THE
BAY-PATH;
A'ale of eJtu l1tanb  Qoloontial Pif.
J. G. HOLLAND,
AUTIOR OF " LETTEP.RS TO THE YOUNG," "LESONS IN LIFE," ETI.
NEW  YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 124 GRAND STREET.
1862.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S5T,
BY G. P. PUTNAM  k CO..
In the Clerk's Ofce of the District Court of the United States, for the Southeru
District of New TY rk.




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PUBLISHER'S PREFACE.
A SMALL edition of this work, published in 1857, having been for some
time entirely out of print, a constant and increasing demand for it has led
to its republication.
The very great popularity of the author's subsequent works, which
have, in the aggregate, nearly reached the sale of one hundred thousand
volumes, would, of itself, give unusual interest to this volume; but it is
with special reliance on its own merits that it is again offered to the
public.
April, 1863.




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 communicating 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 practical 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 legitimate 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 demonstrate, 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




PrEFACE.
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 sympathize.  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 childhood 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 historical. The tale is, in reality, a section or
segment of history, withdrawn from its location and relations, and endowed with a life and spirit which aim to be consistent and harmonious
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 centre and the distant settlement; for, along its pages, the
writer has endeavored to trace, through dim forests of superstition, by
the side of life-giving streams of thought, over barren hills of bigotry,




PIREFACE.
among rocks of passion, and across mountain-tops of high resolution
and noble action, the path over which those influences passed which
shaped the policy of the governing power and moulded 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 subject; 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.
RIPBLIOAN OmFIE, SPRINGYCMZI
JamnwuA, 1857.




THE  BAY-PATH.
CHAPTER I.
IT snowed incessantly. Far up in the fathomless grey 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 north-east, 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 south-western hills.
But the storm was skilful as well as strong. It wove a
wreath in the hair of the splintered stump; it chiselled fair
capitals upon rude gate-posts; it crowned stone chimneys
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 fantastic
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




8                THE BAY PATH.
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 unprotected wood-pile, to gather material 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
fiom the window, 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 employed 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 at.
tracting the eyes of the maiden and the boy, formed a pie




THE BAY  PATH.                      9
ture of wild and civilized life, beautifully representative of
the mixed materials and strange combinations and compa.
nionships 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
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
Roxbury, 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 sand heavy public responsibilities, when Mr. Pynchon, with a memory still true
to the mother of his children, married Mrs. Frances Samford,
" 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 axe 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
1i*




10               TIE BAY PATH.
freight of joyous boyhood, and with shouts the motley procession passed through the street. Paths were shovelled
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 demonstrations 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
looked at Mary, his sister and teacher, and the two latter
laughed good-naturedly and heartily at the profound solution. The old lady bent on them a not unkind look of inquiry, and subsided to the patch and the needle.
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
which had passed over his son. In high natures the transi.
tion from boyhood to manhood is instantaneous, even if not
recognised in the consciousness. Under some deep impression, 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 tc
charm. Or, perhaps, the eye comprehends the grace of




THE BAY  PATH.                     11
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, become
tame and tasteless.
John Pynchon had grown up by the side, and under the
influence of one who was to hi; 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
elegance. 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 fire-place.
The shadows of evening fell around the house, as the fa.




12               TIE  BAY PATI.
mily 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. Pyncli entered from the other side,
he effected a most obsequious bow, with a burly head of
bristling hair.  The eyes of the new comer were small
organs that had an uncertain; vacillating way of looking at
everything, 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 tonight."
" 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
trials were necessary to me-necessary to my peace. This
poor weak heart of mine needs to be driven to its faithAh! 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 without
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




THE BAY  PATH.                    13
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,
unbelief 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 tMat He is above me, and
around me. It is only in crowds that I tremble. When I
see a throng —anl 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 His 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,
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-abasement and
condemnation.
This exhibition had no novelty with Mr. Pynchon, but




14                THE  BAY  PATH.
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 philoimpher, 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 circumstat ces. There are others whose spirits religion occupies
and possesses, 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 listening 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                    15
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 confusion, 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 organization 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
window.
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 in 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




16               TIIE BAