 “ Oh, Mary, for God’s sake don’t ! ” exclaimed her father. 
 “ Come to me, and set with me, and forget all those old 
 ugly things that plague you so.” 
 
 Mary was assured, and was soon folded tenderly in the 
 rough arms of her father. 
 
 “ I want to talk,” said Woodcock, in a low tone, and with 
 his head bowed kindly down, “ about one that’s gone. Do 
 you remember your mother, Mary ? ” 
 
 The little girl shook her head, and sat with her eyes fixed 
 upon the floor. 
 
 “ Your mother,” continued Woodcock, “ was a clean, 
 sweet, han’some lookin’ woman, and she had as good a heart 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 59 
 
 as ever was ; and if you could only jest think how her eyes 
 looked, — ’t seems ’s if you could remember ’em if you ever 
 see ’em, — so soft and lovin’, I’ve got a consait that it would 
 bring you all right. Don’t you see them eyes a-lookin’ on 
 you sometimes, Mary ? Can’t you kind o’ play you’re little, 
 and remember how your head used to lay on her arm, with 
 them eyes — them beautiful eyes — shinin’ on you ? ” 
 
 Mary’s eyes were still on the floor, and she shook her 
 head slowly and seriously. 
 
 “ I’d give all I’ve got, or ever goin’ to have, if my little 
 gal could only think on it. Seems ’s if it would start her all 
 right ag’in, and kind o’ put her in her mother’s shoes, and 
 make her grow up good and han’some. 
 
 “ Mary, it don’t seem but a little spell ago when I come 
 home one night — it was twelve long years ago, but it don’t 
 seem more’n one, and ’twas way off in the old country — and I 
 found this little gal in bed with her mother. You was a 
 leetle thing then, as soft and simple as a young robin, but 
 byme-by you begun to grow, and turn up your black eyes to 
 her’n, and laugh in her sweet face till she cried in your’n. 
 And then you’d go to sleep, with your cheek right up agin 
 her soft breast, and she with her arms round you, lovin’ you 
 all the time. And when you got older, Mary, and could toddle 
 round, and we begun to feed you on the nanny-goat’s milk, 
 and you got all tuckered out, playin’ and runnin’ out doors, 
 and would come in with your eyes lookin’ as heavy as lead, 
 she used to take you up in her lap, and put your little head 
 — littler and softer’n ’tis now — in her bosom ; and there you 
 lay, half laughin’ in your sleep, and she lovin’ you all ’the 
 time.” 
 
 Woodcock looked down to see whether his child was in- 
 terested, and, as she appeared to be in deep thought, he pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 “ And so we all lived together for a spell, and then we got 
 into a ship, and come to this country. ’Twas a cruel time 
 for all on us, but she took a cold, or a fever, or somethin’, 
 that she never worked clear off ; and she kind o’ pined and 
 pined away, workin’ all the time for you and me, till all at 
 once she give it up, and telled me, jest as patient and pleas- 
 ant, she was goin’ to die. And there was you runnin’ round, 
 -not knowin’ what you was losin’, and her big, shiny eyes a- 
 
6o 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 follerin you round the room, and her heart misgivin’ her 
 about how you would be brung up. And when her breath 
 begun to come short, and she said she felt as if she was 
 goin’ away, she wanted I should fetch you, and I picked you 
 up ofPm the floor, and laid you in her arms, and put ’em 
 round you, and your mother died, Mary, with her arms round 
 you — so — and her heart lovin’ you all the time.” * . 
 
 “ Woodcock’s last utterances were difficult with a depth of 
 emotion that he had not anticipated, and could not control ; 
 and, as he paused, the big drops were falling from the eyes 
 of his daughter, who still sat with her gaze upon the floor. 
 The whole scene was a new experience to the child, and her 
 feeling of embarrassment almost equalled in strength her in- 
 terest in the narrative. 
 
 The father sat for some minutes in silence, and then 
 resumed. “ I thought that if I telled my little gal of all this, 
 and she could only make it seem as if a dear, good woman 
 had loved her, and ’tended her, and that she’d been the 
 sweetest thing that woman had in- the world, p’raps she could 
 kind o’ go back, and make a new start, and grow up soft and 
 gentle, like other little gals. And I thought, besides, if she 
 could only see them eyes, that used to look on her so sweet 
 and lovin’, and could get the consait that they was lookin’ on 
 her all the time, and could kind o’ feel them soft warm arms 
 round her, night and day, that she’d get gentle, and wouldn’t 
 go to be round with Peter Trimble and the other boys, 
 but would be a nice modest little gal. Now, Mary, don’t 
 them eyes never come to you any ? ” 
 
 The girl looked up in her father’s face with a half wild, 
 half serious expression, and said, “ Father, I know them 
 eyes ; I’ve seem ’em.” 
 
 “ That’s right, Mary. Do you seem to see ’em now ? ” 
 and Woodcock regarded her with an encouraging smile. 
 
 “ No, I don’t see ’em now. I never see ’em only nights, 
 when I’m asleep.” 
 
 Woodcock’s lip quivered as he inquired, “ Why can’t you 
 see ’em now ? ” 
 
 “ ’Cause they don’t come now,” replied the child, with per- 
 fect simplicity. 
 
 “ Do they come, as you say, always when you are asleep ? ” 
 inquired Woodcock beginning to feel distressed. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 6l 
 
 “ No,” replied the girl, “ they don’t come always, but only 
 when you’ve been whippin’ me, and then they always come.” 
 
 Woodcock started with a pang of terrible keenness, and 
 heaved a sigh that was the expression of the profoundest 
 
 pain. 
 
 “ Then you haven’t seen ’em lately,” said he. 
 
 “ No, I haven’t seen ’em since you took away the clothes 
 Miss Pynchon gave me. I see ’em then all night.” 
 
 This declaration caused another pang, for Woodcock had 
 not failed to recognize a certain degree of selfishness and 
 unnecessary sensitiveness of will on his own part, in that 
 transaction, although he had indulged himself, so far as pos- 
 sible, in the idea that he was justified by his motives. 
 
 “ Well, Mary, I ain’t never goin’ to whip you ag’in,” said 
 Woodcock ; “ and I want to have you try to 1 get them eyes 
 back without the whippin’, and when you see ’em, no matter 
 if you’re sleepin’ or wakin’, ask ’em to stay with you and 
 perhaps after a while we’ll both be better, and we can keep 
 the consait that she’s always in the cabin with us — and ” — 
 and here Woodcock, whose original design had been seriously 
 interfered with by the little girl’s revelations, went off into a 
 disconnected reverie, during which Mary slid from his arms 
 and resumed the occupation from which he had diverted her. 
 
 At length, half muttering to himself, he said, “ I can’t do 
 nothin’ with her, as I see. When she’s wakin’ she’s sleepin’, 
 and when she’s sleepin’ she’s wakin’ — dreamin’ when she’s 
 thinkin’ and thinkin’ when she’s dreamin’. Everything’s 
 botched, somehow, ’t I’ve anything to do with, — all mixed up 
 and twisted. I can’t do nothin’ right, and I can’t fix nothin’ 
 when’t’s wrong. But the gal’s growin’ up, and I must look 
 after her, or she’ll grow up to be no comfort to herself, nor 
 me neither.” 
 
 Then, giving expression to the idea that the world was a 
 very unsatisfactory place to live in, he rose from his seat, and 
 was about to open his door for the purpose of resuming his 
 work at the wood-pile, when a hesitating rap came upon the 
 outside. Immediately Woodcock stood confronting with 
 John Cabel, the constable of the settlement, with whom he 
 had had a quarrel and a suit at law, growing out of their 
 joint agency in the erection of the first house in Agawam in 
 
1 
 
 62 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “Well, John Cabel,” said Woodcock, standing in his 
 doorway, without giving him an opportunity to enter, “ you 
 didn’t come here to see me this mornin’ ’cause you love 
 me, so out with it, and no mincin’.” 
 
 Cabel looked into the face of his old companion, now his 
 enemy, and inwardly rejoiced in the opportunity of paying off 
 a long score of revenges. He was a small man, with a small 
 mind and infinite resource of language, sometimes spreading 
 little tufts of thought into prairies of expression, and capable 
 of running through all the latitudes of diplomacy in so sim- 
 ple a mission as that of borrowing a peck of corn. 
 
 In a tone in which pity was intended to be insultingly pre- 
 dominant, Cabel commenced : “ I’m sorry, John, it has 
 
 come to this, but my duty as an officer of the law (the last 
 word brought out strong, and enforced with six confluent 
 little nods) compels me to do that which, considering you 
 and I used to be hand and glove (emphasis and conflueiit 
 nods), that is to say, on terms of intimacy (and John Cabel 
 coughed with the fore-finger of his left hand on the right as- 
 pect of his upper lip and the thumb on the left, and with a 
 softness that showed that it was a cherished cough, and not 
 intended to injure his lungs) — “ compels me to do, as I was 
 remarking, that which, under other — that is to say (emphasis 
 and confluent nods) less peculiar circumstances, might not 
 be attended with the degree of pain which I experience on 
 this occasion.” 
 
 And John Cabel coughed again, with his left thumb and 
 fore-finger in position, and the palm of his hand so spread, 
 to shield his mouth, that the man whom he addressed could 
 not have inhaled from his breath any fatal effects, with 
 which, by an imaginary possibility, it might have been 
 charged. 
 
 “ Cabel, now what’s the use of your makin’ a fool of your- 
 self ? ” said Woodcock, regarding him with a look of supreme 
 contempt. “ If you’re sick to the stomach, why don’t you 
 throw up, and get shet o’ your slobberin’ ? ” 
 
 Cabel smiled, coughed, and replied, “You have not for- 
 gotten how to joke, John, and it reminds me of other days 
 (emphasis and confluent nods) — days when our relations 
 were different ; that is to say, when they were not unpleasant. 
 They have been somewhat disturbed, it is true, but never 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 63 
 
 with my consent, and now, to be obliged, as an officer of the 
 law (emphasis, etc.), to visit your house, gives me more pain 
 than I can conceal, and — ” 
 
 “ Look a-here, Cabel,” said Woodcock, “ if you don’t 
 empty your pail, and stop spillin’ over this way, I’ll give 
 you the door to look at, and you may call me when you’re 
 all ready.” 
 
 “Very well, John,” said Cabel, changing his manner at 
 once, “ I’ve got a writ for ye, which tells ye to come before 
 the magistrate to answer to a charge of slander made by 
 Mr. George Moxon. What have ye got to say to that, 
 eh ? ” 
 
 “ Did you say I’d got to answer to the magistrate ? ” 
 inquired Woodcock. 
 
 “ The magistrate, of course.” 
 
 “ Well, mind your own business then, you beetle-head,” 
 said Woodcock. “ I’ll say what I’ve got to say when the 
 time comes.” 
 
 Cabel enjoyed extremely the tone of irritation with which 
 Woodcock uttered his last reply, and gave himself gently 
 over to the most luxurious cough of the whole series. 
 
 As for Woodcock, this new annoyance had taken him at 
 a decided disadvantage. He was weak with the softening 
 influences of the morning, and “ never felt so little up to a 
 gruff,” as he afterwards expressed it, as he did at the time 
 he met Cabel. He had begun to apprehend more and more, 
 that Mary was suffering from his own reputation, and, for 
 the moment, he felt as if he would rather die than engage 
 in another quarrel which would tend to make him, and the 
 one being associated with him, subjects of renewed unpleas- 
 ant comment in the plantation. 
 
 It was, therefore, with something like dejection in his air 
 and feelings that he threw the accustomed wolfskin over 
 his shoulders, and prepared to accompany Cabel to the house 
 of the magistrate. 
 
 In the early days of the plantation, and for many years, 
 all cases tried before Mr. Pynchon were tried by a jury of 
 six men, and were but irregularly managed at the best. 
 Owing to the peculiar circumstances of the place — the lack 
 of a prison, and the ordinary means of enforcing law — legal 
 processes frequently exhibited a mixed character and were 
 
64 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 at the same time, and in the same case, civil, ecclesiastical, 
 and criminal. 
 
 When Woodcock arrived at the house, he found that Mr. 
 Moxon and the constable had arranged matters so as not to 
 delay the course of justice by the escape of an unnecessary 
 minute, for the six jurymen were in the house, as well as in 
 their seats. As he walked into the house, he bowed stiffly 
 to Mr. Pynchon, and fixed a surly gaze upon Mh Moxon, 
 who, on not obtaining any motion of obeisance, turned his 
 eyes in another direction. 
 
 “I’m all ready, Square,” said Woodcock; “ shall I set 
 down or stand up ? ” 
 
 “ You will stand,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “ until you have 
 heard the charge read on which you have been summoned 
 before me.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon then read the charge, which (without going 
 into its formalities) represented that Mr. Moxon, having 
 been called upon while in Hartford to testify in regard to 
 the moral and business character of Woodcock, had felt 
 obliged, from what he knew of him, to testify against him ; 
 and that, in consequence, Woodcock had charged him with 
 taking a false oath, in repeated conversations with different 
 members of the plantation. After he had concluded, he 
 asked him whether he pleaded “guilty” or “not guilty,” 
 to the charge of slander, in connection with these represen- 
 tations. 
 
 “ Well, Square, I ain’t guilty of anything, as I know >f,” 
 said Woodcock. “ I don’t consider it’s guilty — ” 
 
 “ Prevarication,” said Mr. Moxon, with a nod at Mr. 
 Pynchon. 
 
 “ No, ’tisn’t prevarication, neither,” said Woodcock, turn- 
 ing to Mr. Moxon. “ It’ll be time enough for me to borry 
 your jack-knife when I’ve got whittlin’ on hand I can’t do 
 with my own.” 
 
 The mistake which Woodcock’s ignorance of language 
 had led him into was sufficiently ludicrous to draw a smile 
 upon the faces of all present, and he thus escaped a repri- 
 mand. The smile, however, weak as it was, was sufficiently 
 strong to restore him to himself, and to harden him for the 
 time into the man he had long been in reality and reputa- 
 tion. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 65 
 
 “ What do I understand your plea t'o be ? ” inquired Mr. 
 Pynchon. 
 
 “ Not guilty 1 ” exclaimed Woodcock, in a stiff, stern 
 voice, and then, tossing his wolfskin over a chair, he sat 
 down. 
 
 When the names of the witnesses were called, three of 
 those on the jury of six arose and were sworn with the 
 
 rest. 
 
 “ Will your Honor ’low me to say a word ? ” said Wood- 
 cock, rising. 
 
 “Certainly, if relating to the case,” replied the magis- 
 trate. 
 
 “ Well, I was thinkin’ that if you’d jest let these men 
 that don’t seem to know anything about the case go, and 
 put the rest of the witnesses in their seats, you’d save time, 
 and wouldn’t have to pump any of ’em, ’cause they’d know 
 all they could tell, and could tell all they know to one 
 another. I thought I’d jest hint it to you, Square,” con- 
 tinued Woodcock, preparing to sit down, “for it’s all the 
 same to me who’s on the jury.” * 
 
 “ Goodman Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon, in a firm but 
 pleasant tone, “ it is apparent from this remark that you in- 
 tend to complain of injustice in connection with your trial. 
 I had hoped to find you this morning in a more candid and 
 penitent frame of mind, — one which should lead you to 
 doubt neither our charity for you nor the honesty of our 
 judgments in establishing justice, between you and Mr. 
 Moxon. You are accused of a grave offense. You are 
 charged with having proclaimed your minister to be guilty 
 of the heinous sin of perjury. If the charge shall not be 
 sustained, it will give me great pleasure to congratulate you 
 on having freed yourself from an accusation that, to my 
 
 * The following is an extract from ihe record of this trial in the 
 Pynchon Record Book. 
 
 “ George Moxon complained against Jo. Woodcock in an action of 
 slander, in thaphe saith that Jo. Woodcock doth report that he took a 
 false oath against him at Hartford, and he demands of Jo. Woodcock 
 for the said slander 19s. 
 
 “ The J ury . Henry Smith, Jeheu Burr, Robert Ashley, Thomas 
 Merik, Jo. Searle, Samuel Hubbard. 
 
 “ Mr. Moxon produced these witnesses : Tho Horton, Jo. Cable, 
 Robert Ashley, Henry Smith, Samuel Hubbard.” 
 
66 
 
 The bay path. 
 
 mind, involves oiie of the most heartless and Cruel crimes of 
 which a man can be guilty ; for there is hardly a crime that 
 I consider so foul as that which tampers with a good man's 
 good name. It is a crime that is the basis of nearly all the 
 troubles in this and the other plantations of the colony, and 
 one which I am determined shall be punished, so far as my 
 power and influence go, in the manner it deserves. ,, 
 
 Woodcock sat regarding the magistrate's words and man- 
 ner most intently, and when he closed, he rose respectfully, 
 and, fixing his eye fully on the eye of Mr. Pynchon, said, 
 “ I don't misdoubt, Square, but what you mean all you say, 
 and I don't say but what it's all right, take it by and large, 
 but I was wonderin' whether you’d a' said it if I'd been in 
 the minister's boots, and he in mine.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon was instantly on his feet, and pointing his 
 finger at Woodcock, he exclaimed, in a tone of authoritative 
 menace, “ Take heed 1 take heed ! " 
 
 “ And I wonder,” said Woodcock, shifting his eyes from 
 the magistrate to the minister, without changing his voice, 
 “ if you'd a' stood my p’intin' to that man, and hollerin’ out 
 as he done jest now.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon reddened in the face, and replied, “ I have 
 no words to bandy with you, Woodcock. The trial will pro- 
 ceed.” 
 
 The witnesses were examined, one after another, by Mr. 
 Moxon and the magistrate, and the evidence was conclusive 
 against the accused. He had charged Mr. Moxon openly 
 and boldly, with taking a false oath against him ; and not a 
 doubt remained on the mind of any one, in relation to the fact. 
 
 At the close of the testimony, Mr. Pynchon addressed 
 Woodcock, telling him that he had heard the evidence which 
 had been placed before the jury, and could not but be aware 
 of its character ; and that if he had anything to say before 
 they should bring in their verdict, and would say it with 
 proper respect to the court and the reverend plaintiff, he 
 could now have the opportunity. 
 
 Woodcock sat a few moments in silence and study, and 
 then, rising, said: “ You know, Square, my tongue ain't a 
 smooth one, and I don't know how I should make out, tryin' 
 to f oiler the marks, but I’ll say what I think’s right, and you 
 can stop me when I get off'm the trail. I'm satisfied with 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 67 
 
 what these folks have •said, and I could a’ saved ’em the 
 trouble of sayiil’ anything,' but I kind o’ wanted to see how 
 straight they’d tell their stories. They’ve gone through ’em 
 pretty well, and now I ’d like to tell what I meant when I was 
 talkin’ about bein’ guilty, just as the minister run into me 4 
 ’Tain’t very comfortable for a feller to think he hain’t got a 
 good character; and when he catches another feller swearin’ 
 it away, it’s natur to hang on to it. I didn’t consider it 
 guilty to hang on to mine, and that was what I was tryin’ to 
 get off. In this ’ere case, I’ve tried to show proper respect 
 to the minister. I’ve only said he shot too far to the left to 
 hit the truth, when if he’d been John Cabel that had done 
 it, or any other thin strip of a man, I should a’ laid him 
 down, and stomped on him.” 
 
 Here Woodcock was interrupted by an excited motion on 
 the part of Mr. Moxon, who half rose from his seat, and 
 who, failing to command the eye of Mr. Pynchon, settled 
 uneasily back into his chair again. As for Cabel, he’ re- 
 lapsed into a cough, as satisfactory to himself as it was full 
 <of provocation to Woodcock, who, seeing that he might pro- 
 ceed, resumed his remarks. 
 
 ■ Ai As I was sayin’, Square, I’ve tried to show respect to 
 The minister, but I don’t see what it’s all for. I’ve been in 
 the colony half a dozen years, more or less, and done as much 
 work as \ any other man of my size. I marked the trees 
 .clean from Roxbury to this plantation, and put up the fust 
 ♦cabin here, with a little help from a poor feller (looking at 
 < Cabel) that’s now bad with the heaves; and I’ve been 
 ♦ crowded and knocked round, and I’ve paid rates and been 
 made to walk the colony crack ; and all the time I couldn’t 
 Vbe a freeman and vote, ’cause I wan’t a member of the 
 <church. I hain’t been anything, ’cause the ministers 
 wouldn’t let me. I have to help support ’em, and live under 
 ttheir Jaws, and when they take a notion to swear away my 
 character, I mustn’t kick; if I do, the constable grabs my 
 foot, and ties it up to the jury-box. 
 
 “ P’raps I ain’t talkin’ very close to the mark,” continued 
 Woodcock, recalling himself, “ and I’ll come back, and take 
 the track agin. Mr. Moxon thinks I’ve damaged him nine 
 pound, nineteen shillin’, which ’t seems to me don’t tally 
 with his swearin’ down to Hartford. I’m better’n he swore 
 
 5 
 
 18730 
 
68 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 I was, or else his character’s weaker’n he thinks ’tis/or else 
 I hav’n’t damaged him so much as he’s tried to make out. 
 If my character wan’t good for anything, I couldn’t hurt 
 him, and if his character’s weak enough to be hurt by such 
 a man as he says I be, then he’s no business to growl, and 
 talk about money. It’s a good brew that bursts the barrel, 
 and a broken egg that spiles easy.” 
 
 “ I protest,” exclaimed Mr. Moxon, suddenly and excitedly 
 rising — “ I protest against being made the butt of this 
 fellow’s vulgar jests. I have as much respect, may it please 
 your Honor, as any one can have, for the rights of a man 
 on trial for a grave offense against the laws, but I am not 
 called upon to submit to the inflictions of his revengeful 
 spleen. I claim the protection of the court.” 
 
 “ Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon gravely, “ you have for- 
 feited your promise, and spoken disrespectfully towards the 
 court and the plaintiff.” 
 
 “ I beg pardon,” interrupted Woodcock, afraid that Mr. 
 Pynchon was about to silence him, “ but I meant no offense. 
 The j’int fitted middlin’ well, but the stick wan’t hewed 
 smooth. I hope you won’t set me down till I’ve had it out, 
 and can feel easy. This ’ere jury’s goin’ to say whether I 
 owe Mr. Moxon anything or not. I’ve paid my part, since 
 I’ve been in the settlement, to give Mr. Moxon porridge, 
 and salt to put into it. My rates are all square if I have 
 had a hard time here ; and what did I ever get for’t ? 
 Nothin’ butblowin’s — sometimes right afore my child, some- 
 times right afore a whole meetin’ ; and then he goes to 
 Hartford, and swears away my character, and ’cause I don’t 
 knuckle, and ’low him to tread me down, he brings me here 
 to get money out on me, over and above the rates that bring 
 me nothin’ but cusses. I don’t owe him — ” 
 
 “ I protest,” said Mr. Moxon. 
 
 “ Sit down, Woodcock,” said the magistrate. 
 
 Woodcock very reluctantly undertook obedience to the 
 command, but before he touched his seat, he^ rallied doubt- 
 fully, and said, “ Square, if you’ll give me three words more, 
 I won’t ’fend you, my word for’t. I jest wanted to say that 
 there’s been considerable fuss made, fust and last, about 
 makin’ me a better man, and I thought if the jury was 
 goin’ out f and was good in figures, I sh’d like to have ’em 
 
THE BAY PATH. 69 
 
 find how long it would take to make a Christian of me in 
 this way, and about what it’ll cost.” 
 
 Having finished to his satisfaction, Woodcock wiped his 
 forehead with a dirty handkerchief threw his coat open as if 
 he had made a hard physical effort, and sat down. 
 
 “ This case,” said Mr. Pynchon, “ might be safely left to 
 the jury without any remarks from me, but it involves im- 
 portant consequences, and demands a few words, especially 
 as the magistracy of this settlement has but recently been 
 established. The plaintiff in this case is the minister of the 
 church in our own plantation, one whom you know as a 
 godly man, and an approved teacher of the truth in Christ. 
 His is a holy office, a mighty responsibility, an unspeakably 
 sacred work ; and it is necessary to his usefulness that his 
 name be preserved free from reproach. I do not decide nor 
 is it necessary for you to decide, "whether Mr. Moxon 
 had sufficient ground for the testimony which he gave at 
 Hartford against Goodman Woodcock. I do not propose to 
 say whether I think that he has treated Woodcock in all 
 points as he should have done. In these matters, to his own 
 master he standeth or falleth, and neither you nor I have 
 aught to question or affirm touching them. The testimony 
 establishes the fact that Woodcock has circulated among the 
 people of the settlement the story that their minister has 
 foully perjured himself. Of this you can have no doubt, 
 independently of the confession of the defendant himself. 
 In this thing, he has sinned against the ministry as well as 
 the minister, wounded the cause of Christ, and done violence 
 to that order and that dignity of office which are essential to 
 the maintenance of Christian society. In assessing the 
 damages, you will have reference as well to their effect upon 
 the defendant as upon the plaintiff, and be guided by the 
 pecuniary circumstances of the defendant to a certain extent. 
 Large damages could not be collected, and if they could be, 
 the effect upon him would be what no one wishes for, while 
 I am sure the plaintiff would regret the possession of money 
 that would place the soul of any man in jeopardy. You will 
 now retire — ” 
 
 “ Square,” said Woodcock, rising hurriedly from his chair, 
 “ afore the jury go, I sh’d like to put a question or two, to 
 some of the witnesses that’s been up.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 70 
 
 “ This is a very unusual, not to say disorderly request,” 
 said the magistrate. 
 
 “ I know ’t’s off ’m the trail, but the fact is, this case has 
 swum a pond since you begun talkin'. I didn’t think you’d 
 go agin me so hard, though I don’t think the other side’s 
 anything to brag on.” 
 
 “ Whom do you wish to call again ? ” inquired the magis- 
 trate. 
 
 “John Cabel, and p’raps some of the jury, if you’ll be so 
 kind,” replied Woodcock, “ though I ain’t going to dodge, 
 if you do hit without hearin’.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon had not exactly liked certain portions of Mr. 
 Pynchon’s remarks, but he felt sure of his case, and so did 
 not interfere with the proceedings. Mr. Pynchon called 
 Henry Smith to his side, and after a few minutes’ indistinct 
 conversation, told Woodcock that he could have liberty to 
 question Cabel. 
 
 “ Get up, Cabel,” said Woodcock, turning sharply to that 
 official. 
 
 Cabel turned a mute look of appeal to the magistrate, 
 who said, “ You will rise, Cabel, and the defendant will 
 address you respectfully.” 
 
 “ John Cabel,” said Woodcock, “ who telled me that 
 Mr. Moxon swore agin me in Hartford ? Now none o’ 
 your dodgin’ nor spreadin’.” 
 
 “ It seems to me,” said Cabel, indulging in a short cough, 
 “ that that is a remarkable, that is to say, a very singular 
 question for one to ask, who should know without asking. 
 You are aware that I have had very little association with 
 you of late (a long quiet cough), and that I could not have 
 a very thorough knowledge of your sources, that is to say, 
 your means of information.” 
 
 “ You’re a sweet nut anyway,” said Woodcock, with a 
 smile that was half scowl. “Don’t you know, as well as 
 you want to know, that you told me yourself ? ” 
 
 Cabel looked at Mr. Pynchon, and that gentleman settled 
 the matter by saying very peremptorily, “ Yes , or No , to 
 that question, Cabel.” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ All right,” said Woodcock, “ Now, did you ax me what 
 I’d got to say to it ? ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 7 * 
 
 “ Yes, or no,” said Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ Yes.’’ 
 
 “ Well, what did I say ? ” 
 
 “ You said,” replied Cabel, without any urging, “ that Mr. 
 Moxon had sworn to a lie.” (Emphasis, etc.) 
 
 “ That’s true,” said Woodcock, “ and now you may set 
 down, and if we wan’t here, afore these gentleman, and you 
 was a brother of mine, which I’m thankful you ain’t, I sh’d 
 say, if you sleep on marish hay, you’d better shift your bed, 
 for it’s bad for your pipes.” 
 
 “ Mr. Smith,” said Woodcock, immediately turning to 
 Henry Smith, at the head of the jury, “ who telled you that 
 I said Mr. Moxon took a false oath agin me ? ” 
 
 “ John Cabel,” replied Mr. Smith. 
 
 “ What made me tell you jest the same thing over agin ? ” 
 inquired Woodcock. 
 
 “ The occasion, I believe,” said Mr. Smith, rubbing his 
 chin to help his memory, “ was my inquiry of you whether 
 Cabel had represented the truth.” 
 
 “ That’s all,” said Woodcock, rising; “ I jest wanted Mr. 
 Pynchon to see how I come to say what I did, and to ax 
 him whether he thinks it would ’a been natur’ for me to 
 own up that my character was bad, or keep mum, which was 
 tantamount to the same thing ; and I wanted to show him how 
 the story got to me, and got spread up and down the planta- 
 tion. Mind, I don’t take nothin’ back, but I wanted to 
 fetch out who planted the corn, and how I come to hoe it.” 
 
 “ There can be no doubt in your minds,” said Mr. Pyn- 
 chon, turning to the jury, “ that these are mitigating cir- 
 cumstances, and you will give the defendant the benefit of 
 them in your assessment of damages.” 
 
 The jury retired to an adjoining apartment, and occupied 
 but a short time in coming to their decision, which was ar- 
 rived at by a vote to award Mr. Moxon, as damages, the 
 mean average of the individual estimates of the jury. 
 
 As they returned and resumed their seats, Mr. Pynchon 
 pronounced the inquiry, “ What do the jury find ? ” 
 
 Henry Smith arose, and replied, “ The jury find for the 
 plaintiff, damages, £6 13^. 4 d.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Woodcock, rising, with a mingled expres- 
 sion of anger and disgust upon his rough features, “ I’m glad 
 
72 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 you’ve found the damages and found the money with ’em, 
 for you’ve done a smart thing, and saved me considerable 
 elbow grease besides.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by that remark ? ” said Mr. Pynchon 
 sternly. ^ 
 
 “ I mean,” said Woodcock, with a scowl of contempt and 
 defiance, “ that when Mr. Moxon’s broth tastes like Wood- 
 cock’s it won’t be till after I’ve died game, and he’s lame and 
 lost his eyesight.” 
 
 “ And what do you mean by that, sir,” inquired the mag- 
 istrate again. 
 
 “ Well, Square, my meanin’ don’t lay very fur under the 
 skin, but I s’pose I can fetch it out, if you say -so. I don’t 
 mean nothin’ more nor less than that I don’t owe the minis- 
 ter any money, and I shan’t pay him no money.” 
 
 Having very emphatically pronounced his decision, and - 
 conveyed a look of menace to John Cabel, who gave ex- 
 pression to a sudden sense of discretion in a cough which 
 conveyed him, by easy stages, into semi-unconsciousness, 
 Woodcock, whose last movements had tended towards the 
 door, lifted the latch, and passed unmolested on his way 
 homewards. 
 
 His departure was followed by a long consultation. Mr. 
 Pynchon felt that his authority had been slighted, and with 
 good reason ; Mr. Moxon was dissatisfied with the amount 
 of damages awarded him, and incensed at Woodcock’s re- 
 peated insults and insolent defiance ; the jury were offended 
 that Woodcock had spurned their judgment ; and Cabel, 
 who insisted at great length that he knew John Woodcock 
 through and through, declared that the monster had as good 
 as threatened his life. 
 
 “ There is no way,” said Mr. Moxon, at last, “ but to 
 drive him from the settlement. No order can be maintained 
 with such a man amongst us. He must leave the plantation, 
 or he will destroy it.” 
 
 And the majority, as they separated, were of his opinion. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 
 HE winter 
 during which 
 these events 
 occurred was 
 long and se- 
 vere — so severe as 
 to give rise, among 
 all the settlements 
 on the Connecticut, 
 to serious apprehen- 
 sions of scarcity of 
 food. As a conse- 
 quence, the opening 
 of spring was hailed 
 with unusual joy. 
 To augment this joy the people of Agawam had received 
 advices from the Bay that a few more families had decided 
 to adventure their fortunes among them. 
 
 The principal communication with the Eastern settle- 
 ments was by a path marked by trees a portion of the dis- 
 tance, and by slight clearings of brush and thicket for the 
 remainder. No stream was bridged, no hill graded, and no 
 marsh drained. The path led through woods which bore 
 
 73 
 
74 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 the marks of the centuries, over barren hills that had been 
 licked by the Indians’ hounds of fire, and along the banks 
 of streams that the seine had never fragged. This path 
 was known as “ the Bay Path,” or the path to the Bay, and 
 received its name in the same manner as the multitudinous 
 “ old Bay roads ” that lead to Boston from every quarter of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 It was wonderful what a powerful interest was attached 
 to the Bay Path. It was the channel through which laws 
 were communicated, through yhich flowed news from dis- 
 tant friends, and through which came long, loving letters 
 and messages. It was the vaulted passage along which 
 
 Early Conveniences of Travel in America. 
 
 echoed the voices that called from across the ocean, and 
 through which, like low-toned, thunder, rolled the din of 
 the great world. ' That rough thread of soil, chopped by 
 the blades of a hundred streams, was a bond that radiated 
 at each terminus into a thousand fibers of love and interest, 
 and hope and memory. It was* the one way left open 
 through which the sweet tide of sympathy might flow. 
 Every rod had been prayed over, by friends on the journey 
 and friends at Jiome. If every traveler had raised his 
 Ebenezer, as the morning dawnqd upon his trusting sleep, 
 the monuments would have risen and stood like milestones. 
 
 But it was also associated with fears, and the imagination 
 often clothed it with terrors of which experience and obser- 
 vation had furnished only sparsely-scattered hints. The 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 boy, as he heard the stories of the Path, went slowly to 
 bed, and dreamed of lithe wildcats, squatted stealthily on 
 overhanging limbs, of the long leap through the air upon 
 the doomed horseman, and the terrible death in the woods. 
 Or, in the midnight camp, he heard through the low forest 
 arches — crushed down by the weight of the darkness — the 
 long drawn howl of the hungry wolf. Or, sleeping in his 
 tent or by his fire, he was awakened by the crackling sticks, 
 and, lying breathless, heard a lonely bear, as he snuffed 
 and grunted about his ears. Or, riding along blithely, and 
 
 Breaking the First Path in the Wilderness, Blazing the Trees. 
 
 thinking of no danger, a band of straying Pequots arose, 
 with swift arrows, to avenge the massacre of their kindred. 
 
 The Bay Path was charmed ground — a precious passage 
 — and during the spring, the summer, and the early autumn, 
 hardly a settler at Agawam went out of doors, or changed 
 his position in the fields, or looked up from his labor, or 
 rested on his oars upon the bosom of the river, without 
 turning his eyes to the point at which that Path opened 
 from the brow of the wooded hill upon the east, where now 
 the bell of the huge arsenal tells hourly of the coming of a 
 stranger along the path of time. And when some worn 
 and weary man came in sight, upon his half starved horse, 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 or two or three pedestrians, bending beneath their packs, 
 and swinging their sturdy staves, were seen approaching, the 
 village was astir from one end to the other. Whoever the 
 comer might be, he was welcomed with a cordiality and 
 universality that was not so much an evidence of hospi- 
 tality, perhaps, as of the wish to hear of the welfare of those 
 who were loved, or to feel the kiss of one more wave from 
 the great ocean of the world. And when one of the set- 
 tlers started forth upon the journey to the Bay, with his 
 burden of letters and messages, and his numberless com- 
 missions for petty purchases, the event was one well known 
 
 to every individual, and the adventurer received the benefit 
 of public prayers for the prosperity of his passage and the 
 safety of his return. 
 
 It was upon one of the sweetest mornings of May that 
 Mary Pynchon and her brother John walked forth to enjoy 
 the air, and refresh themselves with the beauty of the 
 spring-touched scenery. Tom, the pet, was their com- 
 panion, and as Mary heard the stroke of axes in the woods 
 upon the Hill, she deemed it safe to walk in that direction. 
 Her steps naturally sought the Bay Path, — not, perhaps, 
 because it led to the most charming view, or was the 
 
 Old Mill at Newport 
 
 Erected by Norsemen Before Time of 
 >us. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 77 
 
 easiest of access. She could not tell why she chose it. Her 
 feet almost by force took the path which her thoughts had 
 traveled so long, and led her towards hopes that might, 
 for aught she knew, be on the wings of realization to meet 
 her, and lead her back to her home, crowned with peace 
 and garlanded with gladness. 
 
 Arriving at the summit of the hill, Mary and her brother 
 selected a favorable spot, and sat down.^ Far to the North, 
 Mount Holyoke and Mount Tom stood with slightly lifted 
 brows, waiting for their names. Before them, on the west, 
 the Connecticut, like a silver scarf, floated upon the bosom 
 of the valley. Beyond it, the dark green hills climbed 
 slowly and by soft gradations heavenward, until the sky 
 joined their upturned lips in a kiss from which it has for- 
 gotten to awake. And all was green — fresh with new life, 
 and bright with the dawn of the year's golden season. 
 
 There, too, were the dwellings of the settlers, some of 
 them surrounded by palisades, for protection against a pos- 
 sible foe, and all of them humble and homely. Near where 
 they were sitting still swung the axes of the woodmen, and 
 off, upon the meadow, on the western side of the river, the 
 planters were cultivating their corn. The scene was one of 
 loneliness, but it was one of deep beauty and perfect peace. 
 
 Mary Pynchon would have been no unattractive feature 
 in the scene, to one who could have observed her, as she 
 sat with her sun-bonnet in her hand, and her features in- 
 spired by the beauty around her, A form of medium size 
 and faultless mold was but indifferently draped and un- 
 gracefully defined by the economical fashions of the place 
 and period ; but her face was one whose beauty nothing but 
 an impenetrable veil could hide. The spirited lip, full blue 
 eye, well arched and finely penciled eyebrow, and intellectual 
 forehead, gave to her face a queenliness of expression that, 
 to one who did not know her, might have conveyed the idea 
 of haughtiness ; but the depth of the blue eye, and the soft 
 oval outline of the face, as it shaded off into masses of rich 
 brown hair above, and stood relieved from a snowy neck 
 below, produced a combination of the more delicate with 
 the stronger constituents of beauty, as rare as it was 
 attractive. 
 
 She had arrived at that stage in the development of her 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Strange Bedfellows. Young Bears : Pets of the Early Colonists. 
 
 There is a period in the early life of every true woman 
 when moral and intellectual growth seems, for the time, to 
 cease. The vacant hgart seeks for an occupant. The intel- 
 lect, having appropriated such aliment as was requisite to 
 the growth of the uncrowned feminine nature, feels the 
 necessity of more intimate companionship with the mas- 
 culine mind, to start it upon its second period of develop- 
 
 nature, when, unconsciously to herself, and unobserved by 
 those around her, she was waiting for a mate. A true 
 womanly nature grows to a certain point of development, 
 and then makes a pause, and looks around for its companion. 
 If that companion is prepared already or appears at the con- 
 venient moment, it goes on, passes through maternity to 
 maturity, and if then its work is done, it sits down, and 
 waits for the angels. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 79 
 
 ment. Here, at Ibis point, some stand for years, without 
 making a step in advance. Others marry, and astonish, in 
 a few brief years, by their sweet temper, their new beauty, 
 their high accomplishments, and their noble womanhood, 
 those whose blindness led them to suppose they were among 
 the incurably heartless and frivolous. 
 
 It-was among the vague shadows of this epoch in her life 
 that Mary Pynchon had many of her meditations. She 
 loved her father, and knew that her father loved her with 
 entire devotion. She loved her brother, and felt that the 
 noble boy returned to her his whole heart. She exercised 
 love and sympathy for all around her, and rejoiced in the 
 consciousness that she was a favorite with all. But that was 
 not enough ; and as she sat there, on that sweet May morn- 
 ing, gazing out upon the landscape, or watching Tom as he 
 browsed among the shrubs, or playfully chiding her brother 
 as he insisted on decking her hair with the sweet arbutus 
 and the earlys had blossoms, her heart went off again over 
 the Bay Path, through the thick, dark woods, and over the 
 streams, and across the hills — the weary path over which 
 she had traveled just two years before, and there came up 
 to her mind the form of one who had moved with grace and 
 majesty in her dreams ; and whose bright, bold face, and 
 mild, resolute eye, had been to her, through all the months 
 of her lonely dwelling at Agawam, a charming presence and 
 a kindly power. 
 
 An hour or two, charmed by the influences of the sweet 
 scene below, and the kindly sun above, had passed over the 
 brother and sister, when they began to talk of returning. 
 At length, they heard a long-drawn call. They listened for 
 its repetition, and the call shaped itself to the name of 
 “ Peter,” and came from the quarter from which the sound 
 of the axes had proceeded. 
 
 “ Peter Trimble has run away from his chopping,” said 
 John to his sister. 
 
 At this instant, a sharp, peculiar &ark, not unlike that of 
 a fox, was heard proceeding from an evergreen thicket near 
 by. Neither Mary nor John suspected the nature of the 
 animal that gave it utterance ; and, as it continued, the deer, 
 whose ears it had arrested at first and whose attention it held, 
 started off with a bound into the Bay Path, and ran away. 
 
8o 
 
 THE BAY PATH, 
 
 The bark then ceased, and Mary and John listened to the 
 retreating footsteps of their pet, until, at last, the trampling 
 seemed to mingle with similar sounds, which were soon 
 broken in upon by the crack of a gun that rang through the 
 forest, and came at last faintly echoing back from the 
 Western hills. Both seemed to be conscious of what had 
 been done, and as they 'sat in breathless silence awaiting 
 further developments, they heard the short, nervous leaps of 
 the deer approaching. As Tom came in sight, and turned 
 from the path to reach the spot from which fear had driven 
 him, the hot blood spurted from his side at every bound. 
 Almost sinking, he had just strength to reach the spot where 
 Mary was sitting, and laying his pale nose in her lap, and 
 looking in her face with his glazing eyes, settled prone upon 
 the ground, as if his slender limbs had changed at once from 
 springing steel to lifeless flesh. 
 
 “ My poor, poor pet 1 ” exclaimed Mary, in deep distress. 
 “ Who could have been so cruel ? ” Then instantaneously 
 ^flashed upon her the singular combination of circumstances 
 attending the slaughter of her favorite, and her sudden grief 
 was merged in an apprehension for her own personal safety. 
 
 Just as she was disengaging herself from the head of 
 Tom, so that she could rise, she heard the gallop of approach- 
 ing horses. Soon the foremost rider arrived at the point 
 opposite to where she was sitting, and, examining the 
 bushes, exclaimed to those behind him — “ Here are his 
 marks — in here ”• — and, spurring his horse excitedly, he 
 started directly towards tjie little group, but failed to see 
 them until within a few feet of them. The first tone of his 
 voice arrested Mary’s attention, and, as he caught sight of 
 her, she had half risen, and still held the head of the deer 
 in her hands, while John had grasped her arm, as if fearful 
 that some harm were about to fall upon her. 
 
 “ Mary Pynchon ! by the immortal gods ! ” exclaimed the 
 stranger, and, dropping his rein, he leaped from his horse, 
 and, as she let fall the' lifeless head of Tom, grasped both 
 her hands, and stood for a long minute gazing mutely and 
 with passionate affection and admiration in her face. When 
 at last he released his grasp, she pointed to the dead pet in 
 silence, with a finger that trembled with varied emotions. 
 
 “ Ah ! well,” said he, with a gentle, playful voice, “ is it 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 81 
 
 not fitting that we should offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving 
 on the occasion of meeting thus happily? Was not the 
 deer provided for this very purpose ? Tell me 'that, Mary 
 Pynchon ? ” 
 
 “ I think it would have been gallant in you, at least, to 
 provide the sacrifice, particularly as you do not appear to 
 suffer much pain on account of it,” replied Mary. 
 
 “ Well, I am not ire a state of extreme suffering, that is 
 true,” said the stranger, laughing, “ and between you and 
 me, and that suspicious-looking brother of yours, I doubt 
 whether you are.” 
 
 The allusion to her brother made her aware that the scene 
 must be a strange one to him, and taking John by the hand, 
 she said, “ This is Mr. Holyoke, John, of whom you have 
 heard your father speak so frequently.” Then addressing 
 that gentleman, she added, “ I suppose John thinks that your 
 sacrifice of Tom was a very unwarrantable affair, and regards 
 it rather as an omen than an offering.” 
 
 “ Omens, my boy,” said Holyoke, looking at him with a 
 half-sportive, half-earnest expression, “ are never omens un- 
 less you kiss them. A kick will kill an omen as certainly as 
 it will a hare.” 
 
 “ Poor Tom ! ” said Mary, lookingdown sorrowfully upon 
 the lifeless pet, “ I have a strong disposition to make an 
 omen of you.” 
 
 “ Dear lady,” exclaimed Holyoke with a hearty laugh, “ if 
 we should all follow the bent of our dispositions, omens 
 would multiply to a fearful extent.” 
 
 “ I should hesitate to become one so long as you are near, 
 at least,” replied Mary, with perfect self-possession, “ partic- 
 ularly as you dislike them so much, and understand so well 
 the manner of slaying them.” 
 
 While this interview was in progress, the two companions 
 of Holyoke sat upon their horses at a distance, curious spec- 
 tators of the scene. 
 
 “ By the way,” said one, looking at Holyoke and his 
 companions, “ does it not strike you forcibly that boy’s nose 
 is pretty essentially broken ? I never saw a more jealous- 
 looking little scoundrel in my life. By all the nymphs of 
 Agawam, if I were in Elizur’s place I’d give him a penny, 
 and tell him to take my horse home.” 
 
82 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ And if the boy is the one I think he is, v responded the 
 other, “ he would toss your penny in your face, and bid you 
 do your own grooming.” 
 
 The companions jested until tired of the sport, and then, 
 as Holyoke did not seem disposed to close his interview 
 with Mary, they looked off upon the country, and remarked 
 upon its features. When they had grown quite impatient 
 with the delay, and were about proposing to leave Holyoke 
 to follow at his leisure, they discovered a commotion far 
 down the path before them, which soon took the form of a 
 small company of armed men. In order to account for their 
 appearance, it will be necessary to bring upon the stage 
 an actor with whom the reader has already formed an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Young Bears at Play. 
 
ft • 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 jETER TRIMBLE, who had grown tired of 
 his chopping upon the hill, left it, on the pre- 
 tense of quenching his thirst at a spring, a 
 short distance from the location of his labors. 
 Arriving there, he heard the voices of the 
 brother and sister, and, secreting himself, watched 
 them, and listened to catch such words as might 
 reach his quick ear. This occupation proving 
 unsatisfactory, his love of mischief took another 
 form, and, drawing upon his faculty of imitation, he 
 produced the bark that became so wonderfully productive 
 in the results which have already been recounted. 
 
 Peter only paused to see the dying deer come rushing in 
 from the Bay Path, the swift plunge of the horseman who 
 followed him, and his meeting with Mary, when he left his 
 hiding-place, and, reaching the path by a circuit that hid 
 him from observation, he ran as fast as his slender legs 
 could carry him for the village. Before reaching the first 
 cabin, he had examined to see if there were any signs of life 
 around it, and, catching sight of a head with an old woman’s 
 cap on it, he beckoned furiously with his hand ; and the 
 wearer, full of greedy curiosity, came out to meet him. 
 
 83 
 
 6 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 84 
 
 “ What is the matter now ?” exclaimed the old woman, 
 with her palms deprecatingly spread towards the boy. 
 
 “ Oh ! there’s the greatest row up on the hill you ever 
 see,” replied Peter. 
 
 “ What is it ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! it’s the darndest row ’t ever happened in this old 
 plantation.” 
 
 “ Why ! you scare me, Peter. Do tell me about it ! ” 
 
 “ Well, you see — you know Tom, don’t you — Mary Pyn- 
 chon’s deer ? Oh ! you’ve no idea anything about it. I 
 can’t stop — I’ve got to go to old Pynchon’s, and rout ’im 
 out. It’s the greatest kind of a row.” 
 
 “Now you must tell me, Peter ; I shall die — I know I 
 shall if you don’t,” exclaimed the old woman, with one 
 hand on her hip and the other on her heart. 
 
 “Well! Tom’s doubled up — shot dead. Mary’s fainted 
 away, and I guess she’s wounded ; and John’s crazy as a 
 loon. Indians all over the hill — oh ! I can’t stay no longer 
 - — don’t stop me — my ! what a row ! ” 
 
 This program was repeated, with suitable variations 
 during each performance, at the cabins intermediate between 
 this and the house of Mr. Pynchon. In approaching the 
 latter house, he met Mr. Pynchon, and began his talk in his 
 u^ual style. 
 
 “Now stop, Peter,” said Mr. Pynchon. “If I find that 
 you tell me one lie, I will have you whipped. 
 
 The real facts in the case had already been buried in such 
 a crowd of lies that Peter was obliged to stop, and care- 
 fully recall the scene, before he could safely venture to de- 
 scribe it. Mr. Pynchon gathered from his statement that 
 the deer had been shot, and that a stranger was with his 
 daughter, "who, at the departure of the messenger, was 
 grasping her hand in a very ferocious manner. He had 
 already become alarmed at her long absence, and had set 
 out with his gun to meet her, when he encountered Peter. 
 Keeping on his course, he was joined by half a dozen 
 planters who had heard Peter’s story. 
 
 As for Peter, his mission was not yet complete. He had 
 no disposition to return with the men to the scene of the 
 terrific “ row ” which he had so graphically described, but 
 he wanted some dinner, and proposed to employ what little 
 capital he had left in procuring it. Seeing Mrs. Pynchon 
 
THE BAY PATH. 85 
 
 at the door, whither she had been called by seeing the little 
 company of men in the distance, he approached her. 
 
 The Early Pioneers’ always went Armed. 
 
 “ Do you know where those men are going, Peter ? ” 
 inquired the old lady, withatrusting look of inquisitiveness. 
 
 “ They’re going after John and Mary,” replied the boy 
 and then added, “ Oh my 1 How I have run ! ” 
 
86 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ What is the matter with John and Mary? Where are 
 they ? ” 
 
 “ They’ve got into a terrible row,” said Peter pathetically. 
 “ Oh, how faint I feel ! I wish I was at home, so’s’t I could 
 have something to eat.” And he threw himself upon the 
 ground as heavily and lifelessly as if universal paralysis had 
 seized him. 
 
 “ Poor boy ! ” said the old lady, “ you shall have some- 
 thing, right there on the grass, and then you must tell me 
 all about it. ” 
 
 This was just as Peter had calculated, and when the 
 loaded plate was placed by his side, and his food and his 
 batch of lies were all before him, ffe was very much in- his 
 element, and was really in the occupation of some of the 
 happiest moments of his life. On being pressed for his 
 disclosures, he disposed of a .huge mouthful, and com- 
 menced. 
 
 “ You see I was up in the woods choppin’. By’me-bye I 
 heerd something a howling, and a screeching, and thinks, 
 says I, what's that l (Interrupti6n of several seconds for 
 mastication. ) Thinks, says I, is that a bear, or a catamount ? 
 Well ! I hearked as much as five minutes, I sh’d think, 
 when all at oace I heerd a tremenduous running, and I struck 
 for the noise so’s to see what the row was. I was a little 
 scat, you know, for I couldn’t tell exactly what was coming ; 
 and I fell down three or four times and that hendered me, 
 but when I got most out to the Bay Path, what do you think 
 I see ! ” 
 
 Upon the statement of this inquiry, the imaginative boy 
 turned his impassive face up to meet an expression upon 
 that of Mrs. Pynchon, of unmingled pain and apprehension. 
 
 “ Oh ! pray don’t mention it ! ” exclaimed the old lady, 
 holding up both hands', and waiting for fhe announcement, 
 under the impression that she had urged the boy to proceed. 
 
 “Well, ma’am ! as I was saying (a large mouthful and a 
 protracted mastication) — when I got most out of the Bay 
 Path, I see a woman and a boy, a sitting on a log. Well, 
 pretty soon I heerd a gun go off. Didn’t you hear it down 
 here ? I sh’d think you might. OJ Twas a ttemenduous 
 loud gun ; it liked to spit my head; and then pretty quick 
 I heerd something a rYrunning — r’r’running — r’r’tunning — 
 ITlipitalip — lTlipitalip — l’Plipitalip — l’lipitalip — lickitabang 
 

 THE BAY PATH. 87 
 
 — ripitasmash — thunder-and-guns — up the path, and right 
 towards the woman and the boy a sitting on the log. Well, 
 the critter was Tom. He was shot deader’n a flounder ; and 
 he squashed right down on t’ the ground. ” 
 
 “ Poor fellow ! ” exclaimed the old woman, “ you didn’t 
 skin him, did you ? ” 
 
 Showing the Natural Antipathy Between Deer and Rattlesnakes. How they Helped the 
 Extermination in' New England. 
 
 “ Well, no, ma’am, I didn’t git time,” replied Peter, with 
 a slight chuckle, which he endeavored to suppress by filling 
 his mouth anew. “ I didn’t git time, for the deer hadn’t 
 more’n fell, when a man come riding in after him, on a big 
 horse all of a lather, and says he, ‘ cahoot, cahoy ! hullaba- 
 loo ! who the devil’s here ! ’ Oh ! ’twas awful ! You never 
 heerd a feller swear so in your life. When he got to where 
 
88 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 the woman was, he dropped his bridle, and jumped ofPnr 
 his horse, as if he’d been catched in a twitch-up, and run 
 right up to her, and grabbed hold of her hands, and squeezed 
 ’em, and looked as savage as a meat-ax, till she began to 
 cry, and take on, and — ” 
 
 “ Well, do tell me, Peter,” said the old lady, whose pa- 
 tience had well-nigh broken down, “ where Mary and John 
 were all this time.” 
 
 “Mary and John?” inquired Peter, putting the last 
 morsel into his mouth, and wiping his lips with his shirt- 
 sleeve. “ Mary and John ! ye-e-e-s ! where were they ! 
 sure enough ! ” 
 
 And then it occurred to him that the indefinite manner 
 in which he had spoken of those individuals as “ a woman 
 and a boy,” in order to heighten the interest of his narrative, 
 had blinded the direct old lady who had been his listener; 
 and he saw that his failure, any further than the achievement 
 of his dinner, was complete. 
 
 At length, rising from the ground, and brushing his greasy 
 jacket, he remarked in a very quiet tone. “ I guess it’s all 
 right with Mary and John.” Then turning his eye over his 
 shoulder, and catching the first view of the returning villag- 
 ers, he said, “ You’ll have folks to dinner to-day, so I guess 
 I’ll lea.ve. ” 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he started off at a brisk 
 run, and was soon, through the aid of a kind of magic that 
 Mrs. Pynchon did not -understand, but in which he was 
 materially assisted by a convenient stump, out of sight. 
 
 “Well! I should think that boy was crazy, if he didn’t eat 
 so,” said Mrs. Pynchon, picking up her plate, and walking 
 into the house. 
 
 When Mr. Pynchon, with his companions, had arrived at 
 the scene of the morning’s adventures, and found there, 
 radiant with health, and strong with the richest pulses of 
 manhood, Elizur Holyoke, “the sonne of Mrs. Hollioke of 
 Linn, Mr. Pynchon’s ancient friend,” and one whom he had 
 long hoped to call his own son, he embraced him with a 
 warmth that startled the spectators, broke down John’s jeal- 
 ousy in a moment, and brought tears of the sweetest pleas- 
 ure to the eyes of Mary. 
 
 “ My boy,” said Mr. Pynchon, giving him the tenth 
 shake of the hand, “ so you must announce yourself to the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 89 
 
 lonely settlers of Agawam by slaughtering their cossets, eh ? 
 Well, well ! Your mother shall hear of this, sir.” 
 
 “ Something must die,” returned Holyoke, with his merry 
 voice and sparkling smile, “ to give room for the new life 
 which I feel in being here — here by the side of your daughter.” 
 Mr. Pynchon looked at Mary, expecting to see her face 
 blossoming with blushes, but there she stood, self-possessed, 
 calm, and happy, like a queen newly crowned. To her, the 
 past was gone. The fear, the bashfulness, and the blush 
 that had walked hand in hand with every thought of Hol- 
 yoke, were among the things forgotten, and never more to 
 be. In the few rapturous minutes she had spent with her 
 lover, although other hearts than his were beating near her, 
 and other eyes gazing upon her, she had taken counsel of 
 assurance. Her heart had moved to a higher plane of emo- 
 tion, and her spirit was transferred to a sphere of purer light 
 and stronger faith. As in a dissolving view, a scene of' spring 
 bright with the dews of rosy morning, and wonderfully silent 
 with its laughing waters, melts with strange identities into 
 broad trees, sunny rocks, calmly basking landscapes, and 
 heaven-reflecting lakes — -so, in the light of assured love, 
 and from canvas painted over with new hopes, new emo- 
 tions, and new spiritual revelations, looked Mary Pynchon 
 still, but it was Mary Pynchon transfigured. The angel of 
 life had slipped the golden clasp of his book, and turned for 
 her another leaf. She hardly knew it— nay, she but dimly 
 mistrusted it. There was nothing unnatural in the new 
 phase of her feelings — nothing that seemed unwonted in 
 her new experience. In fact, she had never felt more unem- 
 barrassed or content. Her heart had found its home — its 
 satisfaction — and, as she stood there, in the presence of her 
 father and her lover, there went up from the depths of that 
 heart an unuttered, “ Oh ! God! I thank Thee for this hour !” 
 Some minutes before Mr. Pynchon concluded his inter- 
 view, the villagers and the two companions of Holyoke had 
 started on their way down the hill. Holyoke insisted that 
 Mr. Pynchon should mount his horse, which proposition 
 John had no sooner heard than he started off upon a run, 
 to overtake those who had gone before. Mr. Pynchon 
 vaulted to the saddle, and then playfully said “ I hardly 
 know whether to drive you in or leave you to follow.” 
 
 “ I never allow myself to be driven,” said Holyoke. “ But 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 90 
 
 have no fears that I shall fail to follow, for by the shadows 
 it is noon, and by my appetite long after.” 
 
 “ Very well, I leave you,” said Mr. Pynchon, and start- 
 ing off at a brisk pace, he was soon out of sight. The lovers, 
 hand in hand, followed. It was midday, and tlW tender, 
 half-diaphanous chestnut-leaves, and the maple boughs still 
 rosy with their birth-blush, and the pine buds, whose crys- 
 talline needles waited new dippings in the dew and dryings 
 in the day, spread all their fans and fingers in vain to keep 
 the warm rays from the brows of those who walked beneath 
 them. 
 
 “ Mary,” said Holyoke at length, after a minute’s silence, 
 “ I think you are very beautiful.” 
 
 “ I have no doubt of it,” replied Mary quietly. 
 
 “ How shall I understand that? ” inquired Holyoke, with 
 a half mischievous smile. “ Do you intend to endorse my 
 judgment or my sincerity ? ” 
 
 “ Both, in a measure. I neither doubt your sincerity nor 
 despise your judgment. It ought to seem very beautiful to 
 you — the most beautiful of anything in the world.” 
 
 “ Why, Mary ? ” 
 
 “ Because you love me. ” 
 
 “ How do you know I love you ? ” 
 
 “ I have not inquired of myself how I know,” replied Mary, 
 “ but I know, nevertheless. I believe that a woman need 
 never be left in doubt in regard to the real sentiments of her 
 professed lover.” 
 
 “ Well ! ” exclaimed Holyoke, laughing, “ I see that I 
 have nothing to say, and, in fact, that I have not the slight- 
 est opportunity of making myself interesting, by making you 
 jealous. ” 
 
 “ It would be impossible, Elizur, for you to make me 
 jealous.” 
 
 Holyoke was amused, but not altogether pleased. Pie 
 loved Mary with his whole heart, and his great anxiety 
 for months had been to assure himself that she loved 
 him ; but this unquestioning faith assumed the shape and 
 some of the attributes of dominion. There was a conscious 
 possession of power on the part of Mary that touched a 
 weak point of vanity in his manhood, and made him feel 
 uneasy. 
 
 “ But, Mary,” said he, at‘length, “ do you know that you 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 9T 
 
 have taken a very precious task out of my hands ? I have 
 come all the way from the Bay to tell you that I love you — 
 rather to tell you how much I love you — and to / tell you the 
 same story a great many times ; but you shut my mouth by 
 coolly telling me that my errand is unnecessary.” 
 
 This was intended to be tittered in a playful tone, but the 
 quick heart of the girl recognized a shadow, as if an evil 
 angel had crossed the path of the sunbeams that were falling 
 upon her brow. 
 
 She stopped, lifted one hand to the shoulder of her lover, 
 and her eyes filled with tears. “ Oh ! how little, how little 
 do you know me ! ” she exclaimed, with a fervently affection- 
 ate utterance. “ How poorly have you learned a woman’s 
 heart ! I should take no pleasure in having you tell me that 
 you love me, if I were not sure of the fact. But now I would 
 have you tell me of it every day and every hour of my life. 
 I would drink in the assurance in words; I would inhale it 
 with the fragrance of flowers ; I would read it on their 
 petals ; I would have the dear words, ‘I love you ,’ come to 
 me, from you, through every form of utterance, and every 
 ingenuity of expression. They can never tire and never 
 satisfy. It is because I know that I am loved that I would 
 hear you say so, and not because I hear you say so that I 
 know I am loved.” 
 
 Holyoke looked down into her earnest eyes, and drank in 
 her earnest utterances, with an affectionate admiration that 
 rendered his plea for pardon entirely needless. The kiss 
 that he impressed upon her forehead he justified by a course 
 of reasoning based upon the declarations that had just fallen 
 from the girl’s lips, and it was doubtless satisfactory to 
 her. 
 
 When the happy pair arrived at Mr. Pynchon’s house, 
 they found Mrs. Pynchon in the possession of much clearer 
 ideas of the nature of the morning’s business than those 
 which Peter Trimble had imparted to her. Holyoke received 
 a most cordial greeting at her hands, and, in return, he 
 answered all her questions in regard to her old friends of 
 the Bay, and told her every particle of news that he thought 
 would interest her. 
 
 After taking their seats at the dinner-table, Mrs. Pynchon 
 led off the conversation by expressing her regrets that she 
 had nothing better to set before her visitors, and wondered 
 
92 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 why somebody did not think to bring along some steaks from 
 Tom, seeing he was bled so nicely. 
 
 “ Do you suppose we would eat Tom, mother ?” exclaimed 
 Mary in perfect astonishment, laying downier knife. 
 
 “ Why — wasn’t he very fat, Mary? ” inquired the old lady, 
 with a puzzled expression of countenance. 
 
 “ Why, mother, just think of eating the dear creature that 
 we have fed and petted all winter ! ” said Mary. “ I should 
 as soon think of eating John.” 
 
 This aspect of the case had not appeared to the good old 
 lady, but she was a little piqued by Mary’s vehemence, and 
 so, bent on maintaining her point, she said, “Well, mydear, 
 what is the difference between a deer and a chicken ? I’ve 
 known you feed and pet chickens till they were fat, and then 
 eat them rationally with the rest of us.” 
 
 The laugh that followed was at Mary’s expense, and the 
 old lady urged her point no further, upon learning from Mr. 
 Pynchon that he had sent a man to give the slaughtered pet 
 a decent burial. 
 
 Henry Hudson, Discoverer of the Hudson River. 
 
. CHAPTER VIII. • 
 
 |HE pres- 
 ence of 
 Mary 
 Pyn c li- 
 on’s lov- 
 er at Agawam 
 was no less the 
 subject of com- 
 mon gossip than 
 common knowb 
 edge. He had 
 not been within 
 the plantation a 
 day when Mr. 
 -and Mrs. Pynch- 
 on had received 
 business or 
 friendly calls 
 from nearly all who dared to call upon them, some of 
 whom achieved their object, and won a sight of, and per- 
 haps a word with, the interesting gentleman, while others 
 only had the pleasure of bemoaning the “ prospect of our 
 losing Mary,” or of expressing the wish that “ things might 
 
 93 
 
94 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 turn out so that there might be an addition to the settle- 
 ment. ” 
 
 Agawam had never had such a visitant before, and the 
 effect of his presence upon the girls and ydung women par- 
 ticularly, was very noticeable. Before he came, they usually 
 had enough of labor to occupy their time, but from their 
 morning walks and afternoon rambles, which invariably led 
 by Mr. Pynchon’s house, one would have supposed that they 
 had all become suddenly impressed with the necessity of 
 seeking health at a common fountain, to which there was 
 but a single safe and direct route. There was a general ex- 
 perience of attraction to the building that contained the 
 new man, among the gentler sex of every age, — a kind of 
 indefinite out-reaching of sympathy, some of which found 
 its highest satisfaction in simply going towards its object, 
 without the hope of coining near it, just as a score of the 
 fresh tendrils of a grape vine will reach their delicate fingers 
 towards a new, though distant object, each with an incipient 
 curl of sympathy at its trembling terminus, while only one 
 is near enough to clasp the object in a coil that knows no 
 release but in death, or by a rupture more cruel than death. 
 
 Doubtless his relations to Mr. Pynchon and his daughter 
 had their influence in this matter, but there was something 
 above and beyond these, — something above and beyond any- 
 thing apparent to the eye, or comprehended in the reason. 
 He was a man who impressed eve^y one, and received im- 
 pressions from every one, — taking something from every 
 individual with whom he might be brought into personal 
 relation, and filling the void with himself, so that many found 
 themselves talking as die talked, vyth an unwonted elegance 
 and facility, or walking as he walked, with an unusual grace 
 of motion. 
 
 Holyoke was no less charming to the simple-hearted Mrs. 
 Pynchon than to her beautiful stepdaughter, and became 
 as early the confidant of the grave and reserved father as 
 of the young and noble-hearted son. He was authority in 
 matters of fashion, and intelligent in questions bf theology, 
 — equally at home in politics and polemics. His sojourn at 
 Agawam was a precious episode in the life of the Pynchon 
 family, and friendship nearly monopolized the time that love 
 could poorly spare. 
 
 To Mrs. Pynchon he was a fountain of intelligence con- 
 
tHE BAY PATH 
 
 95 
 
 fcerning places and persons associated with the past. To 
 Mr. Pynchon he was a fresh, free spirit, full of vitality and 
 strength, able by the subtle powers 'of intuition to solve 
 questions that his own reason had grappled with in vain. 
 
 Bear-Hunting in Early Days : Smoking Bruin from a Hollow Tree. 
 
 To John he became an idol — a man — by the side of whom 
 all the men he had seen were pigmies — mere shows of men. 
 
 On the morning following Holyoke’s arrival at Aga- 
 wam, he walked out with Mr. Pynchon, while John and 
 some of {he neighbors joined his companions from the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 96 
 
 Bay in a fishing excursion. Mr. Pynchon communicated 
 to him his plans concerning the plantation, gave the char- 
 acter and position of each settler as he passed his cabin, 
 and soon introduced his visitor into all the interests of the 
 place, and his own policy in their management and develop- 
 ment. Holyoke was unreserved in his comment upon each 
 subject as it was presented, found a practical solution of 
 every difficulty that might be involved in it, and offered his 
 free and natural suggestions in a manner that entirely con- 
 firmed him in the good opinion of his host. This outside 
 survey of the plantation, and this introduction of Holyoke 
 to its acquaintance, did not satisfy Mr. Pynchon. With the 
 exception of Mary, he had long felt that there was no one 
 in the plantation who was a proper receptacle of his con- 
 fidence, in matters- touching his religious opinions and ex- 
 perience ; and from her he had hidden much, as has before 
 been intimated, through the fear of disturbing her faith in 
 Christian doctrine as generally accepted by the Puritan 
 churches, or of loosening her confidence in himself. 
 
 Approaching the house on their return home, the old 
 gentleman and his guest sought a convenient location in the 
 pleasant morning sun, and sat down. 
 
 “ It seems to me that you must be happy here, Mr. Pyn- 
 chon, r said Holyoke, breaking a silence that had lasted for 
 some minutes. 
 
 “ Why ? ” inquired Mr. Pynchon, looking upon the young 
 man with a smile. 
 
 “ First, because you are in a pleasant spot ; second, be- 
 cause every one reveres you ; and, third, because you may 
 do very much as you please here,,” replied Holyoke. 
 
 “ Are those all the reasons yoirxan give ? ” inquired Mr. 
 Pynchon. 
 
 “ They are all I thought necessary to give, because the 
 absolute essentials of happiness are things which a man gen- 
 erally carries with him, — which are, to a very great extent, 
 independent of circumstances. Religion and family affec- 
 tion, for instance, are, or should be, unaffected by location 
 and associations. ” 
 
 - “ So far as religion is concerned, the case, with me, is the 
 opposite of this,” rejoined Mr. Pynchon ; and looking at 
 Holyoke with a smile of peculiar meaning, he added, “ and 
 one of my best friends is engaged in breaking up my home.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 97 
 
 “ I understand the latter clause of your statement,” re- 
 turned Holyoke, with an answering smile, “ and do not 
 have it in my heart to blame your friend for undertaking 
 the enterprise, but the first part I do not understand.” 
 
 “ I will explain,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “ if you have the 
 desire or the patience to hear. You say that religion is, or 
 should be, unaffected by location and associations, but I 
 have no possession so seriously affected by those accidents 
 as my religion. My relations with God have been less dis- 
 turbed by them than my relations with men, since I have 
 been here in the colony ; and oftentimes I have even felt 
 that the influences around me aided me in spiritual enjoy- 
 ment and development ; but I have a lack of sympathy with 
 some of the prevalent views of religious doctrine, that does 
 much to destroy my peace, and that sometimes fills me with 
 emotions that would be akin to remorse, if they proceed 
 from anything akin to guilt.” 
 
 “ Where lies the trouble ? ” inquired Holyoke. “ Has 
 any difficulty sprung from your difference with the views of 
 which you speak ? ” 
 
 “ No : I have never differed openly, and there lies my 
 trouble. I listen, on Sabbath and on lecture days, to doc- 
 trines that in my heart I believe to be full of error. Some 
 of them disgust me by their absurdity, and others distress 
 me by their detraction from the dignity of the divine char- 
 acter ; and yet I feel bound to make a show of believing 
 them, or perhaps feel it a duty to refrain from dissent and 
 controversy. I have pursued this course because I was 
 afraid of weakening the influence of the minister among his 
 flock, of arousing doubts in the minds of some, of throwing 
 others off their balance, and, in short, of injuring the cause 
 of Christ which, if I have true knowledge of my own heart, 
 I am most anxious to serve.” 
 
 “ You should be satisfied with your motives, at least,” 
 responded Holyoke thoughtfully. 
 
 “ That I am not,” returned Mr. Pynchon. “ While I 
 have no doubt of my sincerity in the wish to advance the 
 cause of religion, I am led to feel that perhaps a wish to 
 preserve my influence and position in the colony has not 
 been altogether without power in determining my course 
 thus far. It is this distrust of my motives, to some extent, 
 that gives me uneasiness, but the greater part of it arises 
 
t'HE BAY PATH. 
 
 98 
 
 from a distrust of my own judgment in regard to duty. Is 
 it manly, is it Christianly, tacitly to approve doctrines which 
 my judgment rejects and my conscience condemns ? Am 
 I not endangering truth by these compromises with error 
 for its sake ? Am I not doing for truth the work of an 
 enemy, in the name of a friend ? These are questions that 
 trouble me constantly, and you can thus very readily see 
 why location and associations have very much to do with my 
 .religion.” 
 
 “ Do you regard these errors of which you speak as fatal 
 errors, Mr. Pynchon ? " inquired Holyoke. 
 
 “ I think a man may be saved, and still believe them, if 
 that is a reply to your question/' said Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ And you are perfectly settled in, and satisfied with, your 
 own views of doctrine ? ” continued Holyoke interrogatively. 
 
 “ As well settled, perhaps, as imperfect man may be. My 
 trials involve a question of practical duty rather than of 
 doctrinal belief.’' 
 
 44 What if I were to quote to you from Romans the 
 words, 4 Hast thou faith ? Have it to thyself, before God,’ " 
 suggested Holyoke. 
 
 “You would not help me at all," replied Mr. Pynchon, 
 4 4 for I should quote from the context, 4 for, whatsoever is 
 not of faith, is sin ! ' " 
 
 44 Well/' said Holyoke, 44 your position is a hard pne, and 
 the question of duty is one which you only can decide. I 
 cannot place myself in your position, but were I living on 
 this plantation, as I do live in a settlement where, doubtless, 
 the same errors are taught, I should not have the slightest 
 trouble in regard to them, although my opinions might not 
 differ from yours. Unimportant errors wear out, and drop 
 away from truth of themselves, if they are let alone. If 
 they are controverted, they often grow so as to* hide tha 
 truth, and frequently live on the pledges of controversial 
 pride, until they have rendered the truth with which they 
 may have been associated a loathing and a byword. If 1 
 were certain that the ministers of the colony were against 
 me, in a point of doctrine which I believed involved no fatal 
 error, I should certainly save my strength and my influence 
 for advancing essential truth, rather than expend both in a 
 vain attempt to destroy any unimportant errors with which 
 it might for the moment be associated, Martyrdom is 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 99 
 
 hever pleasant, and can hardly be called respectable when 
 suffered at a stake which the martyr is obliged to hold up 
 to keep it from falling.” 
 
 “Just as I expected ! ” exclaimed a musical voice behind 
 the gentlemen, as Holyoke uttered his last words. “ I have 
 been looking at you from the window for the last half hour, 
 and I had no doubt that you had both shut your eyes to all 
 these beautiful things around you, and the staple duties of 
 life, and were discussing some dry chip of a doctrine.” 
 
 Both turned, and looked into the healthful, smiling face 
 of Mary Pynchon. Her father saw that she was dressed 
 for a morning ramble, and guessed in what direction, with- 
 out his late companion, she wished him to move ; but he 
 could not give up the the conversation so readily, and address- 
 ing her, he said, “ Mary, you mistake in regard to the nature 
 of our conversation, but why do you speak so contemptuously 
 of doctrine ? It seems to me that some of the dryest chips 
 are the staple duties of life which you so readily associate 
 with beautiful things.” 
 
 “Because that doctrine is good for nothing save as a defi- 
 nition of our relations, and relations are good for nothing 
 unless they are practical,” replied Mary, at once becoming 
 serious and animated. 
 
 “The Oracle of Agawam !” exclaimed Holyoke, half 
 sportively. 
 
 “Giving her responses in enigmas,” added Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ And consulted by idolatrous and deluded men,” rejoined 
 Mary, her flexible features in harmony with the pleasantry. 
 
 “But seriously,” said Holyoke, “ did you mean anything 
 in particular by that little speech of yours ? ” 
 
 “ Seriously, I did,” replied Mary. “ I meant that God is 
 the ordainer of doctrine, and that men are the performers of 
 duty; and that any further than doctrine involves to us a 
 question of practical duty we have no use for it, and no 
 business with it. I am very tired, if it is proper for me to 
 say so (and Mary’s cheeks kindled, and her eyes flashed with 
 strong feeling), of these everlasting discussions of, and 
 quarrels over, doctrine, and theic accompanying lamenta- 
 tions over neglect of duty. Men will talk of nothing but 
 doctrine from morning till night, and have nothing to bemoan 
 in their prayers but their neglect of duty ; while, if they had 
 but done their duty they would have found out the doctrine, 
 
 7 
 
 18730 
 
100 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 as well as won honor to religion, and saved remorse to them- 
 selves. M 
 
 “That may all be true, and I am inclined to think that a 
 part of it is,” said Holyoke, “but I do not exactly see how 
 a man can find out one doctrine by performing the duties 
 issuing from relations defined by another.” 
 
 “Just over the bank, there, fiows the Connecticut,” said 
 Mary, raising her hand, and blushing at her own earnest- 
 ness, “ and its waters come from hills and valleys very far 
 North. Now if you were wishing to find the sources of the 
 stream, you would not wander indefinitely over the whole 
 northern region after them. You would begin here, and 
 trace the river upwards, and thus find them infallibly. Now 
 in God are the sources of duty, and they flow out from Him 
 through streamlets of relationship* until they combine in one 
 large river which, if we follow it, will not only bring us to 
 Him, but will show us The location, size, and character of 
 each tributary as we advance upwards. At this end it is 
 duty, and God is at the other, and as we can only find our 
 way to God through duty, so we cannot fail to discover all 
 necessary doctrine, for it must lie directly on the way. The 
 remark of the Saviour that ‘if a man will do His will he 
 shall know of the doctrine/ is doubtless a gracious prom- 
 ise, but it is no less the statement of a philosophical 
 truth.” 
 
 When Mary had finished her simple and beautiful lesson, 
 there were tears in Holyoke’s eyes, called there by various 
 agencies. In the first place, it was eloquent, and touched 
 his sensibilities, and in the second, the beautiful speaker 
 was his own dear betrothed; and the love that had swelled 
 in his bosom for her brimmed with new fulness as h^^epn- 
 prehended with new appreciation the intelligence tbit ' in- 
 formed her Christian character, and the preciousness of the 
 prize he held in the possession of her love. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon, as he turned to bid the lovers a good 
 morning and a pleasant ramble, was a gratified witness of 
 the emotion apparent in Holyoke, and yet his gratification 
 was not untouched with sadness, for he could not but feel 
 that what was the young man’s gain, was to a certain extent 
 his own loss. But as he walked slowly homewards, and 
 turned to observe his children as they passed down the 
 street in loving converse, and felt how precious they were 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 101 
 
 to each other, and how precious a thing was love, his self- 
 ishness vanished, and a prayer for their constancy and 
 happiness found utterance at his trembling lips. 
 
 While he was meditating, the lovers had left the street, 
 and, striking into the Bay Path, had passed beyond his 
 vision. They sought, by a common impulse, the spot where 
 they had met on the previous day, and there found the 
 fresh mound that marked the resting-place of the unfor- 
 tunate pet. Mary proceeded to a neighboring shrub, and 
 broke off a twig, white with shad blossoms, and laid it upon 
 the mound, with such a degree of tenderness and respect 
 ^ that Holyoke, half amused, stepped to her side, and look- 
 ing in her demure face with a merrily twinkling eye, ex- 
 claimed, “ In memory of the deer — departed ! ” 
 
 Mary could not entirely maintain her gravity, although 
 she endeavored to do so, and half sportively, half sadly she 
 replied in his own vein, “ Flowers are a proper offering, for 
 here lies a hart that loved me. ” 
 
 “ Good ! I am relieved ! ” exclaimed Holyoke. “ I never 
 knew a woman with a broken heart who kept her wit.” 
 
 “And I never knew a man with very much wit who kept 
 a heart to break, ” rejoined Mary, with an insinuating tone 
 and a roguish smile. 
 
 “ Have you any acquaintances that happen to be heart- 
 less ?” inquired Holyoke with a jocular look of concern. 
 
 “Oh! no !” replied Mary, merrily laughing ;“ there are 
 none among them who possess the conditions.” 
 
 “ A truce ! a truce ! ” exclaimed Holyoke. “ Let us have 
 a suspension of hostilities, while I repair damages.” 
 
 Holyoke’s efforts to repair damages, were of the usual 
 character under such circumstances. No music had so 
 charmed him, in his whole life, as the words of repartee 
 that had closed his mouth. He would have been willing 
 to be the victim of Mary’s sharp words to any extent, for 
 somehow (and there lay the mystery) her utterances seemed 
 to be his property, for other reasons than that they were 
 at his expense. To be beaten in an argument by Mary 
 would have' been a boon almost worth praying for, while to 
 be fairly down in an encounter of wits was a bliss that he 
 felt sure of re-achieving at every convenient opportunity. 
 In short, the sweetest pride he had ever tasted was that 
 which came to his lips on the same breath that asserted in 
 
A Bear Hunt in Early Days : The Pioneers’ Camp. 
 
 off upon the valley. 
 
 “ When shall you be ready to leave your Arcadia ? 
 quired Holyoke tenderly. 
 
 102 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 language the most appropriate the equality of the pure mind 
 with which he was matched. 
 
TIIE BAY PATH. 
 
 103 
 
 “ When love and duty agree in permitting me to leave it,” 
 replied the girl. 
 
 “ I believe you profess to find your duty in your rela- 
 tions/’ said Holyoke, with an allusion to a portion of the 
 religious conversation of the morning. 
 
 “ And what then ? ” inquired Mary. 
 
 “ Does it not follow that your highest duty will flow from 
 your tenderest relations ? ” 
 
 “ Let us speak plainly,” said Mary. “ Do you wish me to 
 leave this place ? Do you wish me to leave my father, my 
 sister, my brother ? ” 
 
 The question was asked with evident emotion and anxious 
 earnestness, and Holyoke could only reply by inquiring 
 what kind of an answer she wished for or expected. 
 
 “ I have thought,” said Mary, “ or more properly, perhaps, 
 dreamed, that when your eyes should comprehend the beauty 
 of that river and the valley through which it passes, and 
 these pleasant hills, and should learn how large the harvests 
 are, and how full the woods are of game and the streams of 
 fish, it would seem to you a place where you would love to 
 live, — where you would love to expend the force of your 
 enterprise and the influence of your life. I have become 
 strangely attached to the people here, and to the enterprise 
 in which they are engaged. My father is happier here than 
 he would be elsewhere in the colony, and here is my young 
 brother, who, I am sure, could hardly get along without me. 
 I know you cannot attribute the feeling to anything that 
 makes me unworthy of you or your love, but I confess that 
 the thought of leaving the settlement fills me^with sad- 
 ness.” 
 
 Mary uttered these words with anxious misgivings, and 
 Holyoke heard them with his eyes on the ground. 
 
 “ I know,” continued Mary, taking one of his hands in her 
 own, “ that your associations are all at the Bay, that your 
 mother is there and all your mates, but there are others 
 there to take care of and comfort those who are dear to you. 
 I know you would lose much by coming here, but would you 
 not gain much ? It seems hard to me to relinquish the 
 privilege of helping to mold the character of this settle- 
 ment, and give life to influences which shall be active when 
 all the valley, up to and beyond those mountains shall be 
 full of people, rejoicing in happy homes and overflowing 
 
104 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 harvests. If I feel thus, who am a woman, a man with 
 talent and power and superior position would, it seems to 
 me, look upon such a privilege as more precious than com- 
 fort, and more valuable than riches.” 
 
 She paused for a reply, and paused with anxiety, for she 
 felt a chilling influence in the half offended look that Hol- 
 yoke still cast upon the ground, but dared not lift to her 
 honest face. ^ 
 
 There is nothing in the world so unreasonable as a man’s 
 love, because it is so largely mingled with personal pride. 
 A woman is simply grieved if she have not the whole of her 
 lover’s or her husband’s heart. A man is offended if he 
 even mistrust that his will, -his claims, and his love are not 
 supreme in the mind and heart of his mistress or his wife. 
 And so, while Holyoke was listening to the beautiful words 
 of one who had honored him by her love, and by associating 
 him with schemes of noble social and Christian enterprise, 
 a jealous feeling touched his heart, — a feeling springing from 
 the idea that she had planned without reference to his will, 
 and acknowledged claims paramount to his. He knew that 
 the feeling was a mean one, and yet, while fully ashamed of 
 it, he would not shake it off, but stood there, like a man as 
 he was, with a kind of dogged determination to give pain to 
 the woman whom he loved, and whom he would not have 
 seen misused by another without a thorough vindication of 
 his claim to be her protector. 
 
 “ Then you do not love me well enough to go with me 
 wherever it is for my interest to go, or where my interests 
 already are ? ” said Holyoke, with a half averted gaze and 
 reddening face. 
 
 “And can you say that to me ? ” exclaimed Mary, half, 
 deprecatingly, half reproachfully. 
 
 Holyoke looked at her, and had the selfish satisfaction of 
 seeing all he wished to see, and was then ready for forgive- 
 ness. He saw a pair of eyes brimming with tears. He saw 
 upon beautiful features an expression of wounded love and 
 injured sensibilities. He saw what he had unworthily craved 
 — a demonstration of his own power and her devotion. He 
 stooped to kiss a tear that was falling from her cheek — an 
 act which she received half unconsciously, with eyes still 
 fixed upon him. At last, as he tried, half laughing, to rally 
 her upon her sadness, the sense of shame came over him, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 IO-g 
 
 and his poor pride gave way before an honest indignation 
 against himself which found vent in strong language. 
 
 u Mary, ” said Holyoke, taking her hands in his own, “it 
 is my deliberate opinion that I am a heartless, contemptible 
 man. I have been as mean and unmanly as Judas. I yield 
 myself to your reproaches, and will submit to any penalty 
 you may inflict. I’m a fool — an utter fool ! ” 
 
 “ You cannot expect me to marry such a man as you 
 describe yourself to be,” said Mary, with a smile that rose 
 to her face unbidden. 
 
 “If you really knew how I have abused you, and how 
 
 Mt. Tom as seen from the Meadows fringing the Connecticut. 
 
 heartlessly I have led you into this trap, I am not sure that 
 you would not reconsider your pledge of truth to me.” 
 
 u Well, confession will go further towards securing mercy 
 for you than anything else, so you had better make a clean 
 breast of it, and tell the worst.” 
 
 “ This morning, Mary,” said Holyoke, leading her to a 
 seat, “ your good father walked with me all over the settle- 
 ment, and pointed out the beautiful lands on both sides of 
 the river, informing me of allotments still to be made, and 
 lots that were for sale, and I knew the secret wish that 
 actuated him in this survey ; but I said nothing, and let him 
 talk, accepting no hint, and blind to every anxious sugges- 
 tion. And then you came, and here, after pouring frankly 
 
io6 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 into my ears your noble words and wishes, that might have 
 come from an angel, and did come from motives as pure as 
 words were ever born in, I trampled on your feelings and your 
 suggestions, and selfishly and with perverse intention, injured 
 you by doubting a love that I knew to be true. And now, 
 with these facts before you, what should you judge I came 
 to Agawam for ? ” 
 
 44 You could not have come to do this.” 
 
 44 Very well — I did not, but what do you suppose I came 
 here for.” 
 
 “ I have had the impression,” said Mary, slightly puzzled 
 by his manner, 44 that you came to see me.” 
 
 “ I did, my love, and I came also to find a place to live in 
 — to plant here my home, my fortunes, and my name.” 
 
 44 May God bless you ! ” exclaimed Mary, and hid her face 
 upon his breast. 
 
 44 Your prayer is answered,” responded Holyoke tenderly, 
 44 even while you are speaking.” 
 
 When, at length, she lifted her head, Holyoke said in a 
 low voice, “Are my crimes forgiven? ” 
 
 44 No,” replied Mary, “they are forgotten.” 
 
 The lovers sat for some minutes in silence, which was at last 
 broken by Holyoke. 44 Mary,” said he, 44 I have just con- 
 ceived an idea that seems strange to me as well as rational.” 
 44 What is it?” 
 
 44 That I have become a new being in a new world.” 
 
 44 Explain,” said Mary. 
 
 44 Do you ever think of your childhood without having a 
 vision of your childhood’s home? Can you think of your- 
 self as a little child, without seeing all that surrounded you 
 when a child ? ” 
 
 44 Granted that I cannot,” replied Mary: 44 What then?” 
 44 Would it not seem to you that the scene was thus a part 
 of the soul — that the soul, by receiving impressions from it 
 and passing into it in the realization of life, had become 
 fitted to it, and bore the stamp of all its features ? ” 
 
 44 1 think I understand you,” said Mary, 44 and now for 
 your new idea.” 
 
 44 1 felt as I was sitting here, that my soul had flowed out 
 upon, and fitted itself to a new scene, — as ff all that I saw 
 around me had become a part of me ; and certainly no 
 
t HE BAY PATH. 107 
 
 thought of love for you can ever visit me, without bringing 
 this picture with it.” 
 
 “ Yours should be a great love to be worthy of a casting 
 in such a mold,” said Mary, smiling at the fancy, “ and I 
 take it as a pledge that your soul can never fit itself to any 
 other.” 
 
 “ Mary, you are inclined to joke me — I see it in your eye, 
 but the truth is, I feel just nowJntensely poetical.” 
 
 View of the Connecticut Valley from the Summit of Mt. Holyoke. 
 
 “ By the way,” continued Mary, with a look of well-dis- 
 guised concern, “you are not going to set up a claim to the 
 proprietorship of these lands, based on the fact that they 
 have become a part of you, are you ? ” 
 
 “When you become a part of me, I calculate I shall set up 
 a claim of proprietorship,** responded Holyoke, reluctantly 
 drawn away from his pet conceit, “and why should wood- 
 land differ from wife ? ” 
 
 u There is one difference, at least: the wife takes your 
 name and the woodland does not.” 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 108 
 
 “Honestly, Mary,” said Holyoke, “it would be a very 
 great happiness to give my name to a scene like this, to be 
 linked with it forever, to have it spoken from a mountain 
 top or sung by a waterfall.” 
 
 “ If you wish it,” said Mary, entering into his enthusiasm, 
 “let it be so. Do you see that blue mountain top at the 
 North, just lifting itself above the intervening forests ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “Let that be Mt. Holyoke forever!” said Mary, 
 stretching out her hand. 
 
 “Amen!” responded Holyoke, “ and I shall see that 
 your authority in bestowing the name is fully honored. But 
 what shall be done with the lonely mountain westward of 
 mine ? It would be unkind to leave that nameless.” 
 
 “ Let it be named in honor of the poor pet that lies 
 yonder,” said Mary, pointing to the grave of Tom. 
 
 “ Let it be Mt. Tom forever ! ” said Holyoke, in sportive 
 imitation of Mary, and the lovers simultaneously rose, and 
 bent their steps homewards. 
 
 \ 
 
 Two Sums of a Cross-pistarees. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HE reader has not yet 
 received a proper intro- 
 duction to the family of 
 Mr. George Moxon, but 
 there have been good 
 reasons for the delay. "1 he family 
 had its peculiarities, and they were 
 peculiarities so essentially idio- 
 cratic that the most favorable cir- 
 cumstances were necessary to be 
 in conjunction, for their thorough 
 exhibition. 
 
 For several days succeeding the 
 events recorded in the last chapter, the weather was hot 
 and sultry; and, on the evening which has been chosen for 
 the introduction of this family, it had cleared, and cooled, 
 and refreshed itself, and everything and everybody else, by 
 the first thunder-shower of the season. A big black cloud 
 had risen slowly and gloomily in the West ; silver-headed 
 giants had come up behind it, and peeped over one another s 
 shoulders into the valley, slowly changing their places and 
 climbing higher and higher, until at last a broad gray screen 
 hid them and the sky above them, and spread over the 
 heavens. And then there was much hurrying to and fro. 
 
IIO 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 in the advance battalions of the storm ; and the roar of the 
 chariot wheels and the tramp and rush of the on-coming 
 legions filled the air. At last, the scattering shot of the first 
 distant discharge fell pattering upon the forest leaves and 
 on the cabin roofs ; while nearer, 'and with still increasing 
 vividness, flashed the magnificent artillery. 
 
 There was a great scene between the giants of the clouds 
 and the giants of the forests. At first, the former came 
 down on the wind in a hand-to-hand encounter. They grap- 
 pled, they wrestled, they writhed, they groaned, they roared ; 
 but the forest giants were the victors, and, in the first lull of 
 the storm, their antagonists retreated, and took up their 
 position behind the clouds, from whence they kept up a 
 scattering fire upon the lower hosts, who, after the heat of 
 the conflict, stood bathing their brows in the sweeping rain. 
 Many an old oak — a soldier of the centuries — was cleft 
 through the helmet, and many a wounded veteran pine 
 smoked in the sweat of his agony. 
 
 The shower came on just before sunset, and continued 
 until the dusk of evening had almost deepened into night. 
 There was stillness and solemnity in all the cabins. To their 
 inhabitants, the storm was an exhibition of the power of 
 God ; and it was no less a natural impulse than a recognized 
 Christian duty to keep reverently silent when His voice was 
 uttering itself in tones that had once echoed from the sides 
 of Sinai. 
 
 The house of the Moxons was peculiarly a solemn place. 
 It was in the presence of such an exhibition of power as the 
 storm presented that Mr. Moxon betrayed the weakest 
 points of his character. There was something so terribly 
 positive about the descent of a thunderbolt, the roar of the 
 wind, and the down-coming of the rain, — something so 
 seemingly regardless of him or his feelings, — something so 
 leveling in its effect upon social and all other distinctions, that 
 it took away his strength, made him forget his position, and 
 drove him to promises and prayer. He and his wife, and 
 two children, both girls, were gathered in their principal 
 room, and not a word was uttered. 
 
 Mr. Moxon sat leaning back in his chair, — his lips moving 
 in silent prayer, or his form cringing before the sharp light- 
 ning; and only stirred his limbs to change their position, 
 which, in his nervous state, became painful after having been 
 
THE RAY PATH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sustained for very brief spaces of time. Mrs. Moxon sat in 
 another chair, holding in her arms her youngest daughter, 
 Rebekah, and divided her attention between her, her hus- 
 band, the window, and the bed near it, where lay her oldest 
 daughter, Martha, a convalescent from a somewhat pro- 
 tracted illness. 
 
 Martha was the only one who had not been terrified by the 
 shower. She had lain upon her bed in such a position as to 
 witness through the window the progress of the storm, and 
 she had enjoyed it very keenly. 
 
 After the rain had mostly passed over, and nothing re- 
 mained to tell of the shower but the wet earth and the flashing 
 of the lightning, whose thunder came but feebly back to the 
 ear from the East, Mrs. Moxon rose from her chair and sat 
 down upon the bed. Taking the little invalid’s hand in her own, 
 she said: “How does my little daughter feel this evening? ” 
 
 “ Pretty well,” replied the child, giving her a look with 
 her large dark eyes. 
 
 “ Do you know, Martha, who has cured you ? You have 
 been very sick. ” 
 
 “ No ! Who has ? ” 
 
 “ God has cured you, my child, and you should be very 
 thankful to Him for it. I hope my little girl, when she says 
 Jier prayers to-night, will not forget to thank her heavenly 
 Father for his kindness to her, in making her well again.” 
 
 The little girl lay reflecting upoif the information con- 
 veyed by her mother, and was evidently inclined to doubt 
 its correctness. At length, to settle a preliminary question, 
 she said, “ Mamma, who made me vomit ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Moxon turned and looked at her husband, who 
 heard the reply, and who, being unable to answer the ques- 
 tion satisfactorily to himself or the child, said nothing. 
 The mother was saved from the necessity of continuing the 
 conversation in that direction by a sudden exclamation 
 of the child, whose eyes had reverted to the window. 
 
 “ Oh, mamma ! mamma ! ” exclaimed the little girl ; “ I 
 saw God light a star then ! 99 
 
 “ I guess not, my child,” said the mother. 
 
 “ Yes, I did, mamma, and I saw him throw down the coal, 
 clear down by the clouds there, till* it fell into the water, 
 and went out.” 
 
 The father and mother were both confounded, but their 
 
1 1 2 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 condition was not unusual, when in conversation with this 
 child. Neither parent had been able to pursue a train of 
 thought with her for any considerable, or at least any satis- 
 factory distance, without being overwhelmed by some unan- 
 swerable question, shocked by some strange remark or start- 
 led by some wild revelation. Yet both felt that they must 
 not stop talking with her and to her, and while the mother, 
 in particular, trembled to hear her speak, she could not re- 
 frain from the endeavor to train her wild fancies and regulate 
 her imagination. In this endeavor, religion was her only 
 means ; but religion by some strange though by no means 
 unusual fatality, was just the subject, of all others, to set 
 her imagination running upon its wildest freaks. 
 
 The mother still sat upon the bed. She wondered what 
 she should say next. At last she thought she would try, if 
 possible, to resume the thread of conversation she had origi- 
 nally commenced. “ Martha,” said she, “you must not 
 only be thankful to God for taking care of you while you 
 have been sick, and for curing you, but you must try, when 
 you get well, to be a very good little girl, and do all you can 
 to please Him and glorify Him.” 
 
 Martha turned her large eyes towards her, and said, 
 “ Mamma, how do you do when you glorify God ?” 
 
 Mrs. Moxon was puzzled at this question, straightforward 
 and natural as it was, but she tried to answer it. “ We must 
 glorify God,” said she, “ by doing all He wishes to have us, 
 and by praising Him, and loving Him, and trying to have 
 everybody else love and praise Him.” She was not exactly 
 satisfied with her own exposition, but she deemed it correct, 
 so far as it went, and paused. 
 
 “ What does God love to be praised so for ? ” inquired the 
 child. 
 
 Unfortunately the mother could think of nothing better in 
 reply than to ask her why she loved to be praised. 
 
 Martha looked at her mother, with her wonderful eyes big 
 with a new and strange apprehension, and said, “God isn’t 
 proud, is He, mamma ?” 
 
 The poor mother rose despairingly from the bed, and re- 
 sumed her seat in the chair. 
 
 “ You must try to go to sleep now, Martha,” said Mr. 
 Moxon, breaking a silence that he had maintained since the 
 commencement of the storm. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 ii3 
 
 “ I wish you would go to sleep with me, papa, ” replied the 
 child, “ for then you coidd go to my brick house, and see 
 everything I’ve got there. ” 
 
 “ Your brick house ? What do you mean by your brick 
 house ? ” 
 
 “ I’ve got a brick house, and a blue cat in it,” said the 
 child, “ just as blue as the sky, and it has got red rings 
 round its eyes, and a whole parcel of little red kittens, all 
 made out of bricks. Just think, papa ! All made out of 
 bricks ! And I’ve got a beautiful doll in it, with wings — I 
 guess her wings are green — I guess they are. Her name is 
 Martha Brick, and she can say all her letters, and spell 
 Nebuchadnezzar both ways and I’ve got some beautiful 
 birds ! t)h ! they’re just as beautiful ! that fly right through 
 the window when it’s down, and then one of them ’lights 
 on the blue cat’s head, and they keep ’lighting on one 
 another, till they pile clear up to the plastering ; and 
 pretty soon I step on the blue cat’s tail, and she screams, 
 and runs up the chimney, and that tips all the birds over, 
 and they laugh just as loud as they can laugh, and fly 
 and get on to the backs of the little brick kittens, and 
 drive them round the rooms and round the rooms ; and 
 pretty soon a great black man comes into the room and 
 blows his nose, and the birds all flyout of the window again, 
 and — ” 
 
 “ Martha ! Martha ! my dear child, you will tire yourself, 
 so that you will not sleep to-night, if you do not stop talking 
 in this way,” exclaimed her father. 
 
 ■“ I can go to sleep on my bed in the brick house,” said the 
 little girl, looking through the window up to the stars, “ for 
 oh ! there’s a beautiful angel, just as big as he can be, comes 
 every night and sits on my bed, and tells me the prettiest 
 stories, and sings the prettiest songs ; oh ! they’re just as 
 pretty ! and sometimes there’s twor angels, and one stands 
 on the head-board and the other stands on the foot-board, 
 and they reach over, and take hold of hands, and kiss one 
 another, and jump over one another’s shoulders, and the 
 blue cat and all her little kittens get into bed with me, and 
 we sleep just as warm as can be, till the great black man 
 comes in and blows his nose, and then the angels fly away, 
 and the blue cat goes up chimney, and the little kittens all 
 cuddle up into a pile,” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 1 14 
 
 “ Why, Martha,” exclaimed the mother, “ where do you 
 get such notions ? ” 
 
 “ At the brick house,” replied Martha, “ and I’ve got a 
 great many more of them. I wish papa would go to the 
 brick house with me and see them.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon drew his chair to the bedside of his child and 
 took her worn little hand in his own, hoping to quiet her 
 nervousness and to induce her to go to sleep. The room 
 was dark, and the younger child was already sleeping in the 
 arms of her mother. The silence of the group seemed to 
 grow deeper and deeper, until sleep would almost have 
 claimed possession of them all, but there were two who were 
 wakeful still. 
 
 Mr. Moxon knew that Martha was not asleep, and Martha 
 knew that he was not. At last both father and daughter 
 were seized with an involuntary shudder at the same mo- 
 ment. 
 
 “ He went by then,” whispered the child. 
 
 “ Who went by?” inquired the father. 
 
 “ The black man. Didn’t you see him, papa ? ” 
 
 “ I felt something — something like a shadow,” replied 
 the father. “ Do you smell anything, Martha?” 
 
 The little child snuffed the air with her thin and sensitive 
 nostrils, and said “ Yes.” 
 
 “ What is it?” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” replied the child, “ but I’ve smelled that 
 a great many times at the brick house.” 
 
 You don’t mean, Martha, that you smell that when you 
 see him at the brick house, do you ?’’ 
 
 When the utterance of this question was completed, the 
 father found, to his surprise, that, by one of those strange 
 transitions incident to a highly nervous organization, the 
 child had passed into the realm of sleep, as though an angel 
 had shut the door of the senses with a noiseless push ; and 
 the little dreamer’s “ brick house ” had opened of itself and 
 given her sudden entrance. 
 
 Mr. Moxon still held the little hand within his own, and 
 busied his mind with the strange revelations of his child. 
 The coincidence of the shudder that visited her and him- 
 self, at the same moment, was called up. There was an 
 influence that affected him and his child alike — that was 
 certain. She saw what she called a black man, and he felt 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 115 
 
 that something had passed his window that had cast a shad- 
 ow upon him — a shadow felt, not seen. They had both 
 been affected by a peculiar perfume also. What was it all? 
 Were they alone touched by these strange influences ? 
 Were those influences the offspring of disease ? If not, 
 were they — but no, they could not be ! So, carefully rising, 
 and relinquishing the hand that had grown soft, warm, and 
 moist within his own, the minister made a place for the 
 repose of the other child, where the mother silently laid her. 
 The parents then withdrew together, and sought the only 
 other room they possessed, that they might, without dis- 
 turbing the children, unite in their evening devotions. 
 
 The prayer uttered by Mr. Moxon that evening was one 
 that his wife did not entirely understand. He prayed for 
 the forgiveness of sins that had possibly been committed 
 unwittingly. This was something that she did not compre- 
 hend, especially as the prayer was uttered with remarkable 
 fervor and deep solemnity. Then he prayed mysteriously 
 with reference to the presence, the wiles, and the power of 
 the great adversary of souls, and seemed burdened with 
 some vague and overshadowing apprehension of evil. The 
 prayer was long, and Mrs. Moxon, wearied with long watch- 
 ings, and the new and strange influences within and around 
 her, was glad when it was concluded, and immediately 
 sought her bed. 
 
 The father, however, went to Martha’s bedside, and 
 drawing a chair near to it, leaned over to listen to her 
 breathing, and to catch any dream-born whisper that might 
 find utterance. There the poor man sat for hours in the 
 darkness, sometimes looking through the window heaven- 
 ward, then out into the night, upon shapes that formed 
 themselves of, and clothed themselves with, the darkness, 
 and then moved and melted into nothingness. Then he 
 came back to the child, and at last her peaceful breathing 
 began to have a soothing influence upon him, and, leaving 
 her, he retired to rest. 
 
 s 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 ‘ OR many years after the settlement of Aga- 
 wam, a religious meeting was held every Wed- 
 nesday, at which the minister pronounced 
 what was denominated a “ lecture/' On 
 v these lecture days, all the people were ex- 
 pected to be in attendance, precisely the 
 same as on Sabbath days, though the day was 
 treated in no respect as holy time. The orders 
 of the General Court were all published on lecture 
 days, for the benefit of the people ; and all those 
 public announcements were made which were of inter- 
 est to the plantation. A portion of the day was regarded 
 by the apprentices and children as their own, for the pur- 
 poses of play. Thus the term “ lecture day ” early became 
 the synonym for holiday, and Wednesday was called* by its 
 real name hardly once in a twelvemonth. 
 
 Lecture day was a great day for Peter Trimble. A mul- 
 titude of the plans concocted in his fertile little brain had 
 reference to that day. During the week of Holyoke's stay 
 in the plantation, the people were so far diverted from ob- 
 serving the operations of this young mischief-maker, that 
 he was enabled to arrange the preliminaries for a grand 
 game of fun that so excited his imagination that he could 
 hardly sleep meantime, and when at last lecture day came, 
 116 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 II 7 
 
 and the lecture was over, he was observed giving sly whis- 
 pers to such boys as were in the secret, and all moved off 
 towards their homes. 
 
 Peter, as soon as he had arived at his home, went back 
 of it, and, under the cover of trees and shrubbery, pro- 
 ceeded down the river bank, until he had arrived opposite 
 to the house of Woodcock, when he approached and entered 
 it. He knew that Woodcock was absent, at work in the 
 fields, for he had not been at the lecture, and his canoe 
 was not at the river’s bank. 
 
 He found Mary Woodcock alone, and amusing herself 
 by jumping over a stick, with which she had bridged the 
 chasm between two benches. The joy that lighted her fea- 
 tures, as Peter made his appearance, and her quick forget- 
 fulness of all his insults, showed how much she had suffered 
 in her loneliness, and how thoroughly sympathetic with the 
 boy nature she had become. 
 
 Peter came into the house, taking steps that defined long, 
 stealthy curves, as they rose and fell, from tip-toe to tip- 
 toe, and with a countenance that indicated the highest pos- 
 sible degree of pleasurable excitement. 
 
 “What is’t now. ? ’’Inquired Mary, eagerly. 
 
 “You know Tim Bristol, Mary?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Well, you know what a regular brag he is, don’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Pie don’t brag any moreen you do, Peter Trimble — not 
 a single bit.” 
 
 “ Well, you know he thinks lots of you, any way, Mary, 
 and he’s always bragging about you. ” 
 
 “ I don’t’ b’lieve you ever heard him say anything ’bout 
 me in the world,” said Mary, sharply. 
 
 “ Well ! Now /” exclaimed Peter, cramming two whole 
 sentences and two powerful interjections into two words ; 
 “if I have heard Tim Bristol brag how smart you are, and 
 how handsome you are, and how he likes you, once, I’ve 
 heard him do it— oh ! lots and lots of times ! ” And Peter 
 clinched his well-driven lie with a violent nod of his head. 
 
 “ Well, that’s none of your business,” said Mary, beginning 
 to feel an entirely new partiality for Tim. 
 
 “ Well, I know that,” responded Peter in a candid tone, 
 “ but he carries it too fur. Oh ! you ought to hear him 
 brag.” 
 
n8 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ I don’t b’lieve he brags — what does he brag about ? ” 
 
 “ Well, you ought to hear him once ; you’ve no idea ! 
 Brag ? He don’t do anything but brag, and he brags about 
 such droll things. What do you s’pose he said t’other 
 day ? Says he to me, ‘ I’ll bet three shillings that Mary 
 Woodcock can run faster than you can ; ’ and says I to him, 
 ‘I’ll bet three shillings she can’t.’ ‘ Says he, ‘ I’ll bet she 
 can ; ’ says I, ‘ I’ll bet she can’t.’ Says he, ‘ I know she can ; ’ 
 says I, ‘I know she can’t.’ Says he, ‘you darsn’t bet;’ 
 says 1, 6 1 darst.’ Says he, ‘ put up your money ; ’ says I, 
 4 Mary Woodcock won’t run with me, and you can’t make 
 her run.’ Says he, ‘you darsn’t run, and you darsn’t bet; ’ 
 says I, 4 if you’ll get her to run, I’ll take the bet, and give 
 her a rod the start.’ ” 
 
 “ What did he say ? ” asked Mary eagerly. 
 
 “ Well, I kind a’ backed him down, I thought, but I see 
 him jest now, and he said I could ask you if I was a’ mind 
 to, but I told him you wouldn’t run with me, and you 
 wouldn’t dare to run.” 
 
 “ Pho ! Sho ! ” exclaimed the girl contemptuously, “ I 
 hope I ain’t afeared o’ you. Did Tim say he knew I could 
 run faster’n you could ? ” 
 
 “Yes, he did, and he stuck to it like a nailer, too,” said 
 Peter, with one of his half rotary nods of emphasis. 
 
 “You must be smart, to think I’m afeared 6’ you,” said 
 the girl. 
 
 “ Well ! I don’t s’pose you’re afeared of me, but you 
 darsn’t run with me,” said Peter, with one of his most con- 
 fident nods. 
 
 “ I darst, too,” responded Mary, getting excited. 
 
 “You darsn’t run this afternoon, any way,” said Peter. 
 
 “ I will, if you’ll go where dad can’t see me, nor nobody 
 else,” said Mary, decidedly. 
 
 At the upper end of the settlement there was a mound- 
 like elevation, that rose on all sides from the level of the 
 meadow, and spread to the extent of several acres into a 
 beautiful plateau. This eminence, which is now popularly 
 known by the inappropriate name of Round Hill, was, from 
 the peculiarity of its position, a favorite resort for the mis- 
 chief-making boys of the settlement. It was elevated above 
 the fields, so that no one in the vicinity could see the actors, 
 especially as their operations were carried on near the middle 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 119 
 
 of the plateau. At, and near this point, a careful observer 
 would have discovered various mysterious excavations, 
 booths, corn-cobs, egg-shells, partridge feathers, etc., which 
 showed that it was a favorite resort for a class of boys that 
 enter into the constitution of every community, in whom 
 the passions for mischief and wild Housekeeping are predom- 
 inant. 
 
 The race for which Peter had made his arrangements was 
 appointed for this place, and the adroit manner in which he 
 had surmounted all difficulties may be imagined from the 
 means by which he secured the attendance of Mary Wood- 
 cock. It did not occur to her, for an instant, that there was 
 any actual impropriety in her engaging in the race, and her 
 vanity and her love of exciting play settled the question, in 
 precisely the manner which Peter had calculated upon. 
 Accordingly, Peter told her where they could go, and prom- 
 ised that no one should be present, save perhaps a few of 
 the boys, “ to see that it was done all fair.” 
 
 Peter led his victim nearly to the river's bank, and then 
 pushed northward, under such cover as the land afforded, 
 and, after a brisk walk of about a mile, reached the point of 
 assignation. There were half a dozen boys in waiting to 
 receive them, drawn up in a line, with Tim Bristol a few 
 paces in front. 
 
 “ Lungolunt ! ” challenged the half snickering Tim. 
 
 “ Lungoloit ! ” responded Peter. 
 
 “ Linkumlilligo ! ” said Tim. 
 
 “ Lillikumdaddles ! ” responded Peter. 
 
 “ Them's the countersigns,” said Peter to Mary, in a side 
 explanation. 
 
 “ How goes the war ? ” interrupted Tim. 
 
 “ Three to the right, and three to the left, and three to 
 the chap I took you for,” responded Peter, clapping his 
 hands three times, and giving a long, shrill whistle, with an 
 instrument composed of two lips, two rows of teeth, and a 
 brace of dirty fingers. 
 
 This cabalistic exercise was one of the proudest products 
 of Peter's genius. It had cost him infinite invention to con- 
 trive the words, and give to them the mysterious music that 
 should insure their success with his companions. The words 
 were only known to a select few, who became, to all intents 
 and purposes, a secret society. When any of the privileged 
 
120 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 number met, especially if small boys or girls were within 
 hearing, the charmed signals were exchanged with the utmost 
 gravity, and with an effect on juvenile imaginations that 
 was quite bewildering. Two or three sharp little fellows 
 had caught the words, and would go back and forth among 
 themselves, solemnly delivering them in challenge and 
 response. 
 
 These interesting ceremonials over, all formality was 
 dropped, and the boys gathered around the newcomers. 
 
 “ She’s jest about tuckered me out, coming up here,” said 
 Peter, wiping his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. 44 You’ve no 
 idea how she puts.” 
 
 “ You’re a’goin’ to back out, now, are you ? ” said Tim, 
 with a wink. 
 
 “ When you catch me backing out,” said Peter indignantly, 
 44 you’ll catch your great-grandmother ridin' a trottin’ ridge 
 pole; now you’d better b’lieve that;” and, as the alterna- 
 tive seemed extremely improbable, it was admitted on all 
 hands that Peter would not back out. 
 
 44 Dad’ll get back ’fore I do, if I don’t get through pretty 
 soon,” said Mary, half whispering to Peter. 
 
 44 Well — here’s the ground,” said Peter. “I start here 
 and you start there (measuring off five paces and drawing 
 a mark through the leaves with his bare heel). That’s jest 
 a rod the start. Now when Tim Bristol says ‘ ratta -ban, 
 ratta-Az/z, ratta -ban, xdX\.^biddle slap ! ’ — you start when he 
 gets to 4 biddle — slap ! 9 ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Tim, 44 and run jest as tight as you can cut.” 
 
 Mary had already taken her place, and her eye was wild 
 with excitement, while a bright red spot burnt on either cheek. 
 
 44 Hold my cap, now,” said Peter to the boys, spitting on 
 his hands, and winking in a very comical way. 
 
 44 Are you all ready ? ” inquired Tim. 
 
 44 All ready ! ” said Peter, spitting on his hands again, but 
 Mary was silent, and showed by her position that she was 
 only waiting the word for starting. 
 
 44 Now!” exclaimed Tim. 44 Ratta-&z;z, ratta-^«, ratta- 
 ban , ratta -biddle slap ! ” 
 
 Off flew the little girl with every muscle strained to the 
 highest tension. She bounded over the leaves like a deer, 
 her long hair flying wildly back from her head, and her 
 scanty skirt fairly curbing the reach of her steps. Peter 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 12 1 
 
 gained upon her, and the other boys kept well alongside, 
 cheering at the top of their lungs. “ Lean ! ” cried Tim ; 
 “ cut ! ” shouted another, and the girl impulsively grasped 
 the skirt of her frock and raised it to give her feet more 
 freedom of motion. 
 
 The first sight that Peter caught of her lithe little limbs 
 threw him into convulsions. He dashed himself upon the 
 ground, and gave himself up to laughter the most exces- 
 sive. He rolled, and screamed, and beat his head against 
 a tree, as if he were a rain and the tree his foe. In a 
 moment the other boys were on the ground near him, as 
 crazy with laughter as himself. 
 
 This was the culminating point of the fun of the occasion. 
 Peter had witnessed her habit, when running with fear, or 
 any other excitement, and the whole affair was arranged by 
 him in order to give the boys a chance, as he said, “ to see 
 the smartest pair of drumsticks that ever come over.” 
 
 Mary ran but a few rods before she became conscious 
 that the race was relinquished ; and, turning on her heel, 
 she stood silent as a statue, regarding the insane group. 
 She still held her skirt in her hand, and first suspected the 
 cause of the uproar when she let it fall. Then the hot blood 
 mounted to her face, and, burning there a moment, retired 
 and left her ashy pale. In an instant the whole plot had 
 opened upon her, and shame, rage, and all the fiercest im- 
 pulses of passion, took possession of her. She looked down 
 before her, and saw a staff that some walker of the woods 
 had cut and trimmed, and, seizing it, she started back, and 
 Peter had just time to escape the hard blow that she in- 
 tended for him by a dexterous dodge. 
 
 The next moment he was on his feet, with the infuriated 
 child in full pursuit, and then commenced the real race of 
 the day. No dodges and no rate of speed availed the be- 
 trayer. The girl seemed clothed with wings, and fairly flew 
 down upon him, beating him mercilessly. All his artifices 
 availed him nothing. He dodged, and tripped her heels, 
 and threw himself down for her to tumble over him, in vain. 
 At length she drove him from the abrupt bank of the hill, 
 and, as she was upon him in an instant, he had no choice, 
 but to start in the direction of his home. He had run but 
 a few rods when a man leaped into the path before him, and 
 seized him by the arm. 
 
122 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Peter really felt a sense of relief upon finding himself in 
 the hands of Elizur Holyoke, who, while holding him with 
 one hand, seized Mary’s descending weapon with the other, 
 and wrenched it from her grasp. 
 
 Mary Pynchon and her brother had both joined the group 
 meantime ; and the moment Mary Woodcock caught sight 
 of the former she ran to her, threw her arms around her, 
 and burying her face in her dress burst into a distressing 
 paroxysm of tears. 
 
 Mary took the trembling little girl by the hand, led her 
 aside, and seated her upon a bank that she might rest, and 
 be able to tell the story of the afternoon’s adventures. This 
 she did at last, with many sobs and much shame ; and while 
 Holyoke led Peter by an unnecessary expansive ear to the 
 house of Mr. Pynchon, Mary conducted the little girl to 
 her father’s lonely cabin, talking to her quietly and sooth- 
 ingly as she went, and giving her such counsel as her cir- 
 cumstances required. 
 
 The latter pair had been in the cabin but a few minutes 
 when Woodcock came in. He knew by the appearance of 
 his daughter that something serious had occurred, and, with 
 evident trepidation, asked Mary Pynchon what it was. She 
 sat down, and related the story, giving the blame to whom 
 it belonged, and exculpating his daughter as far as possible. 
 
 “ My God ! Mary, you’ll kill me !” exclaimed Woodcock, 
 and, sinking upon a seat, he buried his face in his hands 
 and groaned heavily. 
 
 This started the child’s tears again. She was already 
 hysterical, and the spectacle presented by both father and 
 daughter was very painful to its only witness. Woodcock 
 started up at last, and said, “ I guess I’ll go and finish off 
 that boy.” 
 
 “ I beg you’ll not touch the boy,” said Mary Pynchon, 
 “ He shall be taken care of.” 
 
 “ Miss Pynchon,” said Woodcock, “ do you r’ally mean 
 that ? ” 
 
 “ I do,” replied Mary, firmly. 
 
 “ Do you know how I feel ? ” inquired Woodcock. 
 
 “ I have no doubt that you feel very indignant, and I cer- 
 tainly do not blame you for it.” 
 
 “ Do you know that I’d rather starve for three days than 
 lose a grip into that boy’s top-knot ? ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 1 23 
 
 “ I do no doubt it,” replied Mary, smiling at his rude 
 earnestness. 
 
 “ And you don’t want me to touch him ? ” 
 
 “ I do not want you to touch him.” 
 
 “ I’m glad on’t ! ” exclaimed Woodcock, brightening up, 
 
 “ 'cause now. Miss Pynchon, I can jest show you how John 
 Woodcock remembers a good turn. My hand aches to get 
 hold of that boy (and he shook his big fist mightily), but I 
 shan’t touch him, ’cause you don’t want to have me.” And 
 he smiled grimly, as if he had by a mighty effort achieved a 
 great moral triumph, that brought him pleasure, pain, and 
 pride in equal proportions. 
 
 Mary thanked him for his promise in regard to the boy, 
 but she did not feel entirely easy as to his child. She thought 
 it might be assuming too much to dictate in what manner a 
 father should treat his daughter, and, as she could think of 
 no better way to effect her wishes, she stooped and kissed 
 the child, and leaving with her a whispered exhortation, 
 bade the pair a good evening. 
 
 Woodcock followed her to the door, and arrested her 
 departure by a slight touch upon her arm. She turned, and 
 saw a pair of eyes suffused with emotion, and their owner 
 making futile attempts to speak. 
 
 “ Miss Pynchon,” said he at length, “ you needn’t ’a done 
 that . I shouldn’t ’a touched her.” 
 
 Mary pressed his rough hand in silence, and walked 
 hastily homewards. When she arrived there, she found 
 quite a concourse of those who had collected to learn what 
 the trouble was ; and Peter stood trembling in the midst. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon was engaged in the examination of one of 
 the rogue’s accomplices, who, as he was rather a victim 
 than an accomplice, was telling the whole story of Peter’s 
 operations with entire correctness. Mary heard enough to 
 learn that the truth was coming fairly out, and then left 
 the room. 
 
 “ You say,” said Mr. Pynchon to the boy, “ that the bet 
 that you tell of was all flax.” 
 
 “ Nothin’ but flax,” answered the witness. 
 
 “ What do you mean by that ? ” inquired the magistrate. 
 
 “ I mean it was just vamped up for fun,” answered the 
 boy. 
 
 ‘ Peter Trimble,” said the magistrate, addressing that 
 
124 
 
 THE' BAY PATH. 
 
 distinguished lad, “ I think I understand your case pretty 
 well. You are evidently in want of a course of strong dis- 
 cipline. The lies you have told within the past week are 
 enough alone to call for ten lashes, and the operations of 
 to-day call for punishment more serious than that. As you 
 are of no particular use to your master, and are inclined to 
 bet without money, I think you should be made to work out 
 your bet for the benefit of those you have injured. You will 
 work for John Woodcock, and be under his control for one 
 month. If you behave well, and drop your lying, your 
 betting, and your tricks, during your punishment, you will 
 then be released. Otherwise, you will have another month 
 of the same treatment.” 
 
 Poor Peter received his sentence with a sad heart. A 
 month with John Woodcock ! It was a cloud that hung 
 between him and all the mischief of life. He could not 
 look at it, and so stood amidst the joking crowd, and 
 screwed his fists into his eyes strongly and persistently, as 
 if the fountain of tears lay very far back, and he were boring 
 for water. 
 
Indian Utensils Ornaments and Weapons. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 REAT was the joy in 
 the settlement at Ag- 
 awam when it became 
 known that Holyoke 
 had determined to 
 unite himself to the fortunes 
 the plantation, as well as to 
 fairest flower. 
 
 He had only allowed hi 
 a week for his visit, and had 
 made his promise to the two 
 gentlemen who accompanied 
 him to return with them at the 
 close of that period. They had 
 in seeing the country, and had 
 be able, during their stay, to 
 furnish nearly all the tables in the settlement, with game 
 and fish. They had become tired of the sport, and were 
 ready to return ; but Holyoke found it a more difficult task 
 to leave the spot associated with the objects of his love and 
 hope than he had anticipated, and circumstances conspired 
 in favor of his wishes, and kindly lengthened a communion 
 that had come to be inexpressibly sweet to him. 
 
 Holyoke and Mary, in their closing 
 
 accomplished their object, 
 had the good fortune to 
 
126 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 again, in its endless repetition, that enigma of love pro- 
 pounded by nearly every pair in the prospect of marriage. 
 He loved her no better than she loved him, and yet he looked 
 forward to their temporary separation with a degree of pain 
 of which she had no conception. His whole being was 
 bathed in a dream of bliss. It was a dream that enervated 
 him, — that undermined his strength, and sapped his firmest 
 and noblest purposes. It shut out the future, and the great 
 practical world around him. His existence became purely 
 emotional, and his emotions were all sublimated by the 
 purity and power of his passion. 
 
 He met her, at first, gaily, and with the ready gallantry 
 of his nature; but each succeeding day found him more and 
 more silent, until, at last, he would have been content to sit 
 speechless for hours with Mary’s hand in his own, or her 
 head upon his shoulder. She became to him an angel, so 
 pure and perfect, so noble and so good, so elevated above 
 all earthly contaminations and associations, that he thought 
 of her only as an angel — a spirit of light and joy, of beauty 
 and goodness. She was the subject of his last thought as 
 he closed his eyes in sleep, and of the first that sprang into 
 resurrection with his waking consciousness. His whole 
 being w r as full of her. She walked in bright beatitude 
 through all his dreams, and shaped his thoughts to forms of 
 beauty and words of music. She had wrought upon him 
 the highest sanctification of an earthly love. A coarse or ri- 
 bald phrase, a tainted jest, or an unchaste suggestion, as now 
 and then one reached his ear, was pointed with a sting of 
 the most painful offense. Bright, beautiful dream ! Fair 
 flower of paradise 1 Sweet glimpse of Eden ! Ineffably 
 precious experience ! conceived in illusion, wrought into 
 form by frailty, and condemned by reason, yet enthroned as 
 the central object in memory’s gallery forever! 
 
 Mary, who had done all her dreaming previously, had 
 now become intensely practical. She was rather anxious, 
 on the whole, to have Holyoke depart. The plans of her 
 life were settled, and she desired to engage in their execu- 
 tion. While Holyoke delayed his departure, and controlled 
 her movements and occupied her time by his presence, she 
 could not take a step towards preparing a home for him, an 
 institution of which he had become entirely careless, even 
 to forgetfulness. The business of life had begun with her. 
 
The bay path. 
 
 127 
 
 The garment of care was already put on, and she waited 
 only for her lover to leave her, to adjust and fasten it, and in 
 it to go about the fulfilment of her mission. Sometimes 
 she shocked him by some homely or excessively practical 
 suggestion, or rallied him upon his drowsiness, and not un- 
 frequently dissipated a heaven of emotion by inquiring very 
 tenderly whether he were sick or in pain. So that the 
 dearer she became to him, the more incomprehensible she 
 appeared, and the more she shocked him by the utterance 
 of commonplaces, and titbits of worldly wisdom and small 
 maxims of economy, that showed that her thoughts had, for 
 the time, become in a degree released from him, and 
 absorbed in plans for his future comfort and happiness. 
 
 Upon Holyoke love had the effect of intoxication, while 
 Mary felt that her spirit had been strengthened in its tem- 
 per and tone by the same power, and fitted by it, in some 
 reliable degree, to perform the duties and overcome the 
 difficulties of life. They had sat side by side, and respect- 
 ively drank strength and weakness from the same fountain. 
 He had grown forgetful of his manhood, his high resolutions, 
 and his noble enterprises, wrapped in the rosy folds of a 
 present as delirious as it was delicious, while she, loving no 
 less, had grown more thoughtful, more provident, and more 
 womanly in her comprehension of the duties that lay be- 
 fore her, and the destiny to which she had devoted her- 
 self. 
 
 The circumstances that conspired to lengthen Holyoke’s 
 stay in the plantation were connected with Mr. Pynchon’s 
 departure for the Bay, in order to discharge there his duties 
 as a member of the Board of Assistants in the colonial leg- 
 islature. While this was the leading object of his visit, the 
 visit itself was an opportunity for him to carry forward the 
 furs that had been collected during the season ; and mes- 
 sages had been sent to all the Indians in the region to bring 
 in their stock, that all might be transported together. 
 Accordingly, for several days before Holyoke’s departure, 
 Mr. Pynchon’s house was the constant scene of trade, and 
 large quantities of peltry were accumulated. The house, 
 and the whole settlement, in fact, exhibited, during these 
 days, an appearance which now finds its only examples in 
 the new villages of the retiring West. Savages — men, 
 women, and children — came in, in throngs. The novelty of 
 
128 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 the settlement had not yet passed away, and those who did 
 not come to sell camfe to see. 
 
 The last man who visited Mr. Pynchon, previous to his 
 departure, was John Woodcock. Taking him a consider- 
 able distance aside, he said, “ Square Pynchon, what did you 
 send that boy to work with me for ? ” 
 
 “To cure him of his tricks,” replied Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “Well, I felt worse worked up ‘‘bout that than anything 
 that's happened to me in some time,” continued Wood- 
 cock, with a mortified air, “and I wouldn't 'a stood it if it 
 hadn't been for your Mary.” 
 
 “ I thought you would be pleased with the disposal I 
 made of him, and that it would be the best thing I could do 
 for Peter.” 
 
 “ What do I want to do a good thing for Peter for — a 
 little scaliwag that ought to be ketched in a trap like a mus- 
 quash, and have his head stove in with a boot-heel? Be I 
 the jail, or the stocks, or the whippin’-post ? ” 
 
 “ I am not responsible for your choosing to misunder- 
 stand me, Woodcock; and if you do not wish to have the 
 boy work for you, I will assign him to some one else, or 
 change his punishment to whipping,” responded Mr. 
 Pynchon. 
 
 “ I guess I understand you, Square,” said Woodcock. 
 “ I don’t s’pose you meant to say it in so many words that 
 John Woodcock’s a hard nut, and'll put that boy through 
 purgatory, but that's what it amounts to. Now I hain’t any 
 notion of givin' the boy up, but I wanted to show you that 
 I've got feelin’s, and can read most kinds of writin'. ” 
 
 “ Well, John, you're a strange man. It is very hard suit- 
 ing you, and it is very hard for you to suit us. By the way, 
 have you satisfied Mr. Moxon's claim for damages yet ? ” 
 
 “ No, Square, you know I hav'n't, you know I never 
 will.” 
 
 “Very well, you must not complain of the consequences. 
 You know that I feel friendly towards you, and you know 
 that the law will be executed in this plantation, if there are 
 men enough here to execute it. ” , 
 
 “ There ain't enough men here to execute that thing on 
 me” replied Woodcock, with a nod of decision at every sec- 
 ond word, and a strong scowl of contempt. 
 
 “ Go your way, Woodcock — you seem determined to make 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 129 
 
 trouble for yourself and everybody else.” Thus saying, Mr. 
 Pynchon bade him good-by, and entered the house to take 
 leave of his family. 
 
 Already the weaker animals, loaded down with their 
 packs, were filing along the street, and turning into the Bay 
 Path, to get a start of those possessing better speed and 
 bottom. Each rider had his own friends to talc# leave of, 
 and convey messages for, and a very lively morning it was 
 on every hand. At last, Mr. Pynchon took his horsed rein 
 upon his arm, and, with John at his side, moved off, while 
 I Holyoke and Mary followed in the same manner — John to 
 1 receive some final directions in the management of affairs at 
 home, and to be Mary’s company back, and Mary to part 
 with her lover. 
 
 The lovers walked for some time in silence, for many eyes 
 were upon them. As soon as the limits of the neighbor- 
 hood were passed, Holyoke exclaimed with a sigh, ‘‘The 
 Autumn ! It seems a very long time till then ! ” 
 
 “A very short time, it seems to me,” responded Mary, 
 looking into his face with a cheerful smile. 
 
 “ How can you say that, and love me as you say you love 
 me?” inquired Holyoke, incredulously. 
 
 “ Do you wish to have me talk very plainly with you, 
 Elizur ? ” and Mary laid her hand on his shoulder, and 
 looked into his eyes with an earnestness and a simplicity 
 that art never simulated and may never simulate. 
 
 “ Always, my love*” 
 
 “ Well, then, I am very glad you are going to leave me, 
 and I hope you will change very much before you get back 
 again.” 
 
 “ Enigmas again ! ” and Holyoke smiled in a very sickly 
 manner. 
 
 “No enigmas at all,” replied Mary. “When you first 
 came here, you were the man I loved, and you acted like 
 him ; now you are the same man in disguise, and it is my 
 fault. Then you were all life and ambition, and grace and 
 gallantry ; now, you speak to no one but me, and mope all 
 day.” 
 
 “ Then you are sick of me ! ” 
 
 For this speech Holyoke received a look that he under- 
 stood. It had been repeated several times during his visit, 
 whenever he had given utterance to an unworthy suspicion. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 * 3 ° 
 
 Begging her pardon at once, he asked her to explain the 
 ideas she intended to convey. 
 
 “You men,” said Mary, “ lead a busy, rough life. Your 
 minds are occupied by great enterprises that engross your 
 time, your strength, and your best ingenuity. When you 
 are thus engaged in business, love is an intruder or, per- 
 haps, a favored guest, who sits at your table, and takes your 
 hand at morning and evening, and sees you no more. But 
 let love find your minds vacant, and you give yourselves 
 over to it until it possesses you, and you forget every other 
 relation in the one that is sweetest. There is nothing 
 natural or healthy in such a condition. You think I am 
 cold — that I do not even appreciate the intensity of your 
 love. I have shocked you often, and always with the best 
 intentions, when I have had any definite intentions at all. 
 I might have become just as insane — I pray you forgive the 
 word — as you, had I not possessed a corrective of the 
 natural tendencies, in my household cares and daily duties; 
 and I bless the circumstances that kept me from forgetting 
 myself and all around me in an all-absorbing passion: I 
 
 have been to blame for not insisting that you should go out 
 with your companions, and divide your thoughts in active 
 pursuits.” 
 
 Poor Holyoke did not know what to say to such a dissec- 
 tion of his love, it humbled him, and half vexed him — the 
 more, doubtless, because he knew that Mary was right. 
 
 As he said nothing, Mary continued, more playfully, “ It 
 is well enough for a lover in doubt of the good will of the 
 object of his suit, to be timid and without words, but for 
 one who knows he possesses the heart of his mistress to 
 lose his tongue is very reliable evidence that he has, tem- 
 porarily at least, lost his reason.” 
 
 “ Well, Mary,” said Holyoke, with a sigh that would have 
 seemed painful if it had not been ludicrous, “I hope I 
 shall recover from this in time, but cold water makes rather a 
 serious bath for a man in a fever.” 
 
 “ I see,” exclaimed Mary, “ the crisis is past ! That last 
 speech is decidedly a symptom of amendment.” 
 
 And then both, with a sense of the ludicrousness of the 
 scene, and a realization of a hundred sillinesses in the 
 past, laughed until Holyoke’s horse, apparently astonished, 
 turned his head around and looked them in the face. The 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 131 
 
 remainder of the distance to the summit of the hill was 
 occupied with practical Christian conversation, with prom- 
 ises of daily remembrance in prayer, and with a conference 
 upon matters connected with an event which it had been 
 decided should take place in the following autumn. At 
 length they saw John returning, and Holyoke, pausing, took 
 Mary’s hand within his own, and kissing her tenderly, ex- 
 claimed, “ May God have you in his holy keeping ! ” Then 
 mounting his horse with a leap that showed him again in 
 possession of his strength and his resolution, he rode 
 briskly, away and left Mary, (oh ! inconsistency of human 
 nature !) lonely, weak, and weeping, to walk silently back to 
 the almost forsaken plantation. 
 
 9 
 
 18730 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HE freight of furs had 
 hardly retired from sight, 
 and the last* Indian 
 stragglers departed, 
 
 when Mr. Moxon ap- 
 
 peared at his door, and 
 walked briskly towards the 
 residence of the newly-elect- 
 ed constable, John Searles. 
 Calling Searles to the door, 
 he inquired in regard to 
 the disposition that had 
 been made of Peter Trim- 
 
 ble. He had heard of it before, but from the constable he 
 learned all the particulars. 
 
 “ It seems to me that it was extremely unwise in Mr. 
 Pynchon to place that boy with so vile a man as Woodcock,” 
 said Mr. Moxon. 
 
 The new constable was a man of few words, large frame, 
 and a practical turn of mind ; and, instead of enlarging 
 upon the fact, or joining in any discussion in regard to it, 
 he simply said, “ I know my duty, Mr. Moxon, and I do 
 it,” — having reference to his agency as an instrument of 
 the law in placing Peter with his temporary master. 
 
 “I am blaming no one,” said Mr. Moxon, blandly — “it 
 is a question of wisdom and policy.” 
 
 “ I didn’t ask it — I never ask it — it’s none of my busi- 
 ness,” responded Searles, without moving a muscle of his 
 body. 
 
 Mr. Moxon saw that Searles half suspected the nature of 
 his errand, and that conciliation was out of the question in 
 general, and out of that question in particular. There was, 
 therefore, no way for him but to come directly to the point, 
 
 132 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 133 
 
 and he did this the more readily as he knew his man, and 
 had entire confidence in his courage and efficiency. Turning 
 slowly on his heel, and walking off a few steps, as if in 
 thought, he came back and said, “ I believe, John, you have 
 a warrant from Mr. Pynchoti to attach the body of John 
 Woodcock, who has failed to pay the damages in the slander 
 case.” v 
 
 “ I have, sir,” replied Searles, drawing the document 
 from his pocket, and reading a sentence from it : “ and that 
 you keep the body of John Woodcock in prison of irons 
 until he shall take some course to satisfy the said George 
 Moxon.” 
 
 “ You may execute that as soon as you choose.” 
 
 “ No sooner ? ” 
 
 “You will execute that to-day, sir.” 
 
 “Very well, sir ; just as you say.” 
 
 “ And in regard to Peter Trimble ?” 
 
 “ I know my duty, sir.” 
 
 “ I leave you to do it,” said the minister drily, and 
 turned and walked away. 
 
 John Searles walked into his house, and read over the 
 warrant again, sentence by sentence. “ In prison of irons,” 
 said he to himself. “ I hav’n’t any prison of irons except a 
 log chain, and I shall have to use a rope,” and the con- 
 stable busied himself for half an hour in finding and prop- 
 erly splicing a rope. This, after coiling it into the smallest 
 possible space, he thrust into his coat pocket, in company 
 with the warrant, and shouldering his carefully-loaded gun, 
 he walked coolly to the bank of the river. 
 
 Nearly all the planters had crossed the river immediately 
 after Mr. Pynchon’s departure, to labor in the corn-fields, 
 and Woodcock was among them. Stepping into his canoe 
 the constable pushed from the shore, and transported him- 
 self across the river. Fastening his boat, and taking his 
 gun, he ascended the bank, and sought the field where 
 Woodcock and his new apprentice were at work ; and 
 before the former could fairly look up, he felt a light tap 
 on his shoulder, and heard the words, “ You are my 
 prisoner ! ” 
 
 ‘‘How do you make out that figur’ ? ” inquired Wood- 
 cock. 
 
 “ In black and- white,” replied the constable; drawing the 
 
134 THE BAY PATH, 
 
 warrant from his pocket. “Do you want me to read it to 
 you ? ” 
 
 Peter Trimble was all eyes and ears, until suddenly re- 
 minded of his duty by a side-cut from Woodcock’s hoe- 
 handle. Searles looked through the document, and then 
 read as follows : 
 
 “To John Searles, constable of Springfield. These are, 
 in His Majesty’s name, to require you presently, uppon the 
 recite hereof, that you attach the body of John Woodcock, 
 uppon an execution granted to Mr. George Moxon by the 
 Jury, against the said John Woodcock, for an action of slan- 
 der : and that you keepe his body in prison of irons until he 
 shall take some course to satisfie the said George Moxon : 
 or else if he neglect or refuse to take a ready course to 
 satisfie the said execution of £6 13s 4d, granted by the 
 jury that then you use what means you can to put him out 
 to service and labor till he make satisfaction to the said Mr. 
 George Moxon for the said £6 13s 4d, and also to satisfie 
 yourself for such charges as you shall be at for the keeping 
 of his person: And when Mr Moxon and yourself are sat- 
 isfied, then you are to discharge his person out of prison. 
 Fail not at your peril.* 
 
 “William Pynchon.” 
 
 “ John Searles,” said Woodcock (hitting Peter an entirely 
 incidental rap, that brought both of the boy’s hands to his 
 legs as if he had caught a weasel running up his trousers) 
 “you and I never had a gruff, but I don’t stand any o’ that 
 sort o’ nonsense ; so you’d better scull your dug-out over 
 the drink again, and go to splittin’ oven wood.” 
 
 “ Woodcock, you don’t know much about me, or you know 
 I shan’t cross the river without you as my prisoner.” 
 
 “ Well, you don’t know much about me or you’d know 
 there wasn’t boats enough on this side to take me over agin 
 my will, ’cept in small slices.” 
 
 The constable was puzzled. He had calculated upon in- 
 timidating Woodcock, but he saw at once that the man was 
 determined, and that he would never submit until compelled 
 by brute force. 
 
 * Copied from the Record of the original Document. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 135 
 
 “ Don’t you think you’d better go over t’other side,” in- 
 quired Woodcock, “and stand on your head and read that 
 thing back’ards ?»” 
 
 Searles made him no reply, and shouldering his gun 
 walked off towards a group of planters on a neighboring 
 field. He found there Henry Smith, Jehu Burr, John Cabel, 
 and several others, to whom he explained his errand, and 
 upon whom he called for assistance. 
 
 It may be readily guessed that he did not call in vain. All 
 dropped their implements, and taking their guns, accom- 
 
 Teaming in Colonial Days. Horse, Donkey and Ox Tandem. 
 
 panied the constable to assist him in making the arrest. 
 Woodcock saw them coming, and taking hrs gun, he care- 
 fully examined the priming, rubbed the flint, and, cocking 
 his piece, threw his hat upon the ground and assumed the 
 defensive. 
 
 “If any of you fellers want to know just how a sieve 
 feels,” said Woodcock, as they approached him, “you’d 
 better undertake to feel of me. I’ll show you the samp 
 you had for breakfast. You can’t scare me. You darsn’t 
 fire, any one on you.” 
 
 The constable and his force huddled together for a con- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 136 
 
 sultation, but had hardly closed their circle when Wood- 
 cock’s gun was discharged into the air, and turning sud- 
 denly, they saw him wheel upon his foot and fall at his 
 whole length upon the ground. The first impression was 
 that he had shot himself, but, upon seeing Peter Trimble 
 extricating himself from his feet, the constable compre- 
 hended the whole trick, and dropping his gun he leaped 
 upon Woodcock before he could rise, and by having im- 
 mediate assistance was enabled to secure his capture. Peter, 
 who imagined he saw in this arrest his own release, had 
 while Woodcock’s attention was entirely engaged, stepped 
 slyly behind him, and reaching around pulled the trigger of 
 his gun. He then dropped directly upon the ground, so 
 that when Woodcock impulsively turned to strike or pursue 
 him, he tumbled over him instead. 
 
 The rage and mortification of the poor victim of circum- 
 stances was intense. He had never been thus humiliated 
 before, and he felt that death would have been far better. 
 As he lay in the dust, and heard the sly boasts of Peter, 
 and the cough of John Cabel, and the coarse jokes of others 
 who had gathered around, he raved and gnashed his teeth, 
 in his torture. 
 
 The next question was in regard to taking him over the 
 river. Woodcock had determined within himself that he 
 would never be taken bound to the village. He was des- 
 perate, and cared nothing for life ; and he knew that the 
 canoes in use were in such form that even when bound 
 he could upset one of them with perfect ease. His hands 
 were tied behind him, and his feet were allowed only play 
 sufficient for a limping and laborious locomotion. The con- 
 stable took him by his arms and assisted him to rise. He 
 looked at no one — spoke to no one— and made no reply to 
 petty insults, but allowed himself to be conducted to a 
 canoe. 
 
 The constable was no coward, and though he had but little 
 confidence in Woodcock’s silence and apparent submission, 
 he determined to undertake the task of rowing him over the 
 river alone. The prisoner took his seat in the boat with 
 considerable difficulty, and while Searles assumed the oar, a 
 friend pushed the frail vessel from the beach, and with a 
 single sweep of the oar it shot into the stream. 
 
 The transport had proceeded but a third of the way across, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 1.37 
 
 when Woodcock, by a sudden movement of his body, turned 
 the boat upside down, and leaving the constable blowing 
 lustily, and holding to the boat that persevered in lying 
 bottom upwards, he pushed easily off upon his back and 
 floated down the river towards the Indian village. 
 
 The movement was observed from the shore, and every 
 man dashed into his canoe and struck for the swimmer. The 
 chase was an animated one, but the advantage was altogether 
 with the pursuers, and their object was speedily overtaken. 
 The first canoe that approached was waited for by Woodcock, 
 who managed to give it a kick with both feet and upset it, 
 but the effort came near to drowning him, as it sent his head 
 under the water and he came up half-strangled. While the 
 other boats were taking care of those who had thus been 
 treated to a bath, Woodcock managed to get under headway 
 again, but he was at last overhauled, and, notwithstanding 
 his struggles, a rope was passed under his shoulders and 
 secured across his chest. They were then in the middle of 
 the river and rapidly floating downwards. 
 
 As they were consulting upon the proper method to be 
 pursued, a canoe pushed rapidly out from the eastern shore, 
 and approached them. It contained a solitary Indian, who 
 swept a rapid circuit around the group of boats, compre- 
 hended at a glance the position of affairs, and, without utter- 
 ing a word, moved as quickly back to the point from whence 
 he had issued, and disappeared among the bushes upon the 
 bank. 
 
 “ Well,” said John Cabel, pulling up after Woodcock was 
 fairly hooked, and graciously assuming a share in the sport 
 when it had been safely completed, <c we have caught the 
 fish, and now how shall we cook it?” 
 
 “ That’s the question,” replied the constable. 
 
 “ That's the question,” responded Burr. 
 
 “ Rather a serious question,” said Henry Smith, gravely. 
 
 “I know what I should do,” said Peter Trimble, squirt- 
 ing a mouthful of water through his teeth that he had just 
 taken from a canteen. 
 
 “Out with it, boy,” said the constable. 
 
 “ I should stick this canteen under his neck, and tow him 
 ashore,” answered Peter. 
 
 The expedient was adopted at once. The canteen was 
 emptied and stopped, and by its own strap it was so fastened 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 138 
 
 to the captive’s neck that it easily kept his face out of the 
 water. The canoes were then fastened together, and each 
 man bent to his oar. The tow was soon under full headway 
 up the stream, and a rapid passage brought the fleet to the 
 land. 
 
 It was well for Woodcock that he had escaped thus easily, 
 for he had become very much chilled in the water, and was 
 nearly exhausted. He was dragged up on the shore almost 
 unconscious, but the heated sand beneath, and the kind sun 
 above, lent him their warmth, and he had become so far 
 
 The Pioneer's Home in Old Colony Days. 
 
 restored to himself as to feel the indignity inflicted upon him 
 as he was loaded upon a rough sled or hurdle, and drawn 
 bv a yoke of ctfUle to the house of the constable. 
 
 Peter Trimble, who had done more than any other ©ne to 
 effect the arrest, was the first to leap on shore when the 
 canoes landed, and half a dozen steps placed him beyond 
 the sight of his companions. Mounting the bank, he made 
 directly for the house of Mr. Pynchon. Mary was glad to 
 see bis face, for she h^d beard shouts in the distance, and 
 did not doubt that Peter knew the whole story, though she 
 was not prepared for so terrific a “ row ” as he represented 
 had taken place, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 139 
 
 Unfortunately for Peter’s reputation as a liar, the incidents 
 which formed the basis of his story were quite equal to any 
 he could manufacture, and he found himself in a state of 
 perfect helplessness, telling a correct story. She questioned 
 him closely, and was confirmed in her apprehensions of the 
 correctness of his narrative, by, seeing from her window the 
 poor man drawn along the street, amid rude jests and swag- 
 gering boasts like a slaughtered bear. 
 
 Mary watched the rude crowd as it retired, and felt more 
 lonely for the moment than ever, but her resolution was 
 quickly taken, and, throwing a handkerchief upon her head, 
 she half walked, half ran to Woodcock’s cabin, and found 
 his daughter at the door, hacking a stick of pine, which she 
 was endeavoring to reduce to kindling-wood. 
 
 The girl dropped her ax, and looked up brightly and 
 affectionately as her friend approached. Mary Pynchon 
 had started from home with no definite intentions in regard 
 to her. It was simply an impulse to a good deed which she 
 had neither conceived nor planned, so that when she came 
 fairly upon the child, she had nothing to say, and could only 
 exclaim, “ poor child ! ” and burst into tears. 
 
 “ Is he dead ? ” said Mary Woodcock, with a strange 
 suspicion that something must have befallen the man she 
 had recently seen so frequently with her benefactress, and 
 with an idea that nothing less than that should so distress 
 her. 
 
 “ No, I trust not,” replied Mary, recovering herself, and 
 then she led the girl into the cabin. Peter had told her of 
 the nature of the warrant on which Woodcock was arrested, 
 and she saw that some one would be obliged to assume the 
 charge of his daughter ; so, sitting down in the cabin, with 
 the girl before her, she told her very plainly of her father’s 
 situation. The child did not weep — she did not speak. A 
 strange perception of propriety deterred her from the ex- 
 pression of feelings which mingled joy and grief in equal 
 proportions. She felt that to be near Mary Pynchon, to 
 live in the light of her smile, to feel her soft hand upon her 
 face, to hear the rustle of her garments as they brushed past 
 her, to listen to her speech, and -do her bidding, was the 
 greatest joy earth could bestow ; and poor Woodcock would 
 have felt a new pang could he have seen with what willing- 
 ness and alacrity his daughter brought out her clothes, tied 
 
 18730 
 
140 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 them up, and fastened the cabin, preparatory to a removal 
 to the house of the Pynchons. 
 
 Woodcock, still bound, was, when he had arrived at the 
 house of the constable, thrown upon a bed of loose straw, 
 in the shed and left alone. He had no more a tongue for 
 contempt or bravado. He had been beaten, conquered, 
 humiliated. He had suffered torture the most terrible he 
 had ever known. He had been enraged and outraged, and 
 he had been impotent in evasion and defense. Exhausted 
 in body by his long submersion in the river, and by the 
 excitement through which he had passed, and half-stupefied 
 ’-‘and crazed by the harsh reaction of his mental excitement, 
 he lay<all day, taking no food, replying to no question, and 
 apparently conscious of no one’s presence. 
 
 A river, bright in the sunlight, was rolling through his 
 dreams, and phantom boats were chasing each other over 
 its surface. For long, long hours, he lay upon the air above 
 them, floating on the wings of his own will, listening to the 
 clatter of their oars, and the confused shouts of those who 
 swung them, and looking far up into the sky, and seeing 
 the clouds as they changed into cornfields, and the corn- 
 fields as they changed back to clouds, and catching glimpses 
 of huge wheels that rolled singly and noiselessly across the 
 heavens, and hid their glitter in a cloud with a faint crash, 
 like that which splashes the ears in a nightmare. 
 
 And then a whirlwind caught him in its folds, and rolled 
 him furiously in black darkness, until strange lights flashed 
 upon him, and fiery faces met his eyes at every turn. Then 
 the whirlwind lifted him swiftly up, up far above the clouds, 
 and held him there, as if in a grasp of iron, through a long 
 hour of unrelieved breathlessness, until, in an instant, the 
 grasp was relaxed, and he fell with terrific rapidity through 
 the air, every nerve in his body becoming charged with an 
 awful sense of imminent violence, only half relieved, at last, 
 by coming softly down, and, on a breathless curve, floating 
 far off, and striking noiselessly upon the bosom of the river. 
 There upon the river he lay, borne by the current through 
 the remainder of the day and into the night. 
 
 Sometimes the waves leaped up, as if to cover his face, and 
 then parted and retired with hollow laughter. And the ripples 
 came up, one after another, and whispered and snickered in 
 his ears, and red-eyed fishes nibbled at his feet, but he had 
 
THE BAY PATH 
 
 John Woodcock meets his Indian Friend in the Forest. 
 
 transgressors is hard. ” Then he subsided again to the 
 river, and the waves grew brighter, and fair trees waved 
 their arms from the banks, and a sweet warmth spread 
 through his limbs. A soft hand touched his temples and 
 grasped his wrist, and the fancy that Mary Pynchon was 
 over him was so precious as to half waken him with a sus- 
 
 no power to move — and could only lie pulseless, breathless, 
 and passive, on the strange cold water, floating somewhither, 
 anywhither, like a forsaken hulk on a wide unknown sea. 
 
 At times, he almost extricated himself from this dream, 
 and thought he saw standing above him a huge form like 
 that of the minister, and heard the words, “ the 
 
142 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 picion that it was an illusion. But he would not open his 
 eyes and dissipate it. 
 
 The day wore away thus, and the night came on. For a 
 long time confused voices mingled with his dream, and they 
 at last died away. When all was silent, he began for the 
 first time to come fairly into the possession of consciousness, 
 and became immediately aware that he was not alone. He 
 felt some one at work upon his hands, and they were then 
 pulled out from under his back, so stiff and helpless that he 
 could not move them. His legs were then loosed from their 
 fastenings, and a pair of strong arms lifted him to his feet. 
 He only knew it was a friend, and leaning upon his shoulder 
 hobbled off with him through the street, and beyond the 
 limits of the village. 
 
 Early upon the following morning the constable sought 
 for his prisoner where he had left him the night previous. 
 He was gone. The news of his disappearance flew rapidly 
 over the village, and while some were disappointed at his 
 escape, others, and among them the Pynchons, experienced 
 only joy. Mary had been shocked at the brutal manner in 
 which he had been treated, and was thankful for his 
 releas'e. 
 
 Many were the speculations indulged in, in regard to his 
 disappearance. He was not known to have a friend in the 
 plantation, and yet the constable declared it impossible for 
 him to have been released without assistance. The minister 
 had his own opinions upon the subject, which he kept to 
 himself. He had heard at midnight a scream from the bed 
 where his children lay, and had hurriedly risen only to find 
 them both sleeping quietly in each other’s arms. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 OQDCOCK’S disappearance was a 
 nine days’ wonder among the settlers 
 of Agawam. The first impression was 
 that he had fled to Hartford, or, per- 
 haps, to either Wethersfield or Wind- 
 sor, the other southern settlements ; 
 but a traveler who arrived at the 
 plantation from Wethersfield reported 
 that he had neither seen nor heard 
 of him. 
 
 A fortnight passed away, and at its 
 close a portion of the members of the expedition to the Bay 
 came wearily in, their beasts laden with merchandise, and 
 their heads and hearts full of news, but they brought no 
 news of Woodcock. There was no little complaint, now 
 that Woodcock had really disappeared, concerning the 
 rigorous manner in which he had been treated. Some even 
 went so far as to intimate that he had met with foul play, 
 and privately exchanged the suspicion that he would turn 
 up some day very much blackened and swollen on the 
 river’s bank. 
 
 The visits of Commuk to the house of the Pynchons dur- 
 ing the absence of the expedition were much more frequent 
 than usual, and as he left quantities of game for which he 
 would receive no payment, his actions were remarked upon 
 by the members of the family. He looked always for Mary 
 
 *43 
 
144 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Woodcock, and always asked her, in a manner which she had 
 learned to understand, whether she had heard from her father. 
 Her reply in the negative was received with a grunt and a 
 shake of the head, and his singular interest in the child was 
 set down to the credit of his well known good-nature. 
 
 Mary Woodcock’s life had begun anew. She never tired 
 of watching her benefactress, and when near her became 
 inconveniently forgetful of her duties, for a woman was to 
 her a new revelation. If Mary Pynchon were dressing her 
 hair, the child would be obliged to stop and wonder at its 
 glossy length, and watch the progress of the miracle by 
 which it was at last separated, and disposed in puffs and 
 plaits upon her head. It was a wonder with her for many 
 hours how the lady came to have little holes in her ears, so 
 as to receive and hold the modest rings that hung there. 
 She could find no such holes in her own, having felt for them 
 often, and evermore with disappointment. 
 
 Then she wondered whether the holes would come there 
 of themselves when she had grown up to be a woman, or 
 whether real ladies were born with them, while poor girls 
 were denied such a distinction. To see, her new mistress 
 eat was a great privilege, and the source of long rivulets of 
 thought. She measured the dimensions of every mouthful 
 as it disappeared, marked the peculiar turn which the lady 
 gave to her knife (for forks were not), and thought she dis- 
 covered two modes of swallowing — one upwards and the 
 other downwards. This was the theme of infinite specu- 
 lation, and the basis of patient and varied experiment. 
 Perhaps, thought the little girl, she swallows some of her 
 food into her head, and that is what makes her hair grow 
 so long, and opens the holes in her ears. And then, prac- 
 tising on the suggestion, she swallowed all the food given 
 her with a pressure upwards that, so far as the illusion was 
 concerned, displaced a skull full of brains with bread and 
 milk every day 
 
 Then she noticed that Mary Pynchon turned out her toes 
 and moved her feet with a peculiar grace, and in her almost 
 unconscious efforts at imitation, behaved so unaccountably 
 as to puzzle that lady very much. But there was one exercise 
 that had a greater effect upon her mind than any other. It 
 became Mary Pynchon’s custom to take the little girl to the 
 most secret part of the house, and pray with her daily, hold- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 145 
 
 ing her by the hand meanwhile. At these times, and after 
 them each day, the child's mind was occupied with the 
 strangest fancies. The lady spoke so sweetly, and a asked God 
 for everything that she wanted for herself or her protege in 
 such a tone of love and confidence, that the child did not 
 doubt that she saw God all the time. 
 
 And then she wondered whether, when her own hair 
 should grow long and glossy, and the little holes come in 
 her ears, she should also obtain a vision of God's face, and 
 be able to talk to him so pleasantly. She even went so far 
 as to try the experiment with her arm around a little girl, 
 composed of an ingeniously folded blanket, whose mouth 
 commenced at the forehead and divided the face down- 
 wards. 
 
 The returning fur-carriers brought to Mary Pynchon much 
 to interest her. First and foremost was a letter from 
 Holyoke, whose spirit and vivacity had returned, and whose 
 language had become restored to its old hearty and health- 
 ful tone. This was a very precious missive, enjoyed much 
 in out-of-the-way places — an ever-abounding spring of ten- 
 der suggestions and dear associations. It came as the spice 
 of a huge dish of duties and the sweetener of an overflowing 
 cup of labors. A large number of plump packages were 
 consigned to her on the arrival of the carriers — linens whose 
 destiny lay in long lines of sheets and pillow-biers ; shin- 
 ing specimens of latten and pewter ware, for the adorn- 
 ment of a hypothetical dresser, and the service of a table 
 that lived only in an order ; a string of gold beads for the 
 neck of a bride unwed, and stuffs for drapery which in the 
 age of honest manufacture and economical use might in- 
 close the form of the virgin, the wife, and the mother, and 
 perhaps even enter the grave with her, or, living still, be 
 shown to little girls by brisk young matrons, with the words, 
 “ these were your grandmother's." All these had to be 
 remarked upon, and overhauled and shown to neighbors, 
 who knew of the arrival of the goods before they were fairly 
 unloaded. 
 
 Mary answered all questions patiently, exhibited her treas- 
 ures freely, and, when the task was finished, sat down with 
 her mother and her sister Ann, and had one of those long, 
 discursive, and unsatisfactory talks that invariably precede 
 the laying out of that great work described in the words 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 146 
 
 “ getting ready to be married.” And when the work was 
 laid out, <she, of course, did not know where to begin, and 
 so began, as all with similar purposes, plans, and prospects 
 invariably do, to grow thin, a process which she persistently 
 continued throughout the summer. 
 
 During Mr. Pynchon’s absence from home, Mr. Moxon 
 was in the habit of calling at the house almost daily, to in 
 quire for the health of the family, and to pass a few minutes 
 in chat with Mrs. Pynchon and Mary. 
 
 On these occasions Mary Woodcock was nearly always 
 present, or came in to ask seme question, or was within 
 hearing near the window, and (whether from this cause, or 
 some other less apparent) several interviews had been 
 passed without the name of Woodcock being mentioned. 
 On one occasion, the little girl was absent, when the minis- 
 ter addressed Mrs. Pynchon with, “ I see you have Wood- 
 cock’s unfortunate liede daughter with you.” This was 
 uttered with a kind of interrogative inflection which was 
 equivalent to asking how it came about. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mrs. Pynchon, replying to his words, and 
 looking at Mary anxiously for a reply to his wishes. 
 
 “ The sense of duty must have been very strong to induce 
 you to add another member to your family,” pursued the 
 minister. 
 
 '‘Very strong,” echoed Mrs. Pynchon, again looking at 
 Mary, whose eyes were still on her work. 
 
 “ I suppose,” continued the minister, “ that you had no 
 idea when you brought her here that her father would leave 
 the plantation.” 
 
 Mrs. Pynchon knew that it was Mary’s business to answer 
 these questions, if it was anybody’s, so this time she looked 
 at Mary and said nothing. Mary, who knew that it was none 
 of Mr. Moxon’s business what was done in the family, had 
 not said anything, hoping that the embarrassment of her 
 mother and her own silence would show that any conversa- 
 tion on the subject would be unpleasant. But she would 
 not be rude, and so replied, “ I did not stop to ask whether 
 he was to be absent from his cabin a longer or a shorter 
 time. I knew the child was unprovided for, and so took 
 care of her.” 
 
 “As I remarked,” persisted the minister, “ the sense of 
 duty must have been very strong.” 
 
147 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 « i cannot take the credit of acting under even the slight- 
 est sense of duty,” replied Mary. 
 
 Primitive Bridges in the Days of Early Pioneer Life. 
 
 u You surprise me,” said the minister. 
 
 “ By not being as good as you supposed I was 
 Mary," the old kind smile lighting up her face, 
 
 vexation. 
 
 10 
 
 ? ” inquired 
 despite her 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 148 
 
 “No; but really, what else could have induced you to 
 undertake such a charge ? ” 
 
 “ Self-gratification, if you please, or impulse, or sympathy, 
 or all together,” replied Mary' 
 
 “ Those,” and the minister assumed a bland tone, “ those 
 may be the highest motives of a carnal heart, and doubtless 
 are, but Christ's disciples should have a higher one.” 
 
 It is not a matter of surprise that Mary wondered what 
 his motives were in pursuing Woodcock with such rigor, but 
 her reflections upon this point could, of course, have no ex- 
 pression, so she simply replied that she regarded a sense of 
 duty as being quite as far removed from being the highest 
 Christian motive as those which she had assumed as the 
 basis of her action in regard to Mary Woodcock. 
 
 “ What can be higher as a motive of action than a sense 
 of duty to God ? ” inquired the minister, with a kind of dog- 
 matic earnestness. 
 
 “ Love to God, and love to man,” replied Mary, quietly. 
 
 “ Our sense of duty, you will remember, grows out of this 
 love,” said Mr. Moxon. 
 
 “To make a practical ‘matter of it,” said Mary, “my 
 sense of duty does not, so far as I know, grow out of my 
 love, at all.” 
 
 “ What do you understand by the word duty ? ” inquired 
 Mr. Moxon, with an apprehension that she might differ with 
 him upon its definition. 
 
 “ Duty involves obligation — indebtedness. What I un- 
 derstand by a sense of duty is a sense of indebtedness or 
 obligation. What I do from a sense of duty is done in dis- 
 charge of an obligation or a debt ; and it seems to me that 
 when a kind act is performed only from a sense of duty, it 
 may be — I will not say must be — essentially a mean act. 
 Further than this, I believe that many acts are done from a 
 sense of duty which a pure love to God and man forbids.” 
 
 “ These are new notions, Mary,” said the minister, shak- 
 ing his head sternly. 
 
 “ None the worse for that, if they are true, I suppose ? ” 
 said Mary, and then added, “ but perhaps I am not under- 
 stood. I regard duty, and a sense of duty, as entirely dif- 
 ferent things. I believe that all good and just and praise- 
 worthy deeds are performed in the realm, and under the 
 sanctions, though not necessarily by the commands of duty. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 149 
 
 Thus, I may, from my love to God and love to man, do a 
 good deed which I perfectly understand to be in the line of 
 duty, without being moved to that act in the slightest meas- 
 ure by a sense of duty. My motive is a higher and better 
 one.” 
 
 No sooner had Mary concluded her explanation than she 
 perceived that she had produced a marked effect upon the 
 minister, and recognized on his face a look of mingled anx- 
 iety and distress, like that which she had produced on the 
 occasion which introduced him to the reader. He sat in 
 entire silence, absorbed in his thoughts, until the silence be- 
 came painful to both his companions. Mary did not dare 
 to add more, for fear of further embarrassing him, and Mrs. 
 Pynchon, who was afraid Mary had been too bold, pre- 
 pared herself for a speech of reconciliation. 
 
 “ Of course,” remarked the old lady, “ Mary does not 
 mean to say that she is right, and you are wrong, Mr. 
 Moxon ; I presume she never thought of such a thing 
 as that. She only says what she thinks ; it's you who 
 
 ought to know.” 
 
 u It never occurs to me to say more or less than what I 
 believe,” said Mary, “ though it is always with diffidence 
 that I differ with my superiors, and always, I trust, with 
 becoming deference to their opinions.” 
 
 Now, during all this discussion, there had been a practi- 
 cal question that stood like a standard in the heart of every 
 individual of the group, and around this every argument, 
 suggestion, and word rallied as naturally as if it had no 
 meaning or power detached from it. 
 
 The relations between Mr. Moxon and Woodcock were 
 somehow intermingled with the thoughts of all, and Mrs. 
 Pynchon had become so painfully self-conscious as not to 
 have the slightest doubt that her minister could see the 
 burden of 'her mind with as much distinctness as he could 
 her eyes. 
 
 Thus it happened that the only method of extrication 
 from the embarrassment of the moment which presented 
 itself to her was connected with this affair, and so, to set the 
 minister on his feet, in esteem, as well as argument, she 
 undertook to lift him out, and said, “ Now, for instance, 
 Mary, — you don't suppose that anything in the world but a 
 sense of duty would have made Mr, Moxon deal as he has 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 150 
 
 with Goodman Woodcock, do you ? Don’t you see that, 
 when you come to apply it, it’s a very different thing,” 
 Mary said nothing, but her face became flushed and hot. 
 Mr. Moxon rose hurriedly, walked to the door, and had 
 nearly reached the street, when he turned, came back, and 
 bade the ladies a good morning, after which, alternately look- 
 ing up and down, he moved homewards. Up to this 
 moment, he had not suffered himself to have a doubt in re- 
 gard to his course with Woodcock. Mary Pynchon’s words 
 had led him to ask himself the question whether love to 
 God and love to man, considered as the basis of action, 
 would have resulted in the same treatment of Woodcock 
 that had flowed from his notions of duty. His uncertainty 
 upon this point, and his uncertainty in regard to the fate of 
 Woodcock, fairly unsettled him, and a wish that he had 
 been more lenient towards his victim dawned upon his 
 mind, rose there, and burned like a star. 
 
Strings of Wampum Beads : Early Money in New England. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 r was not till among the 
 last days of June that 
 Mr. Pynchon returned 
 from the Bay. The more 
 important news had al- 
 ready reached him, in letters which 
 he had received by occasional travel- 
 ers, from Mr. Moxon and Mary. 
 
 He was entirely informed of the 
 events that had occurred in connec- 
 tion with the capture and disappear- 
 ance of Woodcock, and despite that 
 individual’s contempt of his author- 
 ity, regretted the whole affair very 
 thoroughly. He had arrived some- 
 what late in the evening, and, after 
 sending out the letters he had 
 brought from the Bay to different individuals in the planta- 
 tion, and distributing trifling purchases among the members 
 of his family, he partook of a hasty supper, and prepared to 
 retire. At this moment, he heard a light rap upon the 
 window pane, whch was repeated upon his turning his eyes 
 in that direction. 
 
 “ Who’s there ? ” demanded Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ Well, ’taint a saint, but it’s nobody ’at’ll damage you 
 any,” replied the unmistakable voice of Woodcock. 
 
 “ Woodcock, is that you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, it’s me, Square, and, if you’re not too tired, I sh’d 
 
 151 
 
i52 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 like about five minutes’ parley with you, out here on the 
 door-stone.” 
 
 Woodcock’s disappearance had been a cloud upon the 
 magistrate, overshadowing the joy of his return, and, singu- 
 lar as it may seem, the rough words that met his ear were 
 the sweetest music he had heard for many days. He im- 
 mediately obeyed the summons, and shook the hand of the 
 fugitive from justice with a heartiness entirely unbecoming 
 a magistrate. 
 
 “ Well, Square,” exclaimed Woodcock, standing off, and 
 looking at him through the dusky 'twilight, “ I shouldn’t 
 know but what you was glad to see me, by the way you take 
 on.” 
 
 “ I am very glad to know that you are safe and well, 
 however much I may regret your conduct and its results to 
 yourself.” 
 
 “Well, Square, that’s neither here nor there. What I 
 come here to-night for is to find out whether there’s any- 
 thing agin my coming back to the plantation, and bein’ 
 peaceable.” 
 
 “ I know of no way by which you can escape the operation 
 of the law,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “ and yet I do not know 
 how Mr. Moxon might feel. I can see him and ascertain.” 
 
 “ There was a time, and ’twant a great while ago, nuther, 
 when I wouldn’t ’a took a favor from that man; and I 
 wouldn’t now, for myself, but I don’t want that gal of mine 
 to be a tax on anybody — leastways on you, Square ; and if 
 there’s any way for me to ’arn her living, without kickin’ 
 up a dust in the plantation and being a pull-back to her, I 
 want to get my foot into it and foller it.” 
 
 “ Suppose there is no way ? ” 
 
 “Then you’ll never see me agin. I ain’t cornin’ back 
 here to be snaked round like a beef critter.” 
 
 “ Will you promise to give no further trouble, provided 
 the past is forgiven ? ” inquired the magistrate. 
 
 “No, I can’t promise that, ’cause I don’t know what ’ll 
 turn up, but ’twont be natur for me to be jest what I have 
 been, for a man that’s been in the mud don’t get clean easy, 
 and I can’t forget that my back’s dirty.” 
 
 “ You speak as if you were beyond the power of the plan- 
 tation, as well as the colony, — responsible to no one.” 
 
 “ Do I ? Well, it’s so, Square, and it always ’ll be so. If 
 
THE BAY PATH. 1 53 
 
 I can’t have the right kind o’ dealin’s here, I sh’ll go where 
 I can get ’em.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon was silent in thought for several minutes, 
 and then, approaching Woodcock, he laid his hand upon 
 his shoulder, and said with much feeling and vehemence — 
 44 Woodcock, what is there to hinder you being one of the 
 best, happiest, and most useful men in this settlement ? 
 You have strength to labor, a good natural disposition, and 
 power to win a good name. You have a daughter to live for 
 — one who will make you happy ill the proportion that you 
 make her respectable. The strongest desire that I now have 
 upon my mind is that you may come back here, and become 
 one of us, peaceably and respectably.” 
 
 44 Don’t make a chicken of me,” said Woodcock, brushing 
 his nose, 44 for it gives me an onhandy bill for nothin’, con- 
 siderin' there couldn’t anybody eat me.” 
 
 44 Do not jest, Woodcock, but tell me frankly what the 
 trouble is,” earnestly continued Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 44 There’s two men in this plantation,” said Woodcock, 
 pulling off his shoe and shaking out a pebble, 44 by the name 
 of Pynchon. One of ’em is Mr. Pynchon, and t’other is 
 Square Pynchon. I know both on ’em middlin’ well, and 
 they never’d be took for twins. It’s Mr. Pynchon that’s 
 talkin’ with me now, and ’twas Square Pynchon who got me 
 fined for tellin’ the truth about the minister, and then, ’cause 
 I wouldn’t stan’ it, give him a warrant to keelhaul me, and 
 treat me like a beast. The Square thinks it’s law, and the 
 minister thinks it's gospel, but, if it is, it’s shabby law and 
 worse gospel ; and it’s a thing that’ll come round byme-bye, 
 for a man that straightens hoops can’t work ten years at the 
 business without flippin’ his own nose.” 
 
 44 You have certainly been very frank, Woodcock,” re- 
 sponded Mr. Pynchon, 44 but you have made your usual mis- 
 take of attributing all your troubles to the circumstances 
 under which you live, without assuming any blame yourself.” 
 44 1 never shirked anything that belonged to me to shoul- 
 der,” said Woodcock, 44 and it may be a slim thing for me to say 
 but I’ve got a notion that if my betters had been as much 
 men as they had been somethin’ smaller and less becomin’, 
 they never’d had any trouble with me, nor I with them. 
 Magistrates forget they’re men, and ministers take a consait 
 that they’re angels, and so they think it’s for them to boss 
 
154 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 everything, and kick round the rest on us. I don’t want to 
 be hard on anybody, Square, but if the woman we read 
 about that was catched makin’ herself shameful, and was 
 told by the Master on us all to go and do better, had under- 
 took to cut up here in Agawam, you’d ’a said twenty lashes, 
 and she’d got ’em, and Mr. Moxon would ’a said twenty 
 Amenson the end on ’em for a snapper.” 
 
 Why is it that Mr. Pynchon does not venture a direct re- 
 ply to this ? Does dignity or self-respect forbid ? Does he 
 feel that Woodcock is so immeasurably beneath him that it 
 is a matter of indifference whether a reply be made or not ? 
 There he stands, face to face with a criminal, — one upon 
 whom he had endeavored to execute the sentence of the law. 
 Why does he not call for help, and re-arrest the caitiff? 
 Why does he take Woodcock’s hand, and say, “ I’m very 
 much fatigued, John, take care of yourself, and come again 
 to-morrow night ? ” The answer to all these queries may be 
 found in his own words as he closes the door and enters his 
 cabin : “ The man is right, in the maim — right in the main.” 
 
 As he hangs his coat upon a chair, he repeats the words, 
 “ right in the main ; ” and he stops while winding his watch, 
 and nods very firmly, but with a mere jar of the muscles, as 
 if it were a nod of the soul and not of the head, and reiter- 
 ates “ right in the main.” 
 
 Woodcock left the house, and had gone but a short dis- 
 tance when half a dozen dark forms issued from the cover 
 of a tree, and joined him, as he took his way southward out 
 of the village. 
 
 On the following morning, Mr. Moxon was the first to call 
 on Mr. Pynchon. The minister looked haggard and worn, 
 as if he had passed a sleepless night ; and appeared more 
 nervous and unsettled than ever before. 
 
 “ You are not so feeble as your appearance indicates, I 
 trust,” said Mr. Pynchon, grasping his hand warmly. 
 
 “The Lord is dealing very strangely with me,” said the 
 minister. “ Within the past few days, thick clouds have 
 been upon me. I only pray that I may have grace sufficient 
 for all my trials, and that in His own good time, God will 
 deliver me out of all my distresses.” 
 
 “ Have you any new tribulations ? ” inquired Mr. Pyn- 
 chon. 
 
 “ None that I feel at liberty to reveal,” replied the minis- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 155 
 
 ter, “ but I beg of you, my Christian father and brother, 
 that you will remember me in your prayers, and beseech 
 God that, if it be possible, the cup may pass from me.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon was seriously pained as well as puzzled by 
 this language, and particularly by the deep solemnity with 
 which it was uttered. Still retaining his hold of the minis- 
 ter’s hand, he said, “ You know, Mr. Moxon, how entirely 
 you have my sympathy, and how gladly I would do anything 
 in my power to relieve you.” 
 
 The minister shook his head, and, releasing his hand, 
 paced up and down the room, giving utterance to deep 
 sighs that lacked none of the wretchedness even if wanting 
 the resonance of groans. At length, pausing before Mr. 
 Pynchon, he said, “ The time may come when the load will 
 be too heavy for me to bear — when my poor nature will 
 cry out in its pain, and then I shall come to you ; but pray 
 for me, oh ! pray ! pray ! that I may be delivered from the 
 power of the adversary, and that the divine wrath may be 
 stayed. ” 
 
 This was all enigmatical to Mr. Pynchon, and his curiosity 
 was somewhat aroused, but the case was too painful to tam- 
 per with, and so, with the design of changing the subject, he 
 spoke of Woodcock. The name had no sooner been pro- 
 nounced, than Mr. Moxon paused, looked earnestly at the 
 speaker, and waited with sharp attention, as if ready to snap 
 at, and devour every word. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon saw that in some manner the subject was a 
 key to the minister’s secret, and kept quietly on. He allud- 
 ed to the peculiar temperament of the man, his natural im- 
 patience of restraint, his strong native powers of mind and 
 good qualities of heart, and the possibility that he had not 
 received exactly that treatment from all that a thorough 
 Christian charity and a sound policy would dictate. He was 
 ready to assume so much for himself, and doubted not that 
 others would, upon reflection, do the same. Furthermore, 
 he was inclined to think that if Woodcock might be allowed 
 to come back, and to go unmolested about his business, he 
 would do better, and eventually become a good and useful 
 citizen. 
 
 “ Do you know where he is ? ” inquired Air. Moxon, with 
 an eye that almost burned with its earnestness. 
 
 “ No ! But I think I know where he will be.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 156 
 
 “ Then he's alive ? ” said the minister interrogatively, and 
 added, as if in reply to his own question, “ Oh ! yes ! he’s 
 alive ; I knew he was alive." 
 
 “ I have seen him," said Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ When and where ? ” inquired the minister eagerly. 
 
 “ Last night, and here." 
 
 “ Was there any one with him ? " 
 
 “ No one that I saw. " 
 
 Did you — that is — do you remember anything peculiar — 
 that struck you — was there anything unusual connected with 
 his appearance ?" inquired the minister, brokenly and with 
 great embarrassment. 
 
 “ Nothing," replied Mr. Pynchon. “ He acted entirely 
 like himself, and looked like himself." 
 
 “ Does he wish to return to the plantation ? " inquired the 
 minister. 
 
 “ I think he would do so at once provided you should see 
 fit to release him from all obligations in the slander case. 
 He appears anxious to support his child, and he confessed 
 to having been humbled by the treatment he has been sub- 
 jected to." 
 
 “ I will release him," said the minister, “on these condi- 
 tions ; " but without stating the conditions, he commenced 
 pacing up and down the room again. 
 
 “ On what conditions ? " inquired Mr. Pynchon, after 
 watching him for some minutes. 
 
 “I — I cannot state them," said the minister, “and it is 
 not necessary. Tell him that I know all, and that he cannot 
 deceive me. Tell him that I forgive everything, if he has 
 not concluded the contract. If he has concluded it, and will 
 break it, he may always count on me as a friend. Tell him 
 I love my children better than I love my own life, and to 
 kill me rather than— than — persevere in his present course. 
 He'll know what I mean. Tell him that hell is deep and 
 eternity long, and that no temporary advantages can com- 
 pensate for the loss of the soul. Tell him that the devil was 
 a liar from the beginning, and that brick houses will not 
 stand in the day of judgment." 
 
 “ I beg you to pause," exclaimed Mr. Pynchon, hurriedly 
 rising from his chair. “ You are surely unwell, Mr. Moxon. 
 You have overtasked your mind, or body, or both, and can- 
 not be aware of the strangeness of your language. Were I 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 157 
 
 to tell Woodcock just what you have directed me to tell 
 him, he would call you mad. You are certainly very unwell, 
 sir ; I beg you to be seated ; ” and Mr. Pynchon fairly 
 pressed the minister into the seat he had vacated, where he 
 sat for some minutes in silence, with his hands over his eyes 
 and his nerves in an agitation that was half hysterical. 
 
 At length, without uncovering his eyes, he exclaimed, as 
 if deciding a question he had been revolving, “ I must bear 
 it alone for the present.” Then rising, he said, “ I leave 
 this matter with you, and will be guided by your judgment. 
 If you think it best for Woodcock to return, I shall inter- 
 pose neither obstacle nor objection.” Then, seeing other 
 neighbors approaching the house, he bade the magistrate a 
 good morning, and passed homewards. 
 
 On the following evening, Woodcock appeared at the 
 appointed hour, and received the decision that had been 
 made in his behalf. He listened with patience and respect- 
 fulness to Mr. Pynchon’s counsel, and was preparing to 
 depart, the interview having been held, as on the previous 
 evening, outside the house, when the slender form of his child, 
 in her white night dress, leaped from an adjoining window, 
 and rushed into his arms. She had been disturbed by the 
 conversation, and the voice of her father had become so real 
 in her dreams as to awaken her to the reality of his presence ; 
 and her leap from the window was the offspring of her first 
 impulse. 
 
 Woodcock sat down upon the doorstep, and strained the 
 child to his heart, while she clung to his neck with the nerv- 
 ous vehemence of her nature. The embrace was silent, but 
 full of love’s eloquence. 
 
 “ Square,” said Woodcock, at last, with difficulty break- 
 ing the spell, “why can’t I die now? I never shall feel so 
 good as this ag’in. It can’t be brung round ag’in any 
 way. ” 
 
 “ I see nothing to hinder your having many happy days, 
 if you are well disposed,” said Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ I hain’t any faith,” said Woodcock, shaking his head ; 
 “ I never did have good luck long ’t a time nor a great while 
 in a place, and I don’t expect to.” Then turning to his 
 child he said, in a mild, kind voice, “ I’m cornin’ back to 
 the plantation to-morrow, gal.” 
 
 The child sprang from his arms, as if he had struck her, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 158 
 
 “ What did I tell you, Square ? " said Woodcock, whim- 
 pering and smiling together, at the sudden fulfilment of his 
 prophecy. 
 
 “ I don't want to go back to the cabin to live," said 
 Mary. 
 
 “ I hope you don’t want to live here, and be a little beg- 
 gar," said her father. 
 
 Here Mr. Pynchon interposed, and told him of Mary’s 
 singular usefulness in the house, and related a conversation 
 he had had with her mistress during the day, in which the 
 latter interposed the most decided objections against part- 
 ing with the child, unless Woodcock should insist upon it. 
 
 “ And I’ll come down and fix up the cabin every day,’’ 
 said Mary, eagerly, taking courage from having an advocate 
 at her side. 
 
 “ I couldn’t ’a fixed it to suit myself any better," said 
 Woodcock, “but I didn’t want to be beholden; and if the 
 gal can make herself of any account, she’s better off with 
 Mary Pynchon than she could be anywhere else in the 
 world." 
 
 Thus saying, he took the girl in his arms, walked to the 
 window from which she had leaped, and, with a whispered 
 word of kindness, lifted her in. 
 
 Upon the following morning, the people of the plantation 
 were surprised to see Woodcock walk forth from his cabin, 
 take his canoe, and go quietly to work upon his fields on 
 the other side of the river, without attracting the notice of 
 the magistrate, or meeting with any objections from the 
 minister or the constable. 
 
 Arriving at his fields, he found that they had been well 
 taken care of, through the faithfulness of the constable, 
 whose gratitude to Peter Trimble had not hindered him 
 from tasking that individual to the extent of his strength, in 
 working out the magistrate’s sentence. An explanation of 
 the whole matter was publicly made on the succeeding lec- 
 ture day, and the affair blew quietly over. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 OW like a troubled, feverish dream 
 is summer to the husbandman ! 
 How early, and yellow, and hot, 
 comes up the brazen sun ! How 
 are the tunes of the first birds 
 and all the fresh sounds of the 
 early day overpowered by the jar and bustle of toil! 
 How the days fly past ! — some hot and breathless, some 
 bright and sparkling ; some full of rain, wind, and thunder; 
 others hemmed about on the western and southern hori- 
 zon with bald-headed clouds, that stand and sleep all the 
 afternoon in the sun ; some so clear that they mark 
 black shadows on the hillsides, by trees that look so 
 clumpy and green, so thick, dark, and downy, that one 
 might dream of jumping from a cloud into them, and 
 being softly caught in their cool depths ; and others so 
 sultry that the robin drags her wings by the brook side, or 
 sucks the lifeless air with an open bill and a spasmodic 
 inspiration ! 
 
 To those who have passed through this season, exposed 
 
 *59 
 
i6o 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 to its toils and debilitating influences, how welcome is the 
 first cool breath of Autumn ! How, when the crickets begin 
 to sing through the drowsy twilight, and the dried mullein 
 holds stiffly up its tall rack of seed-cups, and the fresh green 
 silk of the serried corn dries and darkens into matted tufts 
 of brown, and the foliage of the forests and the grasses of 
 the pasture show that the freshness of their life has departed, 
 the heart becomes calm and glad! And when the Frost 
 
 s from his crystal 
 home while all the world is 
 sleeping, and breathes upon the 
 forests, and tramples on the 
 flowers that they may not be 
 contemptible in the light of his 
 radiant miracles ; when the ma- 
 ples turn to gigantic roses, and 
 G ^t d ofsprin“ n; North - the oaks to colossal peonies, 
 when the meadow wears a gay 
 upon its bosom, and the river runs the gauntlet 
 of an army clothed in crimson and purple, and every 
 sight and sound prophesies of relaxing toil and speedy 
 fruition, how the heart grows strong, and the beauty and 
 majesty of Autumn, and its golden promises and great 
 fulfilments, touch us with gladness and gratitude ! 
 
THE BAY PATH 
 
 l6l 
 
 And when, later, the leaves drop, one by one, upon the 
 ground, carpeting the solitudes for the dances of the fairies ; 
 and the nuts open their brown portals to the curious squirrel, 
 and great congregations of crows spend whole days in 
 meaningless vociferations ; when the flails of the matched 
 threshers begin to thump wearily on the neighboring barn 
 floors, and the wain comes creaking home with its freight 
 of corn ; when the first fires begin to be kindled on the 
 social hearth, and throw their dancing light over happy old 
 age in its easy chair, ruddy maidenhood in its life and levity, 
 and childhood that groans in the bondage of coats restored 
 and brogans resumed, how the heart warms to the touch of 
 some of the sweetest associations of life, and we thank God 
 for those changes which, each in its turn, compensates for 
 all the severities of its predecessor, and affords a balance of 
 characteristic joy for which it may be loved, and by which 
 it may be remembered ! 
 
 It may be a humiliating fact (and that is doubtless the 
 reason why it has not found more prominent statement), but 
 it is none the less an established one, that in temperate lati- 
 tudes, the stronger passions of humanity become feeble, and 
 hardly manifest themselves during summer, except in that 
 spasmodic manner which is the most reliable symptom of 
 debility. Thus ambition seems to dissipate in perspiration, 
 the fires of anger subside under copious draughts of cold 
 water, and love itself forgets its ardor beneath a burning 
 sun. Even the most devoted attachments seem to be re- 
 laxed by the season, and are only restored to their original 
 tone and tension by the return of the mercury to medial alti- 
 tudes and modest figures. 
 
 It was partly owing to this fact that the love which Hol- 
 yoke felt for Mary Pynchon was in a measure laid aside on 
 his arrival at the Bay, and that neither of the lovers found 
 the attachment any obstacle in the pursuit of objects of im- 
 mediate interest. They had parted with mutual faith, and 
 with certain objects to be compassed before they should 
 meet again — Holyoke to make his affairs ready for the con- 
 templated removal to Agawam, and Mary to prepare for the 
 establishment of a new home, and the assumption of new 
 responsibilities. 
 
 The summer passed rapidly away, and with but little im- 
 patience on either side ; but when the Autumn began to creep 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 l62 
 
 on and the crickets began to sing, and the mullein stood 
 patiently drying its rack of seed-cups in the sun, and the 
 corn silk grew brown, and the frost wrought its wonders, 
 there was not a sight but brought sweet suggestions to the 
 expectant lovers, or a sound that did not tell them of a great 
 joy towards which they were tending. 
 
 In the plantation, generally, matters had gone on with a 
 remarkable degree of quietness. The carpenter, Jehu Burr, 
 with such help as he could occasionally secure, had succeed- 
 
 Famous Colonial Scenes : Burgoyne’s Carrfp on the Hudson, Near the Battle-Ground of 
 
 Saratoga. 
 
 ed in building a habitable house for Holyoke, to be in read- 
 iness for occupation when that individual should arrive. . Its 
 simple furniture, built at the Bay, came by water carriage, 
 and was arranged by Mary’s own hands. 
 
 The feud between Mr. Moxon and Woodcock slept, 
 although no cordiality existed between them. Many 
 thought that a great change had occurred in the latter, 
 and some, in genuine friendliness, endeavored to approach 
 him with the design of encouraging any good resolutions 
 that he might be entertaining, but their advances werei 
 
THE BAY BATH. Itrj 
 
 tooliy met, and persistently repulsed. He was not living 
 for himself ; he was not acting himself. He was engaged 
 in providing for his daughter, and carried under powerful 
 restraint as independent a spirit as ever. The daughter 
 still lived with Mary Pynchon, and week by week and 
 month by month improved in her demeanor, until fear began 
 to be felt by many in the neighborhood who had young 
 daughters, that Mary Pynchon would “ spoil that child, and 
 make her forget who she was and where she came from ” — 
 baleful influences which they sought benevolently to correct 
 at every convenient opportunity. 
 
 Peter Trimble was kept out of mischief by hard work. 
 He was whipped but three or four times during the summer, 
 for such offenses as knocking off the hats of other boys on 
 the way home from meeting, agreeing to give boot in a jack- 
 knife trade, and making the payment somewhat too ener- 
 getically with a leather article of that name, and other play- 
 ful indiscretions of a similar character. 
 
 Mr. Moxon preached with singular earnestness, and de- 
 voted himself to the discharge of his duties with an assiduity 
 which, receiving its primary impulse in unwonted spiritual 
 fears and fancies, was naturally and almost necessarily con- 
 vulsive and severe. 
 
 The approaching marriage of Mary Pynchon was the 
 theme of much gossip in the plantation, and particularly so 
 as no one out of the family knew exactly when the event was 
 to take place. Among the first days of November, how- 
 ever, at an unusually full meeting on lecture day, the inten- 
 tions of marriage between her and Holyoke were published, 
 viva voce , in accordance with the colonial law. 
 
 Mary was present, and in the whisper and flutter and stare 
 which followed the announcement, sat in indignant though 
 silent rebellion, against what she regarded as a sacrilegious 
 notoriety, as disgustingto every healthful sensibility as it was 
 grateful to prurient and prying curiosity. 
 
 The fourteen days of “ publishment ” at last expired. 
 Holyoke and a number of friends from the Bay arrived, and 
 the evening was appointed for the performance of the mar- 
 riage ceremony. Every individual upon the plantation had 
 been invited to the wedding — an occasion fraught with more 
 of pleasant anticipation than any in the experience of the 
 settlement. The preparations for that wedding— the fur- 
 11 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 164 
 
 bishing of old' dresses, the polishing of rough shoes, the 
 labor night and day to finish a home-spun garment — the 
 contriving, the dreaming, the gossiping — the impatience for 
 the advent of the looked-for day, and the flutter of delight 
 as it dawned, need no description. 
 
 A cool frosty evening among the closing days of Novem- 
 ber, produced the long expected hour. The stars were 
 shining brightly, and the fallen leaves were lying in silent 
 heaps upon the ground, as the neighborhood began to col- 
 lect at the house of the magistrate. The candle- wood blazed 
 cheerfully upon the hearth, and welcomed, in its own way, 
 with flashes and sputterings, and jets of smoke, and danc- 
 ing out-gushings of flame, each guest as he opened the door. 
 There were long quiet whisperings, and half suppressed 
 jests, and criticisms of dress ; and when, at last, all had 
 collected, expectation began to verge upon impatience ; 
 and every opening door was the signal for a renewed silence. 
 
 There was one man present who, without companionship, 
 was more profoundly exercised by his emotions than any 
 other. This man was John Woodcock. He had for several 
 days been meditating a step which, to his own mind, was 
 charged with the deepest interest and greatest importance ; 
 and he sat revolving it'Vhile those'around him gave them- 
 selves up to levity and the natural excitements of the occa- 
 sion. He sat at the back side of the room, and as occasion- 
 ally his daughter, neatly dressed, entered the room on some 
 errand from her mistress, his eye followed her in every move- 
 ment, with an interest as apparent to those around him, as 
 it was all absorbing to himself. 
 
 There was also something in the occasion itself that 
 affected him deeply. Unconsciously he had become a wor- 
 shiper of Mary Pynchon, as an impersonation of feminine 
 beauty, grace, and goodness. The idea of loving her had 
 never entered his heart. His sentiment was one which left 
 love, with its earthly attachments and associations, its 
 thoughts of equality and possession, entirely unconceived. 
 He would have spurned all imputation of passion as un- 
 worthy of himself and her. He would not — he could not — 
 have profaned her presence with any sentiment less selfish 
 than that which lies at the basis of worship — a reverent ad- 
 miration that carried with it an entire submission of will 
 and devotion of life. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 165 
 
 It was a strange heart — that encased in those rough habil- 
 iments. It had once loved, and might perhaps have loved 
 again, but for a woman who had inspired him with a senti- 
 ment higher than, or inconsistent with love. He would 
 have cursed himself, as he would any of the common men 
 around him, for any thought of love towards her, and yet 
 she had wrought so powerfully upon his mind, that all other 
 feminine natures, to which he was not bound by a natural 
 tie, became insipid and valueless. The fact that he could 
 not love her precluded the possibility of his loving any one 
 else. Still, unselfish as were his feelings towards the friend 
 of his child, and earnestly as he wished for her happiness, 
 he could not contemplate her marriage with Holyoke with- 
 out a pang. It was to him (for what reason he knew not) 
 the dethronement of a goddess — the degeneration to hu- 
 manity of an angel. It was not jealousy that moved him ; 
 it was no ill will towards Holyoke, and yet, what was it? 
 
 At length, during a deepening hum of conversation, the 
 door leading from the adjoining apartment was opened, and 
 the participators in the ceremony made their appearance. 
 First came Mr. and Mrs. Moxon, and they were followed 
 by Mr. and Mrs. Pynchon, succeeded by Henry Smith and 
 his wife. All these stood until Holyoke appeared, with 
 Mary leaning upon his arm, and took his position before them. 
 
 Well might that little assembly be smitten with silence by 
 that vision of noble manhood and radiant beauty — a silence 
 that was sweet and holy — a silence pervaded with all pure 
 and happy thoughts, and unsealing the fountains of uncon- 
 scious tears. The stillness was interrupted by the voice of 
 the minister, in the words, “ Let us pray.” The prayer 
 uttered was one of genuine feeling, and in its mention of 
 Mary was so fervent and touching that even Woodcock 
 opened his heart to its influences, and joined in the 
 aspiration. 
 
 At the close of the prayer, the marriage ceremony was 
 performed by Mr. Pynchon, who, as the only magistrate 
 present, was alone empowered to officiate upon the occasion. 
 Parental pride and tenderness were too much for official 
 dignity, and the simple words were said in a broken voice, 
 and with manifest emotion. When they were concluded, 
 the only persons who went forward to salute the bride were 
 Ann Smith and her father. 
 
1 66 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 There seemed to be a strange restraint upon the assembly. 
 Women who had known Mary for years sat silently in their 
 places, apparently in much embarrassment. Every outreach- 
 ing of friendly sympathy seemed to be held in painful check 
 and every one appeared afraid of doing something that some- 
 body would deem wrong. The spell was at last broken by 
 a little fellow who, unknown to his parents, had brought a 
 present to the bride. He left his seat, and, plunging his 
 hand into his pocket, pulled and tugged at its contents till, 
 when he had arrived at Mary’s side, his round face was as 
 red as a beet. The lad still worked manfully, and at length 
 conquered an intractable bag of chestnuts, which he drew 
 forth, and presented to the bride, amidst a hearty laugh 
 commenced by Holyoke and joined in by Mary, who seized 
 and kissed the little boy as he commenced to retreat, with 
 his heart full of indignation, and his pocket inverted. 
 
 This little incident broke the spell so far as the children 
 were concerned, and they pressed forward to make their tri- 
 fling gifts, and win the smile and kiss which they coveted as 
 their reward. As soon as the children had paid their re- 
 spects to the bride, the old constraint returned, and for a 
 few minutes held the company in its painful thrall. 
 
 John Woodcock was the first to break the silence. Rising 
 from his seat, and making his way out of the crowd around 
 him, he crossed the room to where his daughter was stand- 
 ing absorbed in, and half bewildered by the scene, and, 
 whispering a few words in her ear, took her by the hand, 
 and led her before the married pair. Mary extended her 
 hand to him instantly and cordially, and exclaimed, “I knew 
 that you would come to me and congratulate me.” 
 
 “ That wan’t my arrant any way,” said Woodcock bluntly, 
 “ and I shouldn’t begin with you if it was.” 
 
 “ Why, John ! I am astonished ! ” exclaimed the bride. “ I 
 thought you was one of the best friends I had in the world.” 
 “ Well, you needn’t change your mind till you hear agin’ 
 but the fact is, when two fellers swap guns, ’taint the feller 
 that gets the poorest gun that feels proud, or stands treat, 
 or gets flattered for his bargain.” 
 
 Holyoke had heard much of Woodcock and his quaint 
 humors, and, extending his hand to him good-naturedly, 
 said, “ I am the man who feels proud, and am all ready to 
 be flattered for my bargain.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 167 
 
 “ When a basket’s full of corn, shook down, what’s the 
 use of pilin’ on more ?” said Woodcock. 
 
 Holyoke laughed heartily at the sally, but Mary, inclined 
 to be vexed, said, “ I am sorry you do not like my husband.” 
 
 “ I never told anybody I didn’t like him. He likes you, 
 and you like him, and that’s two things that ought to be a 
 
 Maize Harvest : The Penalty for Finding a Red Ear. 
 
 recommend to him anywhere. It would ’a been jest the 
 same if the king was your husband. ’Taint in my line to 
 say flatterin’ things to anybody, but women are better’n 
 men, and always get the little end of the trade, when they 
 get married.” 
 
 “ It is a comfort to know that you have been cheated on 
 general principles,” said Holyoke to Mary, in a merry tone. 
 
 But Mary was somehow affected by Woodcock’s serious- 
 
i68 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 ness, and, with no reply to Holyoke, beyond a smile, she 
 asked Woodcock’s reasons for the statement he had made. 
 
 “ I didn’t come up here to talk about this, and p’raps it 
 aint the right time to do it, but there’s no use backin’ down 
 when you begin. I’ve got a consait that men and women 
 ain’t built out of the same kind of timber. Look at my hand 
 * — a great pile of bones covered with brown luther, with the 
 hair on, — and then look at yourn. White oak aint bass, is 
 it? Every man’s hand aint so black as mine, and every 
 woman’s aint so white as yourn, but there’s always differ- 
 ence enough to show, and thereVjest as much odds in their 
 doin’s and dispositions as there is in their hands. I know 
 what women be. I’ve wintered and summered with ’em, 
 and, take ’em by and large, they’re better’n men. Now and 
 then a feller gets hitched to a hedgehog, but most of ’em 
 get a woman that’s too good for ’em. They’re gentle and 
 kind, and runnin’ over with good feelin’s, and will stick to a 
 feller a mighty sight longer’n he’ll stick to himself. My 
 woman’s dead and gone, but if there wan’t any women in 
 the world, and I owned it, I’d sell out for three shillin’s, and 
 throw in stars enough to make it an object for somebody to 
 take it off my hands.” 
 
 During Woodcock’s delivery of this little speech, several 
 of the company had risen from their seats, and pressing 
 towards the central group, formed a circle around it, so that 
 when he had arrived at the conclusion, so characteristic of 
 himself, there was a general laugh. Woodcock looked around 
 upon the company, but no smile came upon his features. 
 He had been diverted from the purpose for which he had 
 risen, and was annoyed by the intrusion of so many heads 
 into business that he by no means considered public. 
 
 Looking around upon the expectant group, he added, “ As 
 I was sayin’, they’ll stick to a man longer’n he’ll stick to 
 him'self, but they ain’t apt to stick where they ain’t wanted, 
 and are first rate at mindin’ their own business.” 
 
 This direct hit v/as understood, and while a few turned and 
 went smiling to their seats, all fell back and left him to him- 
 self and his errand. 
 
 “ Some time ago,” resumed Woodcock, “ I heerd the 
 little ones and some of the old ones tellin’ what they was 
 goin’ to give Mary Pynchon when she got married ; and it 
 set me to thinkin’ what I could give her, for I knew if any- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 169 
 
 body ought to give her anything, it was me. But I hadn’t 
 any money, and I couldn’t send to the Bay for anything, 
 and I shouldn’t ’a known what to get if I could. I might 
 have shot a buck, but I couldn’t ’a brought it to the weddin’, 
 and it didn’t seem exactly ship-shape to give her anything 
 she could eat up and forget. So I thought . I’d give her a 
 keepsake my wife left me when she died. It’s all I’ve got 
 of any vally to me, and it’s somethin’ that’ll grow better 
 every day it is kep, if you’ll take care of it. I don’t know 
 what’ll ’come of me, and I want to leave it in good hands.” 
 
 The bride began to grow curious, and despite their late 
 repulse, the group began to collect again. 
 
 “ It’s a queer thing for a present, perhaps (and Wood- 
 cock’s lip began to quiver and his eye to moisten), but I 
 hope- it ’ll do you some sarvice. ’Taint anything ’t you can 
 wear in your hair, or throw over your shoulders. It’s — 
 it’s — ” 
 
 “ It’s what? ” inquired Mary, with an encouraging smile. 
 
 Woodcock took hold of the hand of his child, and placing 
 it in that of the questioner, burst out with, “ God knows 
 that’s the handle to it,” and retreated to the window, where 
 he spent several minutes looking out into the night, and 
 endeavoring to repress the spasms of a choking throat. 
 Neither Mary Holyoke nor her husband could disguise their 
 emotions as they saw before them the living testimonial of 
 Woodcock’s gratitude and trust. Mary stooped and kissed 
 the gift-child, who clung to her as if, contrary to her father’s 
 statement, she was an article of wearing apparel. 
 
 The interview of Woodcock with the bride had' been 
 somewhat extended, and during its continuance an observ- 
 ant eye would have seen that Mr. Moxon was growing 
 momently more nervous, until he seemed to have arrived 
 at absolute distress. The moment that the newly married 
 pair were disengaged, he advanced to them with his wife, 
 and, complaining of indisposition, expressed his regret that 
 he should be obliged to retire, and bid them a good even- 
 ing. Holyoke was very emphatic in his expressions of 
 sorrow at the necessity of this step on the part of the min- 
 ister, but Mary was simply polite, for her quick heart had 
 divined a secret connected with his presence which deeply 
 concerned her own heart, and made it impossible for her to 
 regret his withdrawal. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 170 
 
 The company all rose as the minister retired, and not one 
 sat down as the door was closed. In an incredibly brief 
 space of time the whole appearance of the assembly was 
 changed. Silence broke into confused chattering, and the 
 bride, instead of standing alone in awkward embarrassment, 
 
 was surrounded by a band of loving hearts, which gave 
 themselves up to the natural impulses and emotions of the 
 occasion. But a few minutes had passed after the depar- 
 ture of the minister before Mary’s hand had been pressed by 
 every guest — even the most awkward and bashful finding 
 
THE BAY PATH. I7l 
 
 some kind word for utterance to an ear they had rarely if 
 ever addressed. 
 
 The hum of unrestrained conversation was at length 
 broken in upon by Mr. Pynchon, who informed the com- 
 pany that the newly united pair were to be installed in their 
 housekeeping that very night, and that they would be 
 happy to be accompanied to their new home by their 
 friends. Accordingly, all made themselves ready for the 
 walk, and a happier party, as they laughed and sang along 
 the leaf-strewn street, never found themselves together. 
 
 Arriving at the new house, they found it lighted, a cheer- 
 ful fire blazing upon the hearth, and a bountiful and sub- 
 stantial repast in waiting upon the table, to which full justice 
 was immediately done by strong and healthful appetites. The 
 frolic that followed among the younger members of the 
 company received no check from the older and graver por- 
 tion, and when, at last, the hour for separation arrived, all 
 retired, feeling that they had been refreshed, refined, and 
 made better. Mr. Pynchon was the last who left the door, 
 and closed the parting scene by a kiss, as vigorous as it was 
 rare, and a special injunction to “ see that the fire was raked 
 up safe.” * 
 
 To one who has drunk deeply of life’s experience, a newly 
 married pair is always an object of strong and tender in- 
 terest. Love is beautiful in itself. Its hearty and unques- 
 tioning devotion, its perfect trust, and its soft and gentle 
 sympathies, are very beautiful ; and no less beautiful are 
 the happy souls in which these graces of the passion are 
 realized. But the interest one feels in those commencing 
 life together, in marriage, is based on no abstractions like 
 these. It has its birth in our own experience. Childhood 
 is very beautiful in itself, but we love it mostly because of 
 its association with the simple years of happiness that form 
 the romance of our own past life. We may smile at the 
 frivolous pleasures of childhood, and despise its objects, and, 
 even while we heave a sigh in view of the deep disappoint- 
 ments which await it, in the great discipline of life, drop 
 hot tears that its freshness may never again be ours. Thus 
 it is with love’s childhood, and all its associations. We 
 know that years of trial and patient suffering endured in 
 companionship, and mutual participation in such imperfect 
 joys as the world affords, will produce a love so sweetly 
 
 18730 
 
172 
 
 THE BAY PATH 
 
 sympathetic, so perfect and profound, that the bliss of the 
 honeymoon shall mimic it only as a shadow pool mimics the 
 ocean ; and yet, as we kiss the bride, and grasp the hand 
 of her possessor, we involuntarily do homage to the bliss of 
 ignorance, and sigh for days that we value only as memo- 
 ries. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HE first puff of smokethat 
 issued from the chimney 
 of Holyoke’s house, on 
 the morning following 
 the wedding, was noticed 
 by a dozen watchful and 
 waiting eyes, and imme- 
 diately reported to an 
 indefinite number of waiting ears. The smoke produced 
 at the original discovery of fire could hardly have been a 
 subject of greater interest. Meanwhile, the happy little 
 household, which had thus unconsciously telegraphed its 
 wakefulness all over the village, was busy in its prepara- 
 tions for breakfast. Holyoke, after his part of the household 
 duties was performed, in making the fire and bringing in the 
 water, found great enjoyment in watching his wife and her 
 brisk waiting-maid, as they bustled about the house in the 
 discharge of their portion of the morning’s labor. 
 
 - *73 
 
174 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 At length the bountiful breakfast was smoking upon the 
 table, and the three occupants of the house, in a charmingly 
 merry mood, look their places at the board. In an instant, 
 however, Mary was silent, and awaiting reverently the 
 pronunciation of a petition to which she had been, from 
 childhood, a listener at every meal. Holyoke did not notice 
 the movement at once, and rattled blithely away at his chain 
 of small talk, but when he became conscious of his position, 
 his face reddened painfully. Mary detected his embarrass- 
 ment, and, divining its cause, proceeded with the finest tact to 
 relieve him by entering upon the courtesies of the table. 
 
 The meal was eaten in a different spirit from that with 
 which it was approached. Buoyancy and mirth disappeared, 
 and, while both husband and wife attempted to appear 
 cheerful, each was aware of the shadow of a cloud, that 
 must feel the touch of a breeze more or less powerful before 
 it would restore the vision of a bright sun and a clear sky. 
 
 As soon as the breakfast was cleared away, Holyoke 
 beckoned his wife to a seat at his side. Looking her calmly 
 and solemnly in the face, he said, 44 Mary, did you expect 
 me to ask a blessing at the table this morning ? ” 
 
 44 You probably saw that I expected it,” replied Mary. 
 
 44 Why did you expect it? ” inquired Holyoke, preserving 
 his solemn tone and manner. 
 
 “ I do not know that I have any reason better than the 
 fact that I have always be£n accustomed to the ceremony, 
 both at home and away, and saw no reason why any Chris- 
 tian should decline its performance.” 
 
 “ I shall pain you, perhaps, my dear wife,” said Holyoke, 
 grasping her hand earnestly, 44 but I have been so much 
 shocked and disgusted by the manner in which this service 
 is performed, that it seems to me to have become the popu- 
 lar way of dishonoring God rather than of honoring Him.” 
 “ You do not conclude,” replied Mary, 44 that because the 
 service is improperly performed, it is improper in itself.” 
 
 “ Not that, because there is nothing like intrinsic impro- 
 priety in it ; but I do not deny that I believe that the habit 
 has, very generally, a bad tendency.” 
 
 44 A bad tendency ? ” inquired Mary, with an exclamatory 
 accent. 
 
 44 I see that you are pained and surprised, and it is what 
 I expected,” replied Holyoke, 44 but it is best for us to be 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 175 
 
 frank. You wonder how a service so intimately associated, 
 in your mind, with the daily duties of a Christian life, can 
 have an evil tendency. I think it has two evil tendencies. 
 The first is, by a frequent rush into the divine presence 
 from the distractions of the world, and as frequent and 
 violent a leap out, into its distractions again, or into the 
 grosser animal delights, to break down and destroy all decent 
 reverence for God. I have heard, hundreds of times, a 
 blessing pronounced that, in its relations, in the points of 
 time and place, was the sequel to a very laughable story, or 
 the connecting link between the laugh that followed it and 
 the sharpening of knives and the clatter of trenchers. The 
 second evil tendency is in begetting in children and in the 
 irreligious a disregard of religious services of every kind, 
 and a scepticism touching religious character and experience. 
 They are the most relentless critics of inconsistency in reli- 
 gious matters in the world, and a Christian can no more 
 come into God’s presence with thoughtless abruptness, while 
 they sit near, without hardening them, than he can without 
 benumbing his own soul.” 
 
 Mary did not know what to reply to this, for, while she 
 w r as not convinced of the entire correctness of his conclu- 
 sions, she saw that they were based upon truths which she 
 could not deny. 
 
 Holyoke saw her hesitation, and resumed. “ I have no 
 doubt,” said he, “ that there are some men, perhaps many, 
 so saintly in their walk and holy in their frame that they 
 would be able to address the Deity many times in a day. 
 with no violent transition of emotion or revulsion of 
 thought ; but these men are comparatively rare. I will not 
 deny that we all ought to be such, but I do not believe that 
 the habitual repetition of a prayer at the table, uttered 
 without feeling, and often mumbled into entire indistinctness, 
 is a legitimate means of grace for the production of that 
 end. I count it a great thing for man to approach his Maker 
 in worship and petition. It seems to me that no one should 
 do this without a spirit stricken through with reverence, 
 and profoundly impressed with the sublime presence in 
 which he stands ; and to go through with this form simply 
 as a Christian duty, or to fulfil the expectations of Christian 
 friends, or for the sake of the example, or for any cause less 
 than a sincere desire for communion with God, springing 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 176 
 
 freshly with every occasion, and clothed in a reverence 
 which is its becoming garb, is not only wounding religion in 
 the house of its friends, but is keeping the wound open and 
 bleeding.” 
 
 Mary saw by Holyoke's earnest words and emphatic man- 
 ner that, however much she might differ with him, it was 
 not becoming in her to dispute his positions directly, and 
 therefore attacked them indirectly by stating that she did 
 not see why his facts and his reasoning did not apply in a 
 degree, at least, to the observance of daily prayers in the 
 family. 
 
 Holyoke's face burned with sudden color, and his heart 
 throbbed painfully as this new subject was introduced, for, 
 upon this, his convictions were inharmonious with his in- 
 clinations. In this subject he had a fearfully practical 
 interest. It was one which had occupied many of his 
 thoughts, and one which had smitten his heart with sudden 
 misgiving every time he had come beneath its shadow. 
 
 “ I do not think the cases are parallel,” said he, quietly, 
 and with evident disinclination to continue the discussion. 
 
 “ Please tell me why,” gently insisted Mary. 
 
 “ In one case, ” replied Holyoke, “ we approach God 
 without preparation, and ask him, three times in a day, to 
 bless our food, as if that were the great, and, in fact, the 
 only gift of his providence that deserves a recognition ; in 
 the other, we come with offerings as well as prayers, and 
 with such preparation as the contemplation of divine truth 
 is well calculated to bestow upon those who peruse it. We 
 come to God in the latter case with worship, with confession, 
 with penitence, with thanksgiving, with fervent aspirations 
 for a stronger faith, a higher life, and a broader Christian 
 experience ; we come in the fresh hours of the morning and 
 in the hush of evening, before care has put on its fetters, 
 and after it has laid them aside ; and all these exercises and 
 conditions of heart form the basis, if they do not the very 
 essence of a communion with God, as honorable to him as it 
 is full of nourishment and strength to the soul.” 
 
 While Holyoke was speaking he had grown earnest and 
 eloquent, but the instant he concluded he involuntarily put 
 his hand to his heart, while his lips grew pale and thin with 
 a trembling compression, for there came up again the 
 practical question that had given him so many anxious 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 1 77 
 
 thoughts. His embarrassment was not relieved as Mary 
 took down the family Bible — a fresh present from her 
 father — and bidding Mary Woodcock to be seated, com- 
 menced reading a chapter from the New Testament. Alas ! 
 his preparation for prayer that morning, so far as it was 
 drawn from a consideration of Bible truth, was very small, 
 for he sat as if in a dream while the reading was in progress, 
 his mind confused and his heart in a strange tumult of emo- 
 tion. 
 
 At length, the dreaded conclusion of the chapter came. 
 The voice of the reader was hushed, the holy book was 
 closed and replaced upon the shelf ; but Holyoke still sat 
 in silence, his features rigidly contracted, and his heart 
 beating so heavily that it jarred his frame. Silence soon 
 became more painful than speech, and he burst out with, 
 “ Mary, I can't pray this morning.” 
 
 “ Can't pray ? ” and the words came forth from Mary's lips 
 so slowly, so charged with astonishment, and so full of a 
 kind of solemn wonder, that Holyoke involuntarily lifted his 
 eyes .to hers, and saw them springing with tears. 
 
 He took her hand, and bowing his face upon it murmured, 
 “ My God forgive me ! ” 
 
 Still unmarried ! Wedded, but unwed ! Loving, but not 
 made perfect in love ! United, and yet separate! Thus 
 it is with multitudes of hearts, and those not the worst in 
 this world. The heart that has communed with God most 
 intimately in secret often shrinks most sensitively from giv- 
 ing utterance to the words of prayer where other ears than 
 God's can hear. Nay, it is not unfrequently the case that 
 those who have the most intimate relationship in life exer- 
 cise towards each other a most rigid reserve upon all matters 
 which touch their relations to God and religion, while each 
 preserves a spirit of devotion, and leads, so far as an indi- 
 vidual may without coming within the circle of social influ- 
 ence, a religious life. There is in every soul possessing nice 
 sensibilities an indisposition to place before other eyes a 
 revelation of its wants, its wishes, and its* aspirations ; but 
 until a husband and a wife can kneel together and realize the 
 sweetness of communing like children, lovingly and without 
 restraint, with their common Father, marriage though it may 
 be to them a band around a golden sheaf of happiness, has 
 the weakness of the straw, and is neither perfect nor secure. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 I 7 8 
 
 Holyoke’s eyes were hidden for a minute, and then look- 
 ing up convulsively, he exclaimed — 
 
 “ Must I try ? ” 
 
 “ You will never have a better time,” replied Mary. 
 
 “ It does not seem possible.” 
 
 “ What do you fear ? u inquired his wife. 
 
 “ I fear myself — I fear you — I fear God — and (bending 
 his face down to her ear) I fear that child. I cannot help it. 
 
 The Simple Life of the Puritans : A Banquet of Hasty Pudding. 
 
 I fear my own pride — that my speech will be awkward to 
 your ears, and thus mortify me, or elegant and make me 
 vain. I fear that I shall think more of my language than the 
 spirit from which it should spring. I fear the sound of my 
 own voice in this room. ” 
 
 Mary sympathized very deeply with her husband in this 
 trial, but she knew that the time for the struggle and the 
 triumph was then. So she gave him sweet words of counsel 
 and encouragement, and taking his hand rose upon her feet. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 179 
 
 At that day, in all the Puritan churches and families, the 
 standing posture was always assumed in prayer. Kneeling, 
 to them, was what the beautiful symbol of the cross is to 
 many of their descendants — something that belonged to and 
 was characteristic of Popery — something which had been 
 tainted and had the pQwer to taint again. 
 
 As Holyoke saw his wife rise, his determination was made, 
 and, rising, and folding his arms upon his breast, he uttered 
 tremblingly and with deliberate distinctness, the words, 
 “ Our Father which art in Heaven.” The spell was broken, 
 and with all the simplicity and earnestness of a child he went 
 on, and poured out his heart, — its penitence, its love, its 
 trust, and its many wants, and when he uttered his fervent 
 il Amen,” his eyes, as well as those of his wife, were wet 
 with tears. And when those eyes met, they shone with a 
 new beauty, and beamed with a more perfect trust. Both 
 felt that their hearts had been attuned to a new and more 
 exquisite harmony. 
 
 With hearts full, they turned to the window, hand in 
 hand, that even a child might not be the witness of a joy 
 that brimmed their cup with grateful fulness, and trembled 
 to run over in appropriate expression. Holyoke felt a 
 strength and buoyancy of spirit which he had never expe- 
 rienced before. There was, then, perfection of communion 
 between him and the being he loved best ; and he felt how 
 holy and beautiful a thing was marriage when it united those 
 whose steps lead heavenwards, and whose highest love was 
 already there. 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HILE these 
 last scenes 
 
 were in pro- 
 gress at the 
 house of 
 Holyoke, those of a 
 different character 
 e in process of en- 
 actment at the house of 
 is father-in-law. Mr. 
 n had called upon 
 Mr. Pynchon on private 
 business, and had chosen 
 the early morning hour 
 as best suited to his 
 purpose. The magistrate 
 was pained to find upon 
 the minister’s face the same wild look of anxiety that he 
 had witnessed upon a previous occasion, and dreaded 
 another exhibition of a weakness that was suggestive, at 
 least, of insanity. 
 
 “ I came to ask you a question,” said the minister, walk- 
 ing backwards and forwards across the room. “ It is an 
 abstract question, which I beg you to consider without any 
 relation to its practical bearings, even if the c^se which 
 prompts it should occur to you. It is one which, so far as 
 it goes, interests me very deeply.” 
 
 “ I am waiting for your question,” said Mr. Pynchon, 
 after watching the minister for a minute, as he paced to and 
 
 180 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 181 
 
 fro, and smiling at his own conceit that the gentleman was 
 treading out the question, as if he thought it was a flooring 
 of wheat. 
 
 “ Do you suppose ” — and Mr. Moxon paused for a better 
 phrase — “ does not it seem possible to you — that a man who 
 would give away his child would sell himself ? ” 
 
 “ And this is what you wish me to consider as an 
 abstract question ? ” said Mr. Pynchon, smiling in spite of 
 himself. 
 
 “You consider the question a foolish one,” said the min- 
 ister, pausing and biting his lip with vexation. 
 
 “ I do,” replied Mr. Pynchon, calmly. 
 
 “ Mr. Pynchon, you offend me,” said the minister, sharply, 
 for he was mortified, especially as he had been exercised 
 by a secret conviction all the time that he was doing a very 
 silly thing. 
 
 “ Well, sir,” responded the magistrate, with another smile, 
 I am happy to believe that it is the truth I tell you which 
 is offensive rather than the man who tells it.” 
 
 “That remark, sir, is not less offensive than the other,” 
 replied the minister, with increased bitterness ; “ and if 
 these are the kind of words you feel disposed to give me, 
 I shall take the liberty to bid you a good morning.” Say- 
 ing which the gentleman moved towards the door. 
 
 “They are the only words which seem proper for the 
 occasion,” said Mr. Pynchon, very decidedly, “ and so long 
 as you are engaged in the insane pursuit which occupies 
 you this morning, they are the only kind you will have 
 from me. I did not ask you to come to me with these 
 vagaries, and I trust you will not trouble me with them 
 again.” 
 
 So long as Mr. Moxon believed that Mr. Pynchon had 
 no insight into his motives, he felt strong and indignant, 
 but his pointed allusion to an insane pursuit, and his stig- 
 matizing as vagaries the thoughts which moved him so deeply, 
 disarmed him, and, dropping the latch he had lifted, he 
 walked back to where Mr. Pynchon was sitting, and settled 
 hesitatingly and unbidden into a chair. 
 
 “Excuse my heat this morning, I beg you, Mr. Pynchon, 
 for I am not well,” said the minister. “I hardly know what 
 I have said, but you spoke of vagaries. Will you be kind 
 enough to tell me what you meant i 99 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 l82 
 
 “ If you will hear me calmly and patiently, I will tell 
 you with perfect frankness, and certainly with perfect kind- 
 ness,” replied the magistrate. 
 
 Mr. Moxon turned his eyes solemnly upwards, and ex- 
 claimed, “ Divine grace helping me, I will hear you in a 
 Christian temper.” 
 
 “ From certain mysterious statements which you made 
 to me last summer, on my return from the Bay, and from 
 the question which you have propounded this morning,” 
 said Mr. Pynchon, “ I have come to the opinion that the 
 Devil is tempting you with suspicions that he has an 
 agent in the settlement who is operating to your damage. 
 You know that Woodcock bears you no good will, and he 
 is very naturally the individual whom your imagination 
 would clothe with the malign instrumentality. In other 
 words, you believe in witchcraft, and are strongly suspi- 
 cious that its influences are upon you and your house. I 
 have been plain with you this morning, and, as you have 
 chosen to think, severe, because I thought it my duty to 
 you, to the plantation, and to the interests of religion, to 
 be so. Were these things generally known, the naturally 
 superstitious spirit of the people would take fire at once, 
 and hell itself would hardly be less tolerable than our 
 new town of Springfield.” 
 
 “ Do you not believe in witchcraft ? ” inquired Mr. Moxon, 
 as Mr. Pynchon closed. 
 
 “ I do not perceive that your question has the slightest 
 relevancy to the matter in hand,” replied Mr. Pynchon. 
 “ I do not believe that witchcraft exists here, and, least 
 of all, do I believe that Woodcock, whom neither you nor 
 I can buy, would sell himself to the Devil. There are 
 half a dozen of your particular friends, and mine, too, I 
 may say, in all candor, whom I would suspect of such a 
 disposal of themselves before I would him.” 
 
 44 1 know you have always had a partiality for him,” re- 
 plied the minister, without any attempt to deny the genu- 
 ineness of Mr. Pynchon ’s interpretation of his language and 
 actions, “and that is one reason why I have never been 
 frank with you in relation to the subject.” 
 
 “ Then I am right ? ” 
 
 “You are not far from right.” 
 
 “ Let me tell you then, my dear sir,” said Mr, Pynchon 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 I8 3 
 
 solemnly, u that in giving utterance, or even secret harbor, 
 
 * to these suspicions, you are assuming a terrible responsi- 
 bility. If you can assume it on any but the most reliable 
 grounds, you are either a very brave or a very heedless 
 man.’’ 
 
 “ I admit what you say,” said the minister, “ and if you 
 could but see what I have seen, and hear what I have 
 heard, you would confess that I have reliable grounds for 
 my suspicions.” 
 
 “Very well; give me a share in your experience,” replied 
 the magistrate. “ Nothing would gratify me more than an 
 opportunity to prove to you the fallacy of your conclusions.” 
 
 “ Well, you see,” said the minister, hesitatingly, and with 
 a slight blush, “it’s Martha.” 
 
 “ I thought so,” replied the magistrate, with a smile. 
 
 “ And why should you think so ? ” 
 
 “ Because I know the child. But this makes no differ- 
 ence. I wish to see her and ascertain whether she has 
 deceived you.” 
 
 “Deceive me! Martha deceive me !” exclaimed Mr. 
 Moxon convulsively ; “ my little child ? my little simple- 
 hearted one ? Do not pain me, Mr. Pynchon, by suspecting 
 her of such wickedness, or me of such weakness ! ” 
 
 “ I have no disposition to pain you, my dear sir ; but it 
 is possible that a little pain now will save a great deal in 
 the future. But tell me something of what has taken 
 place.” 
 
 “ I could not tell you a tithe of what has taken place. 
 Besides, I can see how many things which have made a. 
 profound impression on me should only excite your ridi- 
 cule, when simply narrated to you. Martha is a child who 
 would be very easily bewitched, and is by her constitution 
 peculiarly open to influences from the unseen world. Until 
 recently, her impressions and revelations have been gen- 
 eral, but they have been very strange. She has never accused 
 any one, but she shudders when Woodcock walks by her, 
 and was once thrown into a spasm at hearing his name 
 pronounced. I have questioned her considerably, but with- 
 out arriving at any very satisfactory results. I only know 
 this : that a strange and unearthly influence is upon her, 
 and that Woodcock appears to be more or less connected 
 with it,” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 184 
 
 “ I think I can get at the matter/’ said Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ If you will bring your child here after dinner to-day, I hope 1 
 I can show you — I think I can prove to you — that you are 
 in this whole matter very much mistaken.” 
 
 “I should be unjust to you and my child, at least,” re- 
 plied the minister, “were I to refuse the trial, and I consent 
 to your wish very cheerfully ; ” saying which, Mr. Moxon, 
 intent on the new aspect of affairs, walked out of the house, 
 forgetful of all courtesies. 
 
 After the minister’s departure, Mr. Pynchon sat for a long 
 hour engaged in reflection. He was sickened with the 
 prospect which Mr. Moxon’s hallucinations had opened to 
 him, and he was sickened with the man himself. He was 
 not a thorough sceptic in regard to the wonders of witch- 
 craft, and few who lived in his day could boast of entire 
 freedom from that great figment of superstition, but he did 
 not believe in Martha Moxon’s witchcraft at all, and vyas 
 vexed that her father, with the great affairs of the Gospel 
 ministry upon his hands, could tolerate such idle whims for 
 a moment, and not only tolerate but, as he had reason to 
 fear, actually implant and foster them. 
 
 Having determined upon his plan of procedure, he walked 
 out, and taking Holyoke’s house upon his way in a brief 
 call, directed his steps to the cabin of John Woodcock. He 
 found that individual within, singing merrily away at an old 
 stave while engaged in cobbling an extremely dilapidated 
 shoe. Mr. Pynchon informed him that he wished to see him 
 at his house in the early part of the afternoon, at such a 
 time as he should signal him from a window, and told him 
 not to be surprised if he found the business a strange one. 
 Woodcock promised compliance, and when the magistrate 
 departed fell into a brown study, or more properly a highly 
 variegated reverie, not unworthy of the brain of his eccen- 
 tric daughter. - 
 
 The first surmise of the old man was that news had been 
 received from England of the death of some unknown rela- 
 tive, who had left him his estate. It was very natural, 
 therefore, that Mr. Pynchon should invite him to his house, 
 and treat him with the respect due to his altered fortunes. 
 If this should prove to be the fact what a lady he would 
 make of Mary! He would give her such a fortune that 
 Holyoke would be proud to adopt her as a daughter ! He 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 185 
 
 would build a house that should outshine any and every 
 house in the settlement, and that should be Mary’s ! And 
 then he thought of the minister, and ran into a long calcu- 
 lation of the number of revenges which an unlimited amount 
 of money would enable him to execute upon that gentle- 
 man. He concluded at last, that if he were to offer to 
 build a meeting-house for the plantation at a cost of five 
 thousand pounds, on condition that they would dismiss Mr. 
 Moxon from further duty, they would accept the offer and 
 jump at the chance. This he should do without fail. Then, 
 just as the minister was about to leave the village on his 
 way back to the Bay, he would go up to him and say, ‘‘Here, 
 Moxon ” — yes, he would call him Moxon or George, he did 
 not know which — “ Here, Moxon, take your six pound thir- 
 teen and four ; I guess I’ve had that out of you one way 
 and another. When you come this way ag’in call, and if I 
 can help you ag’in by a little slander, I shall be at your 
 sarvice. ” That would be a good cut, and then he would 
 take off his hat and bow to him a hundred times as he 
 retired. 
 
 This florid dream was a long time in running through Wood- 
 cock’s mind, and he felt so contented in himself, and was so 
 enchanted with his possession, that he had forgotten himself 
 and the world of stern facts around him. When he awoke 
 he threw his hammer to the other end of his cabin, where 
 it fairly buried its face in the wall, and exclaimed, “ You 
 miserable old fool ! ” — After this, he burst into a fit of bois- 
 terous laughing, and then, picking up his hammer, resumed 
 his work. 
 
 . After working a while longer, his dreams took another 
 complexion, and there arose in his mind the possibility 
 that the visit had something to do with Mary. Perhaps 
 the child had stolen something, or there was a suspicion 
 that she had, and Mr. Pynchon wished to get him at his 
 house to make an inquiry into the matter. Perhaps there 
 was a conspiracy against the child, with Mr. Moxon at the 
 head of it. If such should prove to be the case, he should 
 take that gentleman by the throat, and exclaiming, “ ah ! ha ! 
 old wolf! I’ve caught you killing the lambs, have I?” he 
 would shake him till his face was blue, and kick him out 
 of the house ; and Woodcock almost leaped upon his feet 
 with the excitement of the imaginary encounter. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 1 86 
 
 But suppose there was merely a suspicion that she had 
 stolen something, and the circumstances were very much 
 against her. She would stand in the middle of the room, 
 crying as if her heart would break, and protesting that she 
 knew nothing of the matter. The question was just about 
 to be decided against the girl. He had begun to be con- 
 vinced of the guilt of his own child. At this moment Mary 
 Pynchon — for he could not think of her as Mary Holyoke 
 yet — would rush into the room, her face radiant with joy, 
 and bearing in her hand the missing article. This she 
 would hold up triumphantly, and placing it on her father’s 
 knee, clasp the child affectionately in her arms. 
 
 When this grand finale was reached, Woodcock was about 
 to insert the bristle of a waxed-end into the puncture pre- 
 pared for it, but, in the excitement of the moment, and 
 partly in consequence of an uncomfortable mist that gath- 
 ered about his eyes, he shot a long inch wide of the mark. 
 This fact reawakened him to the consciousness that he had 
 been dreaming, and kicking his kit into confusion and the 
 corner, he bestowed upon himself a variety of contemptuous 
 epithets, terminating respectively with the words “ coot,” 
 “fool,” and “pewter-head,” and then walked out into the 
 open air in search of a more healthy mental atmosphere. 
 
 But the morning passed very slowly away. He could not 
 relieve his mind of the apprehension that an event very im- 
 portant to him was about to occur. His mind ran into 
 nearly every possible channel but the right one, and as the 
 hour approached, he had settled down into a belief that a 
 great evil was impending over him and his child. His 
 dreams began in brightness and ended in darkness, and 
 when at last the expected signal appeared, he started for 
 the house of the magistrate in a state of profound dejection. 
 
 Mr. Moxon and his daughter had been at the house of 
 Mr. Pynchon for half an hour when Woodcock arrived. 
 They were closeted with him in a small private room, and 
 when Woodcock entered the house he was shown directly 
 to that room. The moment that he entered, Martha Moxon 
 uttered a piercing scream and fell to the floor in a fit, where 
 she lay for several minutes foaming at the mouth. Mr. Pyn- 
 chon was puzzled. He looked first at the child, then at 
 Woodcock, and then at Mr. Moxon, who was praying with 
 blanched lips for God’s mercy on himself and child, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 IS? 
 
 Woodcock was dumb and motionless with astonishment, 
 it seemed so unlike a common fit, was induced so manifestly 
 by his appearance at the door, and was regarded so singu- 
 larly by the child’s father, and by Mr. Pynchon. Seeing 
 that they took no measures to relieve the child, he exclaimed 
 in a tone well charged with reproof, “ Why don’t you cut 
 the chick’s riggin’, and do somethin’ for her?” 
 
 These words were better than a thousand arguments for 
 the reassurance of Mr. Pynchon. The exhibition had shaken 
 him, but Woodcock’s rough reproof testified to his own 
 thorough honesty, and the child’s delusion, or intentional 
 deception. In the meantime, the child remained upon the 
 floor, with her eyes rolled wildly up at the ceiling, the froth 
 issuing from her mouth, and presenting a spectacle equally 
 terrible and disgusting. Woodcock watched the group a 
 moment longer, and then burst forth with “ What in the 
 Devil’s name ! — ” 
 
 He had proceeded thus far, when the child uttered an- 
 other scream, and subsided into violent convulsions. 
 
 “ Mr. Pynchon,” exclaimed the minister, “ do not permit 
 these hellish incantations to proceed.” Then turning to 
 Woodcock he said, “ Man, beware ! Remember the terrible 
 price you pay for this, and repent in time ! Why will you 
 persist in afflicting this innocent child?” 
 
 “ Me ’dietin’ her ? Have I teched your young one? ” 
 
 “ Yes, it’s him, father,” exclaimed the child, becoming con- 
 scious in a moment, and pointing her finger at Woodcock. 
 “It’s him ; don’t you see the blue cat on his shoulder, whis- 
 pering in his ear ? Kitty, kitty, kitty, come, kitty ! ” and the 
 little girl smiled wildly, and held out her hand with an 
 enticing motion to the invisible animal. 
 
 “ What do you mean, you little slobber-chops ? ” said 
 Woodcock, with a glance at each shoulder, and one hand on 
 his head to see if that were in its place. Then, looking at 
 her a moment longer he said, “ She’s makin’ it, Square, as 
 sure as guns. I ain’t a ’pothecary, but if spankin’ ain’t 
 good for that kind, then I wouldn’t try it, that’s all.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon could not restrain a smile, and a pleasantly 
 inquisitive glance at the minister. That gentleman stood 
 looking at his child with a stern and solemn expression of 
 countenance, but deigned no reply to Woodcock’s accusa- 
 tion. 
 
i88 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ Woodcock, will you leave the room for a few minutes ? ” 
 said Mr. Pynchon ; and, as soon as he had retired, he ad- 
 dressed the same request to the minister. Mr. Moxon paused, 
 as if he would a§k a question, but Mr. Pynchon checked 
 him with a motion of the hand, and he hesitatingly complied. 
 When both had gone, and the door was closed, he lifted the 
 little girl, who had gradually recovered from her strange fit, 
 to his knee, and asked her what made her act as she had 
 done. 
 
 “ He made me/’ replied the girl, pointing at the door, and 
 meaning Woodcock. 
 
 “ How did he make you ? ” inquired Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ He did it with the blue cat,” replied the child. 
 
 “ The blue cat ? He has no blue cat, and you have not 
 seen any.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ve seen one at my brick house, and it had red 
 rings round its eyes, and it had — oh ! ever so many little 
 red kittens, every one of them made out of bricks — 99 
 
 “ Stop ! 99 said Mr. Pynchon, authoritatively. “ Let me 
 hear no more of that nonsense.” 
 
 The child looked tremblingly into his eyes, and was silent. 
 “ Now,” said he, “Martha, I am going to call John Wood- 
 cock into the room again, and your father is not coming. 
 Do you see that riding stick up there ? Now remember 
 that if you fall down in a fit again, or scream, or talk about 
 blue cats, I will whip your shoulders so that you shall have 
 something to scream about.” He then called Woodcock, 
 who came in expecting another fit ; but, on approaching the 
 child, and finding that she was perfectly calm, he sat down 
 opposite to her, and asked her to come and sit with him. 
 
 “ Go ! ’ said Mr. Pynchon, placing her upon the floor. 
 
 She walked immediately to Woodcock, and he lifted her 
 to his lap. Mr. Moxon had overheard the movements that 
 were in progress, and entered the room unbidden, at the 
 moment when Martha, at Mr. Pynchon’s command, was 
 engaged in kissing Woodcock’s rough cheek. It would be 
 hard to tell whether it were the flush of anger, or shame, 
 or fear, that burned upon Mr. Moxon’s face, as he saw his 
 child in what seemed to him a foul and unnatural act. 
 Mr. Pynchon pointed to the child in triumph, and ex- 
 claimed, “ Your daughter is no more bewitched than I 
 am.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 1 89 
 
 “ Martha ! get down and come to me,” exclaimed the 
 minister shudderingly. 
 
 In any other mood, Woodcock would have given the 
 minister bitter language, but Mr. Pynchon had used a word 
 which had opened to him the secret of the strange scene. 
 Slowly he comprehended the accusation which had been made 
 against him, and it smote him.dumb. Meanwhile Mr. Mox- 
 on had folded Martha to his breast, and was bending ten- 
 derly over her, and Mr. Pynchon was turning from one to the 
 other of his companions, uncertain what course to pursue 
 with them. He was relieved, at last, by the minister, who, 
 with a look full of angry reproof, said, 44 How do you decide 
 so readily that the child is not bewitched? Perhaps you 
 can tell what enchantments were used to get this trembling 
 child into that man’s arms/’ 
 
 Mr. Pynchon heaved a sigh that was half pity and half 
 disgust, and evidently restrained himself from using such 
 language to the infatuated father, in the presence of Wood- 
 cock, as he was powerfully moved to use. As the minister 
 bent over his child she raised her head and whispered in 
 his ear. She evidently made a request to return home, as 
 he rose with her in his arms, and very emphatically saying 
 44 then you shall go home,” passed out of the house, and 
 left Mr. Pynchon and Woodcock looking silently into one 
 another’s faces. 
 
 The magistrate and his surprised companion preserved 
 their position and their silence for a long minute after Mr. 
 Moxon’s withdrawal, as if they had made a private agree- 
 ment not to speak until he was beyond a hearing distance. 
 Woodcock was in distress. His mind, in a brief time, had 
 ranged through the field of consequences that would nat- 
 urally be opened by the. singular suspicion which the 
 minister had fastened upon him, and he could not avoid the 
 conclusion that that field was springing thickly with trials and 
 sorrows. 
 
 44 Where do you ’xpect this thing is goin’ to fetch up ? ” 
 said Woodcock, at last, folding his arms upon his knees, 
 and looking with renewed earnestness into Mr. Pynchon’s 
 face. 
 
 44 It seems to me,” replied the magistrate, thoughtfully, 
 44 that he must necessarily abandon suspicions that are 
 proved to be so groundless.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 190 
 
 “ Well, Square/ 1 said Woodcock, “ I don’t pretend to 
 be any smarter than other folks, but I know Mr. Moxon 
 better’n that. Guessin’ is a great deal stronger’n knowin’ 
 with him. Argyments don’t stand no more chance with his 
 notions than a hen’s egg does with a weasel. He’d suck the 
 yelks right out on ’em, and hide the shells in his coat-tails, 
 and swear he hadn’t seen ’em. No, sir, — there’s goin’ to be 
 a fuss, and I’ve got to catch it. He’s bewitched the young 
 one, and she’s bewitched him — all the bewitchin’ there is — 
 and they think it’s me. He’s been peaceable a good deal 
 longer’n I s’posed he would, but he’s on the track, and he’ll 
 foller it, and yelp till all the hounds in the settlement jine 
 him.” 
 
 “ It is too small an affair for Mr. Moxon to pursue, I am 
 sure,” said Mr. Pynchon, shaking his head as if he were not 
 entirely sure, after all. 
 
 “ What did he start it for, then ? ” said Woodcock. “ It 
 was a good deal smaller then than ’tis now. I don’t know 
 jest what you think of his preachin’, Square, but I’ve heerd 
 him talk half a day on littler things’n that, and I b’lieve he 
 likes such things better’n anything else. I think a good 
 deal of religion, if you can only get hold of the right sort, 
 but his’n ain’t that sort by a long chalk. I never see a min- 
 ister stickin’ to little things, such as didn’t come to any given 
 sum, anyway, but what he had an onreasonable religion, and 
 I never see one that had an onreasonable religion that didn’t 
 make a jackass of himself — so ! there ! ” And Woodcock 
 slapped his knee spitefully, rose to his feet, and walked 
 across the room as if he had said something which he ex- 
 pected to be reproved for. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon knew that Woodcock had been sufficiently 
 provoked, and so made no comment on his remarks about 
 the minister, but asked him what course he supposed that 
 individual would pursue. 
 
 “ I think he’ll shoot low, and save his waddin’, till you go 
 to the Bay ag’in, and then he’ll let me have it jest back o’ 
 the fore-shoulder, as he did t’other time. You’re a little too 
 much for him, Square, but you’ve got him mad, and I’ve got 
 to stand the blowin’ for both on us. Not that I care any 
 great shakes about it on my own account, ’cause I’m used 
 to’t.” 
 
 “ Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon cordially, “ you gratify 
 
THE BAY PATH. IQI 
 
 me very much by commanding your temper so well this 
 morning. ” 
 
 “ Now, Square, stop that, or you'll get me mad," said 
 Woodcock sharply, and reddening in an instant. “Tain’t 
 no compliment to tell me my pluck's gone, and if you want 
 to raise the devil in me right straight off, all you've got to 
 do is to stroke my back and call me a good feller." 
 
 “ I may think what I choose about you, I suppose," said 
 Mr. Pynchon smiling, “ provided I say nothing about it." 
 
 “ It’ll be better for the minister if you keep mum, for if 
 I r’ally thought you s’posed I was layin' low ’cause I was 
 gettin' good, I'd make pumice of him 'fore he was an hour 
 older." 
 
 “ What serious objection have you to being called good ? " 
 inquired Mr. Pynchon curiously. 
 
 “ I ain't good," replied Woodcock decidedly. “ I'm bad, 
 and gettin' worse, and I don't want to have you think I’m 
 gettin' any better. I sh'd be ashamed to grow good on sech 
 fodder as I've had in this plantation. It's mighty poor stock 
 that’ll do it, and I don’t belong to the breed." 
 
 “ We all notice that you are changed in your temper," said 
 Mr. Pynchon, “ and I see no way for you to do but to let us 
 call it for better or worse, as it pleases us. " 
 
 “ Do you r'ally s’pose the folks round here think I'm get- 
 tin' good? " inquired Woodcock, with an air not unlike that 
 of injured innocence. 
 
 “ With the exception of Mr. Moxon, I presume they do." 
 
 “ Then they’re a sweet set of fools — that's all. Now I'll 
 tell you, Square, jest how 'tis, and what it all started from. 
 When I was layin' by, after that overhaulin' the minister 
 give me, last Spring, I was walkin' in the woods, thinkin' 
 , about that matters and things, worryin' about that gal of 
 mine, and wonderin' how I was goin’ to fetch round, when 
 out shot a hen patridge with one wing lopped clean down 
 to the ground; and she kept hoppin' and limpin' ahead on 
 me, and lettin' me almost get up to her till I'd chased her a 
 good long stretch, when all at once, jest as I was hittin' her 
 a rap, she up and off as sound as a nut and straight as a 
 string. Then I mistrusted the critter, and turned round and 
 went back to where she started out. I've got a tol'able good 
 eye, and pretty quick I saw a little young patridge, jest hid 
 under a leaf, and standin' as still as a mouse. Well, Square, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 192 
 
 I sot right down on a stone, and went to thinkin' to see if I 
 couldn't learn somethin' from the old bird. Says I, ‘ Wood- 
 cock, you ain't 'xactly a hen patridge, but you're kind o' 
 wild, and you have got a wild young one. Now when the 
 Square gets back, you try to get into the plantation ag'in, 
 and if you do, get your young one under a leaf, and then 
 limp and let your wing lop down, and make 'em think 
 you're as good as bagged, till they forget all about the 
 young one.' Well, you know I got the young one under 
 just the leaf I wanted to, and I’ve kept my wing down, and 
 it's done the work, too, till now ; but, Lord ! I aint anymore 
 a tame patridge than I be a spavined salmon." 
 
 At this characteristic conclusion of Woodcock’s exposition 
 of his policy and motives, Mr. Pynchon laughed heartily, 
 and, rising to his feet, said, “ Well, John, you placed the 
 young one still further under the leaf last night, and I am 
 glad to see that you keep the wing down still." 
 
 “ What do you s’pose Holyoke'll do with that gal of mine ?" 
 inquired Woodcock, with an affected carelessness of man- 
 ner. 
 
 “ I imagine that he has come to no conclusion yet — he has 
 hardly had time," replied the magistrate. 
 
 <c YVell, I reckon he'll do pretty much as his wife says, and 
 I know she likes her. Don't you think she’s a goin' to 'arn 
 her livin' ? " 
 
 “She appears to be bright and industrious." 
 
 “ Now, don't you s’pose if she didn't see the old one round 
 she’d get tame, and folks would forget where she was 
 hatched ? " and Woodcock put on a very transparent look 
 of unconcern, and snapped his fingers with an ease that was 
 very uneasy. 
 
 “ Do you mean to ask whether for the sake of your daugh- 
 ter you had better leave the plantation ? " 
 
 “ That’s jest it, Square," replied Woodcock. “ You see I 
 don t care anything about this witchcraft business myself, 
 only, if I hadn’t a young one to look after, it wouldn’t be 
 safe for a man to p’int his finger to me and say, ‘ broom- 
 sticks' more'n a dozen times. He’d lay down kind o' care- 
 less, and I should stomp on him. But the gal makes 
 the trouble. You see, I don't want to be a drawback 
 on her, and I’ve been thinkin' that p'r'aps I’d better say, 
 that if you should find me gone some time, and I shouldn't 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 193 
 
 come back, and you didn’t know where I’d gone to, I 
 want to have what little land I’ve planted here to go to 
 Mary when she gets old enough, and help support her 
 till she does.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon read in Woodcock’s tone and manner the 
 nature of the conclusion to which he had arrived. He saw 
 that he believed that Mr. Moxon would pursue his persecu- 
 tions further, and that it was only his consideration for his 
 child that kept him from visiting the minister with savage 
 vengeance ; and, while he disliked to part with the man, it 
 seemed evident that it was for the peace of the plantation 
 and the good of all concerned, for him to quietly withdraw. 
 
 He saw that the difference between him and Mr. Moxon 
 had become utterly irreconcilable, and that the introduction 
 of a new element of discord, which from its nature would 
 be likely to involve the welfare of the settlement, would 
 serve to extend a feud which was yet within limits. So he 
 told Woodcock that he would bear his request in mind, and 
 see to its execution whenever the supposed emergency should 
 occur, but expressed the hope that he would take ’no hasty 
 action. 
 
 Woodcock took his leave of the magistrate, and walked 
 slowdy away, with his head bent down reflectively, and his 
 hands grasping each other behind his back. He was think- 
 ing of a project he had formed months before — a project 
 based on the supposition of such a juncture in his affairs as 
 he had already reached. He had for several months thought 
 it probable that, considering Mr. Moxon’s hatred of him, a 
 time would come when, to save the reputation of his child, 
 or to keep her free from unpleasant or unpopular associa- 
 tions, it would be necessary for him to retire from the settle- 
 ment, and he had laid all his plans for that event. He had 
 not a doubt that if he should remain, the fact that he had 
 been accused of being a wizard would, in some manner, 
 become known, while, if he should retire, Mr. Moxon would 
 have parental affection sufficient to induce him to keep his 
 secret. He had arrived opposite to the house of Holyoke, 
 when, upon raising his eyes, he saw his daughter smiling at 
 the window. He could not resist the temptation to enter 
 the house, where he was greeted very cordially by Holyoke 
 and his wife, both of whom detected the cloud upon his 
 features, andf made sympathetic allusion to it. 
 
194 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ Well, I be troubled,” said Woodcock emphatically, 
 “ but I don’t make a p’int of goin’ round to tell on’t ; least- 
 ways, I wouldn’t fetch my troubles here. ” 
 
 “ I do not know of a better place,” said Mary Holyoke 
 smilingly, “ and you certainly ought to carry them some- 
 where.” 
 
 “ I never do,” replied Woodcock. 
 
 “ And what do you do with them ? ” 
 
 “Let ’em mull.” 
 
 “And here you have given me your companion, your 
 comfort, your own child!” exclaimed the lady, the tears 
 springing to her eyes. 
 
 “ If you want to do me any good, look after her. I’ll take 
 care o' myself. My troubles are nothin’ to anybody, and, if 
 she comes out right, they ain’t anything to me.” 
 
 “ I will certainly do the best I can with her,” said Mary, 
 “ and she seems well disposed to do everything she can for 
 me.” 
 
 “ Can she pay her way ? ” inquired Woodcock earnestly, 
 and as if the question contained the very meat of the matter. 
 
 The reply to this question was interrupted at the com- 
 mencement by a rap at the door, and the entrance of Mr. 
 George Moxon. 
 
 Pine-tree Shilling : First Money Coined in New England. 
 
Beads of Wampum, Shells and Turquoi 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 HEN Mr. Moxon left the house 
 of Mr. Pynchon, he proceeded 
 homewards, carrying his child 
 in his arms- the whole distance. 
 Arriving at his house, he laid 
 n the bed, and, bending over 
 her how she felt. She made him 
 ..v. for several minutes, when she 
 
 startled him by a sudden cry of pain, and the exclamation 
 — “ Oh ! stop him ! stop him 1 He's sticking pins into me I ” 
 
 “ Where, child ! where?" inquired the distressed father. 
 
 “ In my foot — in my back — all over me," replied the 
 child. 
 
 She was immediately undressed, and from the delicate 
 skin the blood was starting at several points upon her body 
 and limbs. After being carefully covered she lay still for 
 several minutes, when she began to complain of sickness at 
 the stomach, and soon vomited forth upon the floor an 
 offensive mass, in which were distinctly seen a number of 
 crooked pins — a fact from which the minister concluded 
 that the pricking had been done from within outwards. 
 Poor Mrs. Moxon stood at a distance in great distress, 
 looking pitifully fearful, wan, and woe-begone. Broken- 
 spirited and feeble in body, the strange calamity in whose 
 presence she stood had paralyzed her, and she could only 
 impotently wring her hands, and weep, and utter feeble 
 ejaculations of prayer to God for help. 
 
 When the vomiting had ceased, Martha turned back upon 
 
 13 *95 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 196 
 
 the bed, as if entirely exhausted, and, after lying upon her 
 back a few minutes, with her eyes closed, she opened them 
 wildly, and rolling them upwards, fixed them stiffly, in an 
 unwinking gaze, upon the rough ceiling. “ I see them ! I 
 see them ! ” she exclaimed softly, into her father’s ear, as 
 he bent over her ; “ Oh ! what beautiful little kittens ! and 
 the old blue cat has got one of them in her mouth ! Oh ! 
 my neck ! my neck ! She’s biting the kitten ! There ! the 
 kitten has got away ! Good ! Good ! ” and the little girl 
 clapped her hands merrily, while her face retained its 
 strained and rigid expression. “ Oh ! papa ! ” continued 
 the child, “ do you see those six white, beautiful fingers 
 sticking down out of the boards ? Aren’t they pretty ! oh ! 
 they’re just as pretty as they can be ! and there is the old 
 cat sucking one of them, and there go the kittens ! Every 
 one of them is sucking a finger, and there they hang, swing- 
 ing at the fingers all the time — oh ! wouldn’t it be funny to 
 catch hold of their tails and pull them off? * * * There 
 they go ! ” exclaimed the child, “ the fingers have pulled 
 them right up through the boards.” 
 
 As she uttered the last words, her features relaxed, and 
 returned to their natural expression, and she turned her 
 face pleasantly towards her father, and exclaimed, “ I’m so 
 glad he’s gone ! He was too bad to hurt me so.” 
 
 “ Who do you mean, Martha ? ” inquired the minister 
 tenderly. 
 
 “John Woodcock,” replied the child, and then added, 
 “ wasn’t he cruel to squeeze my ankle ? ” 
 
 The father had ceased to be astonished at any of the 
 child’s revelations, and immediately turned off the bed- 
 clothes to see what new wonders the invisible John Wood- 
 cock had wrought. He was not at all surprised to find 
 around the child’s ankle the marks of a firmly grasped hand, 
 even to the sharp indentations of the finger nails. 
 
 “When did he do this ?” inquired the father. 
 
 “ Just now, when the blue cat and her kittens were here,” 
 replied the child. " Didn’t you see him? He was on the 
 foot of the bed all the time.” 
 
 “Why didn’t you cry out, and tell me he was here?” 
 inquired the father earnestly. 
 
 “ Because he told me not to say a word about him, for, if 
 I did, he would throw me out of the window. ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 197 
 
 “ Did he go out of the window ? ” 
 
 “No; he went out of the hole where the latch-string 
 comes through. ” 
 
 There was one witness to these exhibitions and revelations 
 to whom little attention had ever been paid. This was the 
 second child of the minister, Rebekah. She had looked on, 
 sometimes in terrified silence, but never without an absorb- 
 ing interest. Every word uttered had been indelibly stamped 
 upon her memory, and the whole subject and all its associa- 
 tions had become invested with the most intense fascination. 
 She said nothing, but she saw every motion, heard every 
 word, revolved them in her childish meditations, and 
 dreamed of them in her sleep. 
 
 During the scene which has just been described, she had 
 climbed upon a chair, and gazed with wondering eyes upon 
 her sister’s contortions, and drunk in greedily her strange 
 utterances. Just as Martha had designated the point of 
 Woodcock’s exit, her father accidentally turned to Rebekah, 
 and saw her staring with a strangely rigid expression at the 
 latch. He spoke to her, but she did not stir, but gazed 
 steadily at the object upon which she had fixed her eye. 
 He turned and took her hand, but it was rigid and cold, and, 
 grasping her in his arms in a hurried alarm, he found her 
 insensible, and in a trance. 
 
 This new affliction was too much for both father and 
 mother. The child was laid upon the bed with her sister, 
 while the parents, giving themselves up to wild ejaculations 
 and groans and cries, alternately bent over the new victim 
 of Satan, and walked back and forth across the room. 
 Martha was, however, possessed with perfect calmness. She 
 lay quietly by the side of her little sister, embraced her with 
 childish caresses, asked her to awake, and, finally, com- 
 menced singing to her. This brought the parents to silence, 
 and the mother, naturally returning to her old habits, 
 dropped upon her knees at the bedside, and buried her face 
 in the coverlet. In any other mood, and at any other time, 
 her husband would have reproved her for assuming so her- 
 etical a posture, but his superstitious fears had been so far 
 wrought upon, that he had begun to mistrust that, perhaps, 
 God was visiting him with terrible judgments for non-con- 
 formity — that he had strayed away from the true fold. 
 
 He watched his wife for a moment, looked out of the 
 
't'HE BAY PATH. 
 
 198 
 
 
 window to see if any one was near, stepped to the door and 
 made it fast, and then knelt by her side, and gave utterance 
 to a prayer which was momently interrupted, from its com- 
 mencement to its close, by convulsive sobs and choking 
 throes of mental pain. 
 
 Both remained kneeling for some minutes after the close 
 of the prayer, and when, at length, they lifted their eyes, 
 they saw their younger daughter looking silently and pleas- 
 antly into the face of the older one, who sat regarding her 
 with a gratified and affectionate smile. 
 
 This sudden change in the aspect of affairs would have 
 brought an unmixed joy to the heart of the minister, had it 
 not so immediately followed a prayer uttered upon his knees. 
 But doubts rose out of his joy like an armed host, to beat 
 him back into the realm of misery he had so long inhabited. 
 
 Turning from his children, he paced forwards and back- 
 wards across the apartment, wondering if this were not the 
 way God had chosen to bring him back to the true church, 
 and to condemn his present convictions and connections. 
 Oh, that God would rend the heavens and come down ! that 
 he would stand and converse with him, and tell him in 
 language that he could not misunderstand, what he should 
 do to avert His judgments ! 
 
 Then, as he reviewed the circumstances and events of the 
 occasion, another swarm of doubts came against him, from 
 another direction. If this were the devil, operating directly 
 or indirectly upon his children ; if the children had been in 
 his power, was not their release from his influence evidence 
 that he had been conciliated by the very prayer which had 
 just been regarded as the procurer of God’s favor ? Had 
 not the Adversary been pleased by seeing him and his wife 
 upon their knees once more ? Was it not a promise from 
 the great enemy of souls to abstain from hurting the chil- 
 dren, on condition that the parents would return to the 
 bosom of the church from which they had gone out ? These 
 two orders of questions could only result in confusion, and 
 it was in the utter hopelessness of their resolution that he 
 took his hat, and, re-assuring himself of the recovery of his 
 children, passed out of his house into the open air. 
 
 The atmosphere was raw and chilly, portending a storm. 
 Rustling leaves were driving across the street, sometimes in 
 parti-colored flocks and sometimes singly, clinging here and 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 199 
 
 there to a stump or a stone, and pausing tremblingly in 
 their leaps ; sometimes rushing into heaps in the hollows 
 and smothering themselves, and here and there holding 
 themselves by a splinter, and fluttering like a smitten bird. 
 
 The clouds were dull and cold, and as the minister looked 
 up, the very heavens seemed barred against him, while all 
 the elements were in conspiracy around him to shut him up 
 within the circle of his miseries. The house of Mr. Pynchon 
 had always been his place of resort when his own home had, 
 for any reason, become intolerable, but he had sufficient 
 reasons for not bending his steps in that direction. He 
 felt that he had been offended — almost insulted there, and 
 the wound was too fresh for sudden closure. 
 
 There never had been another house in the settlement 
 which had any real charms for him, and, as he drew his coat 
 around him, and buttoned it closely against the chilling wind, 
 he walked aimlessly along the street, until Holyoke’s new 
 dwelling came in sight. He felt that he had no special 
 errand there, at a date so closely succeeding the wedding, 
 but he determined to enter, and inquire after the health of 
 the family, if nothing more. At his entrance he disturbed, 
 as has already been recorded, a conversation in progress 
 between Mary Holyoke and Woodcock, and it may well be 
 imagined, in view of his recent experiences, that the latter 
 individual was the one, of all in the settlement, whom he 
 least wished to encounter. The sight of Woodcock threw 
 him entirely off his balance, and made him forgetful of all 
 forms of politeness. 
 
 “ How long has he been here ? ” exclaimed the minister, 
 in a harsh and authoritative tone, to Mary Holyoke. 
 
 “ Not long — I cannot tell you how long, sir,” replied 
 Mary,jwonderingly. 
 
 66 Long enough to find out that there’s a lady here, and 
 that she’s got a husband, ” said Woodcock, answering for 
 himself, and rising from his chair. 
 
 Mr. Moxon turned upon the old man a look of mingled 
 anger, scorn, and fear, but without deigning to address him, 
 said, “ Mary, how can you harbor such a man ? How can 
 you have him near you ? ” 
 
 “ He has never harmed me, sir,” said Mary, “ and I am 
 sure he never will. ” 
 
 “ Do you not know that he is sold, body and soul, to 
 
200 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Satan, and that his hands are still hot from his infernal 
 work ? ” half shouted the minister. “ Do you not know that 
 the strange power by which he commends his boorish man- 
 ners and uncouth speech to your good will is borrowed from 
 the Adversary? Do you not know that one of the Devil’s 
 foulest minions is here in your house, undermining your 
 peace, and planting thorns for your feet ? ” 
 
 Mary looked imploringly at Holyoke, and he came for- 
 ward, motioning to her to retire. Walking coolly up to the 
 minister, and looking him steadily in the eye, he said, “You 
 are either insane or impertinent ; now tell me which.” 
 
 The minister stared at him fiercely for a moment, but 
 quailed before his unbending eyes, and apologetically said 
 that he had doubtless acted in a manner which was widely 
 open to misconstruction, but that when the facts should be 
 known, Holyoke would not only understand the nature of 
 his feelings, but would forgive any seeming extravagances 
 into which they might have led him. 
 
 “ I accept your apology, and trust that you and our friend 
 Woodcock will adjust your differences, and have no further 
 trouble. ” 
 
 “ I make no compromises with Satan, or peace with the 
 sons of Belial,” said the minister, glowering fiercely upon 
 Woodcock. 
 
 That individual, who had stood with some impatience 
 watching the progress of affairs, could restrain his tongue 
 no further, and burst into the conversation with, “I ain’t 
 Satan, nor I ain’t a son of Belial ; my father’s name was 
 John and so was his afore ^im, for that matter, but if I was, 
 and there was any prospect of you’re ever cornin’ to live 
 with me, I should send you _my respects, and ask you to 
 stick to your mind, till after my door was shet.” 
 
 “ Imp of Satan ! ” growled the minister, “how dare you 
 profane this Christian house by such godless words ? ” 
 During the conversation, Mary Woodcock, who, when it 
 commenced, was in another part of the house, came in, and 
 became immediately interested in its progress. She watched 
 the minister closely, and as she faintly comprehended the 
 terrible epithets he was heaping upon her father, her eyes 
 flashed, the old bright spark began to burn on either cheek, 
 and she only wanted action to be the highest impersonation 
 of a fury; and this condition did not remain long unsup- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 201 
 
 plied. The last bitter address of the minister was no sooner 
 uttered, than she crossed the room like a cat, grasped his 
 hand, and, drawing it to her mouth, fastened her teeth into 
 it before he could guess what she was doing. Her jaws 
 came spitefully together, her teeth almost meeting between 
 the bones. 
 
 “ Hell-cat ! ” groaned the minister in an agony of pain, 
 and snatched his hand from her teeth with a suddenness 
 and power that almost lifted her from her feet. 
 
 “ Oh ! my God 1 Mary,” exclaimed Woodcock, in a tone 
 of extreme distress, “ it’s all over with me now ! ” 
 
 The child had no sooner given expression to her intense 
 anger than she ran to Mary Holyoke, who was sitting upon 
 the other side of the room, and, burying her face in her lap, 
 gave herself up to her old hysterical sobs and cries. 
 
 Woodcock was greatly troubled. That sudden movement 
 of his child was like a flash of lightning, revealing upon the 
 wall of the dark future the record of her fate. His sole aim 
 had long been to keep her dissociated from himself, and to 
 associate her as much as possible with those against whom 
 no one should dare to breathe a word ; but she had in- 
 curred the anger of the very man, who, for her sake, he 
 most feared. It ruined in a moment all his hopes, destroyed 
 his plans, and impressed him with the belief that his daughter 
 was designed for a fate not unlike his own. 
 
 Holyoke was deeply mortified that the event should have 
 occurred in his house, but, as the father of the child was 
 present, he simply expressed his sorrow for the occurrence, 
 and referred to Woodcock as the individual from whom 
 apology and reparation were due. 
 
 “ I’m sorry the thing is done, the Lord knows,” said 
 Woodcock, “for the gal’s sake, and the sake of the house 
 she belongs to, but I ain’t goin’ to back out, and leave her 
 in a scrape she got into on my account. She felt jest as 
 her dad did, but she didn’t know so much. She couldn’t 
 stan’ it to hear me called hard names, and while I’m round 
 she shan’t be abused for it.” 
 
 “ Miserable hypocrite S ” exclaimed the minister, scowling 
 and holding his wounded hand in its fellow — “ pretending 
 sorrow for the savage offense of your child, and yet acting 
 ss her boastful justifier and champion ! ” 
 
 “ Look a’ here,” said Woodcock, shaking his fist in the 
 
202 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 minister’s face, “ the school’s out and the ma’am’s drownded, 
 and now, you old carri’n, I ain’t goin’ to stan’ any more of 
 your sass. You jest call me imp and hypocrite and son of 
 Belial and father of a hell-cat once more, and I’ll pound you 
 till you’re as full of batters as an old brass kittle. It don't 
 do me any good, nor my young one, nor you neither, to 
 treat you decent. There ain’t anything that’ll bring you to 
 your milk half so quick as a good double-and-twisted 
 thrashing and hang me if I don't give you one in less’n five 
 minutes if you don’t shet your head.’’ 
 
 “ As the head of this house,” said Mr. Moxon, turning 
 to Holyoke, while a sudden pallor overspread his face, “I 
 claim your protection from the threats and hands of this 
 ruffian.” 
 
 Woodcock drew back his hand to strike him as he uttered 
 the last epithet, but it was caught by Holyoke, who in a 
 firm tone said to him, “ Strike no man in my house.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” said Woodcock, “but he tempted 
 me too strong.” 
 
 At this instant Mary Holyoke came up and laid her hand 
 upon his arm, and undertook in a soothing tone to address 
 him and dissuade him from violence. He understood her 
 motive at once, and deprecatingly held out his hand to her, 
 and begged her to desist. As she still persisted in her 
 attempt to speak, he put his hands to his ears to shut out 
 the sound, still begging her not to interfere, for he feared 
 her influence over him, and knew it would be exerted on 
 the side of peace. 
 
 During this brief diversion, Mr. Moxon had retreated, 
 stepped out of the door, and was rapidly passing away from 
 the house. The moment that Woodcock became aware of 
 his retreat, he wheeled, and, in a dozen bounds, which were 
 executed as strongly and as nimbly as if the very essence 
 of youth were dancing in his veins, he had stopped the 
 minister, and confronted him. The latter was alarmed, but 
 not entirely intimidated, and, seeing Holyoke at the door 
 of his house, and one or two others starting out of their 
 cabins and walking rapidly towards him, he endeavored to 
 pass on ; and as Woodcock interfered, exclaimed in deep 
 vexation and anger, “ Villain ! Stand aside ! ” 
 
 The words had hardly passed his lips when Woodcock 
 Struck him a staggering blow with his flaf hand across his 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 203 
 
 mouth. The minister shouted “ Murder ! ” and “ Help ! ” 
 and it was strange how those words — cries of simple alarm 
 and distress as they were — infuriated Woodcock. He had 
 patiently withstood injuries and insults, but the outcry of 
 this large and powerful man seemed so cowardly to him — 
 so mean and unmanly — that, having once broken over the 
 restraint under which he had held himself, He became sud- 
 denly maddened into fury, and, striking him a second blow, 
 the minister fell heavily upon the ground, the blood spurting 
 from his nose and covering his face. Woodcock was in- 
 stantly kneeling upon him, and putting his face down to his 
 ear, he hoarsely whispered, “ Are you goin’ to tech that gal 
 of mine ? ” 
 
 “ Help ! let me up ! ” gurgled forth the minister. 
 
 “ Are you goin’ to tech that gal of mine ? ” shouted 
 Woodcock. “ Say yes or no, or I’ll break your head. ” 
 
 “ Spare me,” feebly whispered the minister, “and I'll 
 promise as you wish.” 
 
 “ Now you remember,” said Woodcock, shaking his fist 
 menacingly before his eyes, “that if you make any fuss 
 about her bitin’ you, or let anybody else, or bring harm on 
 her any way, you’ll catch that thing between your eyes and 
 under your ear agin, and when it comes you wont think it’s 
 a puff-ball or a piece of cold pudd’n’.” 
 
 This scene had occupied a very brief space of time, and 
 at first somewhat paralyzed those who were its witnesses, 
 but as Woodcock concluded his threat, he felt himself seized 
 by two pairs of powerful hands. Their owners, however, 
 had made a very poor estimate of the kind of individual 
 with whom they had to deal, for in an instant he was on 
 his feet, and had thrown off the double grasp as if it were 
 the playful imposition of a child. 
 
 As he looked around him, he saw the villagers running 
 towards him from every quarter. As they came up and 
 gathered in a crowd, Henry Smith approached the minister, 
 and taking him by the arm, led him away towards his 
 house. As he was retiring Woodcock shouted, “ Now re- 
 member what you’ve said, for I shall be round,” and then 
 turned and walked, unmolested but followed by the crowd, 
 to Holyoke’s house. He seemed to understand that there 
 was not a man of them who dared to lay his hand upon 
 him, and he walked through them as calmly as if he thought 
 
 18730 
 
204 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 them so many stumps of trees. Taking Holyoke and his 
 wife by the hand, he bade them farewell. On their inquiry 
 in regard to what he meant, and where he was going, he 
 shook his head, and simply replied that they wouldn’t see 
 him again. 
 
 “ I’ve got to leave the gal with you,” he continued, shift- 
 
 John Woodcock Escapes from the Plantation and Joins the Indians. 
 
 ing immediately from considerations touching himself to 
 the subject which burdened his mind, “ and I want to have 
 you do as well as you can by her. I’ve got to go now, any 
 way , but I shall know how she gets along, and p’r’aps shall 
 help her some.” 
 
 Holyoke and his wife said but little to him. Both felt 
 unpleasantly in consequence of being associated with the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 205 
 
 scene of violence which had just occurred, at the sudden 
 cloud it had drawn over their happiness, and at the rupture 
 of the peace, and the wound to the reputation of the settle- 
 ment. 
 
 At last, Woodcock turned to the child, and taking a seat, 
 lifted her to his knee. He put her head back, and looking 
 in her face a moment, bent like a reed over her, and hiding 
 his rough face upon her neck, gave himself up to a passion 
 of grief and tenderness, which could only find expression 
 in long and convulsive suspirations. The villagers, one 
 after another, looked into the door and window, and there 
 was no smile upon their faces as they gave their places to 
 others. 
 
 “ Don’t forget me, Mary,” said Woodcock, as he raised 
 his head ; “ don’t forget me, and don’t b’lieve any on ’em 
 when they tell you I was a disgrace to you. Good-by ! ” 
 And straining her to his heart, he set her upon his own 
 chair, and looked fiercely out upon the gathering crowd. 
 Looking beyond the crowd, he saw the constable, John 
 Searles, approaching the house rapidly and he knew that 
 he must act immediately. Passing by little more than a 
 single leap out at the back door, he ran for the river, and 
 as his exit was witnessed by several persons, a wild outcry 
 was raised, and this seemed to break the spell that rested 
 on the crowd. 
 
 They rushed after him with a wild halloo, and succeeded 
 in reaching the river’s bank in time to see him push rapidly 
 out upon the current in his canoe. The constable and half 
 a dozen others went out in pursuit, but soon returned, well 
 knowing his superiority at the oar, and the danger there 
 would be in attempting his capture upon the water. 
 Woodcock’s little craft, under the long sweeping strokes of 
 his one oar, slipped through the water with wonderful ve- 
 locity, and soon looked so small that, with its apparent life, it 
 seemed more like a deer swimming the stream than the 
 transport of a man. The speck gradually curved in to the 
 eastern shore, ran in among the bushes, and disappeared. 
 The crowd then turned and went chattering excitedly back 
 to the village. 
 
 This attack upon the minister produced an excitement 
 which was long in subsiding. The fact became known that 
 Mary Woodcock had bitten the minister’s hand, and all 
 
206 the bay path. 
 
 wondered why some corrective measures were not instituted 
 against her. Then, little by little, in some unaccountable 
 way, the story of the witchcraft practised upon Mr. Moxon/s 
 children became known, till at last it was notorious in every 
 particular, and was the theme of a world of idle gossip. 
 
 But Woodcock did not return, and the affairs of the plan- 
 tation soon assumed their accustomed phase. Mr. Moxon 
 (after a month’s confinement) preached on in his usual way ; 
 Mr. Pynchon bought beaver and distributed justice with his 
 characteristic fairness and urbanity ; the planters planted 
 and builded; the women cooked, mended, and gossiped; 
 the children grew, and seed-time and harvest came and went 
 in the revolving circle of the years, as they have done since 
 the birth of the rainbow. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “JEN years ! A 
 segment of 
 the great cir- 
 cle of eter- 
 nity ! How 
 much of the long past 
 abides in so brief a 
 period ! Rivulets of 
 influence which start- 
 ed, perhaps, with the 
 subsidence of the 
 flood, and have been 
 joined by other rivu- 
 lets flowing from rifts in the stratified centuries, or have been 
 turned aside into sluggish circuits through long ages, have, 
 in ten years, deposited their store of blessings or curses, 
 and, at the same moment, sunk in the sands. Ten years ! 
 They are the high-road of destiny, crowded with shouting 
 multitudes — multitudes in chariots — multitudes in armor — 
 multitudes chasing golden phantoms — eager-eyed and sleep- 
 less multitudes — multitudes in rags and wretchedness — 
 multitudes trodden upon and forgotten in death. Ten years ! 
 Ten hours of joy — ten ages of sorrow ! Seed-time of a 
 harvest which shall not be fully reaped and garnered till the 
 stars, now throbbing and flashing in the strength and beauty 
 of their youth, shall flicker and fall. Ten sweeps of the 
 
 207 
 
208 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 wing of that great angel who, earthward bound, bears the 
 proclamation that time shall be no more ! Ten years ! 
 They transform helpless infants into bounding children, 
 confer manhood on boyhood, make matrons of maidens, 
 stamp wrinkles upon the brow of beauty, bring declining 
 years to senile idiocy, draw millions into life, bear millions 
 to their death, stud a heaven of hope with stars and blot 
 them all out, and, yet, only ten years ! 
 
 Ten busy years swept over the settlement of Agawam, 
 and wrought their changes and left their traces — wiping 
 away old memories with new experiences ; raising up one, 
 and bowing down another ; bearing cups of joy to some, 
 and clothing others in the weeds of mourning ; involving 
 old identities in new associations and circumstances, and 
 preparing the field for a fresh and more interesting survey. 
 In ten years, the Bay Path had been changed from a sim- 
 ple bridle path to a worn and frequented highway. Packed 
 horses went and came upon it through all the summer and 
 autumn ; land hunters, in merry parties, cantered along its 
 shady aisles ; emigrants coming from and returning to the 
 Bay, with strange freights of children and household stuffs, 
 and droves of cows and goats, crept along the solitudes 
 which it divided, and lighted nightly their lonely fires ; Mr. 
 Pynchon, with a pleasant retinue of companions, which not 
 unfrequently numbered some of the women of the planta- 
 tion, went twice a year to attend the General Court, and 
 the artery connecting the distant settlement with the body 
 of the colony throbbed more freely with the life and influ- 
 ence of the growing heart. 
 
 In ten years, Mr. Pynchon had greatly changed. Those 
 years had brought him seriousness with increasing care, and 
 determination with strengthening convictions of duty. The 
 increase in the population of the settlement by immigration, 
 brought in new materials, the strongest portion of which 
 were those with which he found himself inharmonious. His 
 heart rebelled against influences which he felt were begin- 
 ning to control the minds around him. The old creed, which 
 he hoped to see liberalized and simplified, was growing still 
 more strait. The community which he had been endeavor- 
 ing to mold into the semblance of his beautiful Ideal had 
 become warped, so that he hardly recognized it. Driven in 
 upon himself, forced in his declining years to see others out- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 209 
 
 stripping him in enterprise, and conscious of the advance of 
 errors which he had from motives of policy sought to neu- 
 tralize in their effect, rather than oppose in themselves, he 
 busied himself with his Bible, his thoughts, and his pen. 
 He began to write — uncertainly at first, reading and care- 
 fully revising as he wrote, from day to day ; and then, as he 
 became more interested in his work, he devoted himself with 
 entire ardor to the fulfilment of the mission he had assigned 
 himself For weeks and months the work progressed. Dur- 
 ing the day he wrote, and during the night he studied the 
 
 The Log Cabins of Agawam give way to Yankee Farm-Houses. 
 
 Scriptures and prayed ; and when at last the huge mass of 
 manuscript lay before him, he found that he had written a 
 book on theology. Little did he dream, as he turned over it's 
 leaves, interlining a sentence here, and correcting a word 
 there, that his own fate and that of the plantation were in- 
 volved in its pages. v 
 
 The changes that began in Mr. Moxon, when he first be- 
 came unsettled in his religious belief, went on during ten 
 years with great rapidity. Even his occasional fits of 
 strength and independence became, at first, widely intermit- 
 tent, and then ceased altogether, until at last he had degen- 
 
210 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 erated into a weak-minded, melancholy, fearful, and humble 
 man. He moved about the streets quietly, looking hurriedly 
 around at the slightest noise, as if he anticipated the appear- 
 ance of some danger. His little ones had become ten years 
 older, but they were puny and stunted children, and still the 
 sources of severe trials. They still had their strange fits ; 
 and their pitiable case had been commended to God, at the 
 public request of their father, by all the members of the 
 church. They were talked about, and at every new attack 
 from which they suffered the probabilities touching the author- 
 ship of their torments were thoroughly canvassed, until half 
 the people in the plantation had been mentioned as objects 
 of suspicion. 
 
 Mr. Moxon’s mind, shut up within a rigid creed, which, 
 in many points, chafed and benumbed his reason, shrank 
 from the walls of the inclosure, and became dry and dead. 
 He had fed on no liberal ideas. He had had no enlarge- 
 ment, and there, hemmed in on every side, and afraid to 
 burst out, he had clutched at effete superstitions, and eaten 
 them in silence and fear. His ministrations upon the Sab- 
 bath had become uninstructive and uninteresting, and 
 had come to be regarded with lamentable indifference by 
 his people. 
 
 Ten years came down on Holyoke’s rough house, and the 
 walls became blackened by the sun and rain ; but the 
 ground looked so pleasantly around, and so many delightful 
 associations were connected with it, that it had a cheerful 
 look to all. On Holyoke, ten years had wrought a great 
 work. Satisfied in his affections, blest in his home, happy 
 in his Christian experience, and in fellowship with a mind 
 that fostered every good motive, nourished every good resolve 
 and rewarded with the sweetest and only praise he sought 
 every difficult achievement and noble deed, he could not 
 choose but outgrow even his own expectations of growth, 
 and become, in his own modest consciousness, more noble 
 and manly than he had once supposed a man in active con- 
 tact with the world could be. Everyone looked upon him 
 as one of the coming men — one who, in the future, would fill 
 an important place in the plantation, if not in the colony. 
 Time had fed him ; experience had given him strength. 
 The love that burned warmly at his heart, and the angel that 
 fed the flame, kept all the chords of his being in harmony ; 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 2 1 1 
 
 and while, from this fact, he was able to give his whole soul 
 and undivided energies to whatever work he undertook, hi 9 
 mental and spiritual growth was, from the same fact, sym- 
 metrical, and strong as a natural consequence of its sym- 
 metry. 
 
 Mary Holyoke hardly looked older by a day than when 
 
 First Map of Massachusetts Bay : (Right Hand to the North). 
 
 she was married, yet she had known many cares and anxie- 
 ties, for three beautiful children played around the hearth- 
 stone. Yet Mary Holyoke had changed even more than 
 her husband. With advancing years, she had grown more 
 and more silent and diffident. She saw the growth of her 
 husband, and in the gratification which it gave her, and the 
 sweet cares imposed upon her by her children, she became 
 greatly self-forgetful. The more intimately she communed 
 
 14 
 
212 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 with the masculine mind with which she was associated, 
 the more she saw its depth, its power, and its beauty ; and 
 the greater became her admiration of it. She did not meas- 
 ure herself by it, but she was content to add herself to it 
 and blend herself with it. She experienced no sense of 
 humiliation at his side, but, on the contrary, emotions of 
 noble and ennobling pride. His love was the sweetest 
 blessing the earth had for her ; his admiration the sweetest 
 praise. When she dressed, it was for him ; when she la- 
 bored, it was for him ; when he was absent, all time that 
 was not devoted to him and those he loved, was a burden ; 
 when she left him, it was to .fly back, at the first oppor- 
 tunity, to him and the home in which he had made her so 
 happy and himself so essential to her happiness. She as- 
 serted no prominent place in the neighborhood where she 
 might have had commanding influence, because she was 
 content to feed the springs of love and power of one who 
 could fill that office as she could not. In this beautiful 
 devotion, her heart had known no cankering envy, no bitter 
 self-revilings, no vain regrets. Passion had left no trace 
 upon her cheeks, jealousy and pride and selfish discontent 
 had plowed no furrows across her brow ; and even the 
 fresh blush of maidenhood had only given place to a ma- 
 turer grace — a deeper, broader, and softer glory — which 
 happy maternity may alone bestow. She had been content 
 to be a woman, and to follow the promptings of her own 
 loving heart ; and in devoting herself to her husband and 
 children, had found the highest happiness she had ever 
 known. 
 
 The difference in the character of the changes that re- 
 spectively passed over Mary Holyoke and her sister, Ann 
 Smith, was as great as that of the respective motives by 
 which they were actuated. Ann was married to a man 
 with whom a sense of duty was the highest motive of action. 
 Pie had a strong will, and she readily took the coloring he 
 gave her. She performed the duties of a wife. She kept 
 the house, and clothed the children, and cooked the food, 
 and mended her husband’s garments, because as the wife 
 of Henry Smith it came within the line of her duty, and 
 because she knew that Henry Smith would regard the serv- 
 ice in that light, and not as any direct manifestation of 
 love to him, Thus labor became a burden, and sacrifice a 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 213 
 
 sorrow. Thus toil lost its dignity and its dignifying influ- 
 ence. Thus discontent became a tenant of her heart by a 
 perpetual lease, signed and sealed by her husband. Thus 
 upon her face the bloom of girlhood was never replaced 
 by any grace that atoned for its loss. Thus her features 
 assumed permanently the hard lines which were the appro- 
 priate expression of her prevalent thoughts and emotions. 
 Thus the corrugation of care which slept behind the fair 
 disguise of health, or became exhausted before they 
 reached the soft plump outlines of the surface, displayed 
 themselves in permanent wrinkles so soon as youth and 
 health began to wane. Thus she became old before her 
 time. 
 
 The character of Henry Smith had grown without being 
 enlarged — that is, the qualities of mind and heart that were 
 his when the reader first made his acquaintance, were by 
 the experience of ten years simply intensified or strength- 
 ened. There was no change in the outlines of his character. 
 The identities of his being had all been preserved. He 
 had adopted a system of opinions on almost every subject 
 that interested him in- youth, and as manhood came on he 
 shut off the influx of light and knowledge, having got 
 enough for his purposes. All his opinions and sentiments 
 were clearly arranged in his own mind, and as he could and 
 would talk of nothing beyond his range, he had the repu- 
 tation of being clear-headed and strong-minded. He had 
 tracked over every channel of his soul till he knew it as he 
 did the paths around the plantation. He knew just what 
 arguments and illustrations he had on hand, as well as he 
 knew what trees grew hickory nuts and chestnuts upon his 
 farm. In his own consciousness mind was cut up in patches 
 like his home-lot, each patch being productive of some use- 
 ful fruit, and while the whole might be made more fruitful 
 even as the home-lot might, its area, like that, could never 
 be increased by any intrinsic principle of growth. He was 
 a kind of cast-iron man — a perfectly reliable man — a man 
 whom one always knew where to find, and with humble 
 ostentation he gloried in the character. 
 
 What did ten years do for Peter Trimble ? The first of 
 the ten found him a small lad. He had not growth enough 
 for his years; and while he remained small, his roguery 
 seemed to be so concentrated that a successful attempt to 
 
214 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 check the appropriate expression might have been fatal. 
 But, at the close of the year, his master, whose attention was 
 called to the subject, found the bottoms of the legs of 
 Peter’s trousers in the immediate vicinity of his knees. He 
 saw that the boy had begun to grow in earnest, and then 
 recognized the fact that as the length of his limbs had in- 
 creased his roguishness had diminished. 
 
 Year after year this process went on until he arrived at 
 
 The Pioneers of New England. A Noonday Halt. 
 
 manhood with a stoop in his shoulders, bashfulness in his 
 manners, a tuft of white beard upon his chin which was in- 
 visible at a short distance, and a populous settlement of the 
 most inflammable and intractable pimples upon his face. 
 Peter’s legs seemed to have a great influence in his conver- 
 sion to good behavior. The utter disparity between his 
 legs and his favorite pursuits first became apparent to him 
 on the occasion of his tripping up a small boy as the boy 
 did not happen to be so long as his legs ; and after that, he 
 
THE BAY BATH. 
 
 215 
 
 half unconsciously adopted his legs as a moral standard, 
 and they certainly answered an excellent purpose. While 
 his legs thus became the means of his reformation, his 
 pimples did good service in confirming him in principles of 
 sobriety. They made him modest and retiring, for he was 
 as conscious of each particular pimple as if it were a burn- 
 ing mountain. Each florid protuberance seemed to possess 
 an independent power of blushing, and would redden as it 
 felt itself the subject of observation until his face appeared 
 like a chart, representing all the stages of active inflamma- 
 tion. 
 
 If he had an errand at any house in the settlement, the 
 last thing he did before knocking at the door was to draw 
 his hands down over his face, and, as the surface was smooth 
 or rough, he was bold or embarrassed in his interview with 
 the individuals with whom his business lay. Sometimes, 
 when his face felt extremely rough and uneven, he was 
 obliged to look down upon his legs for reassurance of his 
 manhood, and thus those organs became more than a sim- 
 ple moral standard — became, in fact, a motive force, by 
 which the spurs were put to resolution. In short, Peter 
 was so thoroughly changed that one who had not seen him 
 in ten years, would not have recognized him at all. He was 
 a new creation. He was as if he had been literally what he 
 had been often denominated figuratively — “ a hard little 
 nut ” — which had fallen to the ground, burst open, and given 
 birth to a tall chestnut sapling, either absorbing the nut or 
 entirely covering it from sight. 
 
 Mary Woodcock had become a woman, and her sharp 
 black eye had grown large, and, softened by new sympa- 
 thies, very beautiful. It was a most legible index to an un- 
 easily balanced, passionate nature. It seemed sympathetic 
 and inviting, and yet repulsive, with a kind of reckless dis- 
 dain. To many susceptible temperaments, it was charged 
 with the most intense fascination. Her eye was apparently 
 all that any one saw who came into her presence. A stranger 
 would have remembered nothing but her eye. Her size, 
 form, face — all would have been forgotten in the recollec- 
 tion of that wonderful revelation of character, that subtle 
 detecter of sympathy, that inquisitor of motive, that insphe- 
 ration of soul. One watched it involuntarily, and without 
 being conscious that that was the only object observed, as 
 
2l6 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 one watches a whole face for the perusal of the emotions 
 which express themselves in its changes. It had its sun- 
 shine, its clouds, its depths of thoughtful coolness, its flashes 
 of passion, its dances of delight, its phases of humid soft- 
 ness, its half repulsive glarings of wild merriment, and all 
 those appreciable but indescribable intermediate shadings 
 and interminglings of emotion, passion, sentiment, and 
 thought, which found birth and being within her soul. 
 
 Yet she had few sympathies with her own sex. Her 
 development never lost the bias towards masculineness given 
 to it in its initiative stages. Not that she was coarse, or 
 offensively and improperly bold ; but her individuality had 
 the faculty and characteristic of standing alone. She leaned 
 on no one, and had no wish to lean. She had no confidant 
 but her benefactress — no intimate associate of her own age 
 — and she had no desire for one. If she had any desire 
 touching man or woman, it was that she might receive his 
 or her confidence and trust, and to stand in the relation of a 
 protector or supporter. In such a relation, she could dare 
 or do anything. 
 
 Everybody felt that Mary Woodcock was attractive, and 
 yet everybody naturally and specially subject to her attrac- 
 tions was afraid of her. There was a scar upon the minis- 
 ter’s hand which every one in the plantation had seen. All 
 knew or believed, that there was incorporated in her nature 
 a terrible temper. 
 
 Mr. Moxon’s children were still subject to their strange 
 fits, and there was, necessarily, in the minds of the credu- 
 lous — and nearly all were such — some medium or agency 
 by which the Satanic influence was communicated. After 
 everybody in the plantation against whom a suspicion could 
 by possibility be indulged, had been taken up by the reck- 
 less fingers of gossip, turned over, and dropped, the ill- 
 starred orphan was fixed upon as the one who most probably 
 was in the blame. The scar upon Mr. Moxon’s hand was 
 evidence of her spite against him, and the banishment and 
 disgrace of her father, in consequence, indirectly at least, 
 of his reputed agency in tormenting the children, were 
 deemed motives sufficient to induce her to perpetuate the 
 work he had commenced. 
 
 These things were not talked about openly, yet every- 
 body knew of them, and had not the girl been under the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 217 
 
 protection of Holyoke and his wife, she would have been 
 subjected to great annoyances, if not to unrestrained perse- 
 cution. As it was, she became aware of the suspicions 
 held, and influences operative against her, and the conscious- 
 ness — as her mood might be — wearied, sickened, soured, or 
 maddened her. 
 
 There were also shadowy reports in regard to certain 
 interviews that Mary had been known to have with men, or 
 forms, who came and went in the night ; and a very singular 
 looking communication had been found addressed to her. 
 This had been passed from hand to hand, and finally came 
 into the possession of Mr. Moxon, who put it under lock 
 and key, with the impression that it might possibly be of 
 use to him. These facts formed the basis of all kinds of 
 stories, which did not require ten years for such growth and 
 modification as to place them beyond the recognition of 
 their first acquaintances. 
 
 At the house of Mr. Pynchon, a new spirit had taken 
 possession. Mary had long been absent. The old lady 
 grew more and more quiet, from year to year, and, busying 
 herself in the small economies of the establishment, left the 
 labor to the devoted servants of the household ; while John, 
 the boy pupil of Mary, came early into man’s estate, and 
 assumed naturally and boldly its responsibilities. 
 
 During all these years, what changes had come over John 
 Woodcock ? None in the plantation could tell. He had not 
 once been heard of in the settlements eastward or at the 
 south ; but, though none had seen him, there were very few 
 who did not believe that he was alive. There was one who 
 knew him to be alive, or, rather, who had no doubt of the 
 fact. This was his daughter. She had received, at the 
 hand of Commuk, the Indian, a score o t communications, 
 rudely traced upon strips of birch bark, consisting of warn- 
 ings, bits of information in regard to her position in the 
 neighborhood, scraps of advice, etc. These were nearly 
 always accompanied by presents, larger or smaller, in silver 
 money or wampum ; and though the communications had 
 no signature, and the gifts no nominal donor, she had no 
 doubts touching their common origin. The Indian mes- 
 senger answered no questions, and made no explanations. 
 
 Within the first year after Woodcock’s withdrawal from 
 the plantation, the discharge of a gun was occasionally 
 
2l8 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 heard in the forest, when all belonging to the plantation 
 were at home. An Indian was seen, on one occasion, with 
 a musket in his hand, but he suddenly fled from sight, and 
 as, in one way and another, the Indians generally became 
 possessed of fire-arms, the matter was forgotten. 
 
 The reader has been made acquainted with the changes 
 which ten years had wrought upon his acquaintances in the 
 plantation of Agawam. As he recognizes, One after another, 
 through their faded lineaments or modified characteristics, 
 those in whom he has acquired an interest, he is ready to 
 join their hands in sympathy, and pass forward with them 
 to the resolution of the problem of their lives, and, perhaps, 
 make a few new acquaintances with them on the way. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 T was a bright autumn 
 day of the year to 
 which the reader was 
 advanced by the last 
 chapter, when the Ag- 
 awam training band, under the 
 command of Captain Holyoke, 
 paraded upon the village green. 
 The band was composed of all 
 the men in the plantation ca- 
 pable of bearing arms, includ- 
 ing even boys of sixteen years, 
 and old men with the first in- 
 firmities of age upon them. 
 The members were not dressed with any great degree of 
 uniformity, nor were their arms of equal length and calibre, 
 but they formed a resolute and hardy looking corps — well 
 fitted to act in such warfare as they were liable to be 
 engaged in. 
 
 One would naturally suppose that the members of a body 
 so indifferently appointed as this would have little place for 
 personal vanity or military pride, but, when it is remem- 
 bered that this company and its performances were the only 
 embodiment and expression of the military spirit possible 
 at the time, it can be imagined that many a young man 
 
 219 
 
 Colonial Blockhouse : In the Abutting 
 Floor of the Upper Story were Loop-* 
 Holes Commanding the Town’s Base. 
 
220 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 studied personal effect, and thought of bright eyes at favorite 
 windows, with no little interest. 
 
 During the half day devoted to training, a compliment 
 was usually paid to the house of the captain by such officer 
 as might be temporarily in command, and even Holyoke 
 happened occasionally to put his little army through their 
 evolutions in front of his own house. On the day alluded 
 to, the company were marching steadily along the street, to 
 the time of the old drum used to call the people to Sabbath 
 worship, when one of the members began to betray a remark- 
 able degree of agitation. 
 
 As they approached the house of Holyoke, he frequently 
 looked down upon his iegs, and, at the conclusion of each 
 survey, lifted his hand to his face and brought it, spread 
 broadly, down to his chin, at which point the fingers came 
 in and reported what they had found to the thumb. One 
 might go the world over, and not find so uneasy a specimen 
 of a soldier as he. As he came nearer, and still nearer, to 
 the house, he began to lift sudden stolen glances to the 
 window, to ascertain whether the subject of his thoughts 
 was there ; and, as he caught sight of a pair of black eyes, 
 flashing among a set of smiling and spirited features, the 
 pimples upon his face became enraged, one after another, 
 and his feet were confounded in such a manner that he was 
 half afraid that he could never get by the house without 
 being ordered from the ranks. He had not a doubt that 
 Mary Woodcock saw every motion. He could actually feel 
 her looking at him. The influence of her eyes was such 
 that he had nervous twitches in his ankles, that brought 
 his feet to the ground in uneven steps. He felt it up and 
 down the muscles of his limbs ; it heated his face, and con- 
 fused his head. Yet he could not keep his eyes from the 
 window ; and, as the company came to a halt, and displayed 
 their skill in exercise, his eyes and mind seemed to be about 
 equally divided between the window and the commanding 
 officer. 
 
 Peter Trimble was not in love with Mary Woodcock. 
 That was a passion he was not equal to. He could love (in 
 his small way) any woman at sight, provided the probabili- 
 ties were in favor of his securing her hand. A compliment, 
 real or fictitious, from a girl, was enough to change the 
 current of his affections without a ruffle on the surface. He 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 221 
 
 knew Mary Woodcock’s origin, the nature of the prejudices 
 that popularly prevailed against her, and her own conscious- 
 ness that the majority of the young men shunned her ; and 
 the remnants of his old cunning had turned his mind 
 towards her, as one whom, perhaps, he might obtain for a wife. 
 
 He was, therefore, not a little annoyed to find, as he came 
 nearer to the house, that her attention was perfectly ab- 
 sorbed by some other member of the corps, and that she only 
 turned to him once, and then with a smile that greatly re- 
 sembled derision. When the company was dismissed, Peter 
 had become quite unhappy — not from unrequited affection, 
 
 Lexington, the Initial Revolutionary Battle : (From an Old Print). 
 
 but in consequence of a vague consciousness that he had 
 made a miscalculation. He was unable fully to satisfy him- 
 self, even after having walked by the house a dozen times 
 while the inmates were asleep that night. 
 
 The man who had the fortune to attract the attention of 
 Mary Woodcock, and who became the unconscious cause 
 of Peter’s uneasiness, was-one who had never been a favor- 
 ite with the women of the settlement. The fact was not due, 
 however, to any vice of-his nature or habit, to any low asso- 
 ciations, or to any ugliness of person. He was unpopular 
 because he was not manlike in his constitution. He was a 
 
222 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 short, slenderly built man, with a feminine face, a mild blue 
 eye full of amiable sweetness, a soft and pleasant voice, and 
 a manner that was all meekness and modesty. He was, in 
 strict terms and in no unworthy or offensive sense, an effem- 
 inate man, and to his nature Mary had felt herself more 
 and more attracted, as the years had brought her to matu- 
 rity. From the stronger masculine natures she had felt her- 
 self repulsed by a force that she had neither the wish nor 
 the power to resist. 
 
 She had grown up self-reliant, courageous, more or less 
 conversant with hardship and danger, lonely in her thoughts, _ 
 and passionate under restraint ; and the idea of becoming 
 the wife of a man to whom she would be obliged, or would 
 feel it a pleasure, to bend her will, was one which it was not 
 possible for her to entertain. She wished to choose, and it 
 was natural for her — the masculine woman — to choose the 
 feminine man. And as she saw him marching by with the 
 training band, and watched him as he went through the ex- 
 ercises of the occasion, every step and motion seeded to 
 her charged with unutterable grace. 
 
 “ Dear little fellow ! ” exclaimed Mary, with a sigh, as 
 she at last turned away from the window ; and she thought 
 of him tenderly all the day, and dreamed of him at night, 
 and wondered the next morning whether circumstances 
 would ever favor her with the means to convey to his mind 
 the knowledge that she admired him, and could easily love 
 him. 
 
 But days and weeks passed away before the opportunity 
 for an interview with the object of her interest could, with- 
 out a sacrifice of the proprieties of her sex and position, be 
 obtained. 
 
 For a week after training day, Peter was in despair. At 
 the end of that time he accidentally met Mary in the street, 
 and, as she gave him an unusually kind smile and bow, he 
 hastened home immediately, and, going to his little room, 
 tried, with the aid of a small mirror, to get a side look at 
 his legs. He walked forth and back across his apartment, 
 but, with his facilities, he could observe only a small surface 
 at a time, and relinquished his mirror for an unreflected sur- 
 vey of his nether proportions — a feat which he accomplished 
 by stretching his head out from his stooping shoulder, giv- 
 ing an earnest squint inwards, and arching his eyebrows, 
 
THE BAY PATH. - 
 
 223 
 
 and all the wrinkles above them, in a most preposterous 
 manner. He saw nothing unusual, unless, perhaps, a slight 
 increase of size in his locomotive organs. That, of course, 
 was favorable. Then he looked at his face. It was cer- 
 tainly not a very handsome face, and it was not by any 
 means smooth in its details ; but, take it at a distance — say 
 
 Famous Colonial Scenes : Borgoyne’s League with the Indians Against the Colonists. 
 
 about as far as Mary stood from him when she met him — 
 and the expression could be called good. He tried his 
 looking-glass across the room, but, as it would only take in 
 part of his face at that distance, he had to come back with 
 it to close quarters. 
 
 This little circumstance fed Peter for several days with a 
 satisfaction that began to grow into pride. Everybody said 
 that Mary was a smart girl, and under other circumstances, 
 and with a little less spirit, etc., would make any man a 
 good wife. He was enough for her. As for her temper, he 
 
224 
 
 TH£ bay path. 
 
 would let her know she couldn’t playoff any of her tantrums 
 on him ; and when the young men in the plantation really 
 saw what a splendid-looking wife he possessed, and how 
 pleasant and respectful she was to him, and, more than all, 
 when old Woodcock’s land should come into his hands, then 
 they would say, “ Hang that Peter Trimble ! — what a lucky 
 dog he is i ” 
 
 After he had made considerable progress in Mary’s affec- 
 tions in this manner, without her knowledge or consent, he 
 met her in his frequent walks again. Her demeanor on 
 this occasion was exceedingly gracious, and Peter was more 
 delighted than ever, and wondered how large a slice of 
 Woodcock’s land, which was every year increasing in value, 
 it would take to purchase a watch as valuable as Mr. Pyn- 
 chon’s. If he had a watch he should be a gentleman, and 
 his wife would be Mrs. Trimble; and he could sit in his 
 own house, and drawing his timepiece slowly from the fob 
 say, “ Isn’t it about time we were having supper, Mrs. 
 Trimble ? ” or, “ Isn’t it about time for the lecture to com- 
 mence, Mrs. Trimble?” or, “I’d no idea it was so late;” 
 or, calling at a neighbor’s house in the evening, he would 
 take the watch modestly out and say, in an off-hand, free- 
 and-easy way, “ Come, Mrs. Trimble, it’s time honest folks 
 was at home and a-bed.” Yes — he was not fully certain, 
 but — he rather thought he should have the watch. 
 
 Very few individuals^ get in love (or think they do, which 
 is the same thing to them for the time), and are really very 
 much pleased with the object of their interest, who have not 
 a strong desire to give their confidence to some one who will 
 take it good-naturedly — some one who will patiently hear of 
 their successes, and listen to the praises of the being be- 
 loved. Peter felt this want very much. In his own mind 
 he had made such advances in Mary’s affections that, as he 
 did not dare to call upon her for reassurance, he found it 
 necessary to brace himself against the assent and encour- 
 agement of some one else. He cast about among his ac- 
 quaintances for the proper recipient of his precious secrets. 
 He found himself afraid to speak of the matter to any ac- 
 quaintances of his own age, ashamed to speak of it to any 
 who were younger, and disinclined to allude to the subject 
 with those who were his seniors. 
 
 There was but one face that came up to his imagination 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 225 
 
 with a kind and sympathetic aspect, and that belonged to a 
 young man with whom he had no intimacy. He resolved, 
 however, to make his acquaintance, and see what he could 
 do with him, and circumstances soon threw him conveniently 
 in his way. Before the two parted Peter had invited his 
 new friend to his room, informing him that there were 
 certain things he wished to say to him, that he had profound 
 secrets to impart, and important advice as well as aid to 
 solicit. 
 
 On the following evening, accordingly, the confidant elect 
 made his appearance at the house where Peter had his 
 home, and walking into the kitchen found that individual 
 bent nearly double upon a low bench before the fire, eating 
 samp and milk. 
 
 Peter had about exhausted his supply at the moment of 
 the arrival, and as he had not been accustomed to receive 
 calls in the presence of the family, he began to blush with 
 excessive embarrassment. His first movement was, almost 
 unconsciously, to throw the remnant of his supper into the 
 fire. Then rising and uncoiling himself, he set his porrin- 
 ger upon a side-table, and doubling up his pewter spoon 
 under the impression that he was closing the blade of his 
 jack-knife, put it into his pocket. The newcomer smiled 
 amiably upon all, told Peter that he had come according to 
 promise, and, sitting down, extended his hand and a look 
 of interest to a little child who stood timidly at a distance. 
 The little one did not wait for a second invitation, but went 
 directly to the stranger and was lifted to his knee. The 
 child’s instinct discovered a sympathetic nature, and not 
 only trusted it at once, but conceived an affection for it at 
 the same moment. Soon the other and older children 
 gathered around him as an attractive center, and without 
 any apparent effort on his part he became in a few minutes 
 the monopolist of domestic influence and interest. 
 
 At length, Peter had gained the extravagant concession 
 of a tallow candle from the mistress of the house, and, 
 lighting it at a coal, with the assistance of a very uncertain 
 pair of lips, he told his friend, with a nervous wink, that he 
 was “ready to cut his hair.” 
 
 “ Ready to cut my hair ! ” exclaimed the man. 
 
 “ Yes ! Walk right along up-stairs,” said Peter, pushing 
 out of -sight as soon as possible. 
 
22 6 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 The visitor looked around upon the family with a curious 
 smile, and in a quiet way saying, “ I'm sure I don't know 
 what he means," followed with such speed as half a dozen 
 children clinging to his legs would permit. When both had 
 landed in Peter's room, Peter sat down on one end of his 
 
 Peter Trimble : One of the First Yankees. 
 
 chest, and placing his candle on the other, put his face be- 
 tween his hands, and his hands between his knees, and went 
 suddenly off into a violent snicker which commenced with 
 a snort and ended in a cough. As soon as he could speak, 
 he bade his visitor be seated on a bench, and asked him 
 “ why he didn't take." 
 
 “Take? take what?" inquired the man, slightly nettled 
 at the idea of being expected to play a game of deception. 
 
the bay Bath. 
 
 227 
 
 44 Why, you see,” said Peter, ‘4’m great on cutting hair, 
 I don’t s’pose when you come right down to the real thing, 
 there’s anybody in the settlement can shingle like me. I 
 do it for pretty much all of ’em. I reckon you might stuff 
 a bed with the hair I’ve cut off in the last five years. ” 
 
 “ I hope you get well paid for it,” remarked his compan- 
 ion, not knowing at the moment what else to say. 
 
 “Land ahead ! ” said Peter, using a favorite exclamatory 
 phrase, “ you don’t s’pose I charge ’em anything, do you ? 
 I do it ’cause I like it. Between you and I, it ain’t every 
 body that can do it. You see, a great many that cut hair 
 pull like time, and I’ve come across several, — now very likely 
 you won’t believe it, but it’s a fact — I wouldn’t lie to you, 
 for I think too much of my word, ’pon my honor I do, — sev- 
 eral who had slits in their ears, made by these botches — I 
 don’t think it’s any too bad to call ’em botches, that’s a fact. 
 Well, when a man gets his hair pulled every time the shears 
 comes down — it’s done by slipping by, you know — cutting off 
 some, and taking along the rest — and gets a slit or two in 
 his ears, he looks out, and doesn’t get catched in the trap 
 again. But I suit ’em, you see. Land ahead ! I guess I do 
 suit ’em ; I don’t s’pose if I should live here till I was as old 
 as the hills, but what I should have all the hair to cut. Do 
 you know how to shingle ? ” 
 
 “ I hav’n’t the slightest idea how it is done,” replied the 
 man, with a smile playing about the corners of his eyes, that 
 showed that he was beginning to enjoy the interview. 
 
 “ Well, it’s a good deal of a knack, ain’t it ? The fact is 
 there ain’t but a few that’s got it in ’em. Just look at my 
 hair.” 
 
 The concluding direction was accompanied with an exhi- 
 bition of his head, in every aspect possible with a head still 
 fastened to a pair of shoulders. *- • 
 
 “ That,” continued Peter, “ is what I do in the night. I 
 come up here, and nobody to say anything to, and so I sit 
 down on the old chest, and cut my hair in the dark. I keep 
 it jest about so all the time. Do you see how smooth ’tis 
 behind? Don’t you call that pretty even trimming? Don’t 
 it look as if it was shaved, now, r’ally ? ” 
 
 After securing a general assent to his separate questions, 
 Peter took his candle, and set it upon the floor. Then, 
 lifting the lid of his chest, he took out from the till his 
 15 
 
 18730 
 
228 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 shears and comb, and, holding them up to the amused visi- 
 tor, exclaimed, “ There’s the tools! and if they ain't the 
 tools, land ahead ! there never was any tools. I s’pose, if 
 the truth was known, there’s better stuff in them shears ” 
 (giving them a click) “ than there is in any razor this side 
 of the Bay. I call ’em a little too hard — jest a leetle grain — 
 but that’s a good fault in shears.” 
 
 The visitor had begun to tire of the subject, interesting 
 as Peter had the power to make it ; and shifting uneasily on 
 his seat, he interrupted that enthusiastic amateur barber in 
 his attempt to explain the trick of the shingling process, by 
 saying, “ I believe there were some things you wished to say 
 to me.” 
 
 “ Land ahead ! ” exclaimed Peter, dropping his shears 
 upon the floor, “I come pretty near forgetting that. What 
 if I had forgot that, now ? By the way, don’t you want your 
 hair cut? I don’t know how I’m going to get along, unless 
 you do have it jest shingled a little ? ” 
 
 The visitor could see no direct connection between his 
 hair and Peter’s secrets, and declined the operation. 
 
 “ You see,” said Peter, “ the folks down-stairs will won- 
 der what in time made you come here ; and if I don’t cut 
 your hair, or make believe cut it, perhaps you won’t believe 
 it, but the way they’ll pump me will be awful. I guess I 
 can fix it,” pursued the ingenious fellow, “by coming a 
 small rig. I’ll keep the shears a-going while we get along 
 with the business, and they’ll hear ’em down-stairs, and 
 think it’s all right.” 
 
 Thus deciding, and thus delivering himself, Peter lifted 
 the shears from the floor, and, performing half a dozen clips 
 upon an imaginary head before him, reached forward, and 
 grasping the hand of his companion, said, “You sit there, 
 and I sit here. You are Hugh Parsons, and I am Peter 
 Trimble. We understand ourselves, and what we say is be- 
 tween us.” 
 
 “Just as you say,” responded Hugh, with a slight strug- 
 gle to drown in a smile a little irritation which sought the 
 surface ; for the study of Peter, while it had been an amus- 
 ing one, showed him that there was not an element in his 
 character with which his own could harmonize. 
 
 Peter gave a long tune upon the shears, in order to hold 
 the people in the kitchen t Q the delusion to which, in imagi- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 22Q 
 
 nation, he had committed them ; then ex<? x uted a subdued 
 whistle, and, crossing his hands, and leaning forward with 
 his elbows on his knees, he said to Hugh, in the slyest pos- 
 sible manner, “Between you and I, I think of taking a 
 pullet.” 
 
 “ Robbing a henroost, in other words ? ” said Hugh in- 
 terrogatively, with a quizzical expression on his handsome 
 face. 
 
 “ Land ahead ! ” exclaimed Peter, “ don’t you know what 
 taking a pullet is ? ” 
 
 “ I can guess, perhaps.” 
 
 “ Well, I thought you knew, and now I want to ask you 
 — it's all between us, you know ” — furious clips at the phan- 
 tom head of hair, “what you think a pullet looks at most, 
 when she’s picking out a man ? ” 
 
 “ His corns ? ” 
 
 “ Come now ! honest ! ” exclaimed Peter, beginning to see 
 that Hugh was making fun of him. 
 
 “ Well, if pullets are girls,” said Hugh, quietly, “ I pre- 
 sume they look at the man they like the best.” 
 
 “That isn’t what I mean,” said Peter, “and it wouldn’t 
 be true if it was. I’ve seen it tried. I remember one 
 training day, — but ” — and Peter suddenly recollected him- 
 self, “ but it was a good many years ago — before you come 
 here, I guess. What I want to find out is whether I’m right 
 on a man’s p’ints.” 
 
 “ What do you think they are ? ” said Hugh, becoming the 
 questioner. 
 
 “Well,” responded Peter, squinting at the rafters, and 
 slashing his shears high into the air, “ if you was walking 
 out some day, and there should come along a darn pretty, 
 black-eyed girl, and should look you square in the face, and 
 smile jest as sweet as she could, and say 1 how do you do ? ’ 
 and she never had done this before, and you should go 
 home and think it all over, and couldn’t find anything about 
 you to make her change her mind, but a fair pair of legs 
 and a face that wasn’t very bad (and Peter drew his hand 
 gently over his own), wouldn’t you say that legs and face 
 was the word ? ” 
 
 “ I should think they might be,” replied Hugh, with utter 
 good-nature. 
 
 “ Think ? Don’t you know it ? ” cried Peter, becoming 
 
23 ° 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 vehement so suddenly as to surprise himself ; and then, 
 with the idea that his violence might compromise his in- 
 terests, he apologetically added, “ but perhaps you never 
 thought of these things so much as I have. I’ve thought of 
 ’em any quantity. I don’t s’pose you’d believe me, if I 
 should begin to tell you half of the time I spend in thinking 
 of them — I don’t, that’s a fact, now.” And Peter closed 
 with an expression of entire placability, which said plainer 
 than words could say, that he should not blame Hugh in 
 the least were he to be incredulous, in case the real facts 
 should be divulged. 
 
 “ We’ll call it so, at least,” said Hugh, very positively. 
 “ Now go on. ” 
 
 “ Let’s see — where was I ? ” said Peter, slowly and 
 thoughtfully snapping his shears. “ Oh, yes ! I remember 
 now. Well, s’pose a little while after that you should meet 
 the same girl again, and as quick as you see her coming 
 you should straighten up, and brush up your hair, and go 
 by her something like this ” (and Peter strode across his 
 apartment with a dashing swing and a complacent smirk), 
 “ and she should look sweeter than ever, and kind o’ look 
 at you all over, as if she felt tickled and wanted to say 
 something and darsn’t, and you knew, jest as well as you 
 wOTted to know, that your legs and face was the best part 
 of you, what should you think then ? ” And Peter snapped 
 his* shears triumphantly, and reiterated his question — “ Say ! 
 what should you think then ? ” 
 
 “Well, what did you think ?” inquired Hugh, smiling. 
 
 “ I didn’t say it was me, did I ? ” said Peter, with a flat- 
 tered and half fatuous look of cunning. 
 
 “ No, but it was you, wasn’t it, Peter ? ” 
 
 “Now what made you think so?” inquired Peter, very 
 much pleased ; “what made you think it was me? What 
 did you guess by ? Perhaps, if you’ll tell me, I’ll tell you 
 whether you was right.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I knew ; I’m not going to flatter you ; you’re 
 proud enough now.” 
 
 “ Hugh Parsons, give us your hand,” exclaimed Peter, 
 grasping the man’s slender and shrinking palm, and shaking 
 it violently. “You’re the best feller I ever see in my life. 
 It’s true now — you needn’t say you ain’t. I know all the 
 rest of ’em. They ain’t anything. Land ahead ! they think 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 231 
 
 they are, but Eve shingled their hair this five years, and I 
 never found it out, and perhaps you don’t think so, but if I 
 hav’n’t found it out, there ain’t many fellers that would.” 
 
 “ Now tell me who the girl was,” said Hugh, as soon as 
 his aching hand was released, and carefully wiped upon his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 “Between you and I,” replied Peter, “it’s the pullet that 
 I think of taking.” 
 
 “ Have you said anything to her about it ? ” inquired 
 Hugh. 
 
 “Land ahead! I hav’n’t got to that yet ; and between 
 you and I that’s what I want to see you for. Now you see 
 you’ve got a smooth tongue, and nobody is afraid of you ; 
 and you can do what I want better than anybody else — 
 now you needn’t say you can’t, for I know you can — and 
 the iron being hot on both sides, all you’ve got to do is to 
 strike.” 
 
 “ But perhaps I don’t know the girl,” said Hugh. 
 
 “Yes, you do. I guess she kind o’ likes you, as a friend, 
 you know. J don’t s’pose you’re jest sech a feller as she’d 
 want for a husband ; not that there’s any good reason for 
 it, but she’s a large girl, and women have queer ideas about 
 such things, you know,” said Peter, patronizingly. 
 
 Hugh’s eye flashed with a sudden contempt, but he was 
 one who never quarreled, and so, letting the insult pass, he 
 said, somewhat impatiently, “Come ! give us her name.” 
 
 “Well, don’t be in a hurry,” responded Peter. “You’re 
 the greatest feller to go off half cocked that ever I see in 
 all my life.” 
 
 “ But it’s almost bed-time,” said Hugh. 
 
 “ Land ahead ! so ’tis,” said Peter. “ We must be get- 
 ting along — that’s a fact. Now, Hugh, you’re first-rate at 
 guessing, and before I tell you, I want you should tell me 
 what M. W. stands for ? ” 
 
 “ Mehitabel Warriner ? ” said Hugh, interrogatively, and 
 with a smile of amusement that he did not try to restrain. 
 
 “ Didn’t hit ! ’’ said Peter, looking up at the rafters. 
 
 “ Guess again.” 
 
 “ My wife ? ” 
 
 “That's it! by the jumping Moses!” exclaimed Peter, 
 bursting into voiceless convulsions of laughter, and becom- 
 ing so far mirthfully excited that he seized Hugh by the 
 
232 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 shoulders, and shook him till he laughed in self-defense. 
 “ How come you to think of that? My wife ! ” And he 
 stretched up towards the ridge-pole, and swung his shears 
 three times around his head. “ Land ahead !” pursued 
 Peter, still unable to work off his admiration of Hughes 
 inventive powers, and his delight with the pleasantly omi- 
 nous coincidence, “ I’d no idea you was up to that sort of 
 thing. ” 
 
 “ My wife — Mary Woodcock,” said Hugh, interrupting him. 
 
 “ No — guess again,” said Peter, looking up at the rafters 
 with one eye, and at Hugh out of the corner of the other. 
 
 “ Mary Woodcock,” reiterated Hugh. 
 
 Peter plunged into a snicker, and came up with, “ Hugh 
 Parsons, you’re the greatest feller I ever see in my life. 
 Now about the business.” 
 
 “ What do you want ?” 
 
 “ Well, I want you to go to a certain girl,” said Peter, 
 slowly, and with an extremely sly look of intelligence, “ and 
 tell her that you know of a young man — you can say what 
 you’re a mind to about him — you know me and you know 
 my p’ints — who has seen her several times, and every time 
 he sees her he thinks that he has got a friend that would 
 think everything of her, if she would be kind enough to take 
 a notion to him, provided she hasn’t done it before this. 
 Tell her she’s seen him, and likes his looks, and that if it 
 wasn’t because he was bashful, he would have been to see 
 her some time ago, and finished up the business. When 
 she asks you who the young man is that has got the friend 
 that thinks so much of her, you can tell her it’s me — Peter 
 Trimble.” 
 
 “What if she asks who your friend is? ” inquired Hugh. 
 
 “ Well, you must go then by what you see. If she acts 
 as if she was disappointed, or says she won’t have anything 
 to do with him, you can be pretty sure, you see, that there 
 ain’t anybody in the plantation that she likes besides me, 
 ’cause if there was, she wouldn’t know but it was jest the 
 one I was making believe I was after for her, and she’d be 
 careful not to tread on her own shoestrings. But if she 
 acts tickled, which I don’t believe she will between you and 
 I, — I don’t now ’pon my word — then it’s all day with me, 
 but you see she won’t know then that I’m hit, and so won’t 
 anybody else, ” 
 
THE DAY PATH. 
 
 233 
 
 When Peter closed, Hugh was looking at him in blank 
 astonishment, for as he talked, his- eye grew bright with an 
 intense cunning, his face seemed to contract to a small, 
 sharp mass of features, his form was bent earnestly forward, 
 and his whole expression was so widely different from any- 
 thing that he had previously exhibited, that Hugh sat for a 
 minute wondering and unresponsive, while Peter, without 
 moving, looked steadily in his eye. The moment that Peter 
 began to consult his own safety from ridicule and raillery, a 
 vein of his original nature was struck, and the old cunning 
 bubbled up as pure and fresh as ever. 
 
 “ Don’t you see ?” continued Peter, breaking the silence. 
 “ If you tell her it’s me to start with, perhaps she wouldn’t 
 let you know that she liked me, if she did ever so much. 
 Maybe she wouldn’t like anybody to know it ; and then 
 again, if she didn’t happen to like me, she would go and tell 
 on’t, and the boys would raise thunder with me.” 
 
 “ Then you want to get your head in, and keep your neck 
 out,” said. Hugh, regaining his voice. 
 
 “ That’s it ! By George ! you’ve hit it. Now you talk,” 
 said Peter, with enthusiasm. 
 
 “ Do you really wish to have me go through with all this 
 maneuvering for you ? ” inquired Hugh, seriously. 
 
 “ Land ahead ! ” exclaimed Peter, with a disappointed 
 air, “ I thought you’d like it.” 
 
 “ I’m not one of that kind,” replied Hugh. 
 
 “ You ain’t going to back out now ? ” said Peter, with an 
 anxious interrogation. 
 
 “ I must, positively.” 
 
 Peter looked at Hugh, and his lip began to tremble. He 
 undertook to say something, but he broke down, and put- 
 ting his head between his knees, he began to sob like a baby. 
 
 “ Peter/’ said Hugh, in a kind and relenting mood, “ I 
 didn’t suppose you cared so much about it as this. I’ll try 
 to do what I can for you.” 
 
 “ Will you, though ? ” said Peter, jumping up and grasp- 
 ing his hand, the scant tears in his gray eyes changing from 
 thpse of disappointment to those of sudden joy. “ 1 was 
 mighty ’fraid you wan’t going to. Between you and I, I 
 was beginning to feel about as cheap as turnips, ’pon my 
 word I was. Any feller that had seen me a minute ago, 
 and should come in now, would think I’d had a rich uncle 
 
2 34 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 die, wouldn't he, Hugh ? ” and Peter pitched head first into 
 a snicker, and taking Hugh by the shoulders he shook him 
 till he cried, “ Oh, stop, Peter, for pity’s sake.” 
 
 “ There’s great times ahead for us,” continued Peter, and 
 then remembering that for at least fifteen minutes his shears 
 had remained idle, he slashed the air forth and back furi- 
 ously for awhile, and then subsided into a steady clip, as if 
 he were shearing a sheep. 
 
 “ By the way,” continued Peter, changing the subject, “ I 
 want to show you a hone I’ve got. It come from the Bay 
 last week, and it’s a hone, now, I tell you. Look at it ” 
 (and Peter lifted the lid of his chest, and drew out the 
 article.) “ You’ve no idea of the difference there is in hones. 
 Some cut away the steel fast, and leave a hair edge, and 
 some kind o’ gum down.” 
 
 “ What are you going to do with that ?” inquired Hugh. 
 
 “ Perhaps you won’t believe it,” said Peter, “but in a year 
 from this time I shall hone every razor in the plantation. It 
 ain’t everybody that can hone a razor. You see, they don’t 
 carry it even from heel to p’int, and then there ain’t half of 
 ’em that knows when it’s done. They hone it clear by. If 
 you’ll bring your razor here some rainy day, I’ll show you 
 all about it, and perhaps your hair will want cutting by that 
 time, and between you and I, though it’s none of my busi- 
 ness, I don’t think a little shingling would have done it any 
 hurt to-night. Who in time cut your hair last ? ” 
 
 Before Hugh could answer this question in any way, 
 Peter gave another furious lunge into a snicker, as if a sud- 
 den thought had visited him with a blow upon the back of 
 his head, and, pointing to four long poles or rods, bound 
 with regularly recurring strips of old felt, said, “ Did you 
 ever hear anything about my quilting frames ? ” 
 
 Hugh assured him that he never did. 
 
 “ Well, you see,” said Peter, “ everybody has to do more 
 or less quilting, but nobody has quilting frames. They have 
 to send round for ’em, and I rally s’pose, if the truth was 
 known, that there ain’t in this settlement such a set as 
 mine ; I don’t, now, ’pon my word, if ’twas the last thing I 
 had to say. Well, everybody comes for mine, and other 
 people’s quilting frames ain’t anywhere. I s’pose if the 
 truth was known there's been quilts enough put together on 
 them sticks to reach acrost the river,” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 .235 
 
 “ How do you make it pay ? ” inquired Hugh. 
 
 “ Land ahead ! It’s pay enough to have ’em come after 
 'em, and go right by a house where they keep 'em, for the 
 sake of getting mine. Four little staddles with the bark off 
 ain’t quilting frames, and the women know it. Besides, be- 
 tween you and I, they always invite me to the quilting, and 
 I’ve been home with three girls since I've had them things, 
 that, ’pon my word, I believe would have gone home with 
 other fellers if they hadn’t wanted to borrow.” 
 
 How much longer Peter would have continued in this 
 strain had he not been disturbed, it is impossible to tell, but 
 just as he finished the quilting frames, the chamber door 
 opened, and two boys whom he kept from quarreling every 
 night, by sleeping between them, came growling up-stairs. 
 
 “ You’d better put your hat on,” said Peter to Hugh 
 aloud, “ you may catch cold after losing such a fleece,” and 
 then added in an under tone, “ the old folks are going to bed 
 down-stairs, but you keep your hat on, and go right through 
 the room. They’ll think it’s all right.” 
 
 Hugh felt, as the interview closed, extremely irritated in 
 the position into which his good-nature had led him. He 
 had been amused with Peter’s oddities, but disgusted with 
 his low cunning and shallowness, and he was vexed with 
 himself for having agreed to serve him in an enterprise 
 every way preposterous and hopeless. Peter saw the cloud 
 upon his brow, but it was too late to attempt its removal 
 (although he had his hand upon an eight-bladed knife, 
 which he had intended to exhibit, as it was furnished with 
 a corkscrew, which several of the neighbors had used with 
 entire success), and following his visitor down-stairs told 
 him as he passed through the kitchen to be careful about 
 taking cold. Poor Hugh, as he walked home, felt worse and 
 worse, and wondered more and more why he had not had 
 the strength to stamd up like a man, and tell the silly cox- 
 comb the truth in regard to himself and his plans. And then 
 to think that he was the tool of such a fellow — that he had 
 agreed to intercede for him as a friend with one who, he 
 could not help but feel, would despise the mediator for his 
 office even more than his employer for his impudence, was 
 too much for his equanimity, and he went home and tossed 
 nervously upon his bed all night. 
 
 18730 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 1FTER the house of Mr. 
 Moxon was built a room 
 was finished in one cor- 
 ner for a study. This 
 looked out upon the 
 street, and being furnished with 
 a snug fireplace afforded the oc- 
 cupant a pleasant view, whether 
 he confined his attention within 
 the room or dissipated it in look- 
 ing abroad. In this room the 
 minister spent the most of his 
 time. The late passenger at night 
 often saw his shadow on the wall 
 or curtain, as he paced up and 
 down his little apartment, or ob- 
 served" him at the window looking out into the night or gazing 
 abstractedly at the stars. After occupying himself at his 
 sermons during the day he often gave himself up to reveries, 
 which possessed him until his fire had expired in its own 
 ashes, and he was reminded of his bed by a feverish head 
 and a cold and benumbed frame. 
 
 It was here that he brooded over the trials and disap- 
 pointments of his life. It was here that he wept over the 
 afflictions of his children, and speculated upon the cause 
 of the calamity with which they had been visited. It was 
 here that in weakness and blindness he wrestled with the 
 angel of God in prayer. It was here that dim suspicions 
 236 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 237 
 
 entered his mind, coming in like shadows and growing into 
 form and fulness under his searching vision, until the door 
 at which they entered became too small for their egress, 
 'and they remained in throngs. 
 
 It was during a crisp and cool evening in the latter part 
 of autumn that Mr. Moxon, having concluded the labors 
 of the day, drew his chair before the fire and subsided into 
 one of his frequent reveries. He went back in memory to 
 the time when Woodcock was a resident of the plantation, 
 and as he called up the scene near Holyoke’s house where 
 that individual visited him with personal indignity, and 
 thought of the girl, who, in a moment of blind passion, in- 
 flicted a wound whose scar seemed to be always thrusting 
 itself into his sight, the old flush of shame and humiliation 
 mantled his face and thrilled through every sensitive fiber 
 of his frame. This was the sorest spot in all his expe- 
 rience, and one which he could never touch without the 
 keenest pain. 
 
 As the pang struck him and diffused its subtle frenzy he 
 rose from his chair with a hurried sigh, and after pacing up 
 and down his apartment for a few minutes, stopped before 
 the window and looked out. He had stood but a moment 
 when a singular figure crossed his vision. It was that of a 
 man clothed like an Indian, but clumsy and moving with a 
 different gait. The man had evidently been standing at a 
 short distance from the window, and was induced to move 
 by the impression that the minister saw him. He was, 
 however, soon out of sight, and Mr. Moxon forgot the cir- 
 cumstance as he resumed his seat at the fire. 
 
 Soon the old subject recurred, and, this time, his 
 thoughts stopped with Mary Woodcock. From the time 
 she had bitten him until then, her act had never been 
 alluded to by him. She had grown up to womanhood, and 
 with such a determined character that he did not choose 
 to violate his promise to her father not to molest her. But 
 he could not give up the desire to detect the agent in the 
 affliction of his children, nor the suspicion that she was the 
 guilty party. 
 
 At that time, sorcery and witchcraft were prevalent in 
 England, and had been, for the previous fifty years. He 
 had written for and received books, giving the details of 
 numerous cases, and had sought for light upon the subject 
 
The bay path. 
 
 238 
 
 in all possible directions. While, upon this occasion, he 
 was wondering what means could be resorted to for the 
 detection of Mary Woodcock, he recalled the singular com- 
 munication which has already been mentioned as having 
 fallen into his hands. Immediately rising, he went to his 
 desk, and, opening a drawer, withdrew a small package. 
 Taking off the wrapper, he selected the communication 
 alluded to, and replaced the package in the drawer. 
 
 As he was turning to leave the desk, he knocked rom a 
 shelf an apple — one of the first fruits of the new orchards 
 of the plantation, which had been presented to him— but, 
 instead of returning it to its place, he took it with him to 
 the fire, and set it upon the hearth to roast. He sat down, 
 and opened the communication. It was evidently written 
 with a pencil of common lead, upon a strip of birch bark : 
 
 “Mary : — Be gentle and good \ and please your master , and 
 you shall be helped by one you cannot see.” 
 
 These words, clumsily traced and sadly misspelled, com- 
 prised the entire text of the wonderful manuscript. The 
 minister inserted his knife under a layer of the bark, and, 
 separating it, threw it upon the coals. The flash from it 
 was as instantaneous as if it had been gunpowder — so sharp 
 and powerful that he started with affright, and retreated to 
 his desk with the communication, in order that it might be 
 beyond the reach of the flame. 
 
 He had hardly reseated himself, when he heard a rap at 
 the door, and, on opening it, greeted and admitted a resi- 
 dent of the plantation with whom the reader has not yet 
 made an acquaintance. This man was Deacon Samuel 
 Chapin, a tall, austere-looking individual, whom the min- 
 ister saluted with much warmth, and who, on advancing 
 into the little study, looked around, with a not unpleasant 
 expression in his keen gray eyes, and said, “ It seems pleas- 
 ant, now and then, to visit the place where you prepare the 
 food for the flock of Christ. I warrant I have disturbed 
 you in meditations which belong to the whole of your little 
 Israel. ” 
 
 “ No, sir, sit down,” said Mr. Moxon pleasantly, “ I have 
 been thinking of something more strictly selfish and per- 
 sonal.” 
 
 Deacon Chapin’s eyes looked pleased, while his face still 
 maintained its austere expression, as he accepted the min- 
 
THE BAY PATH 
 
 239 
 
 ister's invitation, and, slowly rubbing his hands before the 
 fire, said, “ I esteem your society a great privilege, Mr. 
 Moxon, and shall be very happy to enjoy it, if I can do so 
 
 A Spring Freshet Perils of the Pioneers in Early New England Days. 
 
 without disturbing you, and being the means of sending 
 leanness into the bones of the other members of your flock.” 
 The reader will at once perceive that Deacon Chapin 
 
240 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 was a good man, and thoroughly understood the road to 
 his ministers heart. He did not become a settler at Aga- 
 wam until several years after the first planters, but his 
 severe manners, pliable tongue, and shrewd personal policy, 
 had carried him along rapidly in the path of advancement. 
 On being made a deacon of the church, he had moved for 
 the erection of a meeting-house, and it had risen, with its 
 six blank looking windows, and its two turrets — a belfry and 
 a watch-tower — and had become the place for holding meet- 
 ings upon the Sabbath, and all the public assemblies of the 
 plantation. He had been the means, too, of bringing 
 several members of the church under wholeso'me discipline. 
 In short, he had been an active man, in everything per- 
 taining to 'the spiritual well-being of the community, a 
 strict adherent to orthodox doctrine, and one who, in 
 coming from the Bay, brought the spirit of the Bay with him. 
 
 It was noticed that after the meetings of the plantation 
 -were removed from the house of Mr. Pynchon to the new 
 meeting-house, the influence of the latter gentleman in the 
 minor affairs of the settlement had declined, but no one 
 supposed that Deacon Chapin had an eye to this result in 
 obtaining the erection of the house. Everybody knew him 
 for a thrifty man — a man who slid into prosperity-and pre- 
 ferment with a kind of facility that betrayed a pushing will 
 and a track made smooth by a never-tiring urbanity. The 
 young men and young women were afraid of him. The 
 boys took off their hats to him by instinct, as they had been 
 taught to take them off in obeisance to the minister, the 
 magistrate, and Mr. Holyoke. 
 
 Deacon Chapin sat and rubbed his hands with pleasant 
 dignity before Mr. Moxon’s fire, after his considerate ex- 
 pression of care for the church, and waited for the minister 
 to begin the conversation. 
 
 “ I have long desired,” said the latter, hesitatingly, “ to 
 say something to you upon a subject which interests me 
 deeply, but have been prevented by the wish not to burden 
 others with trials sent upon me.” 
 
 Deacon Chapin made a bow, said nothing, and kept slowly 
 rubbing his hands before the fire. 
 
 “ You have probably heard of occurrences which took 
 place previous to your settlement in Agawam.” 
 
 Deacon Chapin bowed again, as if he perfectly understood 
 
THE DAY PATH. 2 4 1 
 
 the allusion, and would spare the minister the pain of refer- 
 ring to them more definitely. 
 
 “ You doubtless know something of the trials I have 
 experienced in my family since your residence here.” 
 
 Deacon Chapin bowed again, and, shifting in his seat, leaned 
 his ear towards the minister, in a way quite expressive of a 
 desire to learn something more. 
 
 “ The children are different,” said Mr. Moxon, instantly 
 seeming to catch the deacon’s meaning, as the deacon had 
 caught his own. “ Martha is extremely wild at times, and 
 is open and free in her accusations of the one who afflicts 
 her. I have told no one but you of this, but the people, I 
 understand, have fastened their suspicions upon the same 
 individual.” 
 
 Deaon Chapin bowed again, and turned his face directly 
 towards the minister, as if he expected that gentleman to 
 unbosom himself entirely. 
 
 “ Rebekah, on the contrary, is gentle, and seems to be in 
 some mysterious manner connected with her sister. It has 
 been so from the first. They seem to suffer together, though 
 in different kind and degree. I have read extensively in 
 regard to witchcraft, and the open manifestations of the 
 Adversary among men, and I have been convinced, for ten 
 years, that Satan is afflicting me through my children, and 
 them through the wicked agency of individuals in this 
 plantation.” 
 
 iC It will hardly be necessary for me,” said the deacon 
 blandly, “ to remind my minister that whom the Lord 
 loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he 
 receiveth.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon drew a painful sigh, as he replied, “ It is long 
 since I have been in the habit of appropriating to myself 
 the promises of God. It seems as if His threatenings were 
 intended for me, and they hang above my soul always, as if 
 ready to fall upon and crush me.” 
 
 “ But you must remember,” said the deacon, “ that if you 
 were not a true branch of Christ, you would be taken away. 
 The branches that bear fruit are those which are purged, 
 that they may bring forth more fruit.” 
 
 Now the deacon was not consciously insincere in his ad- 
 dress to the minister. He was in the habit of saying com- 
 forting things, and pleasant things, to those who held posi- 
 
242 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 tion and influence. It was the habit of his life. It did him 
 good, and it did them good ; and his policy in this matter 
 had wrought, in deed and in truth, a very good work in the 
 plantation. Many a man went about his business from an 
 interview with Deacon Chapin with a self-respect that was a 
 rarity in his experience, and played a better and more dig- 
 nified part in life, until the influence of the interview had 
 departed. Some flattering or encouraging word, some 
 expression of respect, or some marked attention, always 
 made impressively grateful by the dignified politeness of its 
 style of exhibition, had a marvelous effect upon all with 
 whom he came in contact. 
 
 It is true that it all made the deacon’s path more pleas- 
 ant and easy, and gave him consideration and power with 
 all, but few ever dreamed that he had an eye to his own in- 
 terests in the premises. The minister knew him, and was 
 glad to see him. The deacon knew the minister, and, while 
 he really had a desire to cheer him, and had brought hon- 
 estly before him the comforts of religion, he had also a desire 
 to learn certain things which the minister knew, and with 
 that object definitely in view had thus far pursued his course 
 and conversation. 
 
 “ You spoke,” said the deacon, “ of one individual whom 
 you suspected of being the agent of Satan in your affliction 
 and he paused, as if that were a direct and definite ques- 
 tion. 
 
 “ His daughter,” replied the minister. 
 
 The deacon threw up his chin decisively, as if it were a 
 confirmation of his own suspicions. 
 
 “ Just before you entered,” said Mr. Moxon, “ I was ex- 
 amining a little communifcation which you probably heard of 
 at the time it was discovered. Perhaps you would like to 
 look at it again,” and he rose and handed to him the 
 mysterious note. 
 
 The deacon read it through, held it ^gainst the light, and 
 then inquired of the minister whether he knew the diand- 
 writing. 
 
 “ I do not,” replied the minister. i( It is not that of any 
 man in this plantation. What do you think of it ? Who is 
 he whom she cannot see ? What is he going to help her to 
 do ? Who is her master ? What does he mean by being 
 gentle and good ? ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 243 
 
 These questions were pronounced at little intervals, the 
 deacon bowing at each, as if he were swallowing it for diges- 
 tion. When they were concluded, he simply said, “ It's all 
 very strange, is it not ? ” — and reaching down to the minis- 
 ter's apple, where it was sputtering and becoming brown 
 before the fire, he turned it round by the stem in order to 
 expose the other side. 
 
 “ I suppose, of course," said the deacon, as he resumed 
 his position, “ that you have talked this all over with your 
 friend Mr. Pynchon. He is somewhat advanced in years, 
 and gray hairs should bring wisdom." 
 
 “ I formerly communicated with him upon the subject," 
 replied the minister, “ but he gave me neither comfort nor 
 instruction." 
 
 “ Perhaps we expect too much of him," suggested the 
 deacon. “ He has a great many cares, and I understand 
 that he spends a great deal of time in study. Do you know 
 anything of the book he has recently written ? " 
 
 “ Yes — I have seen something of it," replied Mr. Moxon. 
 
 “ Something which will edify the church — something 
 sound and well adapted to these Zions in the wilderness, 
 I presume," continued the deacon, affirmatively and sugges- 
 tively together. 
 
 “ Doctrinal, mostly," said the minister. 
 
 “ Orthodox, I'll warrant. Ah ! that’s a very fine old 
 man ! " and the deacon rubbed his hands and. pushed his 
 chair back from the hearth, as if, with such a generous glow 
 of friendship in his bosom, the fire was a little too much for 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Moxon moved uneasily in his seat, for the deacon, 
 when he resolutely set about boring for a secret, never re- 
 leased him till the fountain was reached, and had relinquished 
 its treasure. He understood him on this tack in the 
 progress of conversation, as well as on those which had pre- 
 ceded it, but he hesitated to speak fully of matters concern- 
 ing which he knew it became him to preserve silence ; so 
 he simply assented to the latter clause of the deacon’s 
 exclamation without any allusion to the former. 
 
 “ Man's inability? " suggested the deacon, with an inquir- 
 ing turn of the head. 
 
 “No. Oh! no." 
 
 “ Depravity ? " 
 
 16 
 
244 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ Not if I remember correctly. ” 
 
 “ Atonement ? ” and the deacon turned directly around, 
 and looked the minister in the face. 
 
 “ No — that is - — not exactly. The subject is connected 
 with the atonement, somewhat intimately, to be sure, but — ” 
 and the minister hesitated whether to put a stop to the 
 conversation where it was, or to go on, and reveal what he 
 knew. 
 
 “ That is a favorite subject with the old man,” interrupt- 
 ed the deacon. “ What view did he take ? ” 
 
 “ Well, sir,” proceeded the minister, reluctantly, “ on the 
 subject of the nature of Christ’s sufferings, he has not ad- 
 vanced and defended the views which prevail in the Bay 
 churches. I differ with him, and perhaps it is my duty to 
 make his views a matter of inquiry in the church, — perhaps 
 I have been remiss. ” 
 
 “ It cannot be anything very heretical, I know,” remarked 
 the attentive deacon. “ It would not be like him to con- 
 ceive it, nor like you to conceal it. What are his peculiar 
 views ? ” 
 
 “Well, if I understood him, he does not believe that 
 Christ suffered the essential torments of hell for the salva- 
 tion of men, and contends that God did not impute the 
 sins of men to him.” 
 
 “ I think you must have misunderstood him,” said the 
 deacon positively, and with every manifestation of charitable 
 confidence in the magistrate. 
 
 “That could hardly have been,” replied the minister, 
 “for I argued the matter with him. at length.” 
 
 “ What did he say ? What could he say ? ” 
 
 “ Well, he said it was an absurdity to accuse a God of 
 justice, while vindicating his justice, of imputing sin to an 
 innocent being ; and that hell torment, being directly con- 
 nected with a consciousness of personal guilt, could never 
 be experienced by Jesus Christ, from the fact that person- 
 ally he was never guilty. I found it a difficult matter to 
 overthrow his subtle reasonings, and left him, praying that 
 he might fall into no fatal errors.” 
 
 The deacon looked for a long minute into the fire, and 
 then, with a sigh, remarked that it was strange how the 
 best minds in the world would sometimes be left to the 
 entertainment of dangerous heresies. He thought it was a 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 245 
 
 lesson to the ministry, on the importance of keeping before 
 the people constantly the great doctrines of the Gospel in 
 all their simplicity and purity. He had been running back 
 in recollection to see if Mr. Moxon had preached a sermon 
 against this peculiar form of heresy, and ended by inform- 
 ing that gentleman that he had doubtless preached upon the 
 subject on some Sabbath when he (the deacon) was detained 
 at home by sickness. Mr. Moxon colored slightly at the 
 reproof, and confessed that he never had felt called upon to 
 preach directly to Mr. Pynchon, as, if he could not convince 
 him of his error in a personal argument, it would hardly 
 avail him more to engage in a pulpit demonstration against 
 his private opinions. 
 
 “That would depend something upon what the book was 
 written for,” replied the deacon. “ If it was written for 
 private gratification, to be shown only to friends, it would 
 doubtless save scandal in the church to refrain from its 
 exposure. I presume that Mr. Pynchon would hardly think 
 of publishing his book.” 
 
 “ On the contrary,” replied the minister, desperately, for 
 he saw that it must cpme, “the book has long been in the 
 hands of the printers in London, and may be expected at 
 the Bay within a short time.” 
 
 Deacon Chapin shook his head slowly as he sat gazing 
 into the fire, and said, u Pm sorry — very sorry,” and then, 
 as he had sifted this matter sufficiently, he suddenly remem- 
 bered that he had drawn the minister away from the subject 
 upon which he had commenced, and turning to him, he 
 observed that gentleman engaged in snuffing suspiciously 
 at the piece of birch bark which he had not yet returned to 
 the desk. 
 
 “ Excuse me, sir,” said the deacon gravely, but with a 
 smile in his eyes, “ are you on the scent ? ” 
 
 The minister, without noticing the attempt at raillery, 
 handed the deacon the bark manuscript, with a nod which 
 meant “ Smell of it yourself.” 
 
 The deacon did so, and exclaimed “ Musk ! ” 
 
 “ He’s around to-night,” remarked the minister nervously. 
 “ I feel him myself, and so do my children, I presume. You 
 will find this scent all over the house. You will find it, I 
 have no doubt, in the very center of that apple, which has 
 been roasting before the fire ever since you have been here, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 246 
 
 The deacon stooped to lift the apple, and drawing out his 
 knife, cut it in two. The stench reached his nostrils before 
 the apple itself was half way there, and impulsively he 
 dashed the whole upon the hearth, where it lay, crushed 
 and steaming, and filling the room with its odor to a greatly 
 offensive degree. The man was evidently astonished. It 
 was such a demonstration as he had not dreamed of witness- 
 ing, and one which he regretted to have witnessed. But his 
 equanimity did not forsake him, and he coolly asked the 
 minister whom he alluded to. 
 
 “ Martha, and those generally who are bewitched, call him 
 the Black Man, replied the minister. “ I have no doubt 
 that he is one of the emissaries of the Adversary, and that 
 he has been drawn here by our conversation about this piece 
 of birch bark,” and rising, the minister returned it to the 
 desk. 
 
 He had hardly reseated himself when his oldest daughter, 
 in a loose night robe of white, and with her long black hair 
 dangling upon her shoulders, threw the door hurriedly open, 
 and, gliding into the study, went directly to the fire, seated 
 herself close up to the ashes upon a stick of wood, and gazed 
 with a vacant stare into the flames. 
 
 The movement was accomplished so quickly and so 
 silently, that both of the witnesses were entirely absorbed 
 in the vision, and remained quietly in their seats. Mr. 
 Moxon looked at his daughter a moment, and then, 
 covering his eyes with his hand, gave his mind to silent 
 prayer. 
 
 It was a strange, wild sight. The girl was pale, and her 
 countenance seemed almost deathlike in the contrast with 
 her black hair and eyes ; and as the flame flashed high in 
 the chimney, and fluttered about the jambs, and painted 
 dim and uneasy shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the 
 room, and irradiated her impassive features with its trem- 
 bling and fitful glories, the imagination of 'the deacon be- 
 came inflamed with fears which he could not repress. He 
 felt almost as if he were within the power of the Adversary 
 himself. Every hair upon his head prickled with a preter- 
 natural apprehension, and he felt himself shivering and the 
 cold perspiration starting from his forehead. Before the 
 power of speech came to him, and while, half fascinated, he 
 sat absorbed in the weird vision, the girl whispered faintly, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 247 
 
 u Where is my supper ? ” Then, as if her question had been 
 answered to her mind, she turned around upon her seat, 
 with an expression of delight upon her tongue, but with no 
 corresponding expression upon her face, and dropping her 
 hand suddenly to the hearth, took up the crushed and still 
 steaming and offensive apple, and devoured it with a greed- 
 iness that was sickening. When she had swallowed the 
 apple, she turned again to the fire, and gazed unblinkingly 
 into the blaze. 
 
 “ Martha ! ” said Mr. Moxon tenderly, as he uncovered 
 his eyes. 
 
 The girl lifted her eyes to him, but made no reply. 
 
 “ Martha, what did you come in here for to-night ? What 
 made you come here ? ” 
 
 “ I came after my supper/’ said the girl. “ She told me to 
 come.” 
 
 u She means the one we were talking about,” remarked 
 the minister, in a side explanation to the deacon. 
 
 The deacon nodded and drew a long breath which must 
 have filled the furthest recess of his lungs, and it was well 
 that he received, at the moment, its fortifying influence, for, 
 in the high tension of his^ nervous sensibilities, he detected 
 a slight sound at the door, and on turning his eyes in that 
 direction, the younger sister made her appearance, walking 
 slowly, with her eyes fixed on some object before her. The 
 attention of both the deacon and the father of the child 
 became absorbed in observing the movements of Rebekah, 
 who, with perfect serenity upon her features, advanced 
 towards the desk, and taking up the bark manuscript, held 
 it to her forehead, and stood motionless with it there, for 
 several minutes. 
 
 In the meantime, Martha had risen from her seat, and, 
 advancing towards her sister, gently removed the manu- 
 script from her hand, replaced it upon the desk, and led her 
 to the fire, where the two stood in a sisterly embrace, and in 
 apparent unconsciousness of the presence of the deacon. 
 The latter individual had seen much more than he anticipat- 
 ed, and was really anxious to leave the house. His super- 
 stitious fears had never been so much excited, and had 
 never been excited on so rational a stimulant. 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said the deacon kindly, addressing the minis- 
 ter, and rising and rubbing his trembling hands, “ you would 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 248 
 
 prefer to be left alone with your poor children. I think I 
 had better bid you a good evening.” 
 
 The minister rose, as Deacon Chapin addressed him, and 
 the latter observed that he was under a new and strange in- 
 fluence. He was deadly pale, and was trembling violently. 
 On turning again to the children, they were observed to be 
 similarly affected. The father drew them to him, and sank 
 into his chair with them in his embrace, and there the three 
 shuddered and shook together. The deacon’s equanimity 
 was fairly upset, and he began to draw his breath spasmodi- 
 cally, and to tremble with fear and sympathy. 
 
 Looking up, with a determination to break from a scene 
 whose horrors were every moment increasing, his eye de- 
 tected a black, grizzly face at the window, looking fixedly 
 in upon the group. He wiped his eyes to assure himself that 
 it was not a phantom of his excited imagination, but there 
 it stood ; and, as the fire danced in the chimney, and played 
 upon the walls, and sent out its flashes into the darkness, 
 it painted that face alternately with scowls and sneers, or 
 lighted its eyes with a fiendish glare, or shaped its lips to a 
 horrible grin. He stepped across the room to assure him- 
 self that it was not an illusion wrought by the imperfect 
 glass, but the face remained. He would then have left the 
 house, but he did not wish to encounter the owner of that 
 face in the darkness. 
 
 “ Do you know that there is a very singular-looking face 
 at the window ? ” said the deacon softly, bending down to 
 the minister's ear. 
 
 “ I know that the tormentor is very near,” replied the 
 minister with a renewed shiver. “I feel his presence, and 
 these poor children feel it even more than mysejf. We can 
 do nothing but submit, and give ourselves to prayer.” 
 
 The deacon turned his attention to the window again, and 
 there still hung the face, paling and flushing, and scowling 
 and grinning fantastically in the firelight, but the eyes were 
 evidently looking at an object on the desk, near the window, 
 and did not observe, for a moment, their observer. In an 
 instant, a pane of glass was burst through, and a rough arm, 
 reaching to the desk, snatched the dark manuscript, and 
 withdrawing it, disappeared with the face in the darkness. 
 The children uttered a wild scream as the glass flew out and 
 came tinkling across the floor, which was echoed by the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 249 
 
 retreating visitant with a peal of derisive laughter ; and that, 
 in turn, seemed to be echoed by intermingled screams and 
 laughter that were repeated from the walls of houses, or 
 came more faintly back from distant hillsides. 
 
 When the last hollow murmur had died away, the children 
 rubbed their eyes, looked up in surprise upon the face of the 
 deacon, then down upon their night-dresses, and were be- 
 ginning to cry, when their father hurriedly led them from the 
 room.* The visitor could not leave, of course, until the re- 
 turn of the minister, and so stood, hat in hand, in the mid- 
 dle of the little study, until that gentleman came feebly back, 
 and closed the door behind him. They stood face to face 
 for a moment, when the deacon, having been thoroughly 
 melted into sympathy, the two impulsively laid their hands 
 on each other’s shoulders, and bowed before a common emo- 
 tion. The embrace was not long, but it did the minister 
 good, for he thought there was one heart at least thoroughly 
 won to an apprehension and appreciation of his trials. 
 
 The deacon did not linger, but, with a few kind words 
 of counsel and sympathy, took his leave, and, with a sense 
 of relief, drew a long breath again in the open air. The 
 coolness of the night restored tone to his trembling nerves, 
 and as he bent his steps homewards, he found himself 
 calmly revolving and analyzing what he had seen. There 
 was something in it very mysterious — that was certain. 
 There was such a thing as witchcraft — everybody admitted 
 that — and this was a genuine case. What was the true 
 policy in regard to its treatment? Was it best for him — 
 Deacon Chapin — and for the settlement generally, to engage 
 in a vigorous crusade against the foul sin, and be the means 
 of expurgating the community of it, or to keep in the back- 
 ground, and wait for the indication of occasions? He 
 would think of it after he had slept. 
 
 When the deacon arrived at his home he found a neigh- 
 bor waiting to transact some business, and met him with 
 a dignity of manner and austerity of countenance that 
 characterized him in his usual intercourse, — with not a 
 
 * It can hardly be necessary, at this day, to suggest animal magnetism 
 as the explanation of the strange phenomena connected with this family. 
 That this mysterious agency or influence has always had an intimate 
 connection with witchcraft, associated in a greater or less degree with 
 deception and delusion, will not, it is presumed, be denied. 
 
250 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 trace of the emotions by which, within the previous hour, 
 he had been agitated. The shrewd and pleasant eyes 
 moved calmly in their sockets, the little word that should 
 make that man’s heart feel warm all the way home — warm 
 towards the world in general, and Deacon Chapin in par- 
 ticular — was said, the bargain was closed, and the neighbor 
 was on his homeward way, smiling and talking pleasantly 
 to himself. 
 
 When the deacon calmly closed his eyes in sleep that 
 night, the minister rose from his chair, replenished his 
 fire, and until after midnight his sturdy shadow mingled 
 upon the wall with those that play hide-and-seek with the 
 freakish flashes of the firelight. 
 
 Buckskin Shirt, trimmed with Wampum Beads. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 or three days 
 after the inter- 
 view between 
 Peter Trimble 
 and / Hugh Par- 
 sons, those individuals 
 accidentally met. The 
 former was ready for the 
 meeting, but the latter 
 was not. Peter had ar- 
 ranged his inquiries for 
 every possible contin- 
 gency, and (there being 
 several individuals pres- 
 ent) he asked Hugh if h 
 had “ been to Spain.” 
 On receiving the 
 that he had not, he asked 
 him if he had “seen the 
 queen.” Having obtained the same reply, he inquired if it 
 were not about time he was taking the voyage. Hugh ob- 
 ligingly told him that perhaps it was, and Peter, as he parted 
 from him, remarked that he should think so. 
 
 The next day the two met again, when Peter asked wheth- 
 er Hugh had succeeded in “ treeing the squirrel ” which 
 he understood he was after, and propounded various other 
 inquiries based on that peculiarly happy figure of speech. 
 Hugh saw that he was to have no peace until something had 
 been done towards fulfilling the mission he had so foolishly 
 
 2 5 * 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 252 
 
 assumed, and desperately determined to call on Mary 
 Woodcock, and make known his unpleasant business. 
 
 On a convenient evening, therefore, Hugh made his toilet 
 with such taste as his means would allow, walked to the 
 house of Mr. Holyoke, and hurriedly knocking at the door, 
 as if apprehensive that his courage would fail him should he 
 delay, he stood with a pale face and a throbbing heart await- 
 ing the answer to his summons. The door was opened by 
 Mary herself, and Hugh could not choose but notice the 
 delight that flashed in her dark eye, and illuminated — as 
 the lightning a cloud — her strong and expressive features, 
 when she took his hand, and invited him into the house. 
 
 Fortune had favored Hugh with the choice of an evening 
 when Holyoke and his wife were absent, and in Mary’s 
 smile there was a satisfaction and delight that were based 
 upon an instant comprehension of the circumstances of the 
 visit. Mary retained Hugh’s passive hand within her own 
 as he crossed the threshold, and then she led him to a seat 
 with a gallantry and tenderness of manner which were the 
 appropriate expression of the_sentiments which possessed 
 her. When she had placed Hugh’s hat upon the table she 
 returned to the fire, and taking a seat where she could look 
 him fairly in the face, regarded him with* an affectionate 
 admiration which she took no pains to conceal. Hugh 
 timidly lifted his eyes to her face, and for the first time in 
 his life,thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever 
 seen. Instead of being abashed as he had expected to be 
 in her presence, he suddenly felt his heart going out to her 
 in confidence and trust, and self-possession came with the 
 assurance that his spirit was in harmony with her own. 
 
 Mary inquired for his health and that of his father’s 
 family, wondered he had never called upon her before, 
 frankly declared her delight with the opportunity of an in- 
 terview, and then referred to the day on which she saw him 
 in the training band, when (she told him without reserve) 
 she was “ looking at him all the time.” 
 
 There was nothing in Hugh’s nature that revolted at this 
 forwardness. On the contrary, he felt that he had never 
 previously met a woman so agreeable. There was some- 
 thing in her frankness, her self-confidence, her strength and 
 fearlessness, that impressed him with admiration, and as he 
 sat and gazed upon her, and listened to her impulsive utter- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 253 
 
 ances, all the women he had ever known sank to mere 
 nothings in his estimation. 
 
 Just as a faint idea of the real character of the impression 
 she was making upon him crept into his consciousness, the 
 object of his visit obtruded itself, and in dissipating a beau- 
 tiful dream which had begun to overshadow him quite upset 
 his equanimity. 
 
 “ I came,” said Hugh, determined to keep his promise at 
 all hazards, and blushing to his temples, “on a queer errand, 
 and I hope you will not blame me for it, for I really could 
 not get along very well without promising to come.” 
 
 Did you wish to see Mr. Holyoke ? ” inquired Mary — 
 adding, “if you do, he is not at home, and his wife is absent 
 also.” 
 
 “ No, I came to see you, and I hope you will not be 
 offended with me for coming on such an errand.” 
 
 “ Just think of my being offended with you !” exclaimed 
 Mary, bursting into a hearty ringing laugh which disturbed 
 the sleeping children in the next room. Then, as her merri- 
 ment subsided, she bade Hugh get rid of his errand as 
 quickly as possible and fear nothing. 
 
 “ Why, you see, ” said Hugh, “ I was down to see Peter 
 Trimble the other night — he wanted me to come — and he 
 wanted to have me go to see you, and tell you that he had 
 a friend that thought a good deal of you — ” 
 
 Hugh paused. A pair of glowing eyes were flashing full 
 upon him, and the sense of the utter meanness of his posi- 
 tion and the subterfuge of which he had become the mouth- 
 piece, with a consciousness that Mary saw and detested 
 both, overcame him with shame, and with a burning face 
 he dropped his eyes, while his tongue refused the perform- 
 ance of its office. 
 
 Mary rose to her feet, and, giving vent to her exuberant 
 contempt by a vigorous onset with the tongs upon the back 
 log of the fire, she turned around with the tongs still in her 
 hand, and exclaimed, “ Peter Trimble is a fool ! A spindle- 
 shanked, squash-headed fool ! And if you are so good at 
 doing errands, I wish you would have the kindness to tell 
 him just what I have said; and, while you are about it, tell 
 him that if he sends any more of his impudent messages to 
 me, I’ll slap his ugly face for him. ” 
 
 Having said this with an angrily impulsive utterance, 
 
254 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Mary gave the back log another punch, set the tongs in 
 the corner, and looked at Hugh in silence. 
 
 That individual was dumfounded, and his admiration of 
 the woman before him was fast dying out, when her counte- 
 nance relaxed from its harsh expression, and, breaking into 
 a low, musical laugh, she said, “ Hugh Parsons, how could 
 you let that poor puppy impose upon you so ? ” Then she 
 laughed again, and bent down and looked into Hugh’s 
 eyes — conscious of having offended his sensibilities, but de- 
 termined to win a smile of forgiveness before another step 
 was taken. “ Did I scare you?” said she, resuming her 
 chair, and laying her hand upon his arm. “ Well, you can’t 
 imagine how much I despise that Peter, and you do not 
 know what reason I have to hate him. He has no memory, 
 and he imagines I have none. It made me mad to think 
 he should suppose it possible for me to show him anything 
 more than common politeness, and madder still to see that he 
 made you a pack-horse of his impudence, as well as his lies. ” 
 
 “ I was afraid it would offend you,” said Hugh, “but he 
 seemed to feel so badly about it that I couldn’t refuse him.” 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! hush ! ” exclaimed Mary, tapping her 
 finger upon Hugh’s lip. “ Don’t tell me any more, or you’ll 
 make me mad again ! ” 
 
 “ You really don’t wish me to carry the message to him 
 which you just now gave me,” said Hugh, deprecatingly. 
 
 “ Oh, no ! ” replied the girl ; “ I’ll tell you what to say to 
 him. Say that I have given my heart to another, and that 
 he must forget me,” and Mary laughed outright at the idea 
 of her sending such a message to such a man. “ If he asks 
 you who it is,” added Mary, “ tell him you do not know, 
 but that what I say is true.” 
 
 As the girl closed, Hugh rose to his feet, his errand be- 
 ing finished, and, as he met the direct gaze of her marvel- 
 ous eyes — bright with an unwonted excitement, searching 
 for sympathy down into the very depths of his soul, and 
 pouring out upon him (as he felt) an influence which, though 
 strange to him, found just as strange a response within him, 
 he trembled in every fiber of his frame — trembled under a 
 power all-pervading in its effect, prostrating for the moment 
 his will, and shaking the very foundations of his being. 
 
 A strange feeling crept into his heart, as he stood there, 
 looking Mary in the face — a feeling that he was in the shad- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 255 
 
 ow of a nature strongei than his own — that that shadow 
 was his home — that he was not in will and purpose, in 
 thought and feeling, in strength and determination, a man. 
 These emotions were quickly experienced, and those more 
 indefinite and confused succeeded, so that Mary's hearty 
 grasp at parting, and his promise to call again, and tell her 
 how Peter received her message, were matters that were 
 remembered rather than realized. 
 
 Hugh found himself in the open air, in a state of mind 
 bordering upon insanity. Her eyes were still looking into 
 his, her laugh still rang in his ears, her storm of contempt- 
 uous passion swept wildly through his memory, and every 
 artery was throbbing with a passion as new as it was deli- 
 cious. His heart, with a truthfulness which he could not 
 doubt, had told him the secret of her own, and oh ! how 
 precious was that secret. He longed to get home — to get 
 into his room — to lock his door, and think it all over — to 
 surround himself with it as a cloud in which he might bathe 
 — to drink it in as if it were nectar — and tremblingly to open 
 the door that stood between him and the future, and look 
 upon the charmed land. 
 
 Perfectly absorbed in his new thoughts, he had proceed- 
 ed but a short distance on his way homewards when Peter 
 stepped forth from a roadside cover, and silently joined his 
 startled messenger. 
 
 “ You see,” said Peter, in a subdued voice, “ I go down 
 there pretty much every night, and walk by the house, and, 
 once in a while, I get a squint into the windows, and see 
 her washing dishes and cutting round in the kitchen ; but, 
 land ahead ! Fd no more idea of seeing you there to-night 
 — a talking with her — I didn’t s’pose you’d dare to — I didn’t, 
 ? pon my word. Says I, as I stood out there a peeking in, 
 Hugh Parsons is the greatest feller I ever see in my life — I 
 did now — that’s jest what I said, word for word.” 
 
 Hugh lifted his eyes to his voluble companion, to ascer- 
 tain from his countenance, if possible, in the dim light, 
 whether he had in any measure made himself acquainted 
 with the result of his visit. He was interrupted in his scru- 
 tiny, and relieved in his apprehensions, by Peter himself. 
 
 “ I didn’t wait,” continued that individual, “to hear what 
 she had to say, for I wasn’t ready ; but I jest come right 
 out under the cover here, and got myself all fixed for what- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 256 
 
 ever she might say. It’s a great contrivance now, I tell you, 
 and you’ll say so jest as quick as you come to see it. Where 
 shall we go ? ” 
 
 n We will go to my room,” said Hugh. 
 
 “ Have you got a board there, or anything for me to make 
 a few chalk marks on ? ” inquired Peter, and then added, 
 “ never mind about the chalk, for I always carry that in my 
 pocket. Everybody is wanting chalk, and nobody has it. 
 You never catch me without chalk.” 
 
 “ It wouldn’t hurt the floor, would it? ” inquired Hugh. 
 
 “ Hurting the floor depends upon what woman makes up 
 the bed. It wouldn’t do to chalk the floor where I live. 
 I’ve tried that, and I’ve always kept a loose board there 
 ever since. Land ahead ! what a row that was ! ” and Peter 
 shrugged his shoulders as the memory of the stirring oc- 
 casion to which he alluded swept over him. 
 
 Hugh replied that he imagined that some method could 
 be devised for Peter’s accommodation when the room should 
 be reached, and they walked on in silence until they arrived 
 at the house. 
 
 A minute sufficed for the lighting of a candle, and the 
 two proceeded up the rough stairway to Hugh’s room. As 
 Peter followed Hugh up the steps, he became possessed 
 with a feeling of importance that he had never before ex- 
 perienced. His throat swelled, he held his breath with an 
 inflated chest, he looked down upon his remarkable legs 
 with utter complacency, and said to and within himself, 
 “These are great doings! This pays if it doesn’t amount 
 to anything. It takes me to put these little chaps round, 
 and get the work out of ’em.” Peter terminated his inter- 
 esting soliloquy by a grand flourish of his fists at Hugh’s 
 back, as he entered his chamber, and a kick into the dark- 
 ness he had left behind him, both of which demonstrations 
 were intended as an expression of his momentary exaltation 
 above all the humanity in his immediate -vicinity. 
 
 Arriving in the room, both of the young men sat down, 
 and Peter drew forth his carefully preserved chalk. “ Now,” 
 said he, “ I s’pose you want to see how I’m going to fix it. 
 Well, I’ll tell you first how I come at it. She’s made you 
 one of two answers. It’s either all right, or all wrong. If 
 it’s all right, there’s one thing for me to do ; if it’s all wrong, 
 there’s another thing. You see that, don’t you? ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 257 
 
 Hugh assented. 
 
 “ Well, now you see I’m standing right in the crotch of 
 the roads, don’t you ? ” (and Peter made chalk marks on the 
 floor representing a road branching off into two roads, the 
 whole being a rude representation of a hay fork.) “ Up this 
 way,” continued Peter, designating the left-hand path, “ is 
 where I live. Beyond there is Deacon Chapin’s house, and 
 his lot that he offers to let me plant next year to halves, and 
 the lot that I shall clear on the commons. There’s women 
 on the road, but you can’t see ’em now, and there’s a pretty 
 little house that isn’t built that I own. Enough said. Now, 
 on the right-hand road, where I’ve been wanting to go, 
 there’s Holyoke’s house, and Mary Woodcock inside of it, 
 and all Woodcock’s land, and a cabin on it, and everything 
 all right. Now you see I’m at the crotch of the roads, don’t 
 you ? ” 
 
 Hugh assented again. 
 
 “ Now I’m bound not to make a fuss, anyway, and you 
 see if Mary turns up her nose to me, I shall take the left- 
 hand road, turn my back upon the right, and make believe 
 I never see it in my life ; and then I shall take the deacon’s 
 lot to halves, build a house on the commons, take a wife 
 out of them pretty women you can’t see now, and have a 
 great time. If Mary is all right, I shall take the right-hand 
 road,' walk into Holyoke’s house, take Mary and walk out, 
 fix up the cabin on old Woodcock’s land, and invite in my 
 friends. Now, what do you say ? ” (inquired Peter, rising 
 and taking his position upon the point he legitimately occu- 
 pied upon his diagram), “ shall I take the right hand or the 
 left ? ” 
 
 Hugh, who, though still under the excitement induced by 
 his interview with Mary, could not avoid being excessively 
 amused with the measures Peter had instituted for the pres- 
 ervation of his equanimity, replied to Peter’s inquiry with 
 a freedom he had not anticipated — “The left.” 
 
 “ Forward, march ! ” exclaimed Peter, stepping off in the 
 direction indicated, until he reached the wall, where he 
 measured time upon a squeaking pair of shoes for at least 
 a minute, with a neck and back as stiffly set as if they were 
 made of cast iron. Then he turned briskly round, and, 
 walking back to where Hugh was sitting, said, in a tone of 
 curiosity rather than of apprehension, “ Is it r’ally so, Hugh ? ” 
 
25B THE BAY PATH. 
 
 Hugh asserted that the left was the only direction he 
 could give him. 
 
 “ Well, how did you get at it, Hugh, anyway ? What 
 did she say? Tell a feller all about it. By George ! you 
 must have had a great time ! ” 
 
 “ She said,” replied Hugh, with a strange thrill in his 
 brain, “ that she had given her heart to another, and that 
 you must forget her.” 
 
 “ Did she say that, though ? I don’t know what you think 
 of that, Hugh, but it seems to me as if it was darn pretty. 
 How was it? You jest say that again.” 
 
 “That she had given her heart to another, and that you 
 must forget her.” 
 
 “ It seems to me,” continued Peter, his lip quivering, and 
 his eyes becoming suffused, “ as if that was jest about the 
 prettiest thing I ever heard in my life. Don’t you think so, 
 now, Pally ? By George ! ” exclaimed the enthusiastic young 
 man, in a burst of admiration that was accompanied by a 
 slap upon Hugh’s back, “ I hope she’ll do well — I do, ’pon 
 my word.” 
 
 “ Yes — I hope so,” responded Hugh. 
 
 “Anything said — ’bout — p’ints ? ” inquired Peter, turning 
 his eyes upwards, with an occasional side glance at Hugh, 
 and drawing his fingers slowly down over his face. 
 
 “Nothing that I shall tell you” replied Hugh with a 
 smile. 
 
 “ She didn't though, did she, Hugh ? ” said Peter, burst- 
 ing into a snicker. “ Well, I hope she’ll do well — I do, 
 ’pon my word, if it was the last thing I had to say. I hope 
 she’ll do first-rate. Hugh, you get off that word she sent 
 to me again. I can’t seem to hold on to it.” 
 
 “That she had given her heart to another, and that you 
 must forget her.” 
 
 “I don’t know how you feel about it, Hugh,” said Peter, 
 “ but that pays me. I tell you, it’s something to get such 
 a word as that from a girl. It’s about as good as marrying 
 her. Jest think how it sounds ! By George ! I’ve no 
 reason to complain — now that’s a fact I r’ally hope she’ll 
 do well . " 
 
 Hugh was about expressing his gratification that Peter 
 had borne his disappointment so well, when the latter rose 
 to take his leave. 
 
The bay path. 
 
 250 
 
 11 If you’ll jest whip them chalk marks,” said Peter, look- 
 ing considerately down upon the diagram of his life , 44 they’ll 
 come out, but if you rub ’em, you’ll only rub ’em in. When 
 you’ve used chalk as much as I have you’ll know without 
 being told.” 
 
 Peter looked round the room, and finding no more to say, 
 turned and walked down-stairs, Hugh following him, and 
 seeing him safely landed in the street. 
 
 On arriving in the open air, he pulled his coat collar up 
 about his ears, and burying his face in it as far as possible, 
 whispered and chuckled, and shook his fists all the way home. 
 
 Hugh was alone at last, and, hastily undressing, he com- 
 mitted himself to his bed. In an instant, the face and form 
 of Mary Woodcock were before him. He transported him- 
 self in imagination back to the room in which he had had 
 his interview with her, recalled every word she uttered and 
 every look she gave him, and feasted his memory upon what 
 he had suddenly discovered to be her wonderful beauty. 
 She filled his heart and head full. He felt that he had given 
 himself to her, and that only in her possession could he 
 thenceforth be happy. His head grew feverish with excite- 
 ment, and he tossed upon his bed for hours without sleep, 
 dwelling upon and recalling constantly the same images, 
 the same words, and the same wonderful emotions. 
 
 In his first dream, Mary’s eyes were looking with their 
 wonted fascination into his own — her hand was upon his 
 arm — warm, electrical, subduing. A deep sense of harmony 
 and happiness played about his heart — and yet, he felt his 
 whole nature yearning for something unpossessed — some- 
 thing without him, yet supremely necessary to him. 
 
 And Hugh was not alone in his restlessness and dreams 
 that night. Mary was exultant She had hardly a doubt 
 after Hugh retired that she should conquer him, and win 
 him to herself ; and this she determined to do in spite of 
 any opposition that might interpose. She would walk bare- 
 foot to the Bay — nay, she would walk the world over — 
 through danger and darkness and despair, before she would 
 relinquish her design to make him her own. Her heart 
 brimmed with the most perfect tenderness towards him — it 
 overflowed in gushing words, softly whispered to her pillow 
 — words of endearment — words that were caresses— words 
 of gentlest idolatry. 
 
 17 
 
 18730 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ORNING 
 came to 
 both, and it 
 was morning 
 in a new 
 world. They had been 
 translated in their rela- 
 tions, and everything 
 had a new value and a 
 new significance. With 
 Mary, life had resolved 
 itself into an invincible 
 purpose. She knew that she should have opposition from 
 her best friends to the accomplishment of her wishes, but 
 she determined to burst through it all. She knew that she 
 should be met with jeers on every hand from her acquaint- 
 ances, for choosing so insignificant a husband. She knew 
 also that Hugh would be pitied as if he were a boy in the 
 claws of a tigress ; and yet these facts were no more than 
 straws beneath the feet of her determination. 
 
 Hugh was possessed by a very different spirit — a spirit of 
 helplessness— of fear of Mary’s power over him — of sorrow 
 that so many thought and spoke evihof her — and yet a spirit 
 smitten through by a fascination that exalted its author to 
 the pinnacle of feminine power, grace, and glory. 
 
 260 
 
 Early “ Pine-Tree ” Flag of New England. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 26l 
 
 All day long, Hugh walked about his business as if in a 
 dream, and when night came on, he found himself moving 
 in the direction of Holyoke’s house. The longing to see 
 her face, to listen to her voice, and to feel the influence of 
 her magnetic eyes was irresistible. As he approached the 
 house, he saw a dark object, closely wrapped, leaning upon 
 tjie garden gate ; and when he had arrived sufficiently near, 
 a low, firm voice said, “ I knew you would come — I knew 
 you would come.” These words were uttered in such a 
 tone of conscious power, that Hugh felt that self-control 
 was not possible in her presence. 
 
 " You will take a short walk with me to-night, will you 
 not? ” said Mary, in the same confident tone. 
 
 “ Certainly,” responded Hugh. 
 
 " Oh ! I knew you would,” said Mary, as she passed out 
 of the gate. 
 
 Hugh did not offer her his arm — he did not even think 
 he had an arm to offer, but she moved to his side, and took 
 it within both her own, and drawing it to her, carried her 
 face so near his that he could feel her breath, and exclaimed, 
 “ You cannot tell how glad I am to see you this evening.” 
 But Hugh could say nothing. He walked along as if he 
 were a culprit, oppressed with a sense of his worthlessness, 
 his awkwardness, and ignorance, wondering what Mary could 
 find in him to admire ; and, for the moment, feeling that 
 he had neither part nor lot in the strange intimacy she had 
 assumed. 
 
 “ Hugh,” said Mary, and the word thrilled him as if it 
 were a breath of music, “ Hugh, I have long had something 
 to tell you, and you must let me tell it to you to-night. We 
 will walk out to the old cabin, and there we can be out of 
 the way, and say what we choose.” 
 
 Hugh understood what was meant by the old cabin. It 
 was the building formerly owned by John Woodcock, which 
 had occasionally been repaired and temporarily occupied by 
 immigrants, while providing themselves with a shelter upon 
 their own lots. The mention of it filled him with fear, for 
 there were stories told concerning that lonely old shelter — 
 of lights having been seen in it at midnight — of ashes upon 
 the hearth left by fires which no one had kindled, and of 
 confused voices heard by distant watchers — and the associa- 
 tion of Mary, in her tainted reputation, with the building 
 
262 
 
 THE SAY PATH. 
 
 was such as, for a moment, almost to impel him to break 
 from her side and flee. But he could not have done it if he 
 would, and the impulse soon subsided. 
 
 They passed several houses in silence, and at last ap- 
 proached the cabin. The door of the old structure was 
 closed, and knowing that it was quite as cold and cheerless 
 within as it was outside, they took a seat upon a rough 
 bench at the door. Mary hardly knew how to broach the 
 subject of her thoughts, and the object of the interview. At 
 last, summoning her resolution, she said, “ Hugh — I want 
 to ask you a question, and you must answer it. I want to 
 know whether, if you loved such a girl as I am, you would 
 dare to go independently to her and tell her of it.” 
 
 Hugh shook his head, but uttered not a word. 
 
 “I thought so,” responded Mary, “and now if you should 
 love such a girl as I am, and such a girl as I am should 
 love, you how would the two find it out unless the girl should 
 tell you ? ” 
 
 Hugh felt that his proper answer to both these questions 
 involved his shame, and so, still speechless, he shook his 
 head again. 
 
 “ I know that the people would not think it right for a 
 girl like me to tell a man like you that she loved him, but I 
 don't care anything about that, and I've come out here to- 
 night with you, Hugh, to tell you that I love you better than 
 anybody and everybody else in all the world. Nobody liv- 
 ing can love you as I do — I know it — I know it just as well 
 as I know that I live.” 
 
 Mary paused in her passionate utterance, and, slowly pas- 
 sing her arm around Hugh, continued : “ It seems to me 
 
 that if you were mine, and I could live with you always, I 
 should be perfectly — perfectly happy. I don't care what 
 people say — I don't care what they do. If I could live 
 here, away from them, in this cabin, where we could be all 
 by ourselves, and where I could work out-doors, and in- 
 doors, I shouldn’t care whether you worked or not — I should 
 rather you wouldn't work, for you ain't made for this rough 
 country. I could take care of you — I could nurse you when 
 you are sick, and do everything for you when you are well, 
 and I should rather work for you than for myself any time 
 and all the time. Oh, Hugh ! ” (and Mary's voice sank to a 
 low, tender tone) “how happy — happy — happy I should be! 
 How happy I should be. 1 ” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 263 
 
 As she closed her impassioned declaration, she drew 
 Hugh to her heart, and there, his sensitive frame wrought 
 into the most painful nervous frerfzy, he shook and shivered 
 as if a subtle poison were creeping through his veins, or a 
 miasmatic blast had smitten him with a fever. He could 
 say nothing. He could only sigh convulsively. He knew 
 that Mary’s eyes were upon him, and he felt that, if he 
 should lift his own to them, he should fall to weak and 
 womanish tears, or be guilty of some driveling silliness that 
 would disgrace him in her eyes forever. 
 
 “ Can you not love me ? ” said Mary, tenderly kissing his 
 forehead as it lay upon her shoulder. “ Can you not love 
 me ? Can you not be mine — all mine — always mine ? ” 
 
 Hugh pressed her hand, and there, in the cold night air, 
 for a good half hour, the lovers sat, wrapped in a feverish 
 sense of happiness, so wild, and vague, and nebulous, that 
 one proper word uttered in the midst of it might have crys- 
 talized the whole into something definitely and permanently 
 good, while an improper one might have broken it into ed- 
 dies that would have drowned heart and brain in forgetful- 
 ness and madness. But no word was spoken, and the spell 
 was broken at last by a slight noise within the cabin, fol- 
 lowed by a half whispered exclamation, which, in the ears 
 of both the lovers, shaped itself to the words “ O God ! ” 
 
 Hugh was nearly overcome with fright, while Mary, for 
 the first time in her brief love history, was stricken with a 
 sense of guilt. She could pour out her soul to Hugh, she 
 could woo him and win him, without the sense of shame. 
 In his presence, alone, she felt that she was sacrificing none 
 of the proprieties of her sex by telling him her love and 
 suing for his hand, but the thought that other ears had heard 
 her seemed to inform her action with new qualities ; and, as 
 both started hurriedly away from the spot, she drew her 
 arms under her shawl, and hung her head in silence. Half 
 the distance of return had been accomplished, when Mary 
 burst forth with, “-I don’t care anything about it. It is no 
 one’s business but yours and mine, Hugh. Do not walk 
 so fast.” 
 
 The remainder of the walk home was occupied in a low 
 and busy conversation on the subject of the future. Mary 
 told Hugh of the land left to her by her father, of the 
 money she had received from the same source (though she 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 264 
 
 did not tell him by what agency the latter came), of the 
 difficulty she should have of carrying out her plan to marry 
 him, and explained to him the origin of the stories which 
 he had heard about her. And Hugh, as he became con- 
 vinced that she had been wronged, and that she was really 
 honest-hearted and guiltless, felt himself attached to her by 
 a new and nobler sympathy, that did much to fix his deter- 
 mination, assure his judgment, and give body, form, and 
 spirit to his affection. When they parted, each was calm, 
 and each felt assured of the strength of the mutual tie. 
 
 Only a few weeks passed away before it was known that 
 Hugh and Mary were betrothed to each other, and such a 
 commotion as it produced in the settlement had never pre- 
 viously been experienced. The first declaration made by 
 each man and woman, as the news was told, was that “ Mary 
 did all the courting. ” It was singular that so just a sus- 
 picion should have been so universal, but none were found 
 to dispute it. It was a natural deduction from their rela- 
 tive constitutions and characters. Everybody felt it to be 
 a bad match. 
 
 Mary had anticipated all the opposition to her plans which 
 she actually experienced, and all the abuse of which she 
 was the subject. Against all this she had steeled herself, 
 and carried a calm, brave, and determined face wherever 
 she went, or in whatsoever company* she found herself. 
 Only in Mary Holyoke’s kind presence had she melted, and 
 confessed the means she had taken to gain Hugh’s affection 
 and his promise of marriage. But there she received no 
 reproaches. She heard fears expressed — fears springing 
 from genuine Christian love — and she drank in gentle coun- 
 sels that were dictated by a heart that realized the full pre- 
 ciousness of human affection ; and she found one who looked 
 upon the match more than charitably — pleasantly — even 
 hopefully. 
 
 On the day when the intentions of marriage between the 
 two were published, Peter Trimble took occasion, as the 
 audience was dismissed, to tell Hugh that he had done a 
 neat thing. “ I tell you,” said Peter, “ it was just exactly 
 as I should have done if I’d been in your place. Yes, 
 sir — if you’d sent me, as I did you, I should ’a nabbed 
 her as true as guns, and you might have whistled. Yes, 
 sir, you did that well.” 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ITHERTO the office of 
 the Bay Path had been 
 one of peace. It had 
 been worn' by weary 
 but hopeful feet in the 
 service of commerce and friend- 
 ship, and by the migrations incident 
 to a new territory; but the hour 
 was approaching when new and more 
 stirring influences should pass over its track, fraught with 
 great changes to the plantation which it connected with the 
 Bay. 
 
 While Mr. Pynchon was in attendance at the October 
 term of the General Court, in 1649, the book with which 
 the reader has become imperfectly acquainted, through 
 Deacon Chapin’s interview with Mr. Moxon, arrived in a 
 vessel from London, and the author, with many misgivings 
 concerning the result, but with a determination conscien- 
 tiously to risk it, and bravely to abide by it, committed it 
 to the public. 
 
 Saying nothing to any one of his proceeding, and leav- 
 ing his book to its fate, and to its influence upon his own, 
 he preserved, day by day, his quiet dignity in his seat among 
 the magistrates, and performed his duties. A few days 
 passed away before he was made aware in any manner that 
 his book had arrested the public eye, but the cool greetings 
 and the altered manners of those about him, and those 
 whom he met in the streets, soon betrayed the depth of 
 the unfavorable impression which it had made. At the 
 meeting-house, upon the Sabbath, he was reminded of the 
 errors which he had promulgated, in the minister’s prayer; 
 and half unconsciously looking around, he saw several wor- 
 
 265 
 
266 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 shipful and worshiping gentlemen gazing over their noses 
 at him. At length, the state of public feeling became so 
 intense that the bounds of politeness were fairly broken 
 over, and one or two of his old friends visited him person- 
 ally with severe reproaches. As no direct action had been 
 instituted against him by church or state, and as he found 
 his position comfortless, he thought that the best policy 
 for him would be to relieve the town of his presence, and 
 return home — thus giving to all time to consider his work 
 more calmly, a*nd allowing opportunity for the subsiding 
 of the storm. Accordingly, he asked for leave of absence 
 from the Court — a request which was readily granted — and, 
 with two or three friends, commenced his journey home- 
 wards. 
 
 In the meantime, half a dozen members of the plantation 
 had been in Boston, and thus became acquainted with the 
 position of affairs relative to their magistrate. They had 
 seen him, and had returned home with his assurance that 
 he should soon follow them. Wherever they had made 
 their appearance among the Bay settlements, the subject 
 of the heretical book was brought up, and they found the 
 man whom they had for years loved and revered notorious 
 to an offensive degree. They returned to the plantation 
 much excited, and full of indignation towards those who 
 were thus insulting the person and maligning the reputa- 
 tion of their friend and counselor, and but a few hours 
 were necessary to diffuse their news and their excitement 
 throughout the plantation. 
 
 In Mr. Pynchon’s family there was much distress; for 
 what the men had related on their return, was fully con- 
 firmed in a letter from Mr. Pynchon himself. John felt 
 every indignity offered to his father as a personal offense, 
 and could hardly be dissuaded from starting immediately 
 for the Bay, to take his place by his side, and resent all the 
 insults offered him. Mary Holyoke was very deeply affected. 
 The love which she had always borne her father, her con- 
 fidence in his thorough Christian principle, her knowledge 
 of his deep conscientiousness, and her insight into his deli- 
 cate pride and sensitiveness of character, all tended to swell 
 the sympathy with which she regarded him, and which not 
 only filled all her waking thoughts, but destroyed her sleep 
 through many feverish nights. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 267 
 
 Poor Mrs. Pynchon, in her plodding old age, and in the 
 profundity of respect which she entertained for her husband, 
 would not at first believe a word of what was told her. She 
 
 Gen. Putnam, Hemmed in by the British, Escapes under Fire down a Precipice. 
 
 could not imagine it possible for William Pynchon to be 
 treated anywhere or by anybody with disrespect. His letter 
 was read to her, but she “ could not see into it,” and shook 
 her head so long and so determinedly that all attempts to 
 
 18730 
 
263 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 impress upon her the nature and extent of the difficulty 
 were abandoned. 
 
 At the close of the lecture on Wednesday succeeding the 
 announcement of Mr. Pynchon’s difficulties to the settle- 
 ment, all the men remained within the meeting-house, while 
 their wives and families mostly followed their example. 
 These difficulties were, of course, the topic of discussion, 
 and each of the news-bringers was surrounded by his little 
 knot of auditors, replying to a multitude of questions, and 
 retailing the particulars he had gathered to very attentive 
 ears. 
 
 Conversation had progressed but a few minutes, when 
 three or four horsemen cantered up to the door of the meet- 
 ing-house, and, dropping their bridles, leaped from their 
 saddles, and entered. Twenty individuals caught sight of 
 the first intruder, who was no other than Mr. Pynchon 
 himself, in his rusty traveling gear. A cordial smile illu- 
 minated his face as he contemplated the assembly, which 
 remained silent and motionless for a moment, and then, 
 by a common impulse, turned to greet him. “ Three cheers 
 for Mr. Pynchon ! ” shouted one, leaping to a seat ; and 
 they were given with a will. “ Three more ! ” shouted Peter 
 Trimble from another part of the house, swinging his hat 
 high in the air; but as he became immediately convinced 
 that he had gone too far, he settled into a profound snicker 
 that carried him nearly to the floor, and excluded all at- 
 tempt on his part to answer to the call. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon was at first greatly surprised to meet with 
 such a demonstration in the house of worship, but he was 
 surrounded immediately by his family and more intimate 
 friends, who explained the cause of the convocation, and of 
 the explosion of enthusiasm which he had witnessed. The 
 old man’s lip trembled, and his eye moistened with emotion 
 as he asked for silence, and thanked the assembly for their 
 confidence and sympathy. As they passed out of the house, 
 on that mild autumn afternoon, and took their way home- 
 wards, in a glow of happy excitement, Mr. Pynchon re- 
 garded them all with an affection he had never before 
 experienced, and his heart swelled with gratitude that he 
 was once more among hearts that loved him. 
 
 As the people divided into little parties on their way 
 homewards, there was one group besides that immediately 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 26 9 
 
 around Mr. Pynchon, which excited considerable attention 
 and comment. It was composed of Hugh Parsons, Mary 
 Woodcock, and no less an individual than Peter Trimble. 
 The face of the latter had taken on the aspect of an aggra- 
 vated case of the small-pox, while his legs, judging from 
 the manner in which they managed themselves, labored 
 each under intense personal embarrassment. He had hap- 
 pened to be near to Hugh and Mary as they left the meeting- 
 house, and, being hailed by the former, joined them in their 
 walk. 
 
 “ You are jest the man I wanted to see,” said Peter, 
 
 Famous Colonial Landmarks: “ Putnam’s Leap,” Greenwich, Conn. His Horse 
 Leaped the Declivity to Left of the Roadway. 
 
 “ When you get ieady ” (and Peter looked at Mary), “I 
 should like to see you alone about three minutes.” 
 
 “ What secret have you got for Hugh, now ? ” inquired 
 Mary good-humoredly. 
 
 “ We’ve had considerable between us, first and last, 
 hav’n’t we, Hugh ? ” said Peter. 
 
 Hugh replied that he rather thought they had. 
 
 “ I guess,” continued Peter, “ some folks don’t know how 
 some folks happened to get hold of some folks ; ” and then 
 he burst into a snicker that he found it impossible to termi- 
 nate without reaching across the walk, behind Mary, and 
 giving Hugh a sly kick. 
 
 Mary understood the allusion, for she had long previously 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 270 
 
 heard the whole story, and she joined Hugh in a laugh so 
 merry as to attract attention from a considerable distance. 
 
 “ Peter,” said Mary, “ why didn’t you make a speech to- 
 day?” 
 
 “ By George ! ” exclaimed Peter, excitedly, “ that’s jest 
 what I wanted to do ; and, between you and I, that’s what 
 I want to see Hugh about. Mr. Pynchon wouldn’t hear 
 anything to me, but perhaps he would to Hugh ; and I want 
 to put him on the track of something that’ll stick them Bay 
 fellows where they won’t hear from their friends over and 
 above often. Land ahead 1 If I was in his place, I could 
 fix ’em all in less than twenty-four hours. It’s so, now ; 
 you needn’t laugh.” 
 
 “But can you not inform both of us ?” inquired Mary, 
 assuming a sober face. 
 
 Peter shook his head. That was not the way in which he 
 was accustomed to deal. It was too public — there was 
 nothing sly about it. 
 
 At last, the singularly composed trio arrived at the house 
 of Holyoke, and Mary released her lover to Peter, who led 
 him behind a huge tree, a short distance off, and there 
 unveiled his plan for the relief of Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “You see,” said Peter, “ I’ve got a plan. I didn’t want 
 to tell it to the other fellers, for they’re always laughing at 
 me ; but you can tell Mr. Pynchon, or somebody else that 
 will tell him. Did you ever hear of a wind-gun ? ” 
 
 Hugh thought he had heard such an article of warfare 
 mentioned. 
 
 “ It goes by wind, you see,” continued Peter; “and it’ll 
 plug a bullet right into a man, and never make a bit of 
 noise. A feller’s alive one second and dead the next, and 
 nobody knows what hurts him. Well, if I was in Mr. Pyn- 
 chon’s place, I’d get a short wind-gun, and have it fastened 
 under my arm, and just cover up the whole concern with a 
 cloak; and then I’d have a string run down my coat sleeve 
 from the thing that pulls it off, and when one r of these fellers 
 comes up and says, ‘ Mr. Pynchon — that’s a miserable book 
 of your’n — you ought to be taken in hand for writing it,’ I 
 should jest look him in the eye, and pull the string, and slap 
 goes the man right down in the middle of the road, all 
 curled up as if he*"was full of choke-cherries. When the 
 next feller comes along with his sass 7 pull the string again, 
 
271 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 down he goes, and so on. By the time I’d laid out about 
 half a dozen that way, they’d begin to think that apoplexy 
 was catching, and that it wasn’t exactly safe to be minding 
 other people’s business. Land ahead ! I should jest like 
 to be William Pynchon for about three days. I’d be dan- 
 gerous now — you’d better believe I would, if I was to be 
 strung up for it.” 
 
 Hugh was not at all certain of the soundness of this scheme, 
 as a matter of policy, to say nothing of its morality ; while 
 his faith in wind-guns was not such as to make the enter- 
 prise look practicable ; but he nodded as Peter said, “ You 
 think of this ” — and parted with that modest and ingenious 
 young man, to forget his injunction and think about Mary. 
 
 The return of Mr. Pynchon was an event which had, for 
 several weeks, been associated in his mind, and in that of 
 Mary Woodcock, with their marriage ; and that was the 
 subject of their first thought as the magistrate made his 
 appearance at the meeting-house door. Hugh, therefore, 
 only went home to return to' the house of Holyoke in the 
 evening, where the intentions and prospects of the lovers 
 were made the subject of family conversation during his 
 call. Mr. Holyoke and his wife kindly lent their counsel to 
 the lovers, and promised to Tend them their interest and 
 aid. 
 
 It was concluded that the marriage should be celebrated 
 so soon as the cabin could be put in complete order for the 
 winter, and sufficient stores of wood and corn procured, or 
 rendered certain of procurement. Mary Holyoke promised 
 to speak of the matter to her father, and obtain his approval 
 of the match and the arrangements for the consummation of 
 the marriage. 
 
 The feeling towards the lovers among the young men of 
 the plantation had become softened by the passage of a few 
 weeks, and, through Mary Holyoke, John Pynchon had be- 
 come much interested in them. After a consultation with 
 Holyoke, he proposed to the young men of his own age to 
 do something in the way of assisting Hugh and Mary in the 
 commencement of thek housekeeping. 
 
 Accordingly, upon a morning appointed, Woodcock’s old 
 cabin was invaded by a busy host, who in the course of the 
 day changed the humble structure from a mere shell to a 
 tenan table dwelling. They were on the roof and under the 
 
272 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 roof — at the door and at the windows — topping out the 
 chimney and closing up the walls — and a very merry and 
 noisy set they were. At last, they built a huge fire within, 
 and collected for consultation. John proposed that they 
 should appoint a day to draw to the door a winter’s stock of 
 fuel. Peter Trimble insisted that it should be done some 
 moonlight night, so as to take Hugh and Mary by surprise. 
 He even went further, and expressed his opinion that if 
 they could so dispose of the wood as to fence in the cabin, 
 it would be one of the finest jokes ever perpetrated. But 
 Peter was overruled by the majority, and the wood made its 
 appearance at the time and in the mode appointed. 
 
 Mary found the stores of money and wampum which she 
 had received from her father greatly convenient in her 
 arrangements, and, between those and the generous presents 
 of Holyoke and his wife, she was able to supply herself with 
 very respectable housekeeping articles and furniture, and a 
 trousseau quite up to, if not a little beyond, the Puritan 
 standard. She managed everything, attended to everything, 
 did everything. Night after night Hugh went to see her, 
 and ask her about her progress. It did not seem to him 
 that it was an affair with which he had, actively, anything 
 to do. The house had been put in order for him, his wood 
 lay at the door ready for his ax, and, living within the 
 charmed and charming circle of his all-absorbing passion, 
 he seemed to feel as if miracles were to be wrought for his 
 benefit, and that there was absolutely nothing for him to do 
 but to receive them. / 
 
 All this — strangely as it may seem — -jpleased Mary well. 
 She loved him for his helplessness — his amiable placidity, 
 and above all for his implicit faith in, and entire reliance 
 upon, her. She had never been so happy in her life as 
 when, all day long and half the night, she labored cease- 
 lessly and tirelessly to prepare for an event which seemed 
 to her to be so fraught with bliss that whole years of misery 
 would purchase it cheaply. The vision of the retired cabin 
 with its blazing fire, its inviolable secrecy, its independence, 
 and the amiable treasure which she was soon to make her 
 own and to instal there, was constantly before her. 
 
 The day appointed for the wedding £t last arrived, and 
 in the morning Hugh and Mary walked down to the cabin, 
 to see to some of the closing preparations, The stock of 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 273 
 
 provisions which Hugh had been able to procure had already 
 been deposited there, and everything was nearly ready for 
 immediate occupation. They kindled a fire in the huge 
 fireplace, and sat down, Mary talking all the time, and tell- 
 ing what changes she should make, so soon as she should 
 become settled in housekeeping, and giving expression to 
 her delight with the arrangements around her, and the 
 prospect before her. 
 
 The pair were sitting thus when the door was opened, and 
 a tall Indian walked in, unbidden, carrying upon his back a 
 basket filled with corn. He was followed by another and 
 another, until the room was filled with Indians, each of whom 
 relieved himself of a burden, and stood in silence, as if 
 awaiting the orders of a chief. 
 
 When all had arrived and deposited their freight, a some- 
 what clumsy and singularly painted old man waved his hand, 
 and the company turned and retired in silence as they came. 
 Mary and Hugh were dumb with surprise and astonishment. 
 The former looked at the superior of the squad with an eye 
 burning with strange curiosity and apprehension, and an im- 
 pulse moved her to seize him by the arm. She did so, 
 almost with fierceness, but relinquished her hold as he 
 turned mildly upon her, and regarded her with an eye so full 
 of tenderness that she bowed her head in sudden emotion, 
 and burst into a paroxysm of tears. 
 
 The man turned to leave the room, but, perceiving his 
 intention, she stepped between him and the door, and, 
 planting herself against it, still continued weeping. The 
 visitor was overcome, and, making no attempt to pass her 
 stepped back towards the fire. 
 
 “ Do you know who I be ? ” inquired he at last, with a 
 trembling voice. 
 
 Mary compressed her lips firmly, raised her eyes to his, 
 and bowed her affirmation. 
 
 “ Does he ? ” with a nod and look at Hugh. Mary shook 
 her head. 
 
 “ I never expected to speak to you ag’in, and I shouldn’t 
 now, if you hadn’t made me, but I’m glad you did, ’cause I 
 may do you a good turn, though I haven’t anything good to 
 say to you.” 
 
 During all this scene Hugh had stood as if in a dream — * 
 his mind filled with strange fears and fancies, The abun- 
 
274 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 dant stores that had been deposited in the cabin did not 
 surprise him, until he saw that Mary was surprised, and 
 that she was exercised by very strong emotions. Then, as 
 he saw a mutual recognition of acquaintance between the 
 two, all the stories he had ever heard of Mary filled his 
 mind, and he trembled with excitement. The man did not 
 look or talk like an Indian. He was disguised. Perhaps 
 those who bad retired were disguised. Perhaps they were 
 but servants, after all, of one whom many firmly believed to 
 be Mary’s master. The gifts they had left, immediately 
 upon these considerations assumed a new and alarming 
 significance, and he began to feel that, in very truth, he 
 might be within the toils of the Adversary. If so, he knew 
 that he was hopelessly there, for his heart told him that his 
 destiny was linked with Mary irrevocably. 
 
 “ Mary,” continued the stranger, “ I know all what you’re 
 goin’ to do. You’re goin’ to marry this boy, and it’s a bad 
 bargain for both on you. It won’t be your fault nor his’n, 
 but your enemies ain’t dead yet, any more’n mine. You’re 
 leavin’ a good place, and it’s been a safe one so fur, and 
 you’re cornin’ here, away from Mary Holyoke and her hus- 
 band, and I’m afraid it’ll get you into trouble ; and this 
 little body that you’ve got here can’t do anything to help 
 you.” 
 
 Mary’s eyes flashed with an angry gleam as she ex- 
 claimed, “ I can help myself. I should like to see the man 
 who would dare to lay his hand on him, or on me. Hugh 
 and I shall mind our own business, and if other people do 
 not mind theirs I shall tell them to.” And Mary walked 
 forth and back across the cabin, her face flushed with 
 excitement. 
 
 “ Well, I hope it’ll come out right,” said the man, “but I 
 haven’t got any faith. I like your spunk, but it don’t count 
 in a fight with crazy folks and fools. It’ll only tell ag’in you 
 when the thing comes to a pinch, and be laid to the devil 
 that’s in you. But, Mary, I didn’t come here to trouble you 
 this morning. I come here to do you gOod, and I didn’t 
 expect to find you here. There’s lots of corn and dried 
 venison and salmon on the floor, and you’re welcome to it 
 all. God knows I want to see you happy, and all I can do 
 to make you happy I shall keep a-doin’. You won’t tell 
 anybody who you’ve seen, and you won’t let anybody else — 
 
THE BAY PATH. 275 
 
 you know too much for that — and now I reckon I’d better 
 go back to where I come from.” 
 
 He went towards the door, but hesitated and hung his 
 head. Raising it at length, he approached Mary, and took 
 her hand. “ Mary,” said he, “ Eve been leadin’ a rough 
 life, but I don’t forget anything. I know how good it is to 
 be like folks, and be with ’em, and I miss a thousand things 
 that there wouldn’t anybody give me credit for. I look 
 rough, and I be rough, but there’s one thing I want to do 
 before I die, and that I know’ll warm my heart till it stops 
 beatin’, and give me somethin’ to think of that’ll keep me 
 human, and kind o’ jine me on, if it is a good ways off, to 
 somethin’ that’s good. Mary, the last woman’s face that I 
 ever kissed was a cold one, and none but the worms kissed 
 it after me ; and now, if you’ll let me kiss your’n before I 
 go, I’ll never kiss another in this world, and I’ll remember it 
 always.” 
 
 Mary, thoroughly melted, and thoroughly charmed by the 
 same strange eloquence that had haunted her memory for 
 many years, threw her arms impulsively about the old man’s 
 neck, and kissed him again and again. It was enough. 
 Drawing a purse from his belt filled with coins and wam- 
 pum, he pressed it into her hand, and hurried from her 
 sight. 
 
 Mary stood looking through the vacant doorway long after 
 he had vanished, but at last turned, with a cloud of deep 
 disturbance upon her face, and regarding her astonished 
 lover with a strange expression in her wonderful eyes, she 
 said, pointing to the articles upon the floor, “ These are to 
 be packed away out of sight, and you are to say nothing of 
 what you have seen this morning. Sometime I will tell you 
 all about it ; and remember, till then, that I have done 
 nothing wrong in kissing that old man. You will love me 
 better for it when you know why I did it.” 
 
 Hugh was contented with the explanation, and putting 
 his arm fondly around her, begged her* to be pleasant and 
 happy, as her looks chilled him, and made him miserable. 
 
 “ Hugh,” said Mary, looking him in the face with an ex- 
 pression of the deepest tenderness, “ we don’t know what’s 
 before us. There are people in the plantation who think 
 I’m bad, and you see what this man thinks, and he knows 
 better than anybody else. He thinks that as soon as I get 
 18 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 276 
 
 out of Mr. Holyoke’s house these people will be after me, 
 and give me trouble.” 
 
 “Let’s not get married then,” said Hugh, deprecatingly. 
 
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 First Paper-Money Issued by Massachusetts. 
 
 “ We can live as we have lived, until things change. I 
 should die if they were to take you away from me, or if 
 my marrying you should get you into difficulty.” 
 
 “ Not get married ? ” said Mary, with fierce determina- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 277 
 
 tion mantling her face. “ Do you suppose that I would 
 put it off an hour for fear? I would see Mr. Moxon (and 
 her voice sank to a low whisper) and the miserable fools 
 who believe in him and his crazy children, sunk to the bot- 
 tom of the river before I would change a plan of my life 
 the breadth of a hair. They are more cruel than bears. 
 What have I done to them ? How have I hurt them ? Why 
 can’t they let me alone ? — always talking about me — always 
 worrying me, and trying to make me miserable.” 
 
 “ Don’t look so — don’t talk so 1 ” exclaimed Hugh, with 
 tender importunity. 
 
 Mary kissed him passionately, land resumed : “ Ah, Hugh ! 
 They’ve tried to get you away from me, but they shall never 
 do it. We shall be married to-night. They cannot cheat 
 me, and I shall give them no chance. No, Hugh, we’ll be 
 married — we’ll be married — if we never see another happy 
 day. Let them do their worst.” 
 
 Hugh had nothing to say, and in his silence yielded 
 assent to her determination as one from which there was 
 no appeal. After disposing of the provisions which the 
 Indians had brought in accordance with her previous deci- 
 sion, the two replenished the fire, and took their way back 
 to Mary’s home. 
 
 The wedding was solemnized in the meeting-house just 
 at nightfall, Mr. Pynchon performing the ceremony, as was 
 his office on all such occasions in the settlement. It is 
 not necessary to speak of the whispers that echoed around 
 the chilly house as the strangely matched pair made their 
 appearance; of the shrugs of shoulders in the audience;, 
 of the poorly-disguised spite of nearly every woman in the 
 congregation ; of the cold greetings that were bestowed 
 upon the pair as they passed out of the house ; of the evil 
 prophecies, the poor jokes, the sly calumnies that were 
 uttered on every hand. 
 
 Only the family of Mr. Pynchon and the young friends 
 of the bridegroom treated the married pair with cordiality. 
 For them, Mary had a tear of love and gratitude, but, for 
 the remainder, only cool defiance. She looked at them, 
 from side to side, until each eye that met her own quailed 
 as if under an irresistible influence. 
 
 A social gathering in honor of the occasion was held at 
 the house of Holyoke, but it was wot a happy one, and was 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 278 f 
 
 broken up at an early hour. Mary wore an air of deep 
 abstraction during the evening, and responded but feebly 
 and incoherently to such good-natured raillery as was ad- 
 dressed to her ; and was evidently rejoiced when the party 
 separated, and when, with a choice company of friends, she 
 took her departure for her own home. There she was 
 left, at last, with many kind expressions of interest and 
 sympathy — her schemes all accomplished, and the prize she 
 had so fiercely coveted, and boldly striven for, secured. 
 
 Battle-Ground of Minisink, near Pt. Jervis. (From Shawangunk Mt.) 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 UHE first month of 
 Mary Woodcock’s 
 married life passed 
 pleasantly away. 
 The cloud which over- 
 shadowed her as she entered 
 it, was temporarily lifted, and 
 a calm and sweet content suc- 
 ceeded to the apprehensions 
 and disquietudes that had 
 gathered so closely about her. 
 Slander having done its worst 
 to thwart her plans and ruin 
 her hopes, withdrew for a time 
 Putnam’s Tavern-Sign at Brooklyn, Conn, its Cruel offices, and Waited for 
 
 renewed strength and fresh 
 opportunities. She saw but little company, and hardly 
 ventured beyond the inclosures of her dwelling. Hugh 
 was rarely out of her sight, and, so long as he was near, 
 she cared for nothing beyond. She lavished upon him 
 all the deep fondness of her powerful nature, and, in her 
 own happiness and his, demonstrated the perfect legitimacy 
 
 *79 
 
280 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 of the union between them — a union popularly deemed 
 faulty, not because it was unnatural, but because it was 
 unusual, in its relations. 
 
 Little by little, however, the slanderous murmur was re- 
 newed. Hugh, whenever he stirred abroad, came home 
 with a troubled brow and a heavy heart. Poisoned words 
 were flung in his ears from brawling tongues, and calumnies 
 were breathed in sly insinuations. Much as he endeavored 
 to cover their effect upon his mind from her sight, he could 
 never succeed in doing it. She read his face on every re- 
 turn as if it were the most legible of tablets, and he could 
 never refuse her demand to tell her everything. The effect 
 of these things on Hugh’s mind made them doubly oppres- 
 sive to her. 
 
 For herself, she could defy and despise those who sought 
 her injury, but the thought that they were endeavoring day 
 by day to undermine her husband’s confidence in her, and 
 had fully succeeded in filling him with perplexity and anx- 
 iety, cut her to the quick, and often fairly disrobed her of 
 her strength. 
 
 At times, when she was alone with Hugh, talking upon 
 the ever prevalent subject, she gave way to wild bursts of 
 impatience and passion that fairly frightened him ; and then 
 she would weep upon his neck like a child, telling him 
 that he was all the comfort she had in the world, and 
 begging him never to forsake her, and never to distrust 
 her. 
 
 Mary found, whenever she ventured abroad, that she was 
 regarded with a kind of impudent curiosity by every one 
 she met, and that nearly all with whom she conversed 
 seemed to lie in wait for her words and to ask her strange 
 and irrelevant questions. Sometimes, in her contempt for 
 the efforts made to entrap her in her expressions, she gave 
 derisive replies, humoring her questioners in their conceits 
 touching herself, and confirming their suspicions by her own 
 confessions, uttered with an irony of tone that none but 
 those wilfully perverse, or wholly stultified, could fail to 
 understand. 
 
 During these conversations, few though they were, she 
 unfortunately, and perhaps unwisely, let drop many expres- 
 sions that were tortured into slander, and perverted into 
 confessions of guilt. These expressions were bandied about 
 
THE BAY PATH. 281 
 
 from mouth to mouth, till once more she had become 
 thoroughly and offensively notorious. 
 
 Matters had gone on badly in this way, until, one even- 
 ing in the depth of winter, as Hugh and Mary were sitting 
 by their glowing fire, a rap resounded upon the door of the 
 cabin, and the same was slightly opened, though not suffi- 
 ciently to reveal the visitor. Hugh went to the door and 
 undertook to open it wider, but it was held where he found 
 it, and, through the crack, Hugh heard the words : “ Can’t 
 you come out here a minute, Hugh ? ” 
 
 Hugh was slightly frightened, and did not detect the voice 
 as quickly as Mary, who, rising suddenly from her chair, 
 advanced to the door, and, seizing it strongly, pulled Peter 
 Trimble plump into the room. Peter was very evidently 
 taken by surprise, and had not a single pimple ready for 
 exhibition. 
 
 Drawing his hand suddenly down over his face, and taking 
 a hurried survey of his trousers, which were somewhat 
 seriously patched, he took the chair offered him, and held 
 out his blue and horny hands to the fire, warmed first one 
 ear and then the other, slid from a violent shiver into a 
 snicker, and turning and slapping Hugh on the shoulder ex- 
 claimed, “ By George ! Hugh, you’ve got the stoutest wife 
 there is in this place. Now, you needn’t say you haven’t, for 
 I know you have. There ain’t another woman in the planta- 
 tion could have pulled me in as she did. I couldn’t hold 
 the door — upon my word I couldn’t — any more’n if an 
 elephant was hold of it.” 
 
 Mary and Hugh both greeted Peter’s highly appreciative 
 compliment with a merry peal of laughter, which Peter im- 
 pulsively united in at first,- but a sudden thought struck him 
 into soberness, as if it had smitten him across the mouth. 
 Mary and Hugh both noticed it, and the former spoke of it, 
 and rallied him upon it. 
 
 “ The fact is,” said Peter, “ I didn’t come hear to laugh, 
 and I didn’t mean to come in at all ; but there’s something 
 I ought to tell you, and something that you ought to know, 
 and I sort o’ mistrusted that I could help you out of it.” 
 
 “ You ? Who are you talking to — Hugh, or me ?” in- 
 quired Mary with sudden energy. 
 
 “ Well, I meant you, but I was talking to Hugh, because 
 I didn’t expect to say anything to you. ” 
 
282 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ What is the matter ? ” 
 
 u It’s nothing that I’ve had anything to do with,” replied 
 Peter, “ but I heard something that was going to be done, 
 and I thought perhaps I could tell Hugh how you could 
 dodge it.” 
 
 “ Peter,” said Mary, rising and grasping him by the arm, 
 “tell me what you mean.” 
 
 Peter began to blubber, but managed to keep the mastery 
 of his emotion and his tongue sufficiently to say, “ Mary, 
 they’re agoing to take you up to-morrow, for saying some- 
 thing bad about widow Marshfield ; ” and as lie saw her 
 looking blankly into his face, endeavoring, as she was, to 
 comprehend the disgrace before her, he continued — “ and I 
 thought perhaps I could tell you how to dodge the whole 
 thing.” 
 
 ^ “ Something bad about widow Marshfield ? Take me 
 up? ” said Mary slowly and wonderingly. 
 
 “ I don’t say you said something bad about her,” replied 
 Peter, “ but they’re r’ally going to do something. Now 
 don’t feel so, for I think it can be dodged by coming a small 
 rig. If it was me that was going to be took up ” (continued 
 Peter, with an encouraging expression of countenance, and 
 a lively tone of voice), “ I shouldn’t lose any sleep, and I 
 tell you how I should work it. I’d have rheumatism enough 
 to kill three men, and get the case put off. Or I’d break my 
 leg or something of that kind. Land ahead ! there ain’t any 
 surgeon here — they wouldn’t know — and all you’ve got to 
 do is to holler like bloody murder if they touch you.” Peter 
 saw that his revelations were rather enlivening the count- 
 enance of his auditors, and went on. “ Or I’d make believe 
 I was crazy, and spit all over my clo’es, and take off my 
 boot and wipe my nose on it, and flip beans all day at a 
 mark, and walk around among the trees, and make believe 
 they are men, and say, ‘ How are you, Mr. Beech ? How 
 do you do, Mr. Pine ? Hullo ! Mr. Apple ! how do you do, 
 and how’s your orchard ? ’ Land ahead ! that ain’t a beginning. 
 I could do any quantity of things. The fact is, there ain’t 
 any end to the things I could do, if I r’ally set out for it.” 
 
 All this would have been amusing enough under less 
 serious circumstances, but Mary could only give it a toler- 
 ating smile, and ask Peter if he knew what charges were to 
 be brought against her. Peter did not know, but he rather 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 283 
 
 thought there would be enough of them, and that perhaps 
 it would be safe to assume the double affliction of rheuma- 
 tism and insanity. 
 
 All three sat in silence for some minutes, when Peter rose 
 with lively energy in his feet, with the inquiry, “ Have you 
 got any money ? ” 
 
 “ Yes — why? ” replied and inquired Mary. 
 
 “ Because, if you should happen to break down on the 
 rig, you might want some. If it goes agi’n you, we all know 
 mighty well what it will be. We ain’t rich enough to have 
 a jail yet, and it’s nothing but money or whipping.’’ 
 
 At the last word Mary sprang to her feet, and uttered a 
 groan so full of acute pain that Hugh and Peter both turned 
 pale with fright. Then, while her eyes flashed, and the old 
 bright spots burned upon her cheeks, she paced up and down 
 the apartment, her lips tightly compressed, and her arms 
 folded closely across her breast. If she had been stung in 
 the bosom by a viper, she could not have been more terribly 
 agitated. 
 
 The possibility that she should be subjected to such a 
 disgrace as a public whipping was maddening. The con- 
 sciousness that she was generally suspected and hated, the 
 uncertainty in regard to the nature of the charges to be 
 made against her, her anxiety for Hugh, and her desire not 
 to be disgraced in his eyes — all this conspired to induce a 
 state of mind bordering on distraction. 
 
 Peter was greatly agitated by the effect he had produced, 
 but not being particularly sensitive himself, he could hardly 
 appreciate the real cause of her suffering. “ If it really 
 comes to that,” said he, soothingly, “ I’ve got a piece of 
 buckskin that you can put under your clo’es, where the 
 constable can’t see it, and he can’t hurt much through that, 
 now I tell you.” 
 
 When he had concluded, Mary came up to him, and said, 
 “ Peter, be kind enough to leave us now. You mean us 
 well, and I thank you for having told us what you have, but 
 you cannot do us any good, and we want to be alone.” 
 
 “Well, I’ll go,” replied Peter, and buttoning up his 
 shabby coat to the chin, and drawing his cap down over his 
 ears, he bade the sad pair “ good-night,” and picked his 
 way along the poorly made snow-path homewards. 
 
 The first thing which Mary attended to after his depar- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 284 
 
 ture was the counting of her money. It was a handsome 
 little sum, and one which seemed competent to cover any 
 fine that might be imposed upon her for any offence that 
 malignity might charge her with or perjury convict her of. 
 
 The pair sat and talked late into the night, and retired at 
 last to a sleepless bed, where they tossed in feverish wretch- 
 edness until morning. Breakfast was prepared, and each 
 tried to sustain the other by an appearance of appetite, but 
 it was a hard task, and was soon relinquished. After the 
 table was cleared, both sat down to wait impatiently, and 
 with anxious uncertainty, the development of events. 
 
 There were frequent visits to the window looking out 
 upon the village, and questions asked and answered in an 
 under-tone, until, at last, Mary started suddenly back from 
 one of her visits to the window, and took her seat in silence 
 at the fire. Hugh understood the movement, and arose to 
 look for himself. He saw what he looked for, and returned 
 and tremblingly took his seat, and gazed with painful sym- 
 pathy upon his wife. She was looking into the fire, whisper- 
 ing to herself, and nervously shaking her head, as if she 
 were holding an imaginary altercation. Hugh dared not 
 address her, and hardly ventured to draw a long breath. At 
 length, the feet of a briskly walking man were heard ap- 
 proaching, and, as he came into the yard, Mary rose to her 
 feet, walked to the door, and throwing it open, exclaimed, 
 “ Thomas Merrick, do your devil's work, and have it over 
 with." 
 
 The constable stopped as if he had been thunderstruck. 
 He had never seen such an impersonation of desperation, 
 and had anticipated quite a different scene. He could only 
 stand speechless for a minute, and look into her face ; and 
 he did not stir until Mary imperatively demanded of him 
 his errand. 
 
 “ I came," said the constable, recovering himself, and 
 advancing into the cabin, “ to arrest you on a charge of 
 slander." 
 
 “ And whom have I slandered ? ” 
 
 “ Widow Marshfield." ; 
 
 “ What am I accused of saying about the precious widow 
 Marshfield ? " inquired Mary with a bitter sneer. 
 
 “ You will learn that soon enough, I dare say," replied 
 the constable. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 285 
 
 “ Goodman Merrick,” said Mary, walking closely up to 
 him, and looking him fiercely in the eye, u what can they 
 do to me, if lies enough are told about me to prove what I 
 am charged with ? ” 
 
 “ The magistrate can fine you, or order you to be whipped, 
 or both together. He could do more and worse than this, 
 but those are the common punishments here. ” 
 
 “ You do the whipping, do you ? ” 
 
 “The constable always does it.” 
 
 “ And would you whip me ? ” 
 
 “ I have sworn faithfully to perform the constable’s 
 duties.” 
 
 “ Well, now, mark you Thomas Merrick (and Mary kept 
 her fierce eyes fixed upon him) I am as innocent of the 
 charge that you have arrested me on as an unborn child — 
 as my unborn child — (and her voice sank to a trembling 
 whisper) and if you abuse me, or bring peril on my burden, 
 
 I will pray God to curse you with the last breath I draw. 
 You are a husband and a parent. Act like one. The peo- 
 ple of this town are determined to make hell of my home ; 
 don’t you be guilty of making a devil of me.” 
 
 The constable was overcome. He knew that Mary de- 
 spised his office and disliked him, but there was something 
 in her fiercely courageous earnestness that commanded his 
 respect, and something in her appeal which softened him 
 wonderfully. “ All I can do consistently with my oath to 
 make your sentence light shall be done,” said he. “ What 
 can I say more ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing. I am content. Shall I go now ? ” 
 
 “ Now, if you please.” 
 
 Mary whispered a few words to Hugh, who, in accord- ' 
 ance with her instructions, went to the closet where she kept 
 her money, and drawing forth the purse deposited it in his 
 pocket. She then put on such extra clothing as the cold 
 weather demanded, and, drawing her hood closely down 
 over her face, declared her readiness to accompany the con- 
 stable. Hugh had, in the meantime, prepared himself to 
 go with them, and all issued from the door together. The 
 morning was biting cold, but the air was still and peaceful, 
 and the smoke went up from all the chimneys of the settle- 
 ment like incense. Children were shouting in the distance, 
 the teamster was merrily cracking his whip, tidy housewives 
 
286 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 were brushing off their door-steps with their heavy birch 
 brooms, and all seemed careless, lively, and happy. But in 
 Mary’s heart, as she passed one house after another, where 
 she knew that her name had met with foul treatment, there 
 was rebellion and wretchedness. All were happy but her- 
 self, and the one dearest to her. 
 
 Her appearance with the constable was the subject of 
 lively gossip along the street, and many a gratified stare 
 was directed to her from the windows. These she did not 
 see, but, as she passed the house of Holyoke — the home of 
 the happiest portion of her childhood — she could not for- 
 bear raising her eyes to see if her truest friend were the 
 witness of her disgrace. Mary Holyoke stood at the win- 
 dow, pale with recent illness, and smiled so sweetly as she 
 bowed to her, and wafted to her a kiss so affectionately, that, 
 softened into tears, she bowed her head, and sobbed during 
 the remainder of the distance to the house of the magis- 
 trate. 
 
 Leaving them in the room in which the trial was to be 
 held, the constable retired to summon the witnesses, or, 
 rather, to announce to them the readiness of the court. 
 The passage of the constable with his prisoner through the 
 street, was a sufficient advertisement of the affair in prog- 
 ress, and one after another dropped in to witness the trial. 
 Peter was the first, having secured his release from labor 
 for the day during the previous evening. He was a good 
 deal affected by the appearance of the pair. They seemed 
 to have grown haggard and old since, but a few hours be- 
 fore, he had unintentionally greeted them at their hearth- 
 stone. Mr. Moxon, Mr. Holyoke, Deacon Chapin, and 
 nearly a dozen women, were also among the crowded audi- 
 ence. Mary wondered who the witnesses against her might 
 be, but she paid little attention to the throng about her, for 
 she was conscious of being the subject of their conversation. 
 
 At last, Mr. Pynchon made his appearance, and took his 
 seat at his desk. Looking over it, he gazed long and anx- 
 iously at the prisoner, who turned with a look of honest in- 
 nocence and trust, and met his inquiring eyes. Mr. Pyn- 
 chon had seen the girl much, as she had grown up under 
 the care of his daughter, and had always entertained a pe- 
 culiar regard for her as the child of a strange man whom 
 he had never ceased to love and respect. Her present 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 287 
 
 position was one which gave him severe pain, but, from the 
 industrious representations made to him by many persons 
 in the plantation, and in consequence of definite though 
 frivolous charges, he had, at last, concluded to issue a war- 
 rant for her arrest. 
 
 As he met her look — so pleading and trustful — he re- 
 pented of the step he had taken, and wished the business 
 off his hands. As he sat there, looking half vacantly at 
 the spirited woman whose mute appeal he had felt, he could 
 not help recalling a scene that occurred on the same spot 
 many years before — when her father was on trial for the 
 same offense, nominally, with which she was charged, and 
 when she was an ill-trained and wayward child. 
 
 Then his eye passed over to Mr. Moxon, in whose hatred 
 and hallucinations the troubles of both father and child 
 had originated, and he felt how poorly justice was meted 
 out in this world, and especially how impossible it was for 
 him to render equity in judgment to the people of his charge. 
 The laws were defective, as their human authors were, and, 
 even when operating for the general good, sometimes dis- 
 criminated in favor of the doers of evil against the holders 
 of the right. 
 
 “ Mary Parsons,” said the magistrate, at length, in a mild 
 voice, “ you will stand, and listen to the charge upon which 
 you have been arrested.” 
 
 Mary rose, and, turning boldly around, looked her judge 
 in the face with an eye so bright and strong that it almost 
 overthrew his equanimity, and he hesitated before proceed- 
 ing. 
 
 “You are charged,” continued he, “with defaming the 
 good name of the widow Marshfield, in reporting her to have 
 been suspected for a witch.. The bringing of such a suspi- 
 cion as this — a suspicion of having familiar dealings with 
 the Adversary — against a respectable and innocent woman, 
 is a very grave offense. Are you guilty or not guilty ? ” 
 
 “ Not guilty !” exclaimed Mary, with a sudden shake of 
 her head, and a voice almost spiteful in its decisiveness. 
 
 The interested individuals in the audience exchanged 
 significant glances, and Mr. Moxon shifted uneasily in his 
 seat, as if he were in some way connecting her answer with 
 the previous remark of the magistrate. Goody Marshfield, 
 the spirited looking widow who had made the complaint, sat 
 
288 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 but a short distance from the prisoner, and, tossing her head 
 saucily, nodded at two or three friends with a smile which, 
 beifag interpreted, said, “ Did any one ever see such impu- 
 dence ! ” 
 
 It was evident from the expression upon the faces of all 
 the men present that the widow was a woman equally courted 
 and feared — one who assumed the place of a popular favor- 
 ite, and maintained it at the point of her wit and the edge 
 of her sarcasm. In fact, it was owing to her cutting speeches 
 in regard to Mary that the latter had been led into remarks 
 from which the present charge was trumped up. 
 
 “ Goody Marshfield,” said the magistrate, “ who are your 
 witnesses ? ” 
 
 Now the term “ Goody ” did not sound pleasantly to the 
 spirited widow, and a flush of anger passed over her features 
 as she replied, “ John Matthews and Goody Matthews.” 
 
 “The witnesses named by Goody Marshfield will arise 
 and receive the oath,” said the magistrate. 
 
 The man and his wife did as they were bidden, but, as 
 they arose and advanced to the stand, they shunned the 
 burning eye which Mary Parsons fixed upon them, and looked 
 far more like culprits than she. 
 
 i ‘John Matthews,” said the magistrate, after administer- 
 ing the oath to the pair, “ have you ever heard Mary Par- 
 sons say that Goody Marshfield had been suspected for a 
 witch ? ” 
 
 “Yes, sir, I have,” replied the man, while his heart 
 bumped so heavily against the walls of his chest as to jar 
 his voice. 
 
 “ Will you tell me when and where, and give all the cir- 
 cumstances connected with the matter?” 
 
 “ Well, Goody Parsons come to my house one time when 
 my wife and I was both to home, and we got to talking 
 about one thing and another, when my wife, says she, 
 ‘ Mary — Widow Marshfield says you’ve took a child to bring 
 up, but he’s so small he’ll never make much Hugh-and- 
 cry.” (A titter all about the room, and a nod from the 
 widow which meant, “ Pretty good — wasn’t it.”) “ Well, this 
 made Mary mad, and says she to my wife* — 4 Widow Marsh- 
 field has been grudging every child that’s been born in the 
 plantation, because her girl didn’t have any; and as soon 
 as she had one, it died, and her cow died at the same time, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 289 
 
 and died a’ bellering, ’cause she thought the child was 
 her’n.’ ” (“ Sharp shooting,” whispered Deacon Chapin to 
 
 Mr. Moxon, the widow meanwhile assuming an air of charm- 
 ing imperturbation, and the magistrate drawing his hand 
 slowly down over his mouth, as if he rather enjoyed it.) 
 “ And then she went on, Mary did, and said that widow 
 Marshfield vras suspected for a witch when she lived in 
 Windsor, and, for all she knew, the child and the cow were 
 bewitched when they died, and that was what ailed them. 
 I told her she ought to be ashamed of herself to talk so 
 about a respectable woman, and that I didn’t believe a word 
 of it ; but she stuck to what she said, and when I asked her 
 what she knew about it, she said it was known all over 
 Windsor that the De^l had a private room in her house, 
 where he met all the witches once a week, to have a grand 
 Feast and lay out his work ; and she didn’t see any reason 
 why she shouldn’t have dealings with him in Springfield as 
 well as Windsor. That is pretty much all I heard, but she 
 and my wife were keeping up the talk when I come away.” 
 
 “ Was Goody Parsons talking in earnest, or was she only 
 trying to see what she could say, as an offset to Goody 
 Marshfield’s sharp words ? ” 
 
 “ I never see a woman more earnest in my life,” said the 
 witness, forgetful of tense and truth together. 
 
 “ And you really believe she meant all she said ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.’’ 
 
 “ You may sit down, and Goody Matthews will take your 
 place.” 
 
 The new witness was a woman greatly given to gossip, 
 carried a glib and ready tongue, and presented a thin form 
 and face whose sharp outlines accorded well with her char- 
 acter. In all her allusions to her husband, she ignored 
 everything else masculine in the universe, by speaking of 
 him as he — that pronoun, in its several cases, being assumed 
 as descriptive of and applicable to, that individual alone 
 whom she had sworn to love, honor, and obey, and whom 
 she had repeatedly made to swear, by declining to do any- 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 “ Goody Matthews, what do you know about this case ?” 
 inquired the magistrate. 
 
 “ I know just the same as him, only he left before we 
 got through talking, and didn’t hear it all.” 
 
2Q0 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ Then your husbancTs testimony is correct, so far as it 
 goes, is it ? ” inquired the magistrate. 
 
 “ He ain’t in the habit of swearing to lies ; ” and the of- 
 fended wife pursed up her mouth, and assumed an air of 
 offended sensibility that drew a smile upon Mr. Pynchon’s 
 face in spite of himself. 
 
 “ Very well — what did you hear more ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I was telling her about something that happened 
 the day before, when I was getting ready to get dinner. I’d 
 put about half a pound of veal into the pot — he don’t care 
 much about meat, and veal ain’t very good warmed 
 over ” 
 
 “ Was this operation performed when Mary was in the 
 house ? ” 
 
 “ No,” replied the witness ; “ this was what I was telling 
 her. I was saying to her that I’d put about half a pound of 
 veal into the pot — it wasn’t much, but he never did like 
 veal — and I’d put the water in, and put on the cover, and 
 when the time come to hang it over the fire, I hung it right 
 on, without thinking of looking in, because I knew I-put the 
 veal in, and poured in the water, and put on the cover — I 
 remember it, because I did it just after I’d washed out the 
 pot, and I know I thought to myself thafs clean enough for 
 anybody ; and right after that I put in the veal. Well, 
 after it had been over the fire, I should think pretty near 
 half an hour, I took off the cover to see if the water wasn’t 
 pretty near biled away, and there wasn’t a particle of veal 
 in the pot, and it didn’t look as if there had been, and I 
 haven’t seen hide nor hair of the piece ever since.” 
 
 “ What has this to do with the case ?” inquired the mag- 
 istrate. 
 
 “ I was just going to say, that as soon as I had told Mary 
 of this, I said I wondered what had become of that veal ; 
 and says she, ‘ don’t you think it was witched away ? ’ and 
 says I, 4 Mary, what is it makes you all the time talking about 
 witches ? You don’t believe there’s any witches in the town, 
 do you ? ’ Says she, ‘yes — I know there is ; and she come 
 into my house, when I was carding wool, and as long as she 
 was there, I couldn’t make the wool into rolls.’ Says I, ‘ who 
 is it ? ’ Says she, ‘ it’s her. 9 ” 
 
 “ Who do you mean ? ” inquired Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “ I mean widow Marshfield, that we’d just been talking 
 
t HE BAY PATH. 
 
 291 
 
 about ; and then says she, 4 Mr. Stebbins told me all about 
 it, and told me how she was always set down for a witch in 
 Windsor, and how, ever since she’d been in Springfield, 
 we’d had the strangest lights in the meadows over the river 
 — blue ones, and green ones, and red ones ’ — and — I don’t 
 know — there was a great many things she said, but I can’t 
 remember them.” 
 
 “ What was it about the grudging of other people’s chil- 
 dren ? ” 
 
 “ It is just as he said,” replied the woman, “ about the 
 grudging, and the child and the cow dying at the same 
 time.” 
 
 “ And you have no doubt that she told you these things 
 expecting and intending that you should believe them ? ” 
 
 “ Not any.” 
 
 11 And you have reported all about the neighborhood, I 
 suppose, that Mary Parsons told you these things, and done 
 all you could to make the widow Marshfield suspected for a 
 witch.” 
 
 “ I have told you all I know about it,” said the witness, 
 sharply. 
 
 “ Very well — you can sit down,” said Mr. Pynchon. 
 Then, addressing Mary, he said, “ What have you to say 
 to this testimony ? ” 
 
 “ I say that it is a downright lie,” replied Mary, stamp- 
 ing her foot decidedly. 
 
 “ Do you say that you have said none of these things 
 that they have testified to as your statements ? ” 
 
 “ I said what I said,” replied Mary, her eyes flashing 
 angrily, “ to a couple of fools about a woman who hated me, 
 and who had made them believe that I was a witch myself. 
 I said it not because I cared anything about the woman or 
 her slanders, nor because I supposed they were going to 
 believe me in earnest in what I said. I said it laughing all 
 the time — just to show them how easy it was to lie about 
 people/if one had the mind, and that I could say 4 witch ’ 
 as easy as anybody else could. They have said many 
 things that are absolutely false, and what they have 
 repeated from me was said with no intention of injuring 
 anybody.” 
 
 u Then it is not all a downright lie.” 
 
 44 It is, as they have given it.” 
 
 19 
 
 18730 
 
292 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 I notice, 7 ’ said Mr. Pynchon, looking around the room, 
 “ that we have a greater number present than is usual at 
 trials of this kind, and if Mr. Moxon or any officers of the 
 church present wish to make any remarks in reference to 
 this case, they can have the liberty.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon rose partly from his seat, and then the 
 thought of what he had promised Woodcock many years 
 previously, struck him, and he sat down, and bowed to 
 Deacon Chapin. 
 
 The deacon wars conscientiously opposed to the practise 
 of slander as it existed in many of the Puritan communities, 
 and it was his policy to crush it with an iron heel. So he 
 rose with a good deal of alacrity to say that it seemed to 
 him that a clear case, and a very aggravated case, of slander, 
 had been made out ; and, for one, he hoped that at least 
 exemplary punishment would be administered to the offender, 
 who, it seemed to him, carried a very haughty and froward 
 spirit. Such matters were treated at the Bay with great 
 severity, as the only true policy. He wished that the 
 magistrate, whose moderation all knew and admired, would 
 yet see it in the line of his duty to deal more severely and 
 effectively with these little sins, than it had previously 
 appeared proper for him to deal. He thought, too, that a 
 woman of the widow Marshfield’s respectability, situated 
 somewhat defenselessly, as she was, personally, had peculiar 
 claims upon the protection of the law. 
 
 The magistrate then asked Mr. Holyoke if he had any 
 remarks to offer. 
 
 “ Not at present,” replied that gentleman. “ I have no 
 wish to interfere with the strict operation of the law in this 
 case, or in any other ; or to influence the magistrate’s de- 
 cision in the slightest degree. He is bound by his oath to 
 administer the law, and the case — a very frivolous one it 
 appears to me — is before him. If, when the decision is 
 rendered, there are any who would like to hear what I have 
 to say, I shall have no objection to speaking very plainly 
 upon the subject.” 
 
 As Mr. Holyoke resumed his seat, the magistrate turned 
 to the prisoner, and bade her rise and receive her sentence. 
 Mary now grew pale and trembling for the first time during 
 the trial, and pressed against her heart with both hands, 
 while poor Hugh hung his head, and wrung his hands in 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 m 
 
 the profoundest distress. “ Mary Parsons/' said Mr. 
 Pynchon, “ I find you guilty of defaming the good name of 
 the widow Marshfield, and I sentence you to be well whipped 
 on the morning after lecture, with twenty lashes by the con- 
 stable ” 
 
 Mary stood and heard him thus far, and then uttered a 
 scream so shrill and terrible, so charged with intense agony 
 — that it brought nearly all the individuals in the room 
 upon their feet, and thrilled them with a terrible shudder. 
 But there stood Mary still, her eyes strained wildly open, 
 but horribly vacant and meaningless. 
 
 Hugh burst into a flood of tears, and cried like a child — 
 cried as if his warm and womanish heart had been swept by 
 the fiercest breath of desolation, and his nicely strung 
 sensibilities thrown into irredeemable discord. The sen- 
 tence was a crown of thorns to the phantom of her fears, 
 and as it was pressed down, her heart gave way, and she 
 fell for the moment into a wild, hysterical insanity. 
 
 “ Except you pay/' continued the magistrate, in con- 
 cluding his sentence, after the momentary interruption and 
 excitement were past, “ to the widow Marshfield the sum of 
 three pounds, in satisfaction of the damages inflicted by you 
 upon her reputation.” 
 
 As he concluded, Mary still stood, looking vacantly at 
 him. Immediately Mr. Holyoke arose, and, advancing to 
 the desk, commenced to count out the amount of her fine. 
 This she seemed to comprehend, for she turned and said, 
 “ Hugh, if there's money to pay, pay it.” 
 
 “ Have you money to pay the fine, Hugh ? ” inquired the 
 magistrate. 
 
 “ I have,” replied the poor fellow, going forward and 
 placing his heavy purse upon the desk. 
 
 As the sum of the fine was counted out, there was a shrug 
 of the shoulders among the audience, a general whisper and 
 a stare of wonder. Holyoke's movement, too, combined 
 with the altogether unlooked for exhibition of sensibility on 
 the part of the prisoner and her husband, had turned the 
 current of sympathy for the moment into a new channel. 
 The spirited widow saw only averted or vacant eyes around 
 her, and felt greatly uneasy with the cheaply gotten gold. 
 
 As soon as the fine had been counted out from Hugh's 
 purse, and the remainder handed back to him, he took 
 
2Q4 THE bay PATH. 
 
 Mary by the arm, and endeavored to lead her away. As the 
 magistrate saw that she hesitated, he told her that she was 
 at liberty, and with some hesitation, as if she but dimly 
 comprehended the fact of her release, she suffered Hugh to 
 lead her from the apartment.* 
 
 As the door closed upon the distressed pair, Holyoke, 
 who had not resumed his seat, pointed at their retreating 
 figures, and said slowly and solemnly, “ You have had' an 
 
 * At the risk of the loss of credit for originality, the report of this trial, 
 as it appears in the Pynchon Record Book, is subjoined, for the purpose 
 of showing that no exaggerations have been made, and that the picture 
 is a true one. It is verbatim , with the exception of two illegible words, 
 indicated by asterisks : 
 
 “ The Widdow Marshfield complained against Mary, the wife of Hugh 
 Parsons, of Springfield, for reporting her to be suspected for a witch, 
 and she produced Jo. Matthews and his wife for her witnesses, who 
 were examined upon oath. 
 
 “ Jo. Matthews said that Mary Parsons tould him how she was 
 taught to try a witch by a widdow woman that now lived in Springfield, 
 and that she had lived in Windsor, and that she had 3 children and that 
 one of them was married, &, at last, she said that it was the widdow 
 Marshfield. Jo. Matthews answered her that he believed no such thing 
 of her ; but, whereuppon said he, Mary Parsons replied — you need not 
 speak so much for Goody Marshfield, for I am sure (said she) she hath 
 envied every woman’s child in ye **** till her own daughter had a child, 
 and then, said she, ye child died and ye cow died, and I am persuaded, 
 said she, they were bewitched ; and she said moreover it was remarked 
 to her by one in town that she was suspected to be a witch when she 
 lived in Windsor, and that it was publickly known that the Devill followed 
 her house in Windsor, and for aught I know, says she, follows her here. 
 
 “ Goodwife Matthews saith upon oath that when Goody Parsons came 
 to her house she said to her — I wonder what is become of the half 
 pound of Veall — Goody Parsons said that she could not tell, except the 
 witch had witcht it away. I wonder, said I, that you talk so much of a 
 witch. Doo you think there is any witch in-towne ? Yes, said she, and 
 she came into my house when the wooll was a cardinge. Who is it ? 
 said I. She said that Mr. Stebbinge had told her in Mr. Smith’s cham- 
 ber, that she was suspected to be a witch in Windsor, and that there 
 were divers strange lights seen of late in the meddow that were never 
 seen before the widdow Marshfield came to town, and that she did 
 grudge at other women that had children, for her daughter had none, 
 and about that time (namely of her grudging,) ye child died and ye cow 
 died. 
 
 “ Goody Parsons did stiffly deny the truth of these testimonys ; but 
 as the said witnesses had delivered their testimony upon oath, and find- 
 ing that she had defamed ye good name of the widdow Marshfield, I 
 sentenced her to be well whipped on the morrow after lecture with 20 
 lashes by the constable, unless she could procure the payment of £ 3 to 
 ye widow Marshfield, for and *** the reputation of her good name.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 295 
 
 I exhibition of law. Do you call it justice ? Here is a poor 
 girl who had the misfortune to have a father made lawless 
 by law, and who has been for years a most offenseless object 
 of suspicion in this plantation. She was complained of by 
 a woman who I very well know has slandered her; and 
 testified against by individuals who richly deserve the punish- 
 ment she has received, for reporting and garbling her idle 
 words. She is brought here by law, shocked into insanity by 
 law, has paid a fine according to law, and has been wounded 
 irrecoverably in her feelings by law. If this is in accdrd- 
 
 
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 ance with the spirit of the Bay, I pray God the Bay Path 
 may be obliterated, that no more of the spirit reach us. I 
 believe this whole system of brutal punishment for inferior 
 crimes, and all these nicely drawn laws against the venial 
 sins of imperfect communities, are infernal — unworthy of a 
 Christian people, and demoralizing to everyone living under, 
 or in association with them. I do not speak reproachfully 
 of the magistrate, or condemnatory of his decision. He has 
 acted in accordance with his oath, and as you all cannot 
 help but know, against his inclinations.” 
 
 During this brief and impassioned speech, each word of 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 296 
 
 which seemed to burn into every one’s ears with a strange, 
 irresistible power, and to sweep away from every eye the 
 mists of prejudice and error, Mr. Pynchon sat with his head 
 leaning upon his hand. At its close, one after another rose 
 and left the house, until, at last, Holyoke and his father-in- 
 law were left together. “ Elizur,” said the old man, raising 
 his head and extending his hand, “you are nobly right, and 
 if you could only know how wholly sick I am of this poor 
 business of dealing out justice according to law you would 
 pity me.” 
 
 Holyoke had said what he had to say, and, with a sad and 
 indignant heart, walked homewards, to tell his wife of the 
 disgrace and suffering of her protegee, and to think of, and 
 labor and pray for, a reformation in public sentiment, and 
 its liberal expression in the colonial statutes. 
 
 Poor Hugh and Mary, in their deep distress, walked 
 home regardless of the observation they elicited on the way, 
 and entered their dwelling — once the brightest spot to them 
 in all the world — now dark, spiritless and gloomy. Mary 
 had hardly taken a seat before a terrible chill assailed her, 
 and in a few hours Hugh was sitting at her bedside, wetting 
 her parched lips and bathing her throbbing temples, and 
 heaving sighs and dropping tears of distress, as he listened 
 to her incoherent ravings. 
 
 As Hugh sat like a patient girl, watching by the bedside 
 of his wife, day after day, and saw her spirit broken down by 
 shame and sickness, and witnessed the wasting of her noble 
 form, and the falling of the rose leaves from her cheeks ; 
 and as he nursed her in impatience and petulance, during 
 the protracted period of her convalescence, Mr. Moxon, in- 
 stead of visiting her, rose from his table a dozen times in a 
 day, and asked the question : “ Where did she get that 
 
 money ? ” 
 
CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 First Hartford Meeting- 
 House. 
 
 F Mr. Pynchon really sup- 
 posed that time and a more 
 extended examination of his 
 book would palliate the harsh 
 judgments that had been ren- 
 dered upon it by the leading men of 
 the Bay, he was doomed to a grievous 
 disappointment : for the winter, spring, 
 and summer passed by, and the 
 clamor concerning it only subsided to 
 give place to a settled determination that the book should 
 be condemned by the highest tribunal in the colony, and 
 the author disgraced in every practicable manner. 
 
 This was not unanticipated by the people of the settle- 
 ment, who, in order to give him such aid as he might desire 
 in the General Court, consulted him in regard to their selec- 
 tion of a deputy to attend that body. He frankly indicated 
 his preference for Mr. Holyoke of Lynn, the father of his 
 son-in-law, and that gentleman was returned by the unani- 
 mous votes of the freemen. 
 
 When Mr. Pynchon set out for the Bay, he was accompa- 
 nied by his son John, and by several of the leading men of the 
 town, who went down to make interest for one who was bound 
 to them by so many relations and associations, but all de- 
 parted with sad forebodings. The trees that hung over the 
 Bay Path, blushing with the surprises of the first frost, never 
 canopied a more silent company of travelers. Here and 
 there, some shrub or vine had shed down its shower of foli- 
 
 297 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 298 
 
 age in radiant flakes, until it lay fetlock deep upon the 
 ground ; but the hoofs of the horses, brushing it and crush- 
 ing it, scarcely broke the thread of league-long reveries. 
 The squirrel chattered upon the bough ; the blue jay chided 
 the dull-eared silence that lay dreaming among crickets, un- 
 der the forest arches ; coveys of partridges, like well deliv- 
 ered files of musketry, discharged by single birds their pla- 
 toons of sound, and rolled off among the trees ; the startled 
 deer leaped from his roadside cover, with tangling vines upon 
 his antlers, and with them wildly streaming over his back 
 bounded away as if he were a pet tricked out for a holiday ; 
 and the wild turkey called to his mates, or some answering 
 stranger, far out among the hills. But all these sights and 
 sounds were unheeded by the men who felt the importance 
 of the stake involved in the events that awaited them at the 
 termination of their journey. 
 
 On the arrival of Mr. Pynchon and his friends at Boston, 
 they became immediately aware that their worst fears were 
 about to be realized. The magistrate was treated wherever 
 he appeared with entire neglect, and not unfrequently with 
 marked discourtesy. Everybody seemed to regard him as 
 one whose fate was sealed, and as one with whose fortunes 
 no one could be identified without detriment of personal 
 character and business or political prospects. 
 
 He entered the chamber occupied by the magistrates, and 
 took his seat, only to hear an order, just sent up from the 
 deputies, read and passed, that a protest against the doc- 
 trines of his book should be drawn up to satisfy all men that 
 the Court not only did not approve them, but that it disliked 
 and detested them ; that one of the ministers of the colony 
 should be appointed to refute the errors of the book ; that 
 the author should be summoned before the next General 
 Court to answer for the promulgation of his heresies ; and 
 that the book itself should be burned by the executioner in 
 the market-place at Boston, on the following day, at the con- 
 clusion of the lecture. 
 
 This order was the consummation of his worst fears, and 
 deeply offended, and still more deeply wounded at heart, he 
 rose in his place, and exclaimed : “ May God forgive the 
 malice of the author of this order, and the cruel blindness 
 of those who have passed it ! I pronounce it an outrage upon 
 the rights of human reason, a denial of the liberty where- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 299 
 
 with Christ maketh his disciples free, an offense against 
 conscience, and a sin against God. ” 
 
 As Mr. Pynchon slowly measured his language, quick, 
 angry glances crossed the room, among his associates, and, 
 save for the assumption of the floor by a cool and imperturb- 
 able member, he would have been assailed by harsh and 
 bitter language : but the speaker who rose in response begged 
 the magistrates to make all due allowance to one who had 
 momentarily given way to a very natural excitement, and 
 then suggested to Mr. Pynchon the propriety of his with- 
 drawal from the room, as further action upon his case would 
 doubtless follow, and he might possibly be led into impru- 
 dences that he would regret. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon proudly looked the man in the face until he 
 sat down, and then calmly surveying the room, said, — “ I 
 have been an adviser in this body since the establishment of 
 the colony, touching the affairs of the colony and the admin- 
 istration of justice, but neither this body, nor any one of its 
 members, has been constituted my adviser. Under God, I 
 am my own keeper, and though this Court may deal 
 grievously with me in my person, station, and estate, I have 
 the privilege, as I shall take the liberty, of watching the 
 sword that is thrust at me, both in this and in the second 
 house, that no unfair advantage be taken of my unwariness. 
 Save the Governor and his honorable deputy, I am to-day 
 the peer of any man in this chamber, and I challenge the 
 respect due in everything to myself as an honorable gentle- 
 man, and an assistant in the government of this colony. I 
 have neither been displaced nor disgraced. Neither im- 
 peachment nor proscription has been visited upon me. 
 Happily, injustice is not dishonor; and truth — blessed be 
 God ! — does not depend for its authenticity, vitality, and 
 power, on the breath of the General Court of the Massa- 
 chusetts 1 ” 
 
 Thus outspoke the man at last. The book which he had 
 written committed him before the world to his own opinions, 
 and when he felt the consequences of the clash with the 
 straitened creed that cramped the minds around him, the 
 chains that had been upon him for long years fell off, and 
 he stood in his own Christian manhood, and felt himself to 
 be stronger than ever in his life before. The fear of man 
 had passed away, The fear for the interest of truth had van- 
 
 18730 
 
3oo 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 of itself. He stood upon a height from which the bigotry 
 around him seemed so contemptible that, while he proudly 
 claimed the honors due to his position, he regarded with 
 pity those who associated with him. He felt that, in how- 
 ever false a position he might be placed before the Chris- 
 tians of the Englands, Old and New, he was a freer man, a 
 larger Christian, and a better magistrate, for having given 
 
 Faneuil Hall, Boston: Colonial Landmark and Cradle of Liberty. 
 
 a thorough expression of himself — for asserting his own 
 reason — for vindicating his own independence. 
 
 Previous to the scene which has been thus briefly de- 
 scribed, quite as exciting and interesting a one had trans- 
 pired in the house of deputies. The order which had been 
 sent up for the concurrence of the magistrates covered 
 really the whole ground of proceedings which it was pro- 
 posed to institute against the heretical bookmaker ; and 
 it was upon this order that a struggle most unusual was 
 made. 
 
 The general knowledge that the case would come on 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 301 
 
 filled the hall with spectators, among whom were many 
 of the reverend elders of the colony, who came in to watch 
 the operations of the deputies — partly from curiosity, partly 
 from a wish to encourage the timid to stand boldly by 
 their duty, and partly, doubtless, to impress them with a 
 * due sense of the importance of a faithful performance of the 
 same. 
 
 Among them, conspicuously,, were Mr. John Cotton of 
 Boston, and Mr. John Norton of Ipswich, the latter one of 
 the most learned men and able controvertists in the colony. 
 All of them had a scent for heresy so subtle and acute that 
 they could discover it lying perdu beneath a word, or smell 
 it in a puff of air awakened by a flourishing figure of speech. 
 They were great, gaunt, keen-eyed, learned, self-devoted, 
 powerful men of God, with more religion of intellect than 
 thorough spirituality, and more zeal for doctrine than care 
 for the nourishment of the Christian affections. This occa- 
 sion was one which called them out from their studies, and 
 gave them exciting food for thought and discussion ; and if 
 their care for the interests of orthodoxy was sometimes 
 merged in the seductive delights of controversy, it would 
 prove only that nature and grace made men and Christians 
 then as they very frequently do at the present day. 
 
 The deputy who offered the order, made a speech con- 
 taining no small amount of personal abuse. Pie felt that he 
 could do this with perfect safety, as he knew that the sym- 
 pathy of four-fifths of the members was with him, and that 
 of the whole of the audience. He spoke of the impudence 
 of a man like Mr. Pynchon — a learned fur-dealer, as he was 
 pleased to call him — in assuming to interpret the oracles of 
 God, and especially in controverting the doctrines held by 
 the New England churches, and expounded by such learned 
 and orthodox divines as he had the pleasure of seeing in 
 the house on that occasion. He spoke of the damage that 
 must inevitably result to the cause of true religion, from the 
 attack upon it of one who had been mistakenly honored by 
 a seat among the magistrates. He challenged the friends 
 of Mr. Pynchon, if any such there might be among the 
 deputies, to undertake his defense — to have the hardihood to 
 do it — to place themselves bn record as having done it — to 
 disgrace themselves before the Christian world by doing it. 
 
 All this was said, and much more of the same import, 
 
THE BAY PATH.’ 
 
 302 
 
 with very slight allusions to the real merits of the book 
 which the order, in effect, condemned. The heretical char- 
 acter of the book seemed to be taken for granted. The 
 ministers had preached upon it, and condemned it from 
 their pulpits. It had been discussed in private circles, and 
 condemned there. There was no voice raised in its behalf. 
 When the member took his seat, he looked around with a 
 triumphant air, as if he supposed no one would answer him ; 
 but he was disappointed, in a manner which showed that 
 
 Mr. Pynchon 
 was not mistaken 
 in his estimate 
 of the man he 
 had selected to 
 guard his inter- 
 ests and charac- 
 ter in that house. 
 
 Mr. Holyoke 
 rose amid whis- 
 pers, and sneers, 
 and poorly dis- 
 guised laughter, 
 to reply, and, ad- 
 dr e s s i n g the 
 speaker, said: 
 “ About twenty 
 years ago, a 
 worthy gentle- 
 man of educa- 
 tion, living com- 
 paratively at his ease in England, became one of the paten- 
 tees of the colony of Massachusetts Bay ; and in England, 
 and New England, has been a magistrate, and assistant in 
 the government of the colony ever since. He has been 
 connected with all its affairs, has had, at times, the charge 
 of its treasury, and has labored amid great discourage- 
 ments and discomforts for its welfare. On arriving in this 
 country, he founded a settlement of importance, which 
 to-day has its representative in this house ; and when that 
 settlement had passed through the dangerous period of its 
 infancy, he took with him a chosen band of companions, 
 and sought a new home in the wilderness. The fields that 
 
 Famous Landmark : Old Tavern at Providence, where 
 the “ Sons of Liberty ” Planned Colonial Independence. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 303 
 
 he planted lie along the banks of the Connecticut, and there 
 are the houses which he builded. He has been there these 
 many years — the leader, father, magistrate of his people — 
 loyal to this jurisdiction, though almost joined to the peo- 
 ple of the South; and between his duties there and at the 
 Bay, has spent his time and strength among the fatigues 
 and dangers of long passages through the forest. In every 
 relation which this man has sustained — public and private, 
 legislative and judicial — he has done honor to himself and 
 the colony. As a member of the church of Christ, his life 
 has been blameless. As a man bearing heavy responsibili- 
 ties, he has never failed in his duty. He has never abused 
 a public or private trust. A wise legislator, a just judge, a 
 consistent Christian, a ready counselor, a true friend, a lover 
 and supporter of order, and an honest, noble man, he has 
 lived without suspicion or reproach. And this is the man 
 — good, noble, venerable as he is — the abuse of whom has 
 been so grossly indulged in, and so heartily enjoyed in this 
 house to-day I I envy not the hand that dispenses, nor the 
 maw that accepts, such miserable slanders and such un- 
 christian calumnies as human food.” 
 
 The concluding words were uttered in a tone of contemp- 
 tuous indignation, and produced a most decided sensation 
 among spectators as well as members. The speaker paused 
 for a minute, amid profound silence, and then continued: 
 
 “ What is it proposed to do with this man ? It is pro- 
 posed to disgrace him — to ruin him, for what is, at worst 
 and most, an error of judgment. To his thorough Christian 
 disposition, his life testifies ; and this life of his, so pure, 
 and devoted, and noble, has confirmed to him, or should 
 confirm to him, in the eyes of the Christian world, the right 
 to form opinions upon Christian doctrine and the privilege 
 to propound them. The Christianity which makes a man a 
 true Christian — which controls his life, and sanctifies his 
 affections, and builds him up into a saintly estate, growing 
 more holy, with more years, and more meek with more 
 honors, is a Christianity good enough for me, good enough 
 for the world, and good enough to teach. And when new 
 opinions come from good sources, it is rather the dictate of 
 Christian modesty to examine them with prayerful atten- 
 tion, than boldly to condemn them and their author, because 
 they run counter to the common judgment. Has it not 
 
304 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 always been the few who have held the right r Has not the 
 common judgment been wrong, in all this world’s history ? 
 Shall we sit in judgment on one of Christ’s disciples ? 
 Have we more wisdom than he ? Have we more grace ? 
 Have we lived better lives? Has God committed judgment 
 into our hands ? Are we infallible ? Do we, as a political 
 body, assume the interpretation of the Scriptures by any 
 power received of men or of God ? I tell this House of Dep- 
 uties that they are doing, or trying to do, a very fearful 
 thing. I tell them not to lay their hands on this man, lest- 
 they touch one of God’s anointed. I tell them to refrain 
 from this man, and let him alone, for if this counsel or this 
 work be of men it will come to naught ; but if it be of God, 
 they cannot overthrow it • lest haply they be found even to 
 fight against God. 
 
 “ We have come to this country, nominally for the enjoy- 
 ment of the liberty of conscience, the liberty of speech, and 
 the liberty of action ; but what liberty is that which is 
 led bound at the wheels of state, or stands captive at the" 
 pillars of the pulpit ? The liberty which is most in exercise 
 here to-day, is the liberty to oppress conscience. There is 
 no such thing as liberty of conscience, aside from perfect 
 individual liberty ; and the restraint of this, is oppression 
 no different in kind, no less outrageous, than that exercised 
 at home, or even in the den of The Beast himself, at Rome. 
 
 I tell you that if this man be condemned for the utterance 
 of his religious opinions by this body, which has legiti- 
 mately no more to do with them than a council of savages, 
 the world — aye — the devil himself, may have us in derision, 
 and pointing, say, ‘ behold how these Christians love one 
 another ! ’ 
 
 “ I see present here, to-day, several rpinisters of the Gos- 
 pel of Jesus Christ. It cannot be that they have been 
 brought here from any desire to see an independant thinker 
 and writer sacrificed ; and I only wish that it were conso- 
 nant with the rules of this body for them to rise here, and 
 testify to the paramount importance of a Christian life, and 
 the essential necessity to vital Christianity of entire liberty 
 of conscience. I wish that they might rise here, and, in 
 their own eloquent words, point forward to that trial and 
 tribunal to which we all tend, where the question will not 
 be in regard to what church a man belongs, what creed he 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 305 
 
 subscribes, what dogmas he adopts, what opinions he holds, 
 but will be concerning the improvement of the one talent, 
 or the ten talents, with which he has been intrusted. I 
 pray that we may stand blameless of any violence upon his 
 rights, or wounds upon his reputation.” 
 
 Mr. Holyoke sat down, and, at the moment, his audience 
 had forgotten where and what they were. A principle which 
 they had never recognized, or had long forgotten, had 
 sprung into life before them, and they were struck with its 
 marvelous power and beauty. The idea that a man could 
 possibly be good, and yet fail to be orthodox after their 
 pattern — that life was something higher than light — that 
 character was something more essential than opinion — and 
 its correlative, that, with all their orthodoxy, they might 
 possibly be destitute of true Christianity, received for the 
 moment the homage of their reason, and threw the materials 
 of the world in which they moved into new positions and 
 new relations. The revelation was, however, but momentary. 
 The spell passed away before the cool breath of spite, and 
 the hot words of zeal which responded ; and when the vote 
 was taken, only five of the whole number of deputies were 
 enrolled with Mr. Holyoke among the dissentients. But 
 the effect of his words could not wholly die. Such seed is 
 never sown in vain. 
 
 As soon as the order was passed, the declaration, or pro- 
 test, for which it provided, was introduced and read, and 
 the deputies and reverend elders bent their heads to hear its 
 language : 
 
 * “ The General Court now sitting in Boston in New 
 England, this sixteenth of October, 1650. There was brought 
 to our hands a book, written, as therein subscribed, by 
 William Pynchon, Gent., in New England, entitled The 
 Meritorious Price of our Redemption, Justification . &>c., clear- 
 ing it frorn some common errors , &>c. f which book, containing 
 many errors and heresies generally condemned by all ortho- 
 dox writers that we have met with, we have judged it meet 
 and necessary for vindication of the truth, so far as in us 
 lies, as also to keep and preserve the people here committed 
 to our care and trust, in the true knowledge and faith of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, and of our own redemption by him, as 
 
 * Copied from the Colonial Records, Vol. iii. p. 215. The orthog- 
 raphy is modernized. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 306 
 
 also for the clearing of ourselves to our Christian brethren 
 and others in England, (where this book was printed, and 
 is dispersed,) hereby to protest our innocency, as being 
 neither parties nor privy to the writing, composing, printing, 
 nor divulging thereof ; but that, on the contrary, we detest 
 and abhor many of the opinions and assertions therein, as 
 false, erroneous, and heretical ; yea, and whatsoever is con- 
 tained in the said book which are contrary to the Scriptures 
 of the Old and New Testament, and the general received 
 doctrine of the orthodox churches extant since the time of 
 the last and best reformation ; and for proof and evidence 
 of our sincere and plain meaning therein, we do condemn 
 the said book to J be burned in the market-place, at Boston, 
 by the common executioner, and do purpose with all con- 
 venient speed to convent the said William Pynchon before 
 authority, to find out whether the said William Pynchon will 
 own the said book to be his or not ; which, if he doth, we 
 purpose (God willing) to proceed with him according to his 
 demerits, unless he retract the same, and give full satisfac- 
 tion, both here and by some second writing, to be printed 
 and dispersed in England ; all which we thought needful for 
 the reason above alleged, to make known by this short prot- 
 estation and declaration. Also, we further propose, with 
 what convenient speed we may, to appoint some fit person to 
 make a particular answer to all material and controversial 
 passages in the said book, and to publish the same in print, 
 that so the errors and falsities therein may be fully dis- 
 covered, the truth cleared, and the minds of those that love 
 and seek after truth confirmed therein.” 
 
 After the adoption of this declaration, and the passage of 
 an order to have it printed and distributed in England, it 
 was agreed upon by the whole court that Mr. Norton, one 
 of the reverend elders of Ipswich, should be entreated to 
 answer Mr. Pynchon’s book with all convenient speed. 
 The court then decided that Mr. Pynchon should be sum- 
 moned before the next General Court of Election, on the 
 first day of the session, to answer for the publication of his 
 heretical book, and not to depart without leave from the 
 court. 
 
 Notwithstanding the action that had been taken against 
 Mr. Pynchon, he went out of the court with a better case 
 than he carried in. In the magistrates, he had reclaimed 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 307 
 
 the respect which he had momentarily lost ; and in the dep- 
 uties, a secret sympathy in his behalf had been awakened, 
 which did not find its legitimate expression in their vote. 
 It had appeared that he was not a man to be trampled upon 
 without care, and that his case was one which did dishonor 
 neither to his intellect nor his heart — whatever disgrace the 
 court might, in the exercise of its prerogatives and power, 
 see fit to visit upon him. 
 
 To the ministers who heard Mr. Holyoke, Mr. Pynchon 
 became immediately an interesting subject of labor and 
 discipline. They longed to get hold of him, and talk his 
 errors out of him — to show him the loops in his logic, the 
 weakness of his argument, and the fallacy of his conclusions ; 
 and they resolved, before leaving the hall, that they would, 
 for the honor of Christ and the salvation of Mr. Pynchon, 
 procure from him a retraction of his errors, and achieve for 
 him a restoration to the confidence of the court and the 
 colony. The resolution was a bold one, when it is consid- 
 ered with whom they had to deal, but the result, as will 
 hereafter appear, was complimentary to their perseverance 
 and power. 
 
 As the session broke up, the deputies divided into excited 
 parties, and engaged warmly in the discussion of Mr. Holy- 
 oke’s speech. The more they talked, the more clearly they 
 apprehended the fact that something very unusual — some- 
 thing revolutionary, in fact — had been said. They won- 
 dered they had sat so quietly, and heard such sentiments 
 and opinions boldly put forth. They wondered that they 
 had not risen, at the close of his remarks, at least, and 
 denounced him as a traitor to the country, and a betrayer 
 of true religion. They wondered that they had not seen 
 the tendency of the doctrines proclaimed, and that they 
 could have been so weak as to sit silently, and listen to 
 sentiments so entirely subversive of the existing order of 
 things. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon and Mr. Holyoke walked to their lodgings 
 together, and were the least excited and the happiest men 
 of the number. A report of the independent bearing of the 
 former before the magistrates, and of the noble speech of 
 the latter, had preceded their appearance in the street, and, 
 by the common people, they were regarded as heroes — as 
 men who must have possessed a courage almost superhuman. 
 
 20 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 308 
 
 Towards evening, as Mr. Pynchon was sitting in his room 
 busily engaged in writing, his landlady appeared, and in- 
 formed him that a couple of reverend elders were at the 
 door, and desired'to speak with him. He bade her invite 
 them in, .and, on passing to the door himself, met Mr. Cotton 
 and Mr. Norton, the two divines who have been mentioned 
 as in attendance at the Deputies when Holyoke's speech 
 was made. Mr. Pynchon received them with more than his 
 usual dignity, and it was with much circumlocution, and 
 with no assistance from him, that they approached the object 
 of their visit. 
 
 “ We have corned said Mr. Cotton, at last, “ to speak 
 with you in relation to your book." 
 
 Mr. Pynchon bowed. 
 
 “ We have felt it to be our duty, as ministers of the gos- 
 pel, to approach you privately, to explain to you the effect 
 which your work has produced, to endeavor — praying for 
 God’s blessing upon our effort — to point out the more 
 grievous errors into which we believe you have fallen, and 
 to labor, as God hath given us ability, for your restoration 
 to the favor of the General Court and the colony churches." 
 
 “ God give you such speed in your work as may bring 
 honor to truth and glory to Him f " exclaimed Mr. Pynchon, 
 while an excited flush passed over his face. 
 
 “ Amen ! " ejaculated the ministers in concert. 
 
 “ Mr. Pynchon," said Mr. Cotton, “ you are doubtless 
 aware that the doctrines you have advanced in regard to the 
 character of the price paid for man's redemption are very 
 unlike those entertained by the colony churches." 
 
 “I am, sir. Had I supposed there was no point of differ- 
 ence, I should not have written the book." 
 
 “ Well, we will not discuss that matter now, for there is 
 not time. We come now to you as a Christian man — as one 
 who has the cause of true religion at heart, to show you 
 that, however honestly you may have written, that cause is 
 receiving damage at your hands." 
 
 “ I should be very sorry to believe so sad a thing," replied 
 Mr. Pynchon, touched by the earnest tone in which the 
 minister spoke. 
 
 “And yet you cannot believe otherwise, if you will open 
 you eyes to see, and your eyes to hear, the commotion 
 which you have aroused in the mind of the churches of this 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 309 
 
 colony, and even among those of the Plymouth. A rock 
 may be turned over where it lies, upon the level ground, and 
 no man hear the report or feel the shock, but starting from 
 the top of the mountain, it leaves a scar upon the mountain’s 
 side, and fills the plain with smoke and ruin.” 
 
 “ But a scar is the indication of a healthy action, and 
 smoke and ruins are not necessarily companions,” replied 
 the magistrate. 
 
 “ I cannot accuse you of jesting,” rejoined the divine, “ but 
 surely you must have seen enough in the General Court to- 
 day, to show you that much bitterness of feeling has been 
 aroused, and that charity and brotherly love have been very 
 sadly compromised.” 
 
 “For all of which, I presume, you propose to hold me 
 responsible. You might as well hold me responsible for 
 your own unreasonableness in such an imputation, as for 
 what you have seen to-day.” 
 
 Mr. Pynchon uttered this rebuke with an excited flash of 
 the eye and flush of the cheek, but Mr. Cotton received it 
 meekly and returned to the charge. 
 
 “ Mr. Pynchon, man is, at his best estate, fallible. You 
 have written a book upon one of the greatest and most im- 
 portant subjects that can engage the mind of a mortal, and 
 there is a possibility, you will admit, that you have made a 
 mistake, and even many mistakes. I have no doubt that 
 you will admit this. If so, then it becomes you as a Chris- 
 tain, to open your mind to those who attend continually 
 upon this very thing, and try your opinions in the light of 
 their learning. At any rate, the consciousness that you may 
 be in error, and be the cause of stumbling to many a weaker 
 brother, and, perhaps, may lead many souls to the gates of 
 death, should make you very careful before men, and 
 prayerful before God.” 
 
 “ I thank you for your plainness of speech,” said Mr. 
 Pynchon, rising, “ and shall be glad to see you and Mr. 
 Norton at some other time, but you must excuse me now, as 
 I have pressing business on hand.” 
 
 The two divines rose from their chairs, and Mr. Norton, 
 who had remained silent from the fact that he only wished 
 to engage the magistrate in a discussion of doctrine, asked 
 that gentleman if, on some future occasion, he would have 
 any objection to take the text of the controverted book as 
 
3io 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 the basis of conversation. Mr. Pynchon assured him that 
 he should be ready to engage in such a conversation at any 
 convenient opportunity, and then politely bowed the gentle- 
 men out of the house. 
 
 As soon as his door was closed, he turned to his desk to 
 pursue his writing, but, to his surprise, he found that a new 
 and most troublesome discontent had been implanted in his 
 heart. He had supposed that he was firmly fixed in his 
 opinions, but he could not but admit that he might possibly 
 be wrong, and he could not fail to see that the foundation 
 of the beautiful edifice he had reared partook — however 
 strong it might be — of his own frailly. 
 
 Then came up to his imagination the ordeal through 
 which he had agreed to pass. He had agreed to pit him- 
 self against the most learned divines and the subtlest dia- 
 lecticians of the day in a discussion of some of the funda- 
 mental doctrines of Christianity. This thought was full of 
 excitement, and his mind ran off into the field of thought 
 and argument with which it had become so familiar, as if 
 anxious to see whether the old fortifications were still stand- 
 ing, and the pieces upon which he had always relied still 
 looked out from their embrasures. Then his mind glanced 
 off upon another course, as Mr. Cotton’s suggestion recurred 
 touching the effect of his book upon the Christian cause. 
 This gave him more trouble than all the rest The possi- 
 bility that he had wounded the cause of Christ — that he had 
 endangered the soul of believer or unbeliever — that he had 
 failed to do full honor to Him who had his affections, or had 
 detracted from the dignity of his mission — sat gloomily at 
 the door of his heart, and breathed into it the most painful 
 disquietude. 
 
 A few minutes’ indulgence in thoughts like these unfitted 
 him for business, and he found himself unable to pursue his 
 writing. As he rose, and walked the floor of his apartment, 
 the change that had passed over his spirit within a short 
 time, occurred to him. He had entered the room calm and 
 almost exultant — his mind firm, contented and elastic. He 
 was then free from the fetters he had worn through many 
 weary years, but, somehow, his visitors had slipped them 
 upon him again, and, full of doubts and fears, he felt once 
 more half stripped of his manhood. 
 
 Mr, Pynchon bad many interviews with the divines before 
 
THE BAY PATH. 311 
 
 he returned home. His mind became, little by little, 
 obscured by the fear that he might be wrong — a cloud no 
 larger than a man’s hand at first, but growing until it dark- 
 ened his whole mental vision — and he found himself unable 
 to cope with the cool heads and ready speech of his antag- 
 onists. 
 
 At last, their interviews had become little more than 
 solemn farces, in which the divines threw down his positions, 
 and then setting them up, threw them down again. After 
 they supposed that the foe had been thoroughly reduced, 
 they proposed to Mr. Pynchon that he should recant his 
 errors. This he refused to do, until he had had opportuity 
 coolly to consider the whole matter after his arrival in 
 Springfield. He felt that he was not himself among them, 
 or under their influence, and that he should be faithless to 
 God’s honor as well as his own to yield well conceived and 
 thoroughly considered opinions to such an unnatural pressure. 
 
 As the party whiclr~accompanied Mr. Pynchon to the Bay 
 set out upon their return, they were even sadder than when 
 they left their home ; and the dead leaves that strewed the 
 Bay Path in one continuous line of desolated beauty, well 
 represented the fallen hopes that, like these very leaves, 
 were fluttering in suspense and tinged with blight when their 
 bearers passed eastward not many weeks before. 
 
 “Tonomy Hill,” Near Newport , over the Residence of Chief Miantonomah Narra- 
 gansett, Foe of King Philip. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 URING the tedious period of Mary’s 
 sickness — its long days of watching 
 and longer nights — Hugh heard of 
 many strange things ; and, although 
 he knew that Mary was deranged, 
 her words seemed informed with a 
 peculiar significance, as if they were 
 warnings or prophecies of some awful event in the future. 
 There was one object — invisible to Hugh — of which she 
 was always endeavoring to obtain a view, and her trials 
 all grew out of the presence of other objects which ob- 
 structed her vision. Sometimes Hugh stood between her 
 and the object she sought, and when, at her command, he 
 stepped aside, Mr. Moxon appeared ; and if Mr. Moxon 
 at last retired, some one, or some thing, almost always took 
 his place, and still left her wandering imagination unsatis- 
 fied and distressed. 
 
 It was strange to see how a peculiar mood of mental 
 being and action had leaped over a barrier of sane and 
 hearty life, to join itself to a similar mood far back in the 
 312 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 313 
 
 past. As Mary lay upon her bed, tossing in feverish rest- 
 lessness, the familiar vision of her mother’s eyes came back 
 to her. She recalled a long conversation with her father 
 when he asked her if she could not see them ; and their 
 sweet and loving expression arose upon her memory, and 
 soon dawned upon her distempered fancy, with the old 
 semblance of reality. She sought for them through clouds 
 and darkness, and when, at times, she felt their influence 
 upon her aching head, and no intervention prevented their 
 soft and soothing light from falling deep down into her 
 heart, a smile so beautiful and heavenly irradiated her pallid 
 face that Hugh’s fainting heart throbbed with a new hope 
 and gushed with a long unwonted delight. But each smile 
 was brief. Some phantom face or form — some grim enemy 
 — some distant cloud or clinging mist — came between her 
 and those blessed eyes, and often she struggled with these 
 obstructions through whole nights, and waked in the morn- 
 ing only for a brief hour, to enter again into the unsatisfying 
 and tormenting quest. 
 
 Nor did these fancies leave her as she slowly recovered 
 a portion of her strength. Those eyes were always above 
 her in her dreams, and, as life freshened its pulses, she 
 sometimes slept in their light through whole nights — as still, 
 and white, and placidly beautiful as the earth beneath the 
 moon in early spring-time. 
 
 At other times, great ghostly clouds swept over her, and 
 tangling shapes of darkness twined their dim forms above 
 her, through the rifts of which those eyes, at long intervals, 
 looked in upon her with a spell of peace, as the moon some- 
 times looks from the clouds through openings towards which 
 it has waded in their deceitful depths for hours. 
 
 Through all these long weeks of weakness and confine- 
 ment, Hugh and Mary could hardly have been better cared 
 for had a special miracle been wrought for their benefit every 
 day. Morning after morning Hugh found at the door some 
 choice bird, or fish, or piece of venison, which left him at 
 perfect liberty to devote all his time to the care and comfort 
 of his wife. Further than that these timely gifts came from 
 the same generous hand that supplied their earlier stores, 
 Hugh knew nothing ; but he became so much accustomed 
 to find at the door just what he wanted, that he was disap- 
 pointed whenever the resource failed him. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 S*4 
 
 Occasionally, neighbors called to see how Mary was get- 
 ting along, or from some motive of curiosity, and, as they 
 frequently came in at meal times, and saw what excellent 
 fare Hugh enjoyed, and was able to spread before Mary, 
 they asked many awkward questions in regard to the mode 
 of its procurement. It became known and notorious, at last, 
 that though Hugh did not step his foot out of doors to ob- 
 tain any kind of food, he was always supplied with the best 
 game in the forest, the best fish in the river, and the best 
 meal from the mill. Every effort made by the gossips of the 
 place to ascertain who supplied him, was without avail. The 
 matter was discussed at quilting parties, in family circles, 
 and even among the grave and important men of the planta- 
 tion. 
 
 As a natural consequence, the general belief ran in the 
 old channel, and infernal agency received the credit of more 
 Christian charity than existed in the whole settlement ; or 
 perhaps, more properly, of fulfilling the terms of a bargain 
 to which Mary, or Hugh, or both, were parties. Mr. Moxon 
 always formed one link in the chain of gossip that reached 
 around the neighborhood, and was the receiver and careful 
 treasurer of every idle story concerning the ill-fated pair ; 
 for his children were still afflicted, and with all his circum- 
 spection he was unable to discover any one, except Mary, 
 who could safely be charged with being their tormentor. 
 
 Every circumstance in the unfortunate woman’s life seemed 
 fated to feed his suspicions concerning her. If she exhibi- 
 ted anger, she was under the influence of the devil. If she 
 won a friend, it was through Satanic wiles. If she was fed 
 in her helplessness, it was by the power of sorcery. Even 
 the insanity of her sickness was regarded as demoniacal 
 possession ; and her sickness itself as nothing less than the 
 prostration of her bodily powers before a supernatural occu- 
 pation. 
 
 At long intervals, Mary’s old mistress, who also suffered 
 from ill-health, went to visit her. The meeting was always 
 a sad one, for each saw in the other the cruel havoc made 
 by disease and care. There was not one in all Mr. Pyn- 
 chon’s family who felt the wounds inflicted on that gentle- 
 man’s reputation so keenly as Mary Holyoke, and, as his 
 trials came upon him when she was weak with indisposition, 
 the intelligence wrought upon her with a terrible power. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 315 
 
 Her mental organization was so fine, and her physical pow- 
 ers so exquisitely adjusted, that, irritated by the harsh in- 
 fluences of a new settlement, oppressed with maternal cares 
 and hardships, destitute of medical advice or aid, and 
 shocked by the treatment dealt out to her father, whom she 
 still loved and honored with more than the devotion of 
 childhood, she could not retrieve her failing strength, or 
 shake off the sorrow that lay heavily upon her heart. Yet 
 her lips dropped only kindness, and, however irritable and 
 petulant Mary Parsons might be, as she entered the cabin, 
 the serene carriage of her friend, the sweet words of com- 
 fort which she spoke, the manifestation of true friendship 
 which she never failed to make, soothed the poor girl’s 
 wounded spirit, and filled her with gladness and gratitude 
 that gave life almost its only sweetness through many after 
 days. 
 
 It was a joyous day for Hugh when his wife sat in her 
 chair once more, with a favorite dress upon her, and her 
 hair neatly parted and tied up in the way she used to wear 
 it when he learned to love her. He was as playful as a 
 child, and quite as happy; and as he drew the table to her 
 side, and pressed her with the viands he had prepared, and 
 heated the rough plank for her feet, and kissed her pale 
 cheek, and lavished upon her the thousand little attentions 
 and caresses that naturally sprang from his gratitude for 
 her recovery, and his wish to make her as happy as himself, 
 it seemed a pity that Mr. Moxon could not be a spectator 
 of the scene — that so he might receive an impression of the 
 artlessness and innocence of the unfortunate pair. 
 
 As Mary slowly recovered her strength, a new care, which 
 during her insanity had been forgotten, asserted the leading 
 place in her mind. She was, within a few months, to be- 
 come a mother. The thought thrilled her with a strange, 
 sweet pride, that quite subdued her natural fears and appre- 
 hensions; and the first work to which she turned her long 
 unused hands was bestowed upon the preparations for the 
 advent of the promised comer. 
 
 One evening, three or four weeks after she had commenced 
 this work, and sat pleasantly talking with Hugh in re- 
 gard to it, she brought out for exhibition the store of clothing 
 she had rapidly prepared — the little shirts, the little dresses, 
 the little caps and socks, and the hundred-and-one little 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 3l6 
 
 things that make up humanity’s first wardrobe. One after 
 another these were held up, and then laid down upon the 
 table, until that article of furniture supported such a spread 
 as it never had before, and presented quite the appearance 
 of a museum of curiosities. In the very midst of this dis- 
 play, the cabin door opened without the slightest warning, 
 and gave ingress to Peter Trimble. 
 
 “ I knew you must be alone here to-night, and I heard 
 Mary had got well, and so I thought I’d come down, and 
 walk straight in, jest to see if it wouldn’t scare you a little,” 
 said Peter, carefully closing the door, and advancing to the 
 fire. “ I didn’t ’spose it would scare you much,” continued 
 he, “ because I didn’t know as that would do ; but I thought 
 it would make you open your eyes sudden, and wake you 
 up. How do you do here — eh ? ” and Peter gave one hand 
 to Mary, and the other to Hugh, in a manner so different 
 from that which he usually bore that they opened their eyes 
 with a very genuine surprise. 
 
 “Take away these things,” said Mary to Hugh, very hur- 
 riedly, and in an undertone. Then turning to Peter she 
 endeavored to engage him in conversation, and commenced 
 by asking how he had been for so many weeks. 
 
 “Oh! I’ve been fust rate,” said Peter, sitting down in 
 the best chair, and stretching his feet towards the fire ; 
 “ but I’d no ideayou^’d got so r well. By George ! Mary, you 
 look as red as fire ! It’s true, now, isn’t it, Hugh ? I never 
 see your cheeks so full of blood ; did you, Hugh ? ” 
 
 All this, of course, did not tend in the slightest degree to 
 restore Mary’s equanimity, especially as Hugh stopped ex- 
 actly in the midst of his work, in order to verify Peter’s 
 statement. \ 
 
 “ If you’re taking them traps away because I’ve come, 
 you may as well let them be, for, between you and I, I am 
 getting used to them.” And then Peter put his head down 
 between his knees, at the infinite peril of roasting his brains, 
 and abandoned himself to such a powerful snicker that 
 Hugh and Mary were obliged to laugh outright, from very 
 sympathy. While he was thus engaged, however, Mary 
 managed to get the remainder of the “ traps ” out of sight, 
 and, with a feeling of relief, sat down and asked him what 
 he meant. 
 
 “ Oh ! I see these things pretty much every night, and 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 317 
 
 they don’t scare me ; and if they don’t scare me, they 
 hadn’t ought to scare anybody, and you’d say so, if you 
 knew what I do.” The knowledge to which he alluded 
 quite overcame him, and he could only check the snicker 
 in-to which it threw him, by turning around, slapping Hugh 
 on the back, and exclaiming — “ It’s the old hen, now, 
 Hugh ! ” 
 
 “The old hen?” inquired Hugh, with an expression of 
 wonder on his face. 
 
 “Don’t you remember about the pullet?” inquired Peter, 
 with the slightest possible sidewise nod towards Mary. 
 
 Hugh believed that he did, and smiled at the recurrence 
 of the term, and the scene with which it was associated. 
 
 “ The pullet was took by a fox, I expect,” said Peter, 
 giving Hugh a sly nudge. “ By George ! ” continued he, his 
 old admiration of the feat recurring, “ you did that well, 
 Hugh! You did jest as I’d ’a done, exactly. Yes, sir! 
 that was a clean thing.” 
 
 “ So you’re after another, now,” suggested Hugh. 
 
 “ Yes, I’m after another, but it ain’t a pullet,” responded 
 Peter, and then he continued : “ I might as well tell you, 
 for between you and I, that’s jest what I come here for to- 
 night. You know where Deacon Chapin sets, pretty regu- 
 lar, in the meeting-house, don’t you ?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Mary and Hugh together. 
 
 44 Can’t you think of a hen and six chickens that always 
 set three seats back of him ? ” 
 
 “A hen setting in the meeting-house?” inquired Hugh, 
 with well-feigned astonishment. 
 
 Peter rose, and seizing Hugh by the shoulders, shook him 
 till he could hardly breathe, — meantime saying : “ Hugh 
 Parsons, you’re the greatest feller to be tripping up a chap’s 
 heels I ever see. That’s jest the way you served me be- 
 fore. You’re always putting me out and breaking me down 
 in the wrong place ! Land ahead ! there wouldn’t anybody 
 think, to look at you, that you was up to that sort of 
 thing.” 
 
 “ Do you mean the widow Tomson ? ” inquired Mary, 
 with marked curiosity. 
 
 “ No,” replied Peter, very positively. 
 
 “ Well, who do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I mean,” replied Peter, charmed with his own ingenuity, 
 
3 18 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 44 a woman that looks so much like her you can’t tell them 
 apart.” 
 
 “ Do you mean to say that you are going to marry widow 
 Tomson ? ” said Mary. 
 
 44 I can if I’m a-mind to, — I know that,” responded Peter, 
 rising to his feet proudly, and looking down upon his legs. 
 
 Mary saw that there was really something serious in the 
 matter, and that Peter thought he was about to secure a 
 prize. She therefore refrained from any remark that would 
 injure his feelings, and asked him to tell her how the affair 
 was brought about. 
 
 44 Well, you know Tomson left her in rather a tight place, 
 don’t you ? — six children and a cabin to keep them in, but 
 nobody to do the work for them, and stay in the house 
 nights. One morning, as I was going by, she called to me, 
 and said she, 4 Peter, I was almost scat to death last night. 
 I know, jest as well as I want to know, that an Indian tried 
 to get into the house, and I haven’t got a bit good flint in 
 my gun.’ Well, I knew what that meant. She knew I 
 always carried flints — everybody is always losing a flint, you 
 know, and nobody has one, and so I went to the house, and 
 put the best flint into the lock I had in my pocket, and jest 
 drew the old charge, and snapped it two or three times, to 
 let the children see the fire roll. Byme-by I looked up, and 
 there stood the widow, crying. Says I, 4 What’s the matter ? ’ 
 Says she, 4 1 was thinking how Tomson used to snap that 
 same gun, with the children all standing around him.’ Says 
 I, 4 Goody Tomson, there is no use in crying for spilt milk/ 
 Says she, 4 1 know it, but what’ll become of the children ? 9 
 Says I, 4 Can’t you put them out to live ? ’ Says she, 4 1 
 don’t know how I should get places for them, for I can’t 
 leave them a minute.’ Says I, 4 Perhaps you’d like to have 
 me try for you.’ Says she, 4 Peter, that is jest what I’ve been 
 wanting to ask you to do for me a long time/ Says I, 4 I’ll 
 do it/ Well, I made a good beginning, and got rid of one 
 child the first evening ; you’d better believe I told a pretty 
 good story. The next morning I got rid of another, and 
 then the widow said I could jest as well have their bed as 
 not, and she should feel so much better with a man in the 
 house. 
 
 44 So I’ve been there to sleep ever since ; but it took me 
 nigh about a week to get off the third child. You see they 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 3*0 
 
 grow smaller as you get along down, and peopie are scary 
 about taking them because they can’t pay their way. Now 
 there’s one more that’ll do to be sent off — don’t you want a 
 little tot, Hugh, to be skiving round the cabin here, and 
 making a fuss, and learning to do things, and full of fun ? 
 By George ! Hugh, she’s as lively as a little squirrel, and 1 
 think she’s the prettiest one of the lot. Land ahead ! I 
 hadn’t thought of you before.” 
 
 Hugh and Mary were both disposed to decline any portion 
 of the widow Tomson’s dividends, and Peter, having satisfied 
 himself on that point, proceeded. 
 
 “ One night, after I’d come in, and we was both feeling 
 pretty well, to think how nicely we’d got along with the 
 children, says Goody Tomson to me, ‘What do you s’pose 
 folks think, becuuse you’re here so much, and have done so 
 much in getting my children put out ? ’ Says I, ‘ I don’t know, 
 nor I don’t care. Whose business is’t ? ’ says I ; says she, 
 
 ‘ You men don’t feel such things as we women do. We don’t 
 have anybody to take care on us, and stand up for us — we 
 that have been left alone — ’ and then she put her handker- 
 chief up to her eyes, and I should think she cried for half an 
 hour.” 
 
 As the memory of this afflictive scene came back to Peter, 
 he rose from his chair and walked across the room, and then 
 returned and dropped himself into his seat. 
 
 “I ain’t a’going to tell you the rest of it. You both of 
 you look just as full of Cain as you can hold,” said Peter, as 
 he caught the expression upon their faces, on resuming his 
 chair. 
 
 “ Oh ! go on ! go on ! ” exclaimed both, Mary adding 
 with peculiar significance, “ we were not laughing at 
 you. ” 
 
 “ I shan’t do it,” replied Peter, with a dim suspicion that 
 he had been humbugged, and a slight feeling of shame at 
 revealing the tender passages in his acquaintance with the 
 widow. “ I shan’t do it. You know how them things are 
 got along with. Anyhow, we came to an understanding, 
 and I tell you she’s a good deal more of a woman than she 
 has the credit of being, and she ain’t but thirty years old 
 either. Now you wouldn’t have thought that would 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ So you are really going to marry the widow Tomson, 
 
320 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 are you, Peter ? ” said Mary, affirmatively and interroga- 
 tively together. 
 
 “ I shan't say that I am , and I shan't say that I ain't” 
 replied Peter, “ but I do say," continued he, with an ex- 
 tremely intelligent look, “ that such traps as you had on the 
 table when I came in don't scare me. Land ahead ! I’ll 
 bet I've dressed and ondressed that baby of Goody Tom- 
 son's — Esther she wants me to call her — -more than twenty 
 times." 
 
 This statement was too much for the gravity of his aud- 
 itors, and Hugh, exclaiming, “Ah, Peter, you are in for it," 
 burst into a hearty laugh, in which Mary joined him. Peter 
 began, at last, to think there was something extremely funny 
 in the matter, and laughed louder than either of them, until 
 he wished to stop, and managed to effect his object by seiz- 
 ing Hugh by the shoulders, and exclaiming, “ Say! what are 
 you laughing at ? I only did it for fun." 
 
 Peter's friends finally found breath to congratulate him on 
 his success, as well in getting rid of the children of the be- 
 reaved Esther, as in securing her and the balance of her fam- 
 ily ; and Peter closed the interview by informing them of the 
 exact value of the widow's cabin, the number of acres in her 
 possession that had been planted with corn, and the general 
 desirableness of the match, in a worldly point of view. As- 
 suring them, with a feeling of complacent exultation that 
 almost choked his utterance, that he began to feel as if he 
 was “ one of them," he retired to the widow Tomson's cabin, 
 to lend the protection of his presence to its inmates, and to 
 dream of the time when, with all its contents and environ- 
 ments, it should become his own. 
 
 Long conversations, between Mary and Hugh, upon the 
 all-absorbing subject, were of frequent occurrence during the 
 months which followed, but, meanwhile, new anxieties de- 
 scended upon both. 
 
 Mary, instead of recovering her accustomed health, as 
 time passed, relapsed into a strange and very miserable 
 state, and, during much of the time, betrayed the most pos- 
 itive and painful symptoms of mental alienation. These 
 were frequently accompanied by a very decided aversion to 
 the presence of her husband, and the acceptance of any 
 offices of kindness and affection at his hands — a condition 
 ^vhich filled him with the deepest perplexity and distress. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 321 
 
 As the spring advanced, there arose another disturbing 
 cause, which, though harmless in itself, became, in her 
 imagination, charged with terrible evils. Mr. Moxon had 
 received advice concerning his children from an eminent 
 medical gentleman at the Bay, which required him to 
 see that they were thoroughly exercised for an hour every 
 morning in the open air ; and as the best walk passed 
 by Mary’s cabin, the passage of the minister, with a 
 daughter at each hand, became a matter of daily recurrence. 
 They never passed by the cabin, however, without insti- 
 tuting the closest scrutiny of everything around it, and if 
 the door or window happened to be open, of everything 
 within it. 
 
 This daily inquisition became, at last, so intolerable, that 
 every symptom of Mary’s disease was aggravated by it, and 
 it frequently gave rise to whole days of excessive nervous 
 irritation and mental distress. 
 
 Thus passed away the spring and the summer ; and a sad, 
 weary time was it for poor Hugh. Through many a warm 
 summer night he sat sleepless at Mary’s bedside, endeav- 
 oring to sooth her heated fancies. Hour after hour she 
 lay upon her bed, gazing upward with her large lustrous 
 eyes, and brushing away with her white and spectral hands 
 the long succession of filmy shapes and shadows that inter- 
 posed between her own and those eyes whose loving and 
 gentle gaze was all for which her soul seemed to long and 
 labor. Sometimes she asked him for assistance, and was 
 vexed at his awkwardness. Sometimes he was the obstruc- 
 tion, and fled before a wild burst of her impatient temper. 
 Then, after laboring ineffectually for hours, she would re- 
 nounce the essay, and sink into a long fit of hysterical weep- 
 ing and sobbing. 
 
 One morning in the early part of autumn, only a day or 
 two after Mr. Pynchon’s departure for the Bay as recorded 
 in the preceding chapter, Mr. Moxon and his children were 
 taking their accustomed walk by the cabin, gazing intently 
 at it during their slow progress, when a feeble wail fell upon 
 their ears, but of a character so peculiar- — coming as it did 
 very faintly through the closed door^and windows — that 
 they paused in blank stillness and astonishment. The wail 
 was again and again repeated ; and Mr. Moxon, on looking 
 down upon his children, saw that it was producing upon 
 
322 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 them a very marked effect. Martha listened with a pleased 
 and most interested smile upon her face, and, at last, reach- 
 ing out her hand, exclaimed “ Poor pussy ! poor pussy ! ” 
 Then she stooped to the ground, as if she saw the object she 
 had named approaching her, and was ready to fold it in her 
 arms. 
 
 Mr. Moxon saw that a fit was actually upon her, and that 
 Rebekah was rapidly approaching her usual sympathetic 
 condition, and, fairly tearing Martha away from the spot, in 
 spite of tears and entreaties, he hurried with both of his 
 children homewards. Arriving there, the minister, who 
 had begun to feel hopeful in regard to his children, was 
 again plunged into despair by their continuance in the 
 paroxysm which had come upon them. All day long Mar- 
 tha had the blue cat, of the years long gone, with and 
 about her. She folded her in her arms with childish 
 fondness, and was offended that neither her father nor mother 
 could hear her purr, or feel her as she rubbed against their 
 garments. 
 
 During the day, Mr. Moxon was informed by a neigh- 
 bor of the birth of Mary Parsons’s child ; and heard the 
 announcement with a sigh so deep as to startle his inform- 
 ant. He regarded the event as the accession of another 
 baleful influence to the number of those which had for years 
 been operative against him and his family, and as he turned 
 to the contemplation of his children he exclaimed, from the 
 depths of a heart bursting with distress, “ How long, O Lord, 
 how long ! ” 
 
 Little did Mary and Hugh imagine, while they were laughing 
 over Peter Trimble’s story of his somewhat remarkable 
 courtship, that they should be indebted to the good-natured 
 widow Tomson for some of the kindest and most impor- 
 tant offices of friendship. 
 
 Mary, for weeks and months after the birth of her child, 
 saw not one sane day or hour. Hugh, in the midst of his 
 perplexity, called upon his friend Peter to help him ; and 
 Peter, with his uniform policy, was ready to lend the serv- 
 ices of anything he had in the world — even to those of the 
 self-devoted Esther. And Esther came with her hearty 
 baby at her breast; — the youngest of the Tomsons — and 
 after doing what she could in the cabin, and ascertaining 
 that Mary’s child would have to be kept away from her, took 
 
TPHE BAY PATH. 323 
 
 the puny little creature to her own home, and cared for it, 
 and nursed it as tenderly as if it had been her own. 
 
 Many a long fight of words did she have over the strange 
 baby ; for two days had not passed, after its birth, before 
 the story of the peculiarity of its tone in crying and its effect 
 upon the Moxon girls, had become notorious throughout the 
 plantation. All the gossips of the town visited the widow’s 
 cabin for the purpose of seeing the baby that cried like a 
 cat. Little girls came to the window, and looked in, and 
 then ran away to tell the story to their mates. 
 
 It would be difficult to account fully for the peculiar 
 gloom that settled upon the town during the winter that fol- 
 lowed Mr. Pynchon’s misfortunes at the Bay, and the birth 
 of Hugh’s unwelcome child. Mr. Pynchon shut himself 
 closely in his room and hardly appeared at all, except at the 
 public religious exercises in the meeting-house. There was 
 a general air of thoughtfulness throughout his household, 
 and among his connections. There were no merry-makings 
 in the neighborhood during the winter — no huskings — no 
 weddings. It seemed as if a great crisis in the affairs of 
 the plantation were approaching, and as if every one’s heart 
 were blindly prophesying. 
 
 No man appreciated the general state of feeling and the 
 change that had occurred in the tone and temper of the 
 people more thoroughly than Mr. Pynchon, and it all tended 
 not only to increase his unhappiness, but to fill him with the 
 most distressing anxieties and the deepest self-questionings. 
 t In his lonely contemplations, the thought had occurred to 
 | him that perhaps all these calamities had come upon his 
 I people in consequence of his own unfaithfulness to duty and 
 | to truth. 
 
 To a sensitively conscientious mind, a thought like this 
 would be the most painful it could possibly entertain. Was 
 he, after all his efforts to build up the plantation, and to 
 order its affairs in a Christian manner, only a curse to it? 
 
 > Had he been presumptuous in setting aside the learning of 
 his teachers, and in assuming their robes and responsibili- 
 ties ? Was he but a Jonah upon the vessel, who must be 
 thrown overboard before the waves could be quieted ? 
 These questions fell, one after another, upon his mind, and 
 fairly crushed it to the earth, and prepared the way for one 
 of the most painful and humiliating passages in his whole life. 
 
 I 21 
 
 - 
 
 ■kV; ' 
 
 18730 
 
3^4 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 As soon as the Bay Path became passable, and the streams 
 that crossed it fordable, in the following spring, Mr. Pyn- 
 chon set out, with a heavy heart, for the Bay. Henry Smith 
 accompanied him as a deputy from the town to the General 
 Court, and as they turned the steps of their horses eastward, 
 followed by prayerful adieus, they left a very sad community 
 behind them. All believed and felt that a great and good 
 man was about to be sacrificed. Even Deacon Chapin, who, 
 with a number of the best and most reliable men in the 
 plantation, did not sympathize with Mr. Pynchon’s views of 
 doctrine, and disapproved his general policy, was touched 
 by his personal distresses, and gave him, at parting, the 
 hand of genuine commiseration. 
 
 At the end of his journey, he found his old friends, the 
 ministers, ready to receive him, and ready again to labor, 
 in any way that offered, for ffis restoration to orthodoxy. 
 During his absence, they had gone over the whole ground 
 together, and had arranged their forces for a battle in which 
 they felt certain of becoming the victors. Mr. Norton's 
 reply, written in accordance with the request of the General 
 Court, had been completed and fully discussed among the 
 self-constituted board of reverend censors ; and it was, as 
 a matter of course, the strongest document in that behalf 
 possible to be produced in the colony. The divines found 
 Mr. Pynchon debilitated by a winter's confinement, and 
 greatly fatigued by his journey. His mind suffered as well 
 as his body, and it became a task of comparative ease to 
 worry him down, and secure the preliminary steps to a re- 
 cantation of his alleged errors. 
 
 At this juncture, an event occurred which brought a sud- 
 den alarm upon Mr. Pynchon, and a burden of terrible pain 
 . — an event which thrilled with horror the members of the 
 General Court, and spread a sudden excitement throughout 
 the Bay settlements. This event will take the reader back 
 to Springfield, and to that town — for the time — the scene is 
 transferred. 
 
R. P 
 had 
 
 from the settle- 
 ment but a few 
 days when symp- 
 toms of amendment ap- 
 ared in the sad case 
 of Mary Parsons. For 
 months she had not spoken 
 of her child, but, at last, 
 her memory and reason 
 seemed to return together, 
 and as the fact that she 
 was the mother of a child 
 that had once slept upon her bosom had been fixed upon 
 her mind during some lucid moment, she turned to look 
 upon the long alienated baby, as if she had just awaked 
 from the sleep of an hour. She gave Hugh a pleasant smile 
 as he bent over her, and asked him for the object for whi 
 she sought ; and he — unwittingly and with much agitation 
 told her where the child was, and how long and for wha 
 
 325 
 
The bay path. 
 
 326 
 
 it had been away from her. The facts were too much for 
 her weak brain, and, under their pressure, she relapsed again 
 into an insane mood, in which her child divided her wan- 
 dering and wayward fancies with her mother’s eyes, and in 
 which, in some way, the two became united by a thousand 
 conflicting or harmonious associations. 
 
 Hardly a minute passed that did not hear her calling for 
 her child ; and, as darkness closed down upon her memory, 
 and the path between it and Goody Tomson’s cabin was 
 blotted out, the child was elevated by her imagination to 
 direct companionship with the beautiful eyes from which 
 had descended upon her the only calm and comfort she had 
 enjoyed during her long illness. Then came between her 
 eyes and the double vision the old tormenting shapes with 
 which her long struggle had been held, and her efforts to 
 reach her baby and reclaim it to her arms became so pitiful, 
 that Hugh could only look upon her and weep. 
 
 At last, he sent for Mary Holyoke, and asked for her ad- 
 vice in regard to restoring her child to her. The pleadings 
 of the poor insane mother touched Mary Holyoke’s heart 
 at once, and she begged Hugh to go to Goody Tomson, 
 and bid her bring the child. The kind-hearted nurse was 
 soon on the way, in obedience to the summons, and Hugh 
 walked back in her company, with a vague hope in his breast 
 that the child would carry to its stricken mother a soothing 
 if not a healing power. As the pair softly entered the cabin, 
 they found Mary Holyoke sitting at the side of the poor 
 patient, who, as if conscious of the presence of her old friend 
 and mistress, had fallen into a quiet sleep. The child, too, 
 was sleeping in its nurse’s arms, and both the women — 
 mothers as they were — by an impulse that sprang in each 
 alike from simple nature, moved to lay the little one by its 
 mother’s side. The clothes were softly turned down, and the 
 baby’s head — once more at its home — pressed its mother’s 
 arms ; and the little one smiled with a sweetness that thrilled 
 the trembling Hugh to the very depths of his heart, as it com- 
 posed itself, from a momentary disturbance, to a sounder 
 sleep. 
 
 It was a moment of profound excitement. The cabin was 
 as still as if there were not a breathing inhabitant within it, 
 and every waking eye was upon the sleeping mother and 
 child. Half an hour — an hour — passed thus, when Mary, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 327 
 
 who had enjoyed the best sleep that had visited her for 
 several days, opened her eyes, and again called for her 
 child. 
 
 “ Hush ! ” said Mary Holyoke, softly, “ the baby is sleep- 
 ing on your arm. Do not wake it ! ” 
 
 The mother turned her large eyes, full of wonder and 
 strange curiosity, upon the child, and, without speaking a 
 word, gazed at it until the big tears brimmed her eyes, and 
 ran down upon her pillow, drop by drop as if an accumulated 
 flood had found vent, and were pouring forth its waters, alike 
 unbidden and uncontrollable. Then she carefully put her 
 face down to the little head that lay pillowed upon her arm, 
 and pressed her lips upon it with a gentle power, and, from 
 the recesses of her ardent nature,/ poured out upon it, in a 
 fervent and silent effluence, the first healthy outgoings of a 
 mother’s love. The room was silent still, save as Hugh 
 gave expression to his feelings in occasional sobs. Goody 
 Tomson had, as noiselessly as possible, gone out of the 
 cabin, and seating herself upon a rough bench at the door, 
 given herself up to a hearty fit of crying. 
 
 The sleep of the unconscious cause of all this emotion 
 began gradually to release its bands, and the child opened 
 its eyes for the first time upon its mother’s face. It looked 
 but a moment, when its face became suffused with fright, 
 and, closing its eyes again, it burst into a fit of crying as 
 vigorous as it was pitiful. 
 
 Mary Holyoke watched with intense interest the effect of 
 this development upon the mother, and was pained to wit- 
 ness a strange wild change coming upon her countenance, 
 and breaking in a more powerful expression from her eye. 
 The mother looked at her weeping child for a minute, then 
 pushed it from her violently, and exclaimed, “ That is not 
 my child — take it away ; and don’t let Goody Tomson bring 
 any more of her brats here to cheat me with ! ” 
 
 “ My dear ! ” said Mary Holyoke, “ this is your own sweet 
 child. It has grown so much that you do not know it.” 
 
 The only reply made to this address was a stare of mingled 
 incredulity and resentment, from which the poor patient’s 
 benefactress shrank with a sigh of distress. Goody Tom- 
 son no sooner saw her little protege pushed rudely aside 
 than she seized the treasure, and, hugging it to her bosom, 
 retired to a distant part of the room, whither its mother’s 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 328 
 
 eyes followed her with an expression of mingled intelligence 
 and fatuity that crushed the newly springing hopes in Hugh’s 
 bosom, and showed how thoroughly her mind had been com- 
 mitted to its shadowy keepers. 
 
 Goody Tomson was soon joined by Mary Holyoke and 
 Hugh, and a consultation was held in regard to the proper 
 course of procedure. Mary Holyoke could not give up the 
 idea that, in some way, the presence of the child would do 
 the mother good ; how, it did not appear, but so it seemed 
 to her. The nurse was not so sure, from the fact that her 
 sympathies attached rather to the child than the mother. 
 Hugh was willing to do what the others thought for the best, 
 and, as they could not agree, it was finally decided that 
 Goody Tomson should return to her cabin with the child, 
 and, if Mary should again call for it, in such a manner as 
 in any way to show that she wished to see it — the little 
 one she had disowned- — it should be sent for. 
 
 As the nurse wrapped her little charge in a blanket, to 
 guard it from the chill of the evening which was approach- 
 ing, and undertook to pass out of the door, she was arrested 
 by Mary with the words, “ Where are you going with that 
 child ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Home/’ replied the nurse. 
 
 “ I thought Mistress Holyoke said it was my child,” said 
 the mother. 
 
 “ But you said it wasn’t, ” replied Goody Tomson, very 
 bluntly. 
 
 " “ I don’t know,” responded Mary, while a shadow of 
 doubt passed over her face, “ but she never told me a lie 
 before. Bring the baby here again.” 
 
 The babe, at Mary Holyoke’s request, was brought back, 
 and exhibited to the mother, who made no effort to take it 
 in her arms, and was content to look at it in the nurse’s 
 possession. 
 
 “ Don’t let her take it away ! ” exclaimed the mother to 
 Mary Holyoke, with a beseeching expression that seemed 
 the very opposite of that which she had previously exhib- 
 ited. 
 
 “ She shall not go 1 ” replied the lady, with an affectionate 
 and decided impulse. 
 
 It was then arranged that Mary Holyoke should return 
 home, and send word to Goody Tomson’s cabin — still in the 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 3^9 
 
 keeping of Peter Trimble — that that young man would be 
 obliged for the night to dispense with the presence of the 
 mistress of the house, and discharge the duties of a nurse 
 as well as protector to her little family of children. After 
 giving Hugh and the nurse some general directions touch- 
 ing the management of affairs, Mary Holyoke bent her 
 steps homeward to attend to the duties of her own house- 
 hold. 
 
 After her departure, the patient lay in deep silence, as if 
 absorbed in thought, and Hugh and the nurse kept at a 
 distance, hoping that she might fall asleep. But not a mo- 
 tion was made that she did not see. The babe which the 
 nurse had succeeded in keeping unusually quiet during her 
 presence in the house, occasionally nestled uneasily in her 
 arms, and gave utterance to a low cry ; and at such times 
 the mother raised herself upon her elbows in the bed, and 
 gazed upon it with a painful intensity. 
 
 At last, Hugh brought to Mary her supper, but not a 
 mouthful passed her lips. She shook her head at every 
 offer of food, and kept her eyes fastened upon her child as 
 the nurse fed it at her own breast, or walked across the cabin 
 with it closely folded in her arms, or hummed a drowsy tune 
 in its ears, or whispered to it in sweet and soothing words. 
 
 Hugh and the nurse ate their supper in silence, and soon 
 afterwards the baby fell asleep. As the two were sitting at 
 a small fire that had been kindled upon the hearth, alter- 
 nately looking at the flickering flame and the patient at the 
 opposite side of the room, the wind began to moan dismally, 
 and the rain to patter upon the cabin roof, while, at brief 
 intervals, a drop fell intact through the short chimney, and 
 died with an angry pang upon the coals, as if it had been 
 stung. Then the rising wind wailed more and more dread- 
 fully among the trees, and roared in and around the chim- 
 ney— sometimes sweeping the gradually increasing rain 
 against the window panes, persistently and with spasmodic 
 reinforcements of power, and then retiring, and roaring 
 away among the woods ; sometimes pouncing upon the cabin 
 like an army of shadowy beasts, shaking the door as if human 
 hands had hold of it, rattling the window, tossing the rain 
 down the chimney in showers, scrambling over the loose 
 sticks upon the wood pile, and, at last, tired and baffled, 
 scampering off over the leaves to make way for its sue- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 330 
 
 cessors ; sometimes making a feint, and, wheeling around 
 the corner, spending its strength at an unexpected point — 
 at last falling lifeless in a lull through which the rain came 
 down steadily, as if it had been waiting the result of the 
 wind’s maneuvers. In a brief hour, a still, somber day had 
 descended into a wet, wild night. 
 
 Hugh sat for a while and listened to the dreary music of 
 the storm, and then barred his door, and made fast the win- 
 dows, so that they should not rattle, and stuffed old garments 
 under the door to keep out the driving rain, and set a pail to 
 catch the water that began to fall, drop by drop, from a leak 
 in the roof. After these preparations for a stormy night had 
 been made, he resumed his seat at the fire, and, oppressed 
 with weariness and long watching, began to doze. ' 
 
 The dropping into the pail quickened its measured fall, 
 until each drop struck the surface with a metallic, musical 
 clink, that might, in that weird and dreary room, have been 
 mistaken for an elfin bell, calling the sprites of the woods to 
 a revel upon the midnight hearth. 
 
 Hugh opened and closed his eyes wearily, and the nurse 
 nodded over the baby in her low chair ; but upon the bed, 
 which, in their weariness and drowsiness, they had momen- 
 tarily forgotten, lay a brain teeming with fancies born equally 
 of the storm without and the storm within. 
 
 As the watchers became still, Mary waited for a noisy blast 
 of the storm, and then raised herself upon her elbows in the 
 bed, and sought for a glimpse of the child. Then, in another 
 blast, she settled upon the bed again. This movement was 
 several times repeated. At last, she subsided into silence. 
 
 The blast rose and fell upon her ears, the rain poured 
 ceaselessly upon the roof, and the water drops clinked faster 
 and faster in the pail, as if the fairy bell had been changed 
 to a set of silver chimes, sendingforth their liquid music from 
 towers that swayed with the sound. The flickering fire, the 
 roaring wind, the sweeping rain, the lively chimes, the strange 
 child, and the twilight of the room, formed a combination of 
 circumstances and influences which harmonized marvelously 
 with her mood of mind, and filled her with a strange, delicious 
 joy, that she had not experienced for many months. She 
 seemed to breathe the native atmosphere of delirium, and to 
 find her mind, for the first time since her sickness, adapted 
 to, and in accordance with the circumstances that formed 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 331 
 
 the externals of her life. In this mood, she turned her gaze 
 upwards, and never had such a sweet vision of her mother’s 
 eyes smiled upon her. No cloud obstructed, no shape inter- 
 vened. Calm and sweet — full of love and tender sadness — 
 those orbs which had watched over her infancy, which had 
 beamed in upon the darkness and sorrows of her childhood’s 
 dreams — those eyes met hers, and, beneath them, as if folded 
 to a shadowy bosom, was her baby — her baby — a little cherub, 
 wrapped in rosy sleep. 
 
 As she gazed and gazed again, and drank in the beauty 
 and the blessedness of this dear vision, the wind seemed to 
 lull in the forest around, and the clinking water changed to 
 a low, sweet measure, like bells heard in the desert, or the 
 dreamy tinkle of flocks grazing on the sunny slopes of sum- 
 mer hills. 
 
 As she lay thus in beatific possession, through what 
 seemed to her almost an age of bliss, the wind began to rise 
 again, and, roaring in the chimney, driving the rjpin upon 
 the roof and walls of the cabin, and screaming among the 
 forest branches, brought clouds before her mental sight, and 
 shut out the vision that had so long held her in sweet en- 
 thralment. The first and only shape that interposed was 
 that of the strange child. She changed the position of 
 her head, but the stranger came between. She tried to 
 sweep it away with her hand, but she could not reach it. 
 Then, slowly raising herself upon her elbows again, she 
 looked at the nurse, still nodding over her little charge in 
 the corner, and, settling back to her place, she very softly 
 pronounced Hugh’s name. 
 
 Hugh, long accustomed to watching and sleeping lightly, 
 w T as at her bedside in an instant. 
 
 “Tell Goody Tomspn,” said Mary, in a low, composed 
 voice, “ to lay the child on my bed, over upon the other 
 side, and to lie down herself upon the bunk, and get some 
 rest.” 
 
 “ Do you think you had better have the child on your 
 bed?” inquired Hugh, doubtingly, and with an effort in 
 the faint light to get the expression of her eye. 
 
 “ Why — isn’t it my child ? ” said Mary 
 
 “ Oh ! certainly it is, Mary,” replied Hugh, with all the 
 tenderness and persuasiveness he could throw into his voice ; 
 “ certainly it is, Mary — it is your child and mine.” 
 
 1873P 
 
332 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “Well- — can’t I have my own child?” inquired Mary. 
 
 There was something in the tone of her voice — something 
 in her manner — that filled him with misgivings and fears, 
 but he could not tell what it was ; so he went to Goody 
 Tomson and knelt down by her side, and whispered in her 
 ear the substance of Mary’s wishes and directions. 
 
 As he knelt there, the rain came down freshly upon the 
 roof, and the clinking drops struck the pail with a rapid and 
 irregular fall — a wild and hurried tone — as if the bells of a 
 city were ringing the alarm of a pressing danger. They al- 
 most spoke — and bounded up from the surface upon which 
 they fell, and broke into strange articulations, and sharply 
 modulated shouts and cries that had their echoes. No ear 
 heard or noticed them but Mary’s. To her, they spoke a 
 plain language ; and she wondered that Hugh and Goody 
 Tomson did not hear it; and, as they whispered together — 
 cautiously, so that they might not waken the babe — she 
 watched them closely, to see whether they had not taken 
 the alarm. 
 
 Goody Thomson, oppressed with sleep and not doubting 
 that Hugh would look well after the child, seemed glad to 
 accede to Mary’s wishes ; and, taking the little one to the 
 bed, gently released it from her own arms, and deposited 
 it upon a pillow on the side opposite to its mother. The 
 sleepy nurse did not see the glaring eyes that scanned 
 her every movement, and Hugh was engaged in watching the 
 child which, though his own, he had hitherto hardly known. 
 
 When the child was covered, the pair went on tiptoe back 
 to the hearth, and Hugh, pointing to the bunk at the side of 
 the room, sent the nurse to her rest. Then, adding two or 
 three sticks to the fire, he stretched himself in his chair to 
 sleep. Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when both Hugh 
 and the nurse were soundly snoring. But the storm still 
 continued without, roaring and sweeping around the cabin, 
 and masking if not entirely drowning the minor sounds within. 
 
 Within a few minutes, the cabin had grown solemn to its 
 only wakeful tenant. The roof had swollen with rain until 
 the leak was so small that the drops came in at long and 
 measured intervals upon a body of water whose iricreased 
 depth gave forth a sad, strange resonance, like the tolling of 
 a lonely bell. 
 
 Mary lay in deathlike stillness listening to the knell, and 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 333 
 
 revolving in her confused mind a purpose which had crept 
 into it and fastened itself there. Once more she looked 
 upwards — long, patiently, and earnestly — but she could see 
 nothing but the strange child. Then, slowly, she turned 
 her head upon the pillow, until her eyes were glued to the 
 little sleeper. She watched the babe for a few minutes — 
 all the time keeping distinctly in her sharpened apprehen- 
 sions the rhythmic respirations of its nurse and father, and 
 alive to every movement they might make — and then, as a 
 serpent creeps toward the victim it has charmed, she passed 
 her emaciated hand towards the child. 
 
 With the first movement, the wind seemed to die away, 
 and the rain to withhold its fall upon the roof. She paused, 
 and the drops fell into the pail still more slowly, and with 
 a sadder intonation, as if they were grief-burdened, or 
 growing faint with despair. Between each drop, inch after 
 inch, the white hand slid along the sheet, coming nearer 
 and still nearer the unconscious babe, whose nurse seemed 
 to snore more loudly as the danger to her charge increased. 
 At length its little hand was reached, and Mary accidentally 
 touched it. It was soft and warm, and irritated by the 
 slight disturbance, the child raised it and slowly dropped 
 it upon that of its mother. In the utter tension of her sen- 
 sibilities, she could feel the pulsations of its heart at the 
 very tips of its fingers, and there was something so delicate 
 and sweet in its touch, something so unconscious and inno- 
 cent in its sleep, that she paused for another look in its 
 face. She could not be mistaken. It was the same face — 
 the same child — that had come between her and her own 
 child — it was the little impostor. 
 
 The wind came up again with a wail from the woods — 
 and her brain caught the impulse and the influence. Again 
 her hand was in motion, and onward it moved, inch by inch, 
 towards the babe’s head — the slowly dropping water mean- 
 while uttering low, tearful pleading notes of deprecation. 
 
 Again she paused, looked towards the distant sleepers, 
 then towards the pail, and half rose with a sudden impulse 
 to move it from its place, that so its admonitions might be 
 silenced. Her cautiousness checked her in the act, and 
 again she turned to the child. 
 
 At this moment, her eye was burning with excitement, 
 but her hand and arm were as steady as if the nerves that 
 
334 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 strung them were of iron. Slowly that hand passed over 
 the little sleeper’s throat, and there, as still and rigid as the 
 hand of death, it paused. The conscious palm, with the 
 strained tendons underneath the bloodless skin, felt the 
 warmth of the little chin and neck and breast, like a palpa- 
 ble emanation or atmosphere, as it hung above them at 
 scarcely a hair’s escape from contact ; but still it paused. 
 Then, from the far northeast, Mary heard a blast stirring 
 among the trees. On it came, roaring and wailing and 
 screaming through the night, until it reached the cabin, 
 where, bellowing in the chimney and sweeping over the 
 roof, it drowned all other noise without and within. 
 
 At the height of the confusion, that pale hand, with the 
 grip of a vice, was fastened upon the little sleeper’s throat. 
 Not a breath did it draw — not an utterance did it make 
 — afterwards. Its hands instinctively tugged at Mary’s 
 wrist, in the vain effort to tear it away, and its chest heaved 
 in quick throes, and its legs were drawn up in struggling 
 convulsions. These grew fainter and fainter until the 
 victim’s eyes — strained wildly open slowly deadened into 
 a senseless glaze, and its soft, sweet face became turgid 
 and purple. At last, all was still — the babe was stone dead. 
 The wind died away, and the last brand had ceased to 
 crackle in the fireplace, and the clinking drops had for- 
 gotten to ring their changes in the water pail. The silence 
 grew awful, for death, violence, madness, and sleep were 
 gathered in one room. 
 
 The murderess clung to the little neck that had grown 
 long and lank within her grasp, until she began to feel the 
 chill that was creeping into her victim’s frame, and then she 
 slowly and cautiously withdrew her hand and covered the 
 body as the nurse had left it covered. In an instant a wild 
 thrill of exultation passed through her brain — a strange, 
 mad joy — whose manifestation in some manner she had no 
 power to repress, and she shivered the silence with a laugh 
 so loud, and meaningless, and long continued, that it seemed 
 to the suddenly awakened sleepers more like the laugh of 
 a demon than of a human being. Hugh leaped to the bed- 
 side, and found her sitting up at the end of the bed, madly 
 laughing still. He no sooner appeared than Mary pointed 
 to the dead child, and went into renewed convulsions of 
 her terrible merriment. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 “ O Mary ! O God ! Oh ! what shall I do ! what shall I 
 do ! ” exclaimed Hugh, bursting into a wild cry of anguish, 
 as he dimly saw the child, and placed his hurried and 
 trembling hand upon its cold little face. 
 
 At this time the drowsy nurse stumbled blindly towards 
 the bed, wondering what had occurred, and more than half 
 forgetful that she was not in her own cabin. She put her 
 hand upon the child, dropped to her knees to look at it in 
 the dull twilight of the room, felt its neck, and then looked 
 at the mother, whose laughter had been arrested by Hugh’s 
 exclamations of terror and distress. The terrible fact stole 
 into her apprehension by degrees, and sinking upon the 
 floor, the simple and devoted creature clung to Hugh’s 
 knees, and gave utterance to such exclamations of distress 
 as burst naturally from her heart — bemoaning the hour and 
 day she ever brought the little innocent back, and insisting 
 that God would never forgive her, and that she could never 
 forgive herself for the act. She might have known a crazy 
 mother would kill the child, she said. 
 
 Hugh disengaged himself from her, and passing around 
 the bed to Mary, put his arm around her, and looking in 
 her wild eyes a moment, hid his face upon her wasted 
 bosom, and crying convulsively said, “ Oh, Mary, Mary, 
 Mary, Mary ! you don’t know what you’ve done ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, I do, too ; I’ve killed that woman’s ugly brat, and 
 if she don’t leave the cabin and stop troubling you and me 
 in this way, I’ll kill her.” 
 
 “ Why, Mary! it was not her child — it was yours ! Oh, 
 dear ! what will become of us now ! ” and Hugh — poor, worn, 
 weary, and despairing fellow — cried as if his heart were 
 wholly broken. 
 
 Goody Tomson was not long in making her determina- 
 tion. Throwing her shawl over her head, as the most ex- 
 peditious way of covering herself, she unbarred the door, 
 and, before Hugh became conscious of what she was doing, 
 was on her way to give the alarm — her own heart so full of 
 alarm that she flew rather than ran along the muddy path. 
 The storm lay spent upon the ground, the old moon with 
 inverted horn hung over the woods, the wolf’s long howl 
 from the eastern hill came drearily down into the valley, 
 as the woman ran screaming “ Murder ! murder ! from 
 house to. house. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 336 
 
 Not until she had run nearly the length of the village 
 could she be stopped, so as to direct the steps of the at- 
 tendance she sought. As soon as the first fact of the case 
 was learned, nearly all the men of the settlement, who had 
 risen and hastily dressed themselves, were on their way to 
 Hugh’s cabin. Few of them could disguise their fears, as 
 they turned out upon this errand. The old stories that 
 clung around Mary all recurred, and, aside from them, the 
 first murder in the settlement was something well calculated 
 to shock and sicken. 
 
 While Hugh was engaged in the endeavor to restore com- 
 posure and some degree of rational consciousness to his 
 wife, he heard the tramp of approaching feet, and the con- 
 fusion of excited voices. On they came, along the road ; 
 they entered the yard, threw open the door of the cabin, 
 and, in a few minutes, the room was crowded. All were 
 there — friends and foes. Conspicuously among the figures 
 moving around the room was that of the minister, who, in- 
 stead of endeavoring to quell the excitement, was engaged 
 with the constable in opening drawers, prying into nooks 
 and crannies, lifting loose planks upon the floor, and making 
 inquiries of this one and that, in a low voice, and acting in 
 a manner that showed that he regarded the murder as the 
 key to his own deliverance. Heaven, in his belief, had de- 
 scended in judgment, and Satan had completed the ruin of 
 his deluded devotee. 
 
 During all the first of the disturbance, Mary sat still upon 
 the bed, leaning upon Hugh’s shoulder, and looking wildly 
 around upon the excited assemblage which soon filled the 
 room to suffocation. 
 
 Peering through the doorway into the morning twilight, 
 she could see others coming in the distance — men, women, 
 and children — some running at the top of their speed, some 
 walking, some shouting, some pointing towards the cabin, 
 and all pressing forward with a fearful earnestness towards 
 her. 
 
 Then rude men gathered round her, and asked her harsh 
 questions, and told her that she would be hung ; while 
 half-dressed women, with their hair upon their shoulders, 
 came rushing excitedly in, and, pressing to the bedside, 
 burst into wild lamentations over the little body which, in 
 life, they had accused of looking like a cat ; or gave vent 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 jj>7 
 
 to their excitement in upbraidings of the poor mother. 
 What was passing in her shattered spirit, what meaning 
 she attached to the confusion around her, what forebodings 
 darkled through her mental gloom, what fancies she built 
 up from the new materials around her — the pale faces, the 
 straggling hair, the confused voices, the gaze of menace, 
 curiosity, and fear, the fierce reproaches — cannot be pic- 
 tured, but, in her fright — in her trouble — there was one 
 face which she sought, and which was long in coming. 
 
 At last, by the operation of the powerful influences around 
 her, the cloud of her delirium was borne slowly away from 
 her spirit — or repelled, perhaps, by her spirit, under the 
 action of the new and terrible stimulus — and consciousness 
 swept over her with a shudder as cold as that of death. 
 The longed-for face appeared at length, and the poor in- 
 fanticide burst with an appealing cry of distress from the 
 arms of her husband, and hid her face upon Mary Hol- 
 yoke’s bosom, who, too weak with excitement to stand, fell 
 back into a chair, and received her old ward upon her 
 knees. 
 
 Mr. Holyoke, touched by this scene, ordered the room to 
 be cleared, and the door to be shut. Goody Tomson had 
 returned, and was weeping over her cold little nursling, and 
 Mr. Moxon, Deacon Chapin, the constable, and two or three 
 of the principal women of the place remained, while the 
 others gathered into knots outside, or took their way 
 silently and solemnly homewards. Then Hugh and Goody 
 Tomson — in tears and terror — told the story faithfully and 
 truly — Hugh simply insisting on Mary’s insanity, and Mary 
 hearing every word, as the awful fact grew slowly into her 
 convictions. 
 
 Then the minister and the other men present drew them- 
 selves apart, and soon became excited, so that none of their 
 conversation escaped the ears of the others. “ I tell you,” 
 said Mr. Moxon, “ the day of retribution has come. The 
 tormentor of my children has been pointed out to you and 
 to \ne, by this shocking and most unnatural murder. The 
 witchcraft is the primary crime, it is the crime which pro- 
 cured this crime, and she should be arrested for witchcraft 
 as well as murder.” 
 
 “ I do not see very well how her arrest for murder can 
 be hindered, in the state of feeling which exists here now, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 338 
 
 in the absence of the magistrate/' said Mr. Holyoke, “but 
 I do object to loading her down with the odium of witch- 
 craft when she is brought before her judges for the only 
 crime she has been guilty of.” 
 
 tc How do you know it is the only crime she has been 
 guilty of?” inquired the minister, sharply. 
 
 “ By the same means by which I know you to be a mono- 
 maniac,” replied Mr. Holyoke firmly, “ and, in this matter, 
 1 beg you will not be so unreasonable as to provoke me to 
 give your insanity less consideration than I do hers.” 
 
 The minister's mind rebounded from this rock into the 
 region of doubt and uncertainty again, and he fell to his 
 usual resort of walking to and fro across the cabin. At 
 length, he withdrew a package from his pocket, and, call- 
 ing Deacon Chapin's attention to it, opened it in Mr. Hol- 
 yoke's presence, and asked the former if he had ever seen 
 anything like its contents before. 
 
 The Deacon reluctantly replied that he had, and then 
 Mr. Holyoke took from it a piece of birch bark, with a 
 sentence written upon it, in the handwriting of that so 
 rudely withdrawn from Mr. Moxon's study window, on an oc- 
 casion well remembered by Deacon Chapin and the reader. 
 
 “ I knew,” pursued Mr. Moxon, eyeing Mr. Holyoke 
 closely, as he perused the manuscript, “ that if ever I could 
 have an opportunity, I could find in this house evidence 
 that Mary Parsons has had dealings with the Evil One ; 
 and if Deacon Chapin will tell what he has seen, he will 
 identify that, and all the manuscripts I have in my hand, as 
 the product of Satan, or his emissary. But perhaps ” (added 
 the minister in a tone of irony) Deacon Chapin is a mono- 
 maniac.” 
 
 “ This is too solemn a place for jesting,” said Mr. Holyoke, 
 bitterly, “ but if the devil writes as bad a hand as this, and 
 can afford no better paper, he is too ignorant and too poor 
 to do much damage among people possessing common sense, 
 and decent stationery.” 
 
 Saying this, he was about to turn away, when Deacon 
 Chapin interposed, and said that he considered it no more 
 than proper, as he had been alluded to, to say that while he 
 had seen some things connected with a similar manuscript 
 which were wholly unaccountable, and while, at that time, 
 he had supposed it in sorue manner connected with witch- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 339 
 
 craft, he had been inclined to reconsider his conclusion. 
 So far as Mary Parsons was concerned, he saw no way to 
 get along with her but to send her to the Bay, if she could 
 be carried there. It was a sad case — a terrible judgment. 
 
 Holyoke listened impatiently, as the minister and the 
 deacon approached the bed. u There,” said he, as he laid 
 his hand upon the cold forehead of the dead child, and 
 turned to his two companions, u there is another victim of 
 law without justice. Its mother’s insanity dates from her 
 trial for slander, and the full measure of horrible evils, of 
 which this is but one, has been, and is to be, turned out by 
 such clumsy machinery as men make when they take the 
 work out of the hands of Christianity, and endeavor to reg- 
 ulate altogether minor and subordinate social evils.” 
 
 Mr. Moxon was too blind to see the full force of this 
 cutting and unanswerable rebuke, but Deacon Chapin saw 
 it, and felt it, and never forgot it. 
 
 During this brief side scene, Mary Holyoke and Hugh 
 and his poor wife were weeping together, in one touching 
 group. The infanticide had rarely seemed more natural and 
 rational than at that moment, and new strength had taken 
 possession of her. She sat up in her chair, and, as her old 
 mistress, kindly and with many tears, and with such words 
 of comfort and counsel as she could command, told her of 
 her probable fate — of the trial which awaited her, and its 
 uncertain issue — the old, strong spirit swelled within her, 
 and, grappling, as it were, with her destiny, she exclaimed, 
 rising firmly to her feet, “ Let them kill me ! I am ready ! 
 It will be no comfort to me to live, and I am nothing but a 
 curse to the only man I love on earth ! ” 
 
 Hugh begged her not to talk so, but she told him to be 
 silent, and, turning to the constable, asked him when he 
 would be ready to start, stating that she should never be as 
 well prepared as during that very hour. 
 
 Why pause to tell of the events that quickly followed, like 
 shadows passing the vision in a dream ; — of the hurried in- 
 quest, the burial, the throngs of curious eyes that peered 
 into and around the cabin during the day, the hasty prepar- 
 ations for the journey, the farewells, the prayers, the final 
 departure, the winding of the cavalcade up the hill along the 
 Bay Path — the saddest and yet the most excited cavalcade 
 
 that had ever trodden it. 
 
 22 
 
340 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 It was a terrible journey for an invalid like Mary to un- 
 dertake. She was seated upon a horse, behind her husband, 
 and supported herself by leaning upon and clasping him. 
 As she turned to take a farewell view of the valley and 
 village, she knew that she should never see them again, 
 and only hoped that she should die before she reached the 
 Bay. 
 
 The party was -made up of the constable, Mr. Moxon, Mr. 
 Holyoke, three or four other men who adopted the occasion 
 and company for errands of their own, and Goody Tomson, 
 who, with Hugh, were the important witnesses. Mr. Moxon 
 went down determined to have her tried for witchcraft, but, 
 in Holyoke’s company, preserved silence in regard to his 
 designs. The party were more than a week upon the way. 
 The prisoner grew weaker from day to day. Several times 
 she fainted upon her horse, and once fell to the ground, 
 dragging Hugh with her. At last, more dead than alive, 
 she arrived at Boston, and was taken directly to the lodg- 
 ings of the magistrate. 
 
 The distress into which the case threw him may well be 
 imagined. His first thought related to the sentence which 
 he had administered to her, in which had originated her 
 sickness and her sin. He never had thought of its first effect 
 without a pang, he had never heard of her sickness without 
 sad regrets, and the last blow stunned him. It was this 
 event which burst in upon his own personal trials, which 
 thrilled with horror the General Court, and spread a sudden 
 excitement throughout the Bay Settlements. It was this 
 event which afterwards gave a new coloring to his own case, 
 and helped to involve him in his deepest humiliation. The 
 grand crisis in his affairs had arrived. 
 
 King George’s Mace and Great Seal* 
 
New London, Conn., in Old Colony Times. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 HE trial of a witch 
 and a murderess was 
 an event well calcu- 
 lated to excite the 
 General Court and 
 the people of the Bay settle- 
 ments ; and not a few of the 
 more superstitious freely ex- 
 pressed their convictions that 
 both the witchcraft and the 
 murder w^ere consequences 
 of Mr. Pynchon’s defection, 
 either as a direct, legitimate 
 Chair and Desk of Gov. Winslow. result, or a special judgment 
 
 from Heaven. In this manner, 
 the cases of the venerable heretic and witch-murderess 
 became associated in the public mind ; and, as no man, pos- 
 sessing common human susceptibilities, can live by the side 
 of a great superstition without coming more or less into its 
 shadow, so Mr. Pynchon became touched with the prevalent 
 sentiment, and was unable entirely to separate himself from 
 the responsibility of events with which he had no direct 
 connection. 
 
 Mary Parsons was taken to the jail, for safe keeping and 
 for rest. She was so feeble as to be entirely unable to ap- 
 pear before the General Court, and plead to the charges 
 against her. During the days that intervened, Mr. Mox- 
 on had very little difficulty in so arranging matters as 
 to bring the trial for witchcraft into the order of prece- 
 
 341 
 
342 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 dence, and, before Mary was sufficiently removed from 
 death to be tried for her life, considerable impatience 
 began to be felt in various quarters for her appearance. 
 
 During this period, Hugh, though rarely allowed to see 
 his wife, was not without sympathetic companionship ; 
 for, upon the second day after his arrival at Boston, his 
 old, unknown, and still disguised benefactor, arrived, 
 severely worn by the journey, and giving evidence of 
 recent illness, which explained to Hugh a neglect which 
 he had noticed for several weeks previous to the mur- 
 der. 
 
 The old man was more thoroughly disguised than on the 
 occasion of his first visit and only interview with Hugh, and 
 passed for an Indian wherever he appeared. Matters had 
 
 arrived at such a con- 
 dition that he had no 
 hesitation in informing 
 Hugh of the nature of 
 his connection with 
 Mary, and the pair 
 became united by a 
 tender and touching 
 sympathy. I^ay after 
 day they lingered a- 
 round the door of the 
 jail, and, whenever 
 Hugh w'as admitted, 
 
 West Point in Old Colony Days (Ancient English the old man waited 
 
 without until he reap- 
 peared, and then listened, with painful interest, to the report 
 which he brought, and the messages she sent. 
 
 To Mary, the decay of vitality brought the full return 
 of reason. The terrible journey over which she had 
 passed, while it seemed to destroy the very foundations 
 of her physical strength, restored, through some mysterious 
 process of nature, the balance of her mind. The past 
 was with her in all its brightness and all its darkness. 
 The terrible present was something which she fully 
 realized. The future — dark, uncertain, and strewn thick 
 with dangers — lay before her. But the ties which bound 
 her to the world had nearly all been severed. There 
 was but one left, and that was her husband. Even this 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 343 
 
 was losing its power, under the conviction that she was 
 destroying his position and his happiness, and, perhaps, 
 dragging him into infamy. And when the possibilities of 
 the future impressed themselves upon her mind — when she 
 saw that she might, and very probably should, lose her 
 reason again, and perhaps be left to the performance of still 
 further deeds of violence, the prospect of death became 
 more and more tolerable, till it was entertained with pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 There was one thought which, more than all others, rec- 
 onciled her to the fate which seemed inevitable. She 
 believed that she had her husband’s confidence — that no 
 power could deprive her of it. She believed that, when she 
 
 ^Famous Colonial Landmarks : Smith’s House, at Haverstraw, where Arnold Plotted 
 Treason with Andre. 
 
 should die, he would mourn her sincerely — that he would 
 think of her tenderly, and cherish her memory, even should 
 it be trodden under feet by malice, prejudice and supersti- 
 tion. There were so many things with her that were worse 
 than death, and so little in her life that was desirable, that 
 the thought of dying sometimes filled her heart with an un- 
 utterable peace. 
 
 The time at last arrived for her to be brought forth. The 
 fact that she was to appear for trial had been noised abroad, 
 and a large crowd had collected about the jail, in order to 
 catch a glimpse of one who had been represented to be a 
 monster of sin. Hugh and his disguised companion were at 
 
344 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 the door, and, as she made her appearance, feebly walk- 
 ing between two officers, and saw the sea of upturned 
 and excited faces, and comprehended the fact that she 
 was the object of curiosity, her cheek, which was deadly 
 pale at first, grew bright as if it were burning, and her 
 dark eye flashed defiance. After the first glance, she 
 
 looked around as if to seek familiar faces, and, as she 
 met that of Hugh and his trembling companion, a sweet 
 smile overspread her face, and she bowed to them with a 
 cordiality and composure that, for the moment, won upon the 
 sympathies of the crowd, and betrayed it into a murmur of 
 admiration. 
 
 A preliminary examination under the forms of law peculiar 
 to the period, resulted in the finding of two indictments 
 against her — one for witchcraft and one for murder; and 
 when she was brought into the General Court and arraigned 
 on the first, she pleaded “ not guilty ” with a vehemence of 
 tone that startled the ears of all. 
 
 The tale of her trial for this offense would be a disgusting 
 record — weary to write, and sickening to read. Mr. Moxon 
 was the .principal witness, and as he brought forward his 
 flimsy and ridiculous testimony, and exhibited his bits of 
 epistolary birch bark, and laid out the whole ground of his 
 evidence, he saw for himself that the case was hopeless for 
 him, for he met on every hand only smiles of derision, or 
 blank stares of incredulity. The facts upon which he had 
 relied for proof, began, even in his own mind, to assume a 
 shadowy and unsatisfactory aspect, so that when he was 
 allowed to resume his seat, it was with a sensation of relief, 
 and a somewhat indistinctly formed conviction that he 
 had ruined his own reputation, and saved that of the 
 prisoner. 
 
 The trial occurred at a date more than forty years pre- 
 vious to the great delusion of New England on the subject 
 of witchcraft, and found the court sufficiently calm to be able 
 to judge between valid and worthless evidence, so that Mr. 
 Moxon’s impression in regard to the effect of his testimony 
 was almost literally correct. The other evidence offered 
 amounted to nothing against the prisoner, and she was 
 immediately acquitted. The fact seemed rather to detract 
 from than increase her strength, and she almost swooned 
 upon her seat, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 345 
 
 As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to stand, the 
 second indictment was read to her. This accused her of 
 murdering her child, and to this she as unhesitatingly 
 pleaded guilty as she had denied the charge in the first in- 
 dictment. Of the proceedings in this case, preliminary to 
 her sentence, there is neither record nor hint. It could not 
 be that one whose infirmities were so well known as those 
 of the prisoner, and one who had such friends near her as 
 Mr. Pynchon and Mr. Holyoke, as well as a townsman in 
 the General Court who was disposed to regard her chari- 
 tably, should have been left to the fate which naturally 
 hung upon her confession, and that no effort whatever was 
 .made to save her. The fact was doubtless proved, that 
 although she had had the reputation of being insane, she 
 had been to 
 all appearance 
 rational from 
 the hour of 
 the murder; or 
 from the time 
 when the people 
 crowded into 
 the cabin upon 
 Goody Tom- 
 son’s alarm. 
 
 Whatever the 
 efforts in her be- 
 half may have 
 been, or what- 
 ever aspect the 
 evidence may have assumed, she was condemned to death, 
 and received her sentence with entire calmness and forti- 
 tude. 
 
 The prisoner was carried from the court room in the arms 
 of the officers, being entirely unable to walk ; and the open 
 air failed to revive her when it was reached. A carriage 
 was called, and amid a throng of curious faces, and a tumult 
 of insulting cries, the poor convict was conveyed to her 
 prison to await the time of her execution.* 
 
 Colonial Landmarks : Washington’s Headquarters at Tappan. 
 
 * “ Mary Parsons of Springfield, having two bills of inditement framed 
 agaynst her, the one for havinge familyarity with the devill, as a witch, 
 
346 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 As Mary Parsons retired from the court, a large number 
 of spectators bore her company, and among them, Elizur 
 Holyoke, who was accompanied by the deputy from Spring- 
 field, his brother-in-law, Henry Smith. The cause of the 
 retirement of the two last soon became apparent, for silence 
 had no sooner been secured than it was announced that Mr. 
 Pynchon had made a retraction of his errors, in a formal 
 
 Where Major Andre was Captured near Tarrytown. 
 
 note in the hands of the clerk, and it was accordingly re- 
 ceived by the court, and read. The steps which led to this 
 recantation have been sufficiently apparent in the progress 
 of the narrative. An over sensitive conscientiousness, which, 
 
 to which she pleaded not guilty & not suffycyent euidence appearing to 
 proue the same, she was acquited of witchcraft. 
 
 “ The second inditement was for wilfully & most wickedly murder- 
 inge her owne child, to which she pleaded guilty, contest the fact, &, ac- 
 cordinge to her deserts, was condemned to dy. per Curiam.” 
 
 Colony Records , vol. Ill, page 229. 
 
347 
 
 TH F 
 
 BAY PATH. 
 
 when acted upon by popular denunciation, learned casuistry, 
 and a superstitious interpretation of providential occurrences, 
 had beclouded his reason and benumbed his will, was the 
 active agent in bringing him to an unwilling relinquishment 
 of opinions which he had formed in his strong and healthy 
 years.* 
 
 The effect of this retraction on the General Court was 
 just what it ought to have been under the circumstances. 
 They could not help but see that, insomuch as Mr. Pynchon 
 had been convinced of the errors of his book, he had been 
 convinced against his will, and in fact against his convic- 
 tions. Their action in the matter, while it greatly disap- 
 pointed and terribly mortified him, was exactly what was 
 necessary to restore him thoroughly to himself, and reinvest 
 him with the native dignity of his character. 
 
 As the retraction was read there were nods and winks 
 among the members, which meant much to Mr. Pynchon’s 
 disadvantage. He had humiliated himself, and the instant 
 effect of his action was to diminish a certain degree of re- 
 spect which the court had not ceased to entertain for him 
 since Mr. Holyoke’s manly defense of him at the previous 
 session. There seemed to arise in the minds of nearly all 
 the members a disposition to humiliate him still further. 
 As he had allowed himself to be cajoled and threatened and 
 argued into a virtual surrender of his position, they were 
 determined that the surrender should be complete and in 
 terms. So they voted that as through the blessing of God 
 
 * The halting, unwilling, unconvicted spirit in which this retraction 
 was conceived and written, is sufficiently apparent in the document it- 
 self, which is copied from page 229 of vol. iii. Colonial Records, where 
 it immediately follows the record of the case of Mary Parsons : 
 
 “ Accordinge to the Courts advise, I have conferred with the Reve- 
 rend Mr. Cotton, Mr. Norrice & Mr. Norton about some poynts of the 
 greatest consequence in my booke, & I hope I have so explayned my 
 meaning to them as to take off the worst construction ; & it hath pleased 
 God to let me see that I have not spoken in my booke so fully of the 
 price and merit of Christs suffrings as I should have done, for in my 
 booke I call them but trialls of his obedience/yet intendinge, thereby, to 
 amplyfy & exalt the mediatoriall obedyence of Christ, as the only meri- 
 torious price of mans redemption ; but now, at present, lam much in- 
 clined to thinke that his sufferinges were appoynted by God for a further 
 end, namely, as the due punishment of our sins by way of satisfaction 
 to divine justice for mans redemption. 
 
 “ Your humble servant in all dutyfull respects, 
 
 “William Pynchon.” 
 
THE BAY P/yrH. 
 
 348 
 
 
 on the efforts of the reverend elders, Mr. Pynchon appeared 
 to be “ in a hopeful way to give good satisfaction,” they 
 would give him, in accordance with a request which it ap- 
 pears he had made, leave to return home in the following 
 week, taking with him Mr. Norton’s reply to his book — in 
 order that at the next session of the court, to be held in the 
 following October, he might appear, having had full time 
 ^to consider the matter, and then “give all due satisfaction/’ 
 They considered that he had only half .accomplished the 
 
 work of recantation, and judged 
 that it would be comparatively 
 easy, and perfectly proper, for 
 him to complete the task. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon was not present 
 during this action, but when it 
 was conveyed to him by Henry 
 Smith, he was stung to the quick. 
 In an instant the whole secret 
 
 of the affair flashed upon 
 him, and, with one struggle 
 of will, he had cut 
 loose from crafty 
 advisers, zealous 
 counselors, private 
 misgivings, and the 
 whole train of 
 agents and influ- 
 ences that had en- 
 slaved him, and 
 was once more, 
 what he ever afterwards remained, a man. 
 
 The court was not unaware of the sympathy felt for Mr. 
 Pynchon at home, and, while doing what lay in its power to 
 humiliate him, felt it necessary to do something to conciliate 
 his friends in the distant settlement. As Henry Smith was 
 a son-in-law of Mr. Pynchon, arid had received the confi- 
 dence of the settlement in his election as deputy, he was 
 appointed in Mr. Pynchon’s place to be the magistrate of 
 Springfield. How much there may have been of political 
 craft in this appointment — how far it was intended to stop 
 the mouth of the deputy, and retain the good will of the 
 family, it may be hard to determine, 
 
 Famous Characters of Colonial Times : Major Andre, 
 British Officer. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 349 
 
 Without making any remarks, Mr. Smith rose in his place, 
 and, stating that it was very necessary for him to return 
 home, requested permission to do so. Permission of ab- 
 sence for the session was immediately granted, and when he 
 sought Mr. Pynchon, he announced to him, not only the action 
 of the court upon his case, but also his own appointment as 
 magistrate, and his intention to return home with his father- 
 in-law in the following week. He also asked for his advice 
 in regard to accepting the appointment which had been con- 
 ferred upon him. Mr. Pynchon adjured him by all means 
 to obtain his commission and retain it until it should seem 
 
 Hudson Cable. 
 
 best to relinquish it, that so the court should not appoint 
 some one in his place whose incompetency or unpopularity 
 would make the place unpleasant, and subject the family to 
 unnecessary mortifications. 
 
 Once more to the mind of the venerable controvertist, re- 
 turned the elasticity and confidence, the firm poise and free 
 action, which had been its experience when he boldly as- 
 serted himself among the magistrates. Men who met him 
 were surprised to find him in excellent spirits — almost care- 
 less of the opinions of those around him, unconcerned in 
 regard to his position in the colony, and hopeful and confi- 
 dent in regard to the future. He had at last and forever 
 
35o 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 learned that self-respect is a better possession than the good 
 opinion of others, that nothing is too costly and nothing too 
 precious to be sacrificed to perfect liberty of thought and ac- 
 tion, and that his declaration, made once before the magis- 
 trates, and half unmade by his confession, “ that truth does 
 not depend for its authenticity, vitality, and power on the 
 breath of the General Court of Massachusetts,” was one to be 
 maintained and acted upon in all his future dealings with 
 that body. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HE arrangements were all made, at 
 last, for the return of the Springfield 
 party, and, on the evening previous 
 to the day appointed for setting 
 forth, the majority of them were as- 
 sembled at Mr. Pynchon’s room, 
 when an officer from the jail arrived 
 with a message from Mary Parsons, 
 requesting the attendance of Mr. 
 Pynohon and Mr. Holyoke at her 
 bedside. Upon inquiry, the officer 
 stated that Mary was very low, and 
 would not probably survive the 
 night ; and her old friends lost no time in complying with 
 her request, and following him to her cell. They found 
 her lying upon a low cot, and very evidently breathing out 
 her last hour. She turned towards them her black and fear- 
 fully hollow eye, and a faint smile of recognition and grati- 
 tude illuminated her features, as she opened her hand to 
 Holyoke to receive his silent pressure. The two gentlemen 
 hardly noticed Hugh, as he sobbed at the opposite side of the 
 cot, and were entirely unmindful of the old Indian who sat 
 with compressed lips leaning against the wall of the cell. 
 
 Mary looked into Holyoke's eyes, and moved her lips, as 
 if she would speak to him. He put down his ear, and caught 
 in whispers, “Tell Mistress Holyoke that I thought of her 
 while I was dying, and hoped that she would never forget 
 
 35i 
 
352 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 me. Tell her to be a friend to poor Hugh, and to believe 
 that wilfully I never did anybody wrong; and oh! ask her 
 to thank God for me — for I am weak and troubled — that 
 He has taken me from the terrible death I was sentenced 
 to.” 
 
 Holyoke could not restrain his tears, and, as there was 
 something in her closing words, as well as in the occasion, 
 which very naturally suggested prayer, he asked her if she 
 would like to have Mr. Pynchon pray with her. She signi- 
 fied her assent, and the old man, forgetting custom, preju- 
 dices, and self, knelt down upon the cold stone, and taking the 
 dying woman’s hand in his own, gave utterance to a prayer 
 so tender, so fervent, so full of the genuine spirit of charity, 
 that, borne on the wings of its language, her own spirit went 
 calmly upwards in resignation, trust, and hope. He com- 
 mitted her soul to God. He prayed for her husband, and 
 then, as if he could forget nothing that might come into the 
 dying woman’s mind, he prayed that wherever in the broad 
 earth the feet of her father should wander, they might, at 
 last be found walking heavenward in the straight and narrow 
 path, and that both father and child might be re-united in a 
 land where sorrow and sighing should never come. 
 
 There was not a dry eye in the room, and when he con- 
 cluded, or, rather, while his closing words were sounding, 
 the old Indian left his seat, and falling upon his knees by 
 Mr. Pynchon’s side, buried his dusky face in the bed, and 
 gave himself up to most distressing groans. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon and Mr. Holyoke were both astonished, and 
 were still more surprised when the old man took the hand 
 which Mr. Pynchon had relinquished, and pressed it to his 
 lips and covered it with tears. Such emotion commanded 
 respect, and the two visitors stood back, and regarded with 
 deep feeling the afflicted group before them. Hugh was 
 receiving the last whispered words of tenderness from his 
 wife. She told him with her dying expirations how much 
 she loved him — how much more than everything else she 
 was leaving in the world, and how gladly, to save him from 
 sorrow and trouble, she should die. 
 
 The minutes passed away until an hour had expired, and 
 it became evident that her time, was short. Mr. Pynchon 
 and Mr. Holyoke pressed her hand, and bade her an affec- 
 tionate farewell. A long passage of laborious breathing 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 353 
 
 terminated all intelligible conversation with her, and her 
 thin, white hands became chill with the retiring tide of life ; 
 yet, while all were looking to see her breathe her last a 
 beautiful smile spread over her countenance, her eyes turned 
 upwards, and, raising both hands, she brought them together 
 and crossed them over her breast, at the same time uttering 
 the whispered exclamation, “ My mother and my child ! ” 
 There, above her, looking down through the prison roofs 
 and celled floors, smiled, at last, with an undimmed and un- 
 obstructed radiance, her mother’s heavenly eyes ; and folded 
 to the shadowy bosom beneath them, wrapped in ineffable 
 repose, lay her child. Death and the presence in which she 
 lay — all earthly loves and regrets — were forgotten in the 
 blissful vision, and her spirit left the body at last without 
 one struggle, as if it had been lifted out of its tenement by 
 the serene attraction to which she had surrendered her 
 being. 
 
 “She is gone,” said Mr. Pynchon, solemnly, as he ad- 
 vanced and tenderly closed her transparent eyelids. 
 
 Hugh abandoned himself to grief’s wildest convulsions, 
 but the old Indian rose calmly to his feet, and, turning to 
 Mr. Pynchon, said in a deep voice, “ Gone where ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot fell,” replied Mr. Pynchon, startled equally by 
 the question and the manner in which it was propounded. 
 “ I hope she has gone to heaven.” 
 
 “ Well, Square,” pursued the old man, “ here we be, and 
 the wheel has come round. There lies my gal, and I wouldn’t 
 wake her up if I could do it with a feather ; for I’ve been 
 thinkin’ on’t all over, and I’ve made up my mind that God 
 will deal square with her, and I’d rather have her in his 
 hands than anybody else’s. If I didn’t think the Lord would 
 see jest how she’s been abused and knocked round, and 
 would allow for the way she was brung up, and would strike 
 out all he’s got ag’in her exceptin’ that that didn’t come from 
 bein’ meddled with, and insulted, and plagued, I should want 
 to have her and me and everybody else I care anything about 
 blown into a thousand flinders, body and soul, and all the 
 pieces lost.” 
 
 “ Woodcock ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pynchon, as soon as he be- 
 came convinced of the identity of the speaker, and overcame 
 his astonishment so as to be able to speak. 
 
 “ Square Pynchon, God bless you ! ” exclaimed Wood- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 354 
 
 cock, and the two old friends grasped one another's hands 
 with a mutual cordiality that betrayed the honesty of their 
 long friendship. 
 
 “ Square,” resumed Woodcock, u when I heard that you 
 had sentenced my gal to be whipped — which was worse 
 than the whippin’ a great sight — for jest givin’ widow Marsh- 
 field as good as she sent, I felt wicked towards you, and I 
 never should ’a felt right ag’in if I hadn’t heard you prayin’ 
 w r ith her. I stood it as long as I could, but when you begun 
 to pray for me, that fetched me.” And the tears ran down 
 upon the old man’s painted face as freely as if he were but 
 a child. 
 
 “ I am glad,” said Mr. Pynchon, “ that you are able to 
 sustain your afflictions with calmness and resignation ; and 
 it seem^ to me that if your state of mind is based simply on 
 a belief in God’s justice, you might have positive joy in 
 thinking of and trusting in His mercy.” 
 
 “ I’ve been thinkin’ of these things pretty busy for a few - 
 years,” responded Woodcock, “ and I don’t look at ’em jest 
 as you do. I believe there's a God, and that he’s jest as 
 good as he can be. If he wasn’t, he’d be a devil. Now, if 
 God made us he knows all about us, and he knows how 
 hard it is for us to toe the mark, and how little we know, 
 and how one thing and another is always cuttin’ into us, and 
 how we get knocked round, and Fve no notion that he’s 
 goin’ to come down on all alike. Now, I don’t say that 
 Mary was very good, but I say she was pretty good consid- 
 erin’, and any sensible man would say so, and I b’lieve God 
 is a good deal more sensible than any of us.” 
 
 “He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are 
 dust,” half unconsciously repeated Holyoke, who was listen- 
 ing to the conversation. 
 
 “ That’s it exactly,” pursued Woodcock, “ but that’s noth- 
 in’, to do with mercy ! If I had a small boy, and should 
 tell him to make a first-rate ash hoe-handle out of a pine 
 stick, and to do it with his jack-knife, I should expect he’d 
 fall consid’able short of it any way, and not have very good 
 courage to do the best he could ; and it would only be doin’ 
 the fair thing by him to give him his board and clo’es, and 
 tell him he’d done pretty well considerin’. There wouldn’t 
 be any mercy in it. ” 
 
 “Comparisons of that character can very rarely be just,” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 355 
 
 said Mr. Pynchon, biting his lip to repress a smile. ‘‘The 
 relations between man and man are very different from 
 those existing between man and God. ” 
 
 “ Well, I can see that — that’s plain enough — but it always 
 seemed to me as if we was apt to set ourselves too high. 
 We ain’t anything but a lot of little fellers trottin’ round 
 among the bushes, and it’s sometimes mighty queer to me 
 that the Lord takes any notice on us at all. Any way, He 
 can’t think so much of us as we do of ourselves. It always 
 makes me laugh to hear a man tellin’ how the world was 
 made for us, and how the sun, moon, and stars was made 
 to give us light, and all creation was got up to our order, 
 jest as if we wan’t born ’fore we knew it, and didn’t die ’fore 
 we got ready. I’ve got a consait that the Lord made us 
 ’cause He wanted to, and He didn’t do it for the sake of 
 abusin’ on us, and givin’ on us trouble any mor’n you and I, 
 Square, would abuse anything we had got up, when it wan’t 
 strong enough to do us any damage.” 
 
 “There is a good deal of truth in your notions,” replied 
 Mr. Pynchon, “ but you have not got hold of the whole of 
 it. I know that we are too apt to feel that everything was 
 made for us, partly because we are proud, and partly because 
 we enter so harmoniously into the structure of a universe, 
 each part of which ministers to our wants, that it is a very 
 natural mistake to suppose that it was made only for that 
 ministry. Yet there is such a thing as thinking so meanly 
 of ourselves as to dishonor our Maker. Nothing is insigni- 
 ficant that God thought worthy to make and takes care to 
 preserve. If an insect is not to be despised, then surely 
 man is of importance, and if he is of sufficient importance 
 to receive the constant care and protection of God — to be 
 the subject of His kind and never failing providence — then 
 he is worthy, in some high sense, to be honored by himself, 
 and accountable in some high and positive respect for his 
 behavior.” 
 
 “ I presume you’re right, Square, p’raps I said more’n I 
 meant to. All I wanted to say was that I didn’t b’lieve that 
 the Lord would expect so much of us as if it was all a 
 straight road and no stumps.” 
 
 When Woodcock closed his characteristic explanation, a 
 sigh that was half a groan found impulsive utterance at his 
 lips. Returning suddenly from his momentary diversion, 
 23 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 356 
 
 he saw, lying cold and lifeless before him, the object of long 
 years of care and self-denial ; and, for the first time, the 
 question arose within him. “ What am I to live for now ? ” 
 He could not mourn for his daughter. He was glad that 
 she had escaped from a long and most unjust persecution. 
 He was glad that she had died acquitted of the crime of 
 witchcraft, of which she had long been suspected, and glad 
 that she had evaded the execution of an ignominious sen- 
 tence ; yet the thought that he had no one left to labor and 
 be anxious for was one of unmingled pain. 
 
 There came to him, also, the thought of the companion- 
 ship to which he had so long submitted, and to which, if he 
 should continue in the country, he must still submit, and 
 life seemed sad- and even disgusting to him. Outlawed, at 
 first, by comparatively trivial offenses, new enactments 
 severely punishing those who might lead a vagabond life 
 among the Indians had forbidden his return to civilized life, 
 and he saw nothing before him but an insipid and valueless 
 existence. With a sad voice and dejected air, he gave ex- 
 pression to his feelings to Mr. Pynchon. 
 
 “I can sympathize with you,” replied that gentleman, 
 “ for all the great aims of my life, with one exception, are 
 either frustrated or accomplished. You have heard, doubt- 
 less, how they have been dealing with me, and know that I 
 have no longer any power in the colony, and have become 
 the object of persecution.” 
 
 “I know all about it, Square, but I never should a’ said 
 a word, if you hadn’t. It’s come out jest where I s’posed 
 ’twould fetch up, more’n ten years ago. I knew there was 
 some of the same stuff in you that there was in me, and I 
 knew it was a kind of stuff that always leaked out of a man 
 ’fore he died. If you are any like me, you feel a mighty 
 sight better with it out than in. — Now if it’s a fair question, 
 what is the thing that you hav’nt done that you’re goin’ to 
 do?” 
 
 “ To endeavor, by God’s grace, to become fully prepared 
 to meet death, and the scenes to which it leads,” replied 
 Mr. Pynchon, with a solemn voice; adding, as he saw a 
 thoughtful shadow passing over Woodcock’s face ; “ it is a 
 great aim — worthy of the last years of your life as well as 
 mine — more worthy probably than any object for which you 
 have thus far lived,” 
 
fHE RAY PATH. 
 
 357 
 
 lt I’ve been thinkin’ of this, too, in my way,” responded 
 Woodcock. “ 1 was thinkin’ on it when 1 was settin’ on the 
 floor, jest as you come in. I’ve made up my mind that the 
 Lord keeps a pretty close lookout for us, if we be small. 
 There was my wife — she lived out all her happy days, and 
 when the Lord saw what she was cornin’ to, she died. I 
 thought it was mighty hard, but bein’ left with my little gal 
 kind o’ altered me, and her livin’ with your Mary was good 
 for her, and she was happier’n I ever could make her. Well, 
 Mary lived out all of her happy days, and now, jest afore the 
 law is goin’ to murder her, she goes to sleep like a baby, and 
 can’t be hurt by anybody. Now He’s choked me off from 
 pretty much everything I wanted, and / can’t think of any- 
 thing that He wants me for now but to get religion and ’tend 
 up to it.” The old man’s voice was honest and earnest, 
 and his lip quivered with genuine emotion, as, in his homely 
 way, he thus recognized the operations of Providence, and 
 adopted the lesson they were designed to inculcate. 
 
 As the two old friends closed their conversation, the offi- 
 cers of the jail appeared, and announced that preparations 
 were to be made for the disposal of the body of the deceased. 
 This recalled Woodcock to the painful features of the occa- 
 sion, overwhelmed Hugh with a fresh influx of grief, and in- 
 formed the visitors that it was time for them to retire. A 
 conference was first held, and, it being determined by the 
 officers that Mary’s burial should occur early on the follow- 
 ing morning, Mr. Pynchon promised for himself, and in 
 behalf of his party, to be in attendance, and so, passing out 
 with Holyoke, bade Woodcock and Hugh a good night. 
 
 The events that followed were all like the experiences of 
 a troubled dream to the grief-stricken Hugh — the sleepless 
 night passed with Woodcock within the jail, the homely but 
 hearty words of comfort uttered by the latter, the gathering 
 of friends in the early gray of the morning, the words of a 
 prayer pronounced in deep solemnity by a minister, the nail- 
 ing of the rough coffin, its transportation in a yard back of 
 the jail to a spot where a grave had but just been completed, 
 the hollow resonance of the coffin as the first earth fell upon 
 it, the final closure of the opening, and the trampling down 
 of the sward above a bosom which had loved him as none 
 other could — all these events were dimly realized, and, be- 
 fore he began calmly to apprehend the scenes through which 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 358 
 
 he had passed, he, with the whole Springfield party, had 
 left the sea-coast, and once more within the Bay Path — with 
 the fresh leaves of June above his head, and the sweet air 
 of June around him — was plunging into the broad forest that 
 intervened between the Bay settlements and the Connecticut. 
 Woodcock, after a private conference with Mr. Pynchon, 
 was left behind, to find his way westward at his own con- 
 venience. 
 
 As the party arrived at Springfield, after a tedious ride, 
 various emotions exercised its different members. Mr. 
 Pynchon was happy at heart — and most happy to grasp the 
 hands of his closely clinging friends. Henry Smith was 
 mortified with his commission, and was pained by any allu- 
 sion to it. It somehow seemed to him that he had received 
 and appropriated the price of his father’s dishonor. Mr. 
 Moxon was discontented, and excessively mortified at his 
 failure to sustain his charge against Mary ; and Hugh felt 
 that life, which had once been so sweet and joyous to him, 
 was a ruined and pleasureless possession. 
 
 The impression produced upon the residents of the plan- 
 tation by the recital of the events that had transpired at the 
 Bay, was painfully profound. There were open threats 
 of leaving the jurisdiction, but Mr. Pynchon begged all to 
 wait for the development of events, and, by his own cheer- 
 fulness and equanimity, succeeded in controlling the rising 
 discord, and restoring patience and peace to the people. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 , O member of the party returning from the 
 Bay could have been more rejoiced upon 
 arriving within sight of the Connecticut than 
 Goody Tomson. Her three youngest chil- 
 dren had been left in the care of Peter Trimble, 
 as, in fact, the only willing nurse to be found ; 
 and, when it is remembered that the youngest of 
 the three had but recently missed some of the ten- 
 derest ministries of maternity, it may well be 
 imagined that Peter and the mother would be oppressed, 
 the one with onerous cares and the other with feverish 
 anxieties. 
 
 It may also be imagined that, under all the circumstances, 
 they would be extremely happy to see each other; and in 
 truth they were. The woman found Peter within her cabin, 
 engaged in the endeavor to ascertain the effect of turkey’s 
 oil in softening his heavy shoes, and, as he used his hand 
 in the application of that article, the first necessity arising 
 from the impulsive greeting that passed between the two 
 friends was a basin of water and some soap, in order that 
 Goody Tomson might so far clean her hands as to be able to 
 “ take off her things.” Before any'progress was made, how- 
 ever, she inquired for her children. Peter told her that they 
 were well, and quieted her curiosity in regard to the place 
 
 359 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 360 
 
 where they were all hidden by mysterious nods and winks, 
 which were intended to convey the command to wash her 
 hands and take care of herself, and the intimation that he 
 would then be ready for particulars. 
 
 After the preliminaries were finished, and Peter had 
 brought out and placed before the mistress of the house a 
 plate of severely broken victuals, he sat down opposite to 
 her and, assuming an air of great complacency, began. 
 
 “ You see, pretty quick after you went away, the baby 
 began to cry like smoke. Til bet she cried one night as 
 much as five hours. Land ahead ! I never see a little crit- 
 ter tune up so in my life. Well, that set the other two 
 a-going, and I found I couldn’t stand it. So, after they’d all 
 cried till they got tuckered out, and went to sleep, I went 
 to thinking of it, and I made up my mind I could do better 
 than tend babies while you was gone, and I reckoned I might 
 do something towards working them off. Anyhow, I locked 
 them into the cabin the next morning, and put for the neigh- 
 bors. I told them I believed the children would die if they 
 couldn’t go where there was women ; and I hung on till I got 
 rid of one here, and another there, and another there, in the 
 course of the day ; and, come night, I went to bed laughing 
 over it, and slept as sound as a nut. By George ! Esther” 
 (exclaimed Peter, smitten with a sudden spasm of affection, 
 and rising to his feet and walking around the table to her 
 side, to give her hand a renewed shake), “ I’m glad to see 
 you ! Why don’t you say something to a feller? ” 
 
 Poor Esther, grievously disappointed at not meeting with 
 her children, and her motherly sensibilities shocked at 
 Peter’s apparent heartlessness, was obliged to give over her 
 efforts to repress her feelings, and, filling her mouth, as if to 
 dam up the accumulating flood as long as possible, burst, at 
 last, into a complex paroxysm of mastication and tears. 
 
 “ Land ahead ! ” exclaimed Peter, rising and shaking his 
 fists with excess of sympathetic irritation, “ why don’t you 
 have that old tooth out ? You never’ll take any comfort till 
 you do.” 
 
 Esther, quite willing to see Peter misled in regard tb the 
 real cause of her grief, continued to fill her mouth and weep, 
 but did not dare to trust herself with speech. Her unre- 
 strained mastication, however, led Peter to mistrust that he 
 had not judged correctly of the cause of her unhappiness, and 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 361 
 
 he inquired if her back did not ache terribly after riding so 
 far, stating that it not unfrequently affected him in that man- 
 ner, and that he didn’t wonder she was perfectly used up. 
 
 Goody Tomson must have been uncommonly perverse not 
 to be soothed by this deep and appreciative ministry, and 
 Peter was rejoiced, at last, to see her jaws work less act- 
 ively and powerfully, and her tears fall less copiously, as 
 she subsided into her usual genial placidity. 
 
 44 Where did you say the baby was?” inquired Esther, 
 looking fixedly upon her trencher. 
 
 Peter had not said, but he informed her. 
 
 44 Don’t you think she is too young to be put out? ” con- 
 tinued the mother, still busy with her victuals. 
 
 “ Well, I tell you what I think,” replied Peter, putting his 
 feet upon the table and leaning back in his chair. 44 If the 
 people that take her don't find any fault, it stands us in 
 hand to keep mum. Young ones are in the way unless you 
 happen to take to them pretty strong ; and they eat like 
 mischief anyhow, and if anybody’s willing to keep them, 
 why, there’s so much saved in elbow grease. That’s the 
 way I look at it.” 
 
 “Yes, of course,” responded the bereaved mother, with 
 renewed sobbing. 
 
 44 1 kind o’ reckoned,” pursued Peter, 44 that when you got 
 back, you’d be sick for a few days, and wouldn’t want to 
 have the children round ; and that would give the people 
 that have got them a chance to get tied to them more ; and 
 perhaps they’d want to keep them for good and all. Now, if 
 you’ll go to bed I’ll go round and tell them you’ve got home, 
 and are crying for your children, but that you’re all tired to 
 death, and ain’t fit to take care of them, and that they’ll have 
 to keep them a little longer.” 
 
 At this moment the plans of Peter were dashed to the 
 ground by the sudden opening of the door, and the entrance 
 of a dirty girl, who carried in her arms a dirty bundle, 
 which she deposited in Goody Tomson’s arms, with the 
 words, 44 There’s your worryin’ little young one that I’ve 
 been takin’ care of till I’ve about broke my back. Next 
 time you go away I hope you’ll leave somebody else to home 
 besides this lazy lummox of a Peter Trimble.” 
 
 This saucy speech was greatly broken in its effect upon 
 both Peter and Esther by the emotions whicfThad taken 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 362 
 
 prepossession of them. Peter was distressed to witness 
 the return of the child. He had been extremely anxious to 
 see a very decided reduction of the stock before coming 
 permanently into the establishment. '“In the widow’s first 
 distress, he saw her willing to get rid of the older children, 
 and he could conceive no reason why she would not willingly 
 part with all of them, provided they could be got into good 
 places. He perceived, at last, that the baby was a fixture. 
 He saw it, as well in the caresses which its mother was lav- 
 ishing upon the child, as in the insolent language which its 
 involuntary nurse had used. 
 
 The mother, in her joy at once more clasping the babe in 
 a pair of arms that, by eight or nine years’ practise, did not 
 know what to do with themselves without one, hardly heard 
 the insult offered to the man she had chosen to supply the 
 place of the* lamented Tomson. In fact, she seemed to 
 forget his presence in the superabundance of her joy upon 
 again gaining the possession of her treasure. 
 
 “ By the way,” said Peter, after the unpleasant girl had 
 departed, and Goody Tomson had become in some measure 
 conscious that there was a whole world outside of her baby, 
 “ how about Mary Parsons, and the rest of them ? ” 
 
 “ Mary Parsons ! ” exclaimed Goody Tomson, surprised 
 that the subject had not been thought of before, “ why, she 
 came within an inch of being hung, and she would a’ been 
 if she hadn’t a’ died.” 
 
 “Mary Parsons isn’t dead, is she?” exclaimed Peter, in 
 a tone of genuine concern." 
 
 “ Well, you may ask the rest of them, if you don’t believe 
 me. They’ll tell you she’s dead, and that she died in jail.” 
 
 “Died in jail? Mary Parsons died in jail?” and Peter 
 slapped his thigh, and walked across the room under strong 
 emotion. 
 
 “ What makes you act so ? ” inquired his companion. 
 
 “ Won’t you never tell anybody if I’ll tell you something ? ” 
 inquired Peter, sitting down, and drawing his chair up to the 
 widow. 
 
 “ No — never, as long as I live.” 
 
 “ Well,” pursued Peter, “ I come very near marrying that 
 girl once — very near ; ” and he nodded emphatically, and 
 looked out of the window as if some object at an immense 
 distance were absorbing his attention. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 363 
 
 Goody Tomson blushed scarlet, and while attempting to 
 feed her child with the scant remains of her meal, said, “ I 
 never thought so bad of Mary as other folks did, but I do 
 wonder what such a man as you could see in such a woman 
 as her. ” 
 
 Peter detected the motive that lay coiled beneath the 
 widow’s somewhat emphatic language, and followed up the 
 attack. “ I believe/’ he pursued, “ that she didn’t make any 
 fuss when her baby was took away from her, and brought 
 here. Some people are willing to do what is best for them, 
 and some ain’t. I don’t find any fault. Perhaps it isn’t any 
 of my business, but there’s such a thing as having more in a 
 family than is comfortable all round, especially ” (and Peter 
 rose and swaggered towards the window) “ if a man is pretty 
 independent, and don’t care much what becomes of him.” 
 
 As Peter finished this cruel speech, he saw the widow put- 
 ting a huge bone into her mouth, and her eyes all afloat 
 again. What concession she would have made at this junc- 
 ture, it is impossible to state; but, at the moment, the door 
 was again opened, and another child, who had had a kind 
 keeper, came in, and bounded to a seat in his mother’s lap, 
 by the side of the baby. 
 
 This one had hardly been thoroughly kissed (the bone 
 having suddenly been withdrawn from the mother’s mouth 
 for that purpose), when the third, quite old enough to pull 
 the latch herself, being the identical child that Peter had 
 recommended to Hugh and Mary on a previous occasion, 
 rushed into the widow’s arms, and quite overwhelmed her 
 with caresses. 
 
 Peter looked at the group with an expression of mingled 
 vexation and resignation, took his hat from a nail, put it on, 
 walked out of the door, and turned his steps down the street, 
 giving utterance to a kind of music that he had the happy 
 faculty of producing by the change of a hiss into a whistle, 
 without the necessity of puckering his lips. He went out 
 to think, and to make up his mind, if possible, upon what it 
 was best for him to do. 
 
 Those three children, it had become evident, must remain, 
 at present, with their mother. Nobody wanted them — no- 
 body would keep them ; and if he and Goody Tomson should 
 consummate the little arrangement that had been initiated 
 between them, he would be obliged to work for and support 
 
 18730 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 364 
 
 the children. From this subject his mind ran off upon Mary 
 Parsons, whose name very naturally suggested that of Hugh ; 
 and Peter quickened his pace, under a determination to seek 
 his old crony, and ask for his advice. 
 
 Quite unexpectedly he met him on his way to the old 
 cabin. The tears sprang into the poor fellow's eyes as he 
 grasped Peter's hand: and the latter, with all his shallow- 
 ness, could not but be touched by his grief, and the won- 
 derfully sad change it had wrought upon him. Peter was 
 even sufficiently considerate to allow Hugh to tell his story 
 — his long story of Mary’s terrible sufferings, of her calm 
 death, her early morning burial, and of all his sorrows — his 
 sorrowful memories, and his sorrowful prospects. 
 
 When he had relieved his burdened heart, and Peter had, 
 so far as it was possible for him to do it, given him his sym- 
 pathy, the latter assumed the lead of the conversation, and 
 revealed to Hugh the peculiar trials that were associated 
 with his matrimonial prospects. 
 
 “If I could get rid of them children,” said Peter, “the 
 widow would stand me in at a snug little profit, but if I’ve got 
 to feed them, they’ll swallow the v/hole place, and all I can 
 do on it. I’ve got to look out for number one. By the way, 
 Hugh, I wonder if the magistrate will make me promise to 
 support the children as well as the widow, when he comes 
 to marry me?” 
 
 Hugh said he presumed not, and then commenced very 
 warmly in behalf of his child’s old nurse. He extolled her 
 generosity, her genial temper, her excellent good-nature and 
 her industry, and even went so far as to compliment her for 
 her youthful appearance — urging Peter not to disappoint her, 
 vindicating her parental sympathies, and pronouncing her 
 an excellent match for any man whom she might honor with 
 her choice. Hugh did not close his eulogium of the widow 
 until he had discharged, so far as possible, the large debt of 
 gratitude he owed her, and had thrown out the intimation 
 to Peter’s selfishness that the children would soon be able 
 to help him, and would require but little of his care. 
 
 During all this address, Peter stood and stroked his face 
 in thoughtful complacency, and looked down upon his legs 
 with a pleasant smirk that showed his intense gratification. 
 At the close he looked up at Hugh, and said, “Well, what 
 did I tell you ? You begin to find out that I know some- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 36s 
 
 thing about women, don’t you ? As you say, the children may 
 help a little o.ne of these days, and, on the whole, I suppose I 
 may as well marry her, and have it over with. Between you 
 and I, Hugh, I believe she’d die if I should quit her.” 
 
 “ Oh, you will marry her, I know you will,” said Hugh. 
 “ You’ll marry her to please me, won’t you, Peter? ” 
 
 ‘‘By George!” responded Peter, with a chivalric touch 
 of self-devotion, “ I’ll do it if you say so, any way. I never 
 refused you anything yet, and I ain’t going to begin now. 
 If you say marry, marry it is ; and if you name the time 
 when you’d like to eat a few of Goody Trimble’s nutcakes, 
 I’ll see that the chair is set and the platter on the table.” 
 Thus devoting himself to matrimony and his friend, Peter 
 took leave of Hugh, and hurried back to Goody Tomsom, 
 under a vague impression that so precious a creature as the 
 former had described her to be, must necessarily be over- 
 whelmed with suitors as soon as it should become known 
 that she had returned from the Bay. 
 
 It is needless to say that, notwithstanding Goody Tomson’s 
 fatigues and maternal incumbrances, she was most happy, 
 before closing her eyes in sleep, to receive Peter’s plighted 
 troth without reservation, and to promise in return to make 
 him a happy man ^fter the crops should be gathered in, in 
 the fall. In the meantime, it was arranged that he should 
 expend his labors upon the estate of Tomson deceased, and 
 act as the nocturnal protector of the family, as he had done 
 for several months. 
 
 Two or three days after his return from the Bay, Mr. Pyn- 
 chon invited his children to his house— at the same time 
 giving them an intimation that important business w r as to be 
 advised upon, at the interview. The party w^as — strange as 
 it may appear — the most joyous one that had gathered in 
 the old family house for many years. The children of 
 Holyoke and Henry Smith, loosened from the strait rules of 
 decorum which at that time curbed the natural overflow of 
 childish hilarity, filled the house with their mirthful music, 
 while parent and grand-parent listened, not only without 
 remonstrance but with positive delight. 
 
 It seemed refreshing, after the wrangles, and discomforts, 
 and trials, and distresses, to taste once more of life at its 
 fountain— to take it to the lips as it leaped up into the sun- 
 shine from youthful spirits, and once more to forget, in inno- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 366 
 
 cent pleasure, the various ills that had beset the path of 
 each. Of all this joy Mr. Pynchon was* in truth, the radiat- 
 ing center. It was his buoyant spirit that released the 
 burden from the spirits of his children, and their happiness 
 that gave license to the limbs and the laugh of the grand- 
 children ; and the mutual reaction from spirit to spirit that 
 made the meeting happier than the family had known, even 
 ill the times of its power and prosperity. 
 
 When at last the older members of the party had become 
 tired of the frolics of the younger, the latter were sent into 
 another room ; and Mr. Pynchon, with a warm smile upon 
 the affectionate group left around him, said, “ Well, children, 
 I have something to say to you which, as it concerns my 
 happiness, certainly should concern yours. You have been 
 pained to see me lose my influence in this colony, for which 
 I have suffered so much — and I will not deny that it has 
 been to me a cause of very deep unhappiness, but the pang 
 is past. I have never felt more buoyant-hearted than now, 
 and life never seemed sweeter or more desirable. But I can- 
 not, and I must not, live in bonds. After having been, dur- 
 ing my whole lifetime, subject to bondage, and among its 
 last years having tasted of freedom, I shall not again come 
 under the yoke. In this plantation, my usefulness is at an 
 end. I am not allowed to forward its affairs by my counsels, 
 and I am too old to aid it with my hands. Therefore " (and 
 the old man's eye moistened as he looked around upon the 
 expectant group), “ I am going back to die in England." 
 
 This was the first intimation they had had of this deter- 
 mination, and they looked at one another in blank astonish- 
 ment. Mary Holyoke was the first to break the silence. 
 Rising, and pushing aside the reserve that advancing years 
 had placed between her father and herself, she was the girl 
 Mary Pynchon once more ; and, throwing herself into his 
 arms, she kissed the old man fervently, and exclaimed, “ If 
 you go to England, I shall go with you — we will all go with 
 you." 
 
 “ No, no, my child," replied the old man, putting his arm 
 affectionately around his old-time idol. “ No, no, you must 
 stay here. If you are going to leave for me, I shall remain. 
 This is the place for you, and the rest of my children. You 
 do not write books, and I am not yet done with Mr. John 
 Norton. You do not wish me to remain, and be subject to 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 367 
 
 the annoyances which the General Court are determined to 
 visit upon me ; and if I do remain, I shall certainly give 
 them greater cause for persecution than has actuated them 
 thus far. I have but a few more years to live, and, while 
 it would be very pleasant to me to have my children around 
 me in my last hours, I will never consent to receive the bless- 
 ing at the expense of their usefulness and prosperity. You 
 have all a future before you, and your children wall come 
 into a noble inheritance when you are gone.” 
 
 Mrs. Pynchon, while these remarks were in progress, was 
 evidently in distress, and they were no sooner concluded 
 than she took the opportunity to say that she knew Mr. 
 Pynchon had been treated shamefully, and no doubt that it 
 would be uncomfortable for him to live here. She did not 
 know but, if a person was prepared, it was just as well to 
 die away from one’s children as any way. It was very un- 
 pleasant to live where one wasn’t respected, especially if 
 one had not been used to such a state of things ; but she 
 did think that before a decision had been irrevocably made 
 to return to England, Mr. Pynchon ought to have thought 
 of the salt water, and to have found out what sort of a vessel 
 he was going in. Her remarks, for some reason she did not 
 fully appreciate, did not materially deepen the solemnity that 
 attended their opening, and so, having been heard, she sub- 
 sided to her knitting, and sailed out into her placid sea of 
 thought, on a woolen vessel with steel spars and blue-mixed 
 cordage. 
 
 Mary Holyoke still sat on her father’s knee, but she was 
 engaged in deep thought, and when her mother concluded, 
 she said, very emphatically, “ Some of us must go to Eng- 
 land. Father and mother must not go alone.” 
 
 The matter had appeared in this light to all, yet all were 
 equally undecided in regard to what was individual propriety 
 and duty in the premises. Henry Smith, who had said noth- 
 ing thus far, decided the question at last. He had no doubt 
 that it was the duty of one or more of the children to re- 
 turn with their parents, and, as he was bound to them by a 
 double tie, Mrs. Pynchon being his own mother, he believed 
 that the duty was pointed out to him. At any rate, he should 
 so consider it with his present light. 
 
 “ I had not reckoned upon the companionship of any of 
 my children,” said Mr, Pynchon, with a grateful suffusion 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 368 
 
 ) 
 
 of the eye, “but it will be very pleasant; and, while it will 
 cost me a great struggle to leave the remainder here, and 
 bid them good-by, never more probably to meet them in 
 this world, I cannot but confess that the thought of being 
 able while I live to act freely in matters that have come to 
 make up so much of my life, and the prospect of dying 
 among the scenes of my youth, and of being buried among 
 those with whom are connected some of my happiest memo- 
 ries, bring to me many pleasant anticipations. I could 
 almost wish that the farewells had been said, that the winds 
 were bearing me away from you, and that those I must leave 
 behind had prosperously recommenced pursuits with which 
 my presence can only interfere.” 
 
 A long conversation ensued, suggested by this develop- 
 ment in the history of the plantation — a development which 
 all could not fail to see was to inaugurate a new era in their 
 lives and affairs. By some association the past was called 
 up, and the family sat for a long hour talking of the people 
 and times gone by. Among the topics of the hour was the 
 sad case of Mary Parsons, of which there were so many 
 things in the house, in the history of the family, and in the 
 plantation, to remind them. 
 
 To relieve the distressing details of her last days, Mr. 
 Pynchon, under pledge of secrecy, told his family of his dis- 
 covery of John Woodcock, of his long residence near them 
 among the Indians, of his charities to Mary and Hugh dur- 
 ing the sickness of the former, of the authorship of Mr. 
 Moxon’s bark manuscripts, and so described him that all 
 declared that they had seen him repeatedly, and called up a 
 multitude of occurrences to which his presence among the 
 Indians furnished the key. 
 
 All were very deeply interested in the narrative, and were 
 astonished when informed by Mr. Pynchon that he had, dur- 
 ing the comparatively brief interview that he held with 
 Woodcock on the morning of his departure from the Bay, 
 not only learned the particulars he had communicated to 
 them, but had informed Woodcock of his determination to 
 return to England, and received from Woodcock the assur- 
 ance that he would gladly return with him. The family had 
 always known the sympathy that existed between Mr. Pyn- 
 chon and Woodcock — two individuals as widely diverse in 
 their character, apparently, as could be imagined — but now 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 369 
 
 that they more fully comprehended the character of both, 
 they were less at a loss in accounting for the pleasant an- 
 ticipation that lighted up the old man’s eye, as he spoke of 
 having Woodcock near him in his last years ; of recalling 
 with him, in their distant retirement, the details of the won- 
 derful episode in their lives furnished by their residence in 
 America ; of listening to his fresh and quaint humors, and 
 of coming into invigorating contact with his free and original 
 spirit. 
 
 “ There is one man,” said Holyoke, in a very decided 
 voice, “ who I wish could be induced to leave the plantation 
 when you do, if he will not go before, and the wider the sea 
 which separates him from us the better. If you are going 
 to leave, I beg you not to leave behind you Mr. Moxon. He 
 has been the author of great calamities amongst us, and, 
 whatever may have been his position once, he can now do 
 us no good.” 
 
 The others spoke less boldly, but with no less strength of 
 conviction, in the same behalf. All felt, not only that the 
 day but the capacity for usefulness with him had passed, 
 and that, thereafter, his presence in the plantation must be 
 an offense, if nothing worse. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon coincided with the general opinion, and, 
 moreover, intimated the probability that Mr. Moxon would 
 make the proposition to return with him, without a request 
 or invitation from any quarter. 
 
 The company little imagined that, at the very moment 
 when they were talking of him, Mr. Moxon was passing 
 through another of those trials to which he had been so 
 frequently subjected, and were startled by a loud rap at the 
 door, and a general summons to come with haste to the 
 minister’s house. The messenger only knew that Martha 
 Moxon was bewitched by somebody, and that her father 
 was anxious that every one should see her. 
 
 Mr. Moxon was not unaware that there were open and 
 secret murmurings in regard to his treatment of Mary Par- 
 sons, and doubts touching the soundness of his reason. He 
 had, therefore, upon the renewal of the attack upon his 
 children, determined that every one should have an oppor- 
 tunity to witness the scenes which had made such an im- 
 pression upon him, and by that means to vindicate as well 
 his opinions as his proceedings. 
 
37o 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 It was remarkable to see the air of deep sadness which 
 pervaded the Pynchon family as this announcement was 
 made to them. “ Who, in Heaven's name, is to be the vic- 
 tim now?” exclaimed Holyoke impatiently. 
 
 It was an unpleasant conclusion to a most interesting 
 family reunion, and as the gentlemen of the party left the 
 house to obey the summons it was with many expressions 
 of perplexity and discouragement. As they emerged upon 
 the street they perceived that quite an excitement was on 
 foot, and that the call to the entertainment to which they 
 were invited had been very general. When they arrived at 
 the minister's house they found it already full, but room 
 was made for them ; and, advancing to the bed where 
 Martha lay, they found the minister exhibiting to the gap- 
 ing crowd one of her limbs, which was covered with black 
 and blue spots, inflicted, as he assured them, by her invisi- 
 ble tormentor. As he raised his headland recognized the 
 newcomers, he informed them that his daughter had just 
 recovered from, a terrible paroxysm, and had made an accu- 
 sation which gave him as much pain as it could any one 
 present. 
 
 As he was speaking, there was a slight stir among the 
 crowd, and a small form pressed forward to get a view of 
 the bewitched girl. He had no sooner worked his way to 
 her bedside, his face flushed with painful excitement, than 
 she sprang up with frantic energy, and pointing to Hugh 
 Parsons exclaimed, “ There is the man who struck me — 
 there he is ! there he is ! there he is ! " Saying this, she 
 was thrown into renewed convulsions, in which she gave 
 wild screams of torment, and declared alternately that he 
 was pounding her and sticking pins into her. 
 
 All eyes were turned upon Hugh, who, frightened not 
 only by the wild words and wilder screams of the girl, but 
 by a vision of the dangers to which he had become exposed 
 by her accusation, began to grow dizzy as he gazed ; — the 
 room swam around him, and he sank to the floor in a swoon 
 as deep, almost, as death. 
 
 “ My God ! " exclaimed Holyoke, quite overcome by the 
 spectacle ; “ where is all this to end ? " 
 
 “It will never end until justice shall be done," replied 
 Mr. Moxon, in an excited. voice. “So long as the devil's 
 agents go unpunished — so long as they evade or triumph 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 371 
 
 over law, so long will he continue his torments. He will 
 never cease until those who call themselves the children of 
 God cease to assist him in his work, by accusing his inno- 
 cent victims of deception, and their distressed friends of 
 insanity.” 
 
 As Hugh was removed from the room into the open air 
 Holyoke followed without uttering a word. He was sick at 
 heart. He saw before him another dark tragedy — in fact a 
 brood of them, for, upon the faces of the simple planters 
 who were assembled, he could not but detect the credulity — 
 the conviction — necessary to sustain, by testimony, the 
 charge against Hugh, and the groundwork of a mental epi- 
 demic as hostile to all worldly prosperity, as to intellectual 
 growth and spiritual religion. Directing that Hugh should 
 be carried to his own house, he returned with Mr. Pynchon 
 for his wife and family. 
 
 Thus again, and for the most deplorable of causes, was 
 the plantation in commotion, but the end was approaching, 
 and was nearer than any imagined. 
 
 24 
 
HE summer which fol- 
 lowed these events was 
 a brief and hurried sea- 
 son. So many things 
 had occurred to divert 
 the planters from their labor 
 little time was left — 
 for any purpose — from the 
 toils of the forest and the 
 field. Mr. Pynchon was 
 usy with preparations for 
 closing his trade or turning 
 it entirely into the hands 
 of his son, and arranging 
 the preliminaries, both on this and the other side of the 
 Atlantic, for his return to England. 
 
 Mr. Moxon employed himself, during the time he could 
 spare from his poorly performed pastoral duties, in looking 
 after evidence against Hugh, upon whom, as was seen in 
 the last chapter, the mantle of witchcraft had fallen. He 
 was determined to pursue this case to the end, and leave 
 no means untried to secure conviction. While the people 
 of the plantation could not help regarding Hugh as a very 
 harmless individual, their mouths were stopped in his de- 
 fense by what they had seen, and he seemed to be in danger 
 
 37 2 
 
THE BAY PATH. 373 
 
 of meeting with a fate as lamentable as that which had be- 
 fallen his wife. 
 
 As a community, the people of the town were more united 
 in their feelings than they had ever been, and Mr. Pynchon 
 had the satisfaction, during the last months which he spent 
 upon the plantation, of being the center of devoted sympathy 
 and attachment, as well to those who had once been at differ- 
 ence with Turn, as to his long-time friends. Everybody saw, 
 through the bland judiciousness of Deacon Chapin, a decided 
 sympathy with Mr. Pynchon. By what perverse principle 
 in human nature a heretic shorn of temporal power becomes 
 heroic to the imagination ; how persecution makes converts 
 where reason fails ; why opposition to a principle often dies 
 when its defender is stricken down, are questions not readily 
 answered ; and yet it was true that Deacon Chapin no sooner 
 saw Mr. Pynchon politically powerless — yet falling with dig- 
 nity back upon his manhood — than he became one of the 
 best friends he had. Whether, if his power had been re- 
 stored, and his old standing regained, this new affection 
 would have been constant, Deacon Chapin himself probably 
 did not know. Few appreciate, or even examine, the 
 influences which direct or divert the currents of their 
 lives. 
 
 As the autumn came on, the time approached for Henry 
 Smith to depart for the Bay, to attend upon the October 
 session of the General Court ; and as he was, at that time, 
 the only magistrate in the settlement, Peter Trimble saw 
 that it would be impossible for him to become the husband 
 of the widow Tomson before winter, if he did not avail him- 
 self of Mr. Smith’s services previous to his departure. Hav- 
 ing, therefore, secured his legal publishment, he called upon 
 the new magistrate one evening to engage him to perform, 
 for the first time in his experience, the interesting and im- 
 portant ceremony. Informing the gentleman that he would 
 like to see him out of doors, he propo^d, in a manner not 
 wholly free from embarrassment, though sufficiently charged 
 with a sense of self-importance, the business upon which he 
 had called. 
 
 “ So you are really going to be married, Peter,” said Mr. 
 Smith, in his grave but not unpleasant way. 
 
 “ Well,” responded Peter, “ I might as well, I reckon, if 
 Fm ever going to be, for you see Esther may change her 
 
374 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 mind, and I’ve been to work on her land all summer, and 
 I’ve no notion of losing that.” 
 
 “Very well,” said the magistrate. “I shall be happy to 
 marry you at any time you may appoint, before I leave for 
 the Bay.” 
 
 Peter’s business was really completed, but he lingered 
 still, and, finally, as the magistrate turned to walk into his 
 house, he mustered sufficient resolution to ask him what the 
 fee would be* 
 
 “ Oh ! anything you choose,” replied Mr. Smith, stepping 
 into the house, and closing the door behind him. 
 
 Peter did not stir from where he stood, for several min- 
 utes. An idea had entered his mind of so novel and im-~ 
 portant a character that walking could only have diverted 
 his attention from its consideration. Having viewed it irf 
 its various aspects, he manifested his satisfaction with it by 
 shaking his fists violently at the door beyond which the 
 magistrate had disappeared. Judging by the expression 
 upon Peter’s face, Mr. Smith was not menaced with any 
 fearful calamity, but simply with some choice bit of over- 
 reaching which filled the man who had conceived it with 
 unmixed delight. Taking his way hurriedly back to the 
 widow’s cabin, he entered, and, hanging his hat upon the 
 accustomed nail, sat down on a low bench, and, in his old 
 attitude, with his head between his hands and his hands 
 between his knees, surrendered himself to those half stifled 
 ebullitions of laughter of which he was the victim. 
 
 “ What have you got hold of now ? ” inquired the admir- 
 ing widow, pausing in her work. 
 
 “ Got hold of my head,” responded Peter, with a readi- 
 ness of wit which astonished himself, and threw him into 
 renewed convulsions. 
 
 “ Well, that ain’t anything very great, I’m sure,” retorted 
 the widow, entirely unconscious that she had the best of the 
 joke. 
 
 Peter, however, was more appreciative. Struck with the 
 peculiar force of the retort, he jumped to his feet, and, 
 grasping the woman cordially by the hand, exclaimed, “ By 
 George ! Esther, you are up to pretty much everything, ain’t 
 you ? Land ahead ! I’ve got to look out ; I airr t no- 
 where.” 
 
 The new admiration on the part of Peter, and the glow 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 375 
 
 excited in the heart of the widow by the compliment she had 
 received, had a very pleasant effect upon the confidential 
 conversation which followed. In this conversation, Peter 
 made a revelation of the new idea which had occurred to 
 him, and, although it did not strike his companion with such 
 force as he had expected, and as she felt that it ought to 
 strike a woman of her recently achieved reputation for 
 acuteness, she acquiesced in its practicability. 
 
 The evening for the marriage was at last fixed upon, and 
 Peter invited a few of his choice friends to meet him at the 
 magistrate^ upon the occasion. The night upon which the 
 wedding was to take place became generally known, and 
 when Peter, with his betrothed hanging upon his arm, and 
 the oldest of her resident children pulling at the opposite 
 hand, arrived at Mr. Smith’s house, he was surprised to find 
 it literally full. The discovery abashed him ; and, from the 
 merry countenances of those he met, he became distressed 
 with an apprehension that he was to be made the butt of 
 ridicule. This was quickly relieved, however, by the polite 
 attentions he received on every hand, and the efforts made 
 by every one to place him at his ease, and restore to him 
 his self-confidence. In fact, Mr. Smith was quite as much 
 an object of curiosity as the bridegroom and the bride. He 
 had been rallied for a week on his new dignity,' and ex- 
 horted to have the ceremony well committed to memory ; 
 and when the moment came for him to commence the duties 
 of his office, his face was flushed and his voice tremulous, 
 while Peter and his simple bride were models of self-pos- 
 session. 
 
 As soon as Peter and Esther had been pronounced hus- 
 band and wife, they received the hearty congratulations of 
 all present, many of whom turned, and jocosely congratu- 
 lated the new magistrate on the happy achievement of the 
 most grateful and graceful honors of his office. 
 
 “That is your child, is it, Peter?” remarked one of his 
 acquaintances, who was shaking his bony hand. 
 
 “ Perhaps ’tis, one way, now,” replied Peter, “but it won’t 
 be a great while.” 
 
 “ Have you found a place for it ?” inquired his friend, 
 for the efforts Peter had made to get rid of the children 
 were notorious. 
 
 “ Well, I reckon you'll find out before you go home,” re- 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 376 
 
 plied the bridegroom, with a wink. Then turning to Esther, 
 he remarked, “ I guess now would be as good a time as any, 
 wouldn’t it.” 
 
 The bride having signified her assent, and bestowed some 
 attentions upon her child which involved the use of a hand- 
 kerchief, Peter stooped, and, taking the little one in his 
 arms, advanced to Mr. Smith — grinning and snickering all 
 the way — and said, “ I believe, Square, you told me I might 
 give you anything I was a mind to for marrying me, and 
 so I fetched down this young one ; and if you’ll hold open 
 your arms I’ll put her into them.” 
 
 At least half a dozen individuals heard every word of the 
 speech of presentation, and, as Peter suited his action to 
 his words, and placed the child so far in the magistrate’s 
 arms that he was obliged to grasp it, to keep it from falling, 
 the laugh that was excited at his expense was irresistible. 
 
 As the story spread from mouth to mouth, the wedded 
 pair found themselves suddenly forgotten in the general 
 anxiety to get a sight of the magistrate’s fee, and congratu- 
 late him upon its beauty and value. The fee itself, though 
 of a not remarkably timid character, became very much 
 alarmed at finding itself in the arms of a man whom it had 
 been taught to regard as one of the great ones of the town ; 
 and, annoyed by the boisterous laughter that was resound- 
 ing in every direction among the closely crowding company, 
 it achieved its liberty by two or three vigorous kicks, and 
 dodging among the intervening legs, found its way back to 
 the side of its mother, whom it clasped in a most awkward 
 manner, and whom it distressed by a yell so obstreperous 
 that it would have drowned all the tumult of the room, if it 
 had not tended most decidedly to increase it. 
 
 u I wish we’d went out jest as quick as ’twas done,” re- 
 marked Peter to his wife, thoroughly vexed with the child, 
 and apprehensive that the maneuver was a failure. 
 
 Before the wife could reply, the magistrate approached, 
 and assured Peter, in a spirit of merriment that was very 
 unusual with him, that the fee was too large, and being of 
 a character so similar to an article with which he had the 
 good fortune to be abundantly supplied, he must positively 
 decline its reception. That settled the matter, and Peter 
 mentally resolved upon the spot, that he had made his last 
 effort to reduce the size of his # f amily. In a state of mingled 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 377 
 
 joy and disappointment, he soon afterwards announced his 
 determination to retire, but the company interfered in a 
 good-natured way, and some plain refreshments were served 
 in honor of the event. When at last, in compliance with 
 the request of his wife, who was afraid the children at home 
 might be fretting, Peter prepared to take leave of the mag- 
 istrate and the party, he found his child asleep in the cor- 
 ner ; and taking her 
 in his arms, he de- 
 parted, followed by 
 the smiling Mrs. 
 
 Trimble. Both 
 were glad to be out 
 of the house and 
 were heartily re- 
 joiced when they 
 found themselves 
 quietly seated be- 
 fore a brisk little 
 fire in their own 
 cabin. 
 
 “ Well, by 
 George ! Esther,” 
 said Peter, after 
 rubbing his knees 
 and looking into 
 the fire for a while, 
 
 “ it hain’t cost any- 
 thing, has it ? ” 
 
 Peter’s marriage 
 was an event to be 
 merry over in the 
 plantation, but, 
 while its events 
 were retailed with 
 charming exagger- 
 ations from house to house, the Pynchon family were engaged 
 in the adjustment of the important affairs with which 
 were associated their future prospects. 
 
 Until within a few days of the proposed departure of 
 Henry Smith for the Bay, he, as well as the more imme- 
 diate family of Mr, Pynchon, had supposed that the latter 
 
 Old South Church, Boston : Famous Relic of the Puritan 
 Colony. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 378 
 
 gentleman would accompany him. They all knew that the 
 General Court had enjoined him to be present at the October 
 session to complete the satisfaction he had commenced in 
 the spring, touching his alleged heresies ; but he had long 
 previously determined that the General Court had received 
 all the satisfaction they would win from him in any form. 
 
 The announcement of his determination to his family 
 filled them with uneasiness. They feared the result of thus 
 tempting the relentless persecution of those who held the 
 power to persecute, and made some attempts to dissuade 
 him from his purpose. He only smiled at their fears, and 
 bidding Henry Smith tell the court — if inquiry should be 
 made for him— that it was inconvenient for him to be pres- 
 ent, and that he could give them no satisfaction were it 
 otherwise, dismissed his son-in-law and the subject together. 
 
 On the arrival of the deputy at the Bay, inquiries were 
 immediately made of him concerning Mr. Pynchon, and 
 much surprise expressed that he had seen fit to trample 
 upon the orders of the government. On the return of some 
 of the members of the party who accompanied Mr, Smith, 
 numerous letters were sent to the old man — some of them 
 from real, but more from pretended friends, urging him — if 
 he would save his character and save himself — to show him- 
 self to the General Court before the close of the session. 
 Mr. Pynchon read the letters, laid them aside without ex- 
 hibiting them to his family, and as he had no opportunity to 
 reply, contented himself with the conviction that he, and 
 not they, judged correctly in regard to what the General 
 Court would dare to do in his case. 
 
 The failure of the venerable heretic to appear was a sub- 
 ject of excessive annoyance to many of the leading members 
 of the General Court. They were vexed at being treated 
 with contempt by a man whom they had disabled ; and felt 
 that they had over-reached themselves, in not accepting Mr. 
 Pynchon’s own terms of humiliation, offered in his hour of 
 distraction and weakness. 
 
 After the court had been in session a few days, and Mr. 
 Smith had become conversant with the state of feeling which 
 prevailed, he asked for leave of absence for the remainder of 
 the session. The request was readily granted, with the 
 secret hope that he would carry to Mr. Pynchon such a 
 story as would convince him of the advisableness of his 
 
THE BAY PATH. 379 
 
 appearance before the General Court as quickly as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 They were doomed, however, to disappointment. The 
 session was lengthened out a day or two, in the vain hope 
 of hearing of his arrival, but they found at last that all they 
 could do would be to enjoin him to appear before the next 
 
 Seakonk River ; Rock where Roger Williams Landed at Providence. 
 
 General Court, and to attach a penalty to a non-compliance 
 with the requisition.* 
 
 * “ This Courte doth judge it meete & is willinge that all patience be 
 exercised towards Mr. Wm. Pynchon, that if it be possible,, he may be 
 reduced into the way of truth & that he may renounce the errours & he- 
 resies published in his booke ; & for the end doe give him time to the 
 next Generali Courte in May, more thoroughly to consider of the said 
 errours & heresies in his said booke, & well to weigh the judicious 
 answer of Mr. John Norton thereto; and that he may give full satisfac- 
 tion for his offence, which they more desire than to proceede to so great 
 a censure as his offence deserves, in case he should not give good satis- 
 faction ; the Court doth therefore order, that the judgment of the cause 
 be suspended till the General Courte in May next, & that Mr. Wm. Pyn- 
 chon be enjoyned under the penalty of one hundred pounds, to make 
 his personal appearance at & before the next Generali Courte, to give 
 a full answer to satisfaction (if it may be) or otherwise to stand to the 
 judgment & censure of the Courted — Records of Massachusetts, vol. Ill , 
 page 257. 
 
THE BAY PATH, 
 
 •y 
 
 380 
 
 The action of the General Court was not seen by Mr. 
 Pynchon until some months after it was taken and recorded. 
 He read it with many smiles, and with a pleasant compli- 
 ment to its excessive kindness and toleration. The manner 
 in which he treated this new order may be judged from the 
 
 Sunnyside, the Home of Irving and Friend of J. G. Holland. 
 
 fact that it is the very last mention of the case to be found 
 on the records of the court. 
 
 Thus ended, so far as legal measures were concerned, the 
 persecution which befell one of the noblest men and truest 
 Christians in the Massachusetts colony. It is impossible to 
 learn now what controlling cause operated in the withdrawal 
 of legal measures against him. The General Court, before 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 381 
 
 which he had been ordered to appear, may have been of a 
 more liberal character than its predecessor, and may have 
 dropped the case from lack of sympathy with the end sought. 
 This however is hardly probable, unless there had been a 
 popular reaction, of which there is no evidence. The real 
 cause was probably the fact that he had determined upon 
 returning to England. They doubtless neither wished him 
 to return, nor if he should return, to make his case notorious 
 at home. 
 
 The mind sickens on recurring once more, among the 
 closing scenes of Mr. Pynchon’s residence in the colony, to 
 Mr. Moxon and his hallucinations. It would gladly leave 
 him, his worn and emaciated wife, and his children — stunted 
 in body and mind, so that, although approaching woman- 
 hood, they were but children still — all to the fate which alone 
 could be their legitimate inheritance ; but there is one indi- 
 vidual who, through his personal innocence and dependence, 
 and the associations of his later life, has enlisted the sympa- 
 thies of the reader, and is still beneath the ban of the minis- 
 ter's fatal superstition. Hugh Parsons — his wife in her 
 grave — a woman whom he felt more and more to have been 
 originally intended by Heaven to be his good angel — his 
 reputation tarnished by his association with her name and 
 crime itself, the subject of the most terrible suspicions 
 possible at the time to be entertained, was a blighted man. 
 Never strong, either in heart or hand, his great calamities 
 crushed him. He felt like one benumbed. He walked like 
 one afraid. He looked like one conscious of having been 
 forsaken alike by God and man. 
 
 Throughout the year which succeeded the death of his 
 wife, the evidence against him went on accumulating, aided 
 in the process by the increasing superstitiousness of the 
 villagers. By some strange fatality, every movement that 
 he made seemed to involve him in new difficulties. Suspi- 
 cious circumstances seemed to walk with him like com- 
 panions wherever he went, to stand at his side whenever he 
 paused, to group themselves about him whenever he talked, 
 reechoing all his utterances. 
 
 At length, complaint was entered against him as a wizard, 
 and he was arrested and taken to the Bay, to be tried for 
 his life. At this time, the state of feeling in the plantation 
 had arrived at such a pitch that many believed that Hugh 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 382 
 
 had been in the practise of his hellish abominations for 
 months before the death of his wife, and that the minister’s 
 daughters were not the only individuals who had been their 
 subjects. He was brought before the grand jury, and in- 
 dicted, and then before a trial jury, which, by an unani- 
 mous verdict, found him guilty. The verdict came before 
 the magistrates for review, who, on examination of the evi- 
 dence upon which it was based, set it aside. The case then 
 
 Relic of Colonial Times : Little Dutch Church at Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 came legally before the General Court, which sustained the 
 view taken by the magistrates, and acquitted him.* 
 
 The ruin of Hugh could not have been more complete 
 had the verdict of the jury been sustained, and the sentence 
 
 * “ Whereas Hugh Parsons of Springfield was arrajned and trjed at 
 a Court of Assistants, held at Boston, 12 of May, 1652, for not having 
 the feare of God before his ejes, but being seduced by the instigation of 
 the divill, in March, 1651, and divers tjmes before and since, at Spring- 
 field, as was conceived had familiar and wicked converse with the divill, 
 and hath used divers divillish practizes, of witchcrafts, to the hurt of 
 diverse persons as by severall witnesses and circumstances appeared, 
 was left by the grand jury for further trial for his life. 
 
 “ The jury of trjalls found him guilty. The magistrates not consent- 
 ing to the verdict of the jury the cawse came legally to the Generali 
 Courte. The Generali Courte, after the prisoner was called to the ban- 
 tor trjall of his life, pervsing and considering the evidences brought in 
 against the sajd Hugh Parsons, accused for witchcraft, they judged he 
 was not legally guilty of witchcrafte, and so not to dye by lawe.” — Re- 
 cords of Massachusetts , VoL IV, part 1, page 96.” 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 383 
 
 of death executed upon him. He returned to the plantation 
 broken down in health and reputation — one more victim to 
 that strangest and most terrible of the delusions with which 
 God has permitted man to deceive himself. But the issue 
 of the case was followed by a healthy and much needed 
 reaction in the sentiment of the town. The veil was lifted 
 from the eyes of those who had been misled, and a thousand 
 things which, in their previous mental condition, had ap- 
 peared mysterious, were explained, until, heartily ashamed of 
 themselves, and indignant that their leader in spiritual and 
 religious affairs should have drawn them into such guilt of 
 injustice and cruelty, 
 they became open in 
 their complaints against 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Moxon was dis- 
 couraged. H e was 
 thoroughly grieved, not 
 only in consequence of 
 the fact that Hugh had 
 escaped from the punish- 
 ment which he fully be- 
 lieved was his due, but 
 because the people had 
 turned against himself, 
 the only individual, be- 
 sides his family, whom 
 he believed to have been 
 injuriously and unjustly dealt with. He felt that he could 
 no longer fight with Satan, and that he must forsake the 
 field and flee. 
 
 In looking over his future, and thinking of the departure 
 of Mr. Pynchon and Henry Smith— men who, from the first, 
 had been his friends — men who had pitied his calamities 
 and exercised charity for his frailties — he felt that none 
 would be left behind who would trust him as they had done. 
 There seemed to be no way left open for him but to return 
 to England, with his old friend and patron, and f ilf out the 
 measure of his life among the scenes of his youth and early 
 manhood. His proposition to this effect was received with 
 no surprise by Mr. Pynchon, who had for some time seen 
 that it would be his only practicable course of procedure ; 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 384 
 
 while it was received by the town with a degree of relief 
 and satisfaction which showed how their discontent with 
 him and his ministrations had become confirmed. 
 
 The details of preparation for the return to England of 
 these three men — Mr. Pynchon, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Moxon 
 — do not require a recital. It was upon a midsummer morn- 
 ing of the year 1652 — only two or three months after the 
 issue of Hugh’s trial for witchcraft — that all the members of 
 the plantation were assembled at the house of Mr. Pynchon, 
 the majority of them to bid him and his companions a final 
 farewell, and the remainder to bear them company on their 
 journey to the Bay. It was the most touching scene that 
 the people had ever witnessed. Mr. Pynchon addressed 
 them from the doorway of his house with kind words of 
 counsel, with the warmest terms of paternal endearment, 
 and with such allusions to the future as the occasion would 
 very naturally suggest. 
 
 At the close of his brief and simple address all pressed 
 forward to give his hand the parting grasp. Some of the 
 simple-hearted villagers wept aloud. Besides the members 
 of the plantation, a large number of Indians were present 
 to bid adieu to their friend. They pressed around or stood 
 apart in silence, struck with a tender solemnity which im- 
 pressed Mr. Pynchon quite as deeply as the more boisterous 
 demonstrations of his neighbors. He bade them farewell 
 in some kind words to their chief, distributed to them a 
 multitude of little gifts which he had prepared for them, 
 and conjured them to live in peace, as they had thus far 
 done, with their white brothers. 
 
 The entire family of Mr. Pynchon bore him company on 
 his journey to the Bay, but they did not form one half of 
 the party. Nearly all the horses of the plantation were put 
 in requisition for the transportation of packs and passengers, 
 and the cavalcade was the most imposing which had ever 
 passed over the Bay Path. It was a beautiful sight, on that 
 bright summer morning, as the long line started on its pas- 
 sage eastward ; and yet it was as solemn as a funeral pro- 
 cession. There were the magistrate and his aged companion, 
 Mr. Moxon and his wife and daughters, Henry Smith and 
 his family, Holyoke and Mary, and drivers and friends in a 
 long array. 
 
 Arriving at the summit of the hill upon the east — upon 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 385 
 
 the very spot wlv. re, sixteen years before, Mr. Fynchon and 
 his family had paused to look down into the valley which 
 was to be their future home — upon the very spot where Mary 
 had met her lover, at the side of her slaughtered pet— the 
 very spot where they stood when they crowned the northern 
 mountain tops with the names they bear to-day all paused 
 by a common impulse, and turned the heads of their horses 
 westward. 
 
 This was the most affecting moment of all. A throng of 
 the tenderest and strongest associations crowded upon every 
 mind, warm tears sprang into nearly every eye, and all 
 
 View, from Dorchester, of Boston Village in Puritan Days (Old English Engraving). 
 
 looked and lingered for whole minutes, without a thought of 
 the journey which lay before them. It was a moment for 
 prayer. Even the horses seemed to lose all impatience, and 
 to nibble at the tender foliage within their reach delicately and 
 without disturbance, Mr. Moxon’s head was bowed upon 
 his breast, in deep bitterness of spirit, and he did not seem 
 to catch the sentiment which pervaded the others; but 
 Mr. Pynchon, with uncovered head, his silver hair shining 
 in the sunlight, dropped his bridle rein, and stretching both 
 hands towards the valley, gave utterance to his emotions 
 and his aspirations in the words of prayer and thanksgiv- 
 ing. He prayed for the community he was leaving — for 
 their safety i^d prosperity, for the natives of the valley, 
 in whom he had always entertained a deep interest, and 
 for all who might be directly or indirectly affected by 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 386 
 
 the change which was then in progress in the affairs oi 
 the settlement. He committed himself and his companions 
 to God, and thanked his Father in Heaven for the discipline 
 — severe as it had been — through which they had been led. 
 As the “ Amen ” trembled upon his lips, every horse seemed 
 to turn of his own will into the path, and silently resume the 
 journey; while tearful eyes caught their last look of a valley 
 which through life they recalled as the acene of a long and 
 eventful dream. 
 
 Of the journey to the Bay — the multiplied interviews with 
 friends at Boston and in the other settlements, the prepara- 
 tions for the voyage, the return of alienated friends of Mr. 
 Pynchon to their old fidelity ; of the tender partings — part- 
 ings which, in some instances, were like the sunderings of 
 the heart’s quickest fibers, the embarkation, the dropping 
 down the Bay with the tide, the spreading of the vessel’s 
 great white wings, and their vanishment in the dusky dis- 
 tance, the return of the silent and sorrowful planters home- 
 ward, and their arrival among their friends — the particu- 
 lars do not call for a rehearsal. They brought to a close, 
 as the devout planters fully believed, a providential dis- 
 pensation, for the purpose of making way for another, which 
 should be longer and more prosperous ; and as the man 
 upon whom they had so long relied disappeared, they felt 
 themselves clothed with new strength and a new mission. 
 
 On the vessel, the minister and his family, with several 
 others of the party, were confined to their cabins during the 
 entire voyage. Mr. Pynchon was less affected than the 
 others, and made his way upon deck as early as possible, and 
 there, day after day, spent his time in conversation with an 
 old man, dressed in a sailor’s costume, with whom he seemed 
 to be on the most confidential terms. 
 
 There, together on one bark fleeing homeward, were three 
 outlaws, each one of whom, from widely varying causes, had 
 found himself dissonant with the spirit of the colony to such 
 an extent that he could not live in it. Independence of reli- 
 gious opinion, a becoming restiveness under laws unneces- 
 sarily rigid, and a practical belief in gross superstition, were 
 all really, and most decidedly, at war with the spirit of the 
 colony at that time. They could not live in it, and so re- 
 turned to the place from whence they came out. 
 
 In his conversations with Mr, Pynchon upon the vessel, 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 387 
 
 Woodcock (for the reader will have recognized him in his 
 sailor s dress) settled the plans for his future life. He had 
 promised his friend that he would neither make himself 
 known to Mr. Moxon, nor take any measures to revenge the 
 injuries he had received upon the deluded minister ; and 
 that he would remain near Mr. Pynchon, and in his employ- 
 ment, while they should be spared alive. 
 
 Famous Colonial Landmarks: Washington’s Headquarters at Cambridge, Subse- 
 quendy the Home of Longfellow. 6 
 
 Mr. Moxon, on his arrival in England, made an endeavor 
 to throw off the cloud which rested upon him, but he found 
 it all in vain. He was mentally a wreck, and both he and 
 his family were soon lost sight of, to all his old acquaintances. 
 Previous to his disappearance, he had been silenced as a 
 preacher, and doubtless spent the remainder of his life in 
 interior, if not menial employments.* 
 
 25 There is a tradition that he ” < Mr - Moxon) “ was silenced after he 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 388 
 
 Mr. Pynchon and his family, which embraced that nt 
 Henry Smith, settled down at Wraisbury, in Buckingham- 
 shire, a small place on the Thames, where he spent the re- 
 mainder of his days in the undisturbed enjoyment of those 
 pursuits which had become so pleasant to him. It was there, 
 within sight of the river which washed the shore of his gar- 
 den, that he dreamed of the past, and recalled the beautiful 
 Connecticut, with all its interesting associations. It was 
 there that he spent many a day in conversation with Wood- 
 cock, upon the trials of the past, the duties of the present, 
 and the interests of the future. It was there that he had 
 the deep satisfaction of seeing the old man — deemed repro- 
 bate by his former acquaintances — becoming meek, and 
 tractable, and penitent. It was there that he endeavored, in 
 a book still extant in the Harvard College Library, “ to clear 
 several scriptures of the greatest note in these controversies, 
 from Mr. Norton’s corrupt exposition,” and there that he re- 
 gained full command of his own reason, and reiterated the 
 opinions which, under a terrible pressure, he had mistakenly 
 recalled. It was there, in the last years of his life, that he 
 wrote other theological books and tracts, and sent out around 
 him a healthy and vigorous religious influence. It was there 
 that the infirmities of age crept silently upon him ; there 
 that at last, crowned with years and venerated by all who 
 knew him, he sank to rest in the blessed hope of joyful res- 
 urrection ; and it is there that, after the lapse of nearly two 
 centuries, still sleeps his most honorable dust. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon’s wife did not long survive him. Simple- 
 hearted, honest in her piety, venerating her husband while 
 he lived, and cherishing his memory as her most precious 
 treasure after he was gone, her last days were peaceful and 
 serene. 
 
 Woodcock survived his old friend for many years, and, in 
 his altered spirit, became a favorite with all who knew him. 
 Many a wise and learned man called at his cottage, to listen 
 to the recital of his experiences in America, the quaint views 
 
 returned to England, and died in great obscurity, and as a common ser- 
 vant.” 
 
 Historical Sermon by Rev. Wm. B. Sprague, D. D. 
 
 “He” (Mr. Moxon) “died, very poor, out of the ministry. Sept. 15, 
 1687.” 
 
 Bliss's Htsiortcal Address 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 389 
 
 of society and the leading questions of the time which he 
 put forth, and especially to hear him talk upon religion. 
 This subject became the leading one of his mind during the 
 last years of his life, and it was one upon which he brought 
 his strong and unwarped common sense to bear with remark- 
 able power. He was contented and happy. He believed 
 that God had done all things well, and hoped and expected 
 to meet the wife and daughter of his youth in Heaven. He 
 died a very old man, falling asleep in confidence and trust ; 
 and those who bore him to his burial-place, and covered the 
 earth upon him, interred a heart which could count as many 
 pulses true to manliness as any that had throbbed in that 
 century. 
 
 Henry Smith and his family lived through the remainder 
 of their days and died in England. They were a sober, godly 
 family of the Puritan stamp, and maintained a standing of 
 high respectability. But he and his became dust in their 
 appointed time, and all those who parted on the shore of 
 the ocean years before, have since met on the bank of a 
 river that has crossed the path heavenward of all the genera- 
 tions of men. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 HE plantation had passed 
 through a long convulsion ; the 
 crisis had arrived and passed ; 
 a healthy calm succeeded. No 
 rumors of witchcraft filled the 
 neighborhood with blasting 
 slanders and deadly suspicions. 
 
 After the General Court and 
 the people of the colony had 
 become thoroughly aware that 
 Mr. Pynchon had virtually 
 been banished from the country, 
 they began to realize that there had been a great wrong 
 done. They began to feel that the settlement of Springfield 
 had good cause for dissatisfaction ; and a reaction took 
 place which delighted in an opportunity to show honor to 
 the family of the prescribed bookmaker, John Pynchon, 
 390 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 391 
 
 Elizur Holyoke, and Samuel Chapin, in the order in which 
 their names are here recited, were appointed a board of 
 magistracy with a commission precisely like the one granted 
 the previous year to Henry Smith. This commission was 
 held by renewal for many years, and acting under it, these 
 three men became an important and most respectable legal 
 tribunal — the first in the western part of the colony which 
 assumed the dignity of a court. 
 
 Its inauguration 
 was the opening of 
 a new volume of 
 \ife and affairs to 
 the plantation, and 
 properly belongs to 
 another drama. 
 
 John Pynchon, its 
 head, became the 
 foremost man in the 
 Connecticut valley. 
 
 There is hardly a 
 deed of land from 
 the Indians, in the 
 Connecticut valley, 
 in which his name 
 is not mentioned. 
 
 He was the leader 
 in trade as well as 
 in public and mili- 
 tary affairs. His 
 excellent wife, who 
 was the daughter of Gov. Willis of Hartford, bore him 
 a large family of children ; and, full of years and honors, 
 and known everywhere as the “ Worshipful Major Pynchon,” 
 he lived to see the dawn of the eighteenth century, when he 
 fell asleep. He lived to see the banks of the Connecticut 
 settled throughout the width of the Massachusetts patent, to 
 pass through the terrible scenes of King Philip’s War, and 
 suffer more than any other man by its reverses, and to be- 
 come assured of the expansion of the colonial germs, planted 
 here and there, into a mighty empire. 
 
 Holyoke was honored during a long life with the confi- 
 dence of the town and the colonial government. He was 
 
 Noted Leaders of Old Colony days : John Hancock, 
 First^igner of the . Declaration of Independence. 
 
392 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 blessed with brave and beautiful children, worthy alike of 
 him and the noble and beautiful mother who bore them. 
 
 Deacon Samuel Chapin lived a long and useful life. He 
 was a diligent, persevering, reliable man — a faithful public 
 servant, and an invaluable man in the church. He was 
 blessed with a large family of children, and they were all 
 boys ; and they had large families of children who were all 
 boys, who, in turn, had large families of boys. The conse- 
 quence was that Springfield became filled with good people 
 bearing that name, and the name was spread all over New 
 England, so that, at this day, there are many thousands who 
 bear the blood and the name of Deacon Samuel Chapin. 
 
 On the departure of Mr. Moxon, the town was deprived of 
 the ordinances of religion, but there was a general deter- 
 mination that no minister should be called until one could 
 be fixed upon who would fill the place honorably for God 
 and himself, and profitably for the people. At length, their 
 many prayers for a man who should be after God’s own 
 heart were answered, and their long and patient efforts 
 crowned with success. The Reverend Pelatiah Glover of 
 Dorchester came among them, a young man, crowned with 
 the graces of his blessed Master, and walking in the light of 
 God’s countenance. He went in and out before them, and 
 broke to them the bread of life for thirty years, and then, in 
 the precious words of a record that dared to speak in Chris- 
 tian language, the Reverend Pelatiah Glover ‘‘fell asleep in 
 Jesus.” He made his office honorable, and rescued its fame 
 from the terrible delusions with which his superstitious pre- 
 decessor had associated it. 
 
 The Bay Path became better marked, from year to year, 
 as settlements began to string themselves upon it, as upon 
 a thread. Every year the footsteps of those who trod it 
 hurried more and more, until, at last, wheels began to be 
 heard upon it— heavy carts, creaking with merchandise. 
 Spots of the forest which it divided were cleared, and as the 
 settlements upon the Connecticut were multiplied — as the 
 white men gathered in plantations at. Woronoco, Nonotuck, 
 Pocomtuck, and Squakeag — they went more rapidly and 
 more frequently to the Bay. 
 
 A century passed away, and the wilderness had retired. 
 There was a constant roll along the Bay Path. It had grown 
 and was still growing into a great thoroughfare. The finest 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 393 
 
 of the wheat and the fattest of the flocks and herds were trans- 
 ported to the Bay, whose young commerce had already begun 
 to whiten the coast, and to stretch off upon broader enter- 
 prises in competition with the staunch old bottoms of the 
 mother land ; and whose commodities came rumbling back 
 in prosperous exchange. 
 
 The dreamy years passed by, and then came the furious 
 stage coach, traveling night and day — splashing the mud, 
 brushing up the 
 dust, dashing up 
 to inns, and curv- 
 ing more slowly 
 up to post-offices. 
 
 The journey was 
 reduced to a day. 
 
 And then — mira- 
 cle of miracles — 
 came the railway 
 and the locomo- 
 tive. The journey 
 of a day is re- 
 duced to three 
 
 hours. Where Hancock’s House. 
 
 the traveler toiled over swamps and through thickets, and 
 slept under the canopy of the trees, disturbed all night by 
 the howls of savage beasts, the train flashes and thunders 
 by, bearing a thousand happy hearts, traveling for pastime, 
 or bound upon errands of business or friendship. 
 
 How fared Peter Trimble amid the changes of the suc- 
 ceeding years ? In the first place, his pimples disappearedo 
 Nobody knew where they went. It was only known that 
 they had been, and were not. As the sun of his married 
 life arose, they vanished and very probably exhaled. At 
 any rate, they went away never to return : and Peter be- 
 came a long, lank, feeble man, more or less given in his 
 later years to rheumatism, which he attributed to getting 
 up so much nights to look after the children. The Tomson 
 children he found of vast service to him, when he came to 
 have a family of his own, for he, like his deceased predeces- 
 sor, was abundantly blessed with offspring ; and he did not 
 regret, on the whole, that he had not been able to get rid 
 of them, Labor upon the farm became at last too severe 
 
394 
 
 THE BAY PATH. 
 
 for him, and he took to coopering, doing the most of his 
 work in the house, and thus assisting Esther in taking care 
 of the family,- occasionally drowning their noise with his 
 adze, and always furnishing them with shavings to play 
 with. He preserved until his dying day his superiority as 
 
 a cutter of hair and a 
 sharpener of razors, and 
 in the latter part of his 
 life, consented to re- 
 ceive a small fee for his 
 services in those fields 
 of effort. 
 
 And the widow Tom- 
 son made him an excel- 
 lent wife, and was quite 
 equal in every respect to 
 his deserts. She might 
 have been more elegant 
 and refined, keener of 
 intellect and more pro- 
 found and thorough in 
 culture, but she would 
 have been but little more 
 highly appreciated by 
 him in consequence, and 
 could not have changed 
 her relations to him in 
 the matter of sensitive- 
 ness and intelligence, 
 without a great loss of personal comfort, and the necessity of 
 obtaining and losing a modicum of self-respect. That the pair 
 were very poor need not be written ; but if, after their frugal 
 supper- at night, the reader could have seen Peter making 
 rabbits on the wall in a kind of animated fresco for the 
 amusement of the children, or giving the youngest one an 
 imaginary ride to Boston on his foot, cantering feebly away 
 in the stimulus of Esther’s voice, he would not have thought 
 them unhappy. But Peter spent a good deal of his time 
 away from home, and he enjoyed it, and made it profitable 
 In snaring partridges, and catching beaver, and hooking 
 various fish, and gathering sundry medicinal herbs. Esther 
 did not complain. 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 395 
 
 Hugh Parsons carried with him a lifelong sorrow and a 
 lifelong humiliation. Mild and inoffensive, he was beloved 
 and treated by the majority of those who knew him with 
 such attentions as only the unfortunate receive — some of 
 them so kind that they started the tears in his eyes, and all 
 of them so marked that they could not but remind him that 
 others remembered as well as he. 
 
 But there is one character — the most lovely that has found 
 its place in the narrative — which still remains to give the 
 reader a parting smile, and yet she parted from the others 
 early. The stone, if the reader have patience, shall tell the 
 beautiful story. 
 
 On the banks of the Connecticut, close down where the 
 bending turf hangs its ear over the rippling wavelets that 
 kiss the beach, and murmur and 
 whisper to it night and day, the first 
 grave in the plantation of Agawam 
 was made. There swelled the first 
 mound over a white man’s breast, 
 and there, one by one, as the years 
 rolled away, rose other mounds. The 
 rank grass waved over them, the 
 night-straying cow stumbled among 
 them, and unseemly shrubs sprouted between them, and, at 
 long intervals, were cut away. There, one after another, those 
 whose life has informed these pages were gathered, and there 
 the brown sandstone, roughly finished, and quaintly carved, 
 and clumsily inscribed, was placed above their heads. Years 
 and scores of years flew by, the heaps multiplying on every 
 hand, from period to period, till the yard seemed full, yet 
 it ever took in more. There they lay when the wintry 
 blast was driving, and when the summer sun was shining ; 
 when the trees were shedding the purple of autumn, and 
 assuming the green of spring ; when the ice, a lid of crystal, 
 lay over the waters of the river, and when those waters 
 laughed in the breeze and the sunlight, or swayed and 
 staggered with the weight of the stars upon their bosom. 
 There they lay — the silent settlement of Agawam. Some 
 fell by the red man’s arm, and were borne thither in fear, 
 and buried in the presence of faithful muskets and threats 
 of vengeance. Some were borne there in old age — an old 
 age that died in fear after a life of fear. Among these slept 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 396 
 
 the maiden with the bloom upon her cheek and life’s disci- 
 pline all untried, and the sweet infant of days, and the 
 mother parted prematurely from the children of her love 
 and the man just risen to manhood. 
 
 Year after year the frost came down and heaved the ground 
 
 Washington Elm. 
 
 — now this way, now that — till the mounds settled down to 
 the level around them, and the stones sank down into the 
 mold, or leaned in indiscriminate and inharmonious angles, 
 or fell prone along the graves, face to face with the skeletons 
 whose name they bore. It was a rude spot — sacred, oh, 
 very sacred — but dressed in few of the charms that the sen- 
 sitive Christian mind loves to gather around the place where 
 its silent friends lie, and where it expects to lay down its 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 397 
 
 own frail tenement. So, in the later times, when the steam- 
 boat came thundering up against the bank where the sleepers 
 reposed, and the Bay Path had been mounted with tracks 
 of iron, and the long trains flew over it, another field was 
 chosen — a field laid out by God’s own hand as a sleeping- 
 place for his children. A tinkling brook dragged its silver 
 chain over the pebbles through the midst of it, and old 
 gnarled oaks with scanty foliage spread their arms and nod- 
 ded upon its hillsides, and maples rose on every hand, so 
 darkly and freshly green in summer, and so richly draped in 
 gold and purple in autumn, that they betrayed the crystal 
 springs which gushed at their roots, and laughed and played 
 like children among the alders. 
 
 Into this new field came a swarm of living forms, and 
 ratified by Christian rites Nature’s recognized act of conse- 
 cration. And then commenced the work of reformation and 
 culture. The brook was led down from the spring where it 
 was born, like a pet lamb, with a bell upon its neck — made 
 to leap precipices and practise dainty antics at their feet, 
 to steal silently along under the grass for a score of rods, 
 and then dash into the sunshine, then to stumble down grad- 
 uated steps, to find its feet at the last, and bound merrily 
 away out of sight and hearing. From the foot of the oak 
 was thrown out a terrace, and on the terrace rose a shaft of 
 marble. And the springs which gushed from among the 
 roots of the maples, and had spent their lives playing among 
 the alder bushes, were taught a new path to the valley, and 
 there sprang like living trees, swaying and dissolving, sigh- 
 ing and whispering, in the midst of their crystal basins. 
 The rough face of the earth was smoothed, picturesque little 
 nooks that had caught the leaves for centuries were cleaned 
 out, the hills were rounded off, and paths were made to wind 
 into every sinuosity of the renewed landscape. 
 
 To this beautiful spot were then borne the dead. On 
 every hill, in every silent nook, on every jutting promonto- 
 ry, rose the sandstone and the marble. There was laid the 
 pastor, among the fathers and mothers and lambs of his 
 flock. It became the resting-place of the people — so beau- 
 tiful that the living never tired of wandering through it and 
 lingering in it, and so sweet with its music of brooks and 
 trees and fountains, and the sight and smell of flowers, that 
 death became more amiable in the association. In the long 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 398 
 
 Sabbath afternoons of summer, many a lonely wanderer sat 
 under the trees, and dreamed away the peaceful hours ; and 
 groups with chastened hearts and springing tears assembled 
 around their cherished inclosures, to think and talk of the 
 departed ones at eventide. 
 
 At last, there arose the need of another iron path to the 
 settlement. Like the original Bay Path, that which at first 
 connected Agawam with the Connecticut settlements was a 
 bridle path. Then, as on the Bay Path, descended the era 
 of enlargement and improvement. The baggage wagon, 
 the stage coach, and all the old conveniences for travel and 
 transportation came in their time, and, by their side, the 
 
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 t <*y>cyi £ tvr** yt- & Ojfj 
 
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 ' Mv is " 
 
 (^ott-OT) TTlaUiM' 
 
 Cotton Mather’s Signature. 
 
 sail boat and the steamer. But the age demanded some- 
 thing more, and the engineer, as he adjusted his levels, 
 struck gravestones in his glance, and the surveyor’s chain 
 was dragged across the old inclosure where the fathers were 
 sleeping, and where they had lain down without a dream of 
 rising until the resurrection. The decree of commerce was 
 issued, and it was arranged that the accumulated dead of 
 two centuries should be removed to the new cemetery. The 
 spade was dipped deeply down through the mold and sand at 
 one side of the field, and every pound of earth, spadeful by 
 spadeful, was scrutinized for such frail memorials of those 
 who had been buried there as remained undissolved. Each 
 bit of plank, each ghastly skull, each remnant of a bone was 
 treasured in coffers prepared for it, and wherever a stone 
 marked a deposit, both were removed together, and preserved 
 from dissociation. At last, the work was completed, and the 
 sacred old spot surrendered to the engineer. 
 
 There, on the summit of the hill, overlooking the valley 
 
THE BAY PATH. 
 
 399 
 
 and the western range of mountains, rests the fallen genera- 
 tion. The old stones, with inscriptions very imperfectly 
 traceable, invite the attention of the curious passer-by, and 
 there he will read, if he can make out the half obliterated 
 letters, the names of many who have become familiar to him 
 in these pages. Among the old stones, he will find one 
 which seems to have bidden defiance to time, and to have 
 escaped the mossy and crumbling decadence of its fellows. 
 It has marked a precious resting-place for nearly two hun- 
 dred years, and these are the words which it bears, as clearly 
 cut and as fairly engraven as if they were traced by the 
 chisel within a twelvemonth. 
 
 Here lyeth the body of Mari, 
 
 the wife of Elizur Holyoke, 
 
 Who died October 26, 1657. 
 
 SHEE YT LYES HERE WAS WHILE SHE STOODE 
 A VERY GLORY OF WOMAN HOODE ; 
 
 EVEN HERE WAS SOWNE MOST PRETIOUS DVST 
 WHICH SURELY SHALL RISE WITH THE JVST. 
 
 THE END. 
 
COMPLETE LIST OF THE 
 POETIC AND PROSE WORKS 
 
 ... OF ... 
 
 ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 
 
 POEMS OF POWER. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 POEMS OF PASSION. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 Illustrated Edition— gilt top, 12mo, cloth 1.50 
 
 Illustrated Edition— gilt top, 12mo, white vellum, 2.00 
 “Only a woman of genius could produce such a remark- 
 able work.’’— Illustrated London News. 
 
 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 These poems make life doubly sweet and cheerful. 
 
 “Mrs. Wilcox is an artist with a touch that reminds one of 
 Lord Byron's impassionate strains.’’— Paris Register. 
 
 MAURINE. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 New Illustrated Edition— 12mo, cloth 1.50 
 
 New Illustrated Edition— white vellum, gold top 2 00 
 Beautiful thoughts and healthy inspiration in every line 
 “Maurine is an ideal poem about a perfect woman.”— The 
 South. 
 
 KINGDOM OF LOVE AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 A choice collection of recitations, specially compiled for 
 readers and impersonators. 
 
 "Her name is a household word. Her great power lies in 
 depicting human emotions; and in handling that grandest of 
 all passions— love, she wields the pen of a master.”— The Sat- 
 urday Record. 
 
WORKS OF ELLA WHEELER WILCOX-ContJnued. 
 
 THREE WOMEN. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 Her latest and greatest poem. This marvelous narrative of 
 thrilling interest depicts the lives of three good and beautiful 
 women in every phase of weakness , passion , pride , love , sympathy , 
 and tenderness. 
 
 AN ERRING WOMAN’S LOVE. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum 1.50 
 
 “Power and pathos characterize this magnificent poem. 
 A deep understanding of life and an intense sympathy are 
 beautifully expressed.”— Tribune. 
 
 Every-Day Thoughts in Prose and Verse. 
 
 tier largest, latest and greatest work. 
 
 Presentation Edition— 12mo, cloth, gold top .$1.50 
 
 New Gift Edition— white vellum, gold top 2.00 
 
 MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS. 
 
 (Prose.) 12mo, heavy enameled paper cover $0.50 
 
 English cloth ... 1.00 
 
 A skillful analysis of social habits, customs, and follies. 
 “Her fame has reached all parts of the world, and her 
 popularity seems to grow with each succeeding year."— Amer- 
 ican Newsman. 
 
 AN AMBITIOUS MAN. 
 
 (Prose.) Silk cloth, 12mo $1.00 
 
 “Vivid realism stands forth from every page of this fas- 
 cinating book.”— Every Day. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD. 
 
 (Poems, songs, and stories.) With over sixty original 
 
 illustrations. Silk cloth $1.00 
 
 The delight of the nursery. A charming mother’s book. 
 “The foremost baby’s book of the world.”— New Orleans 
 Picayune. 
 
 PRESENTATION SETS. 
 
 Poems of Passion, Maurine, Poems of Pleasure, King- 
 dom of Love, and Poems of Power are supplied in 
 sets of 3, 4, or 5 titles, in cloth, or white vellum bind- 
 ings, as raay be desired, in neat boxes, without extra 
 charge. 
 
 ELLA WHEELER WILCOX is pre-eminently America’s leading 
 emotional poet and writer on every-day topics. 
 
 FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS 
 
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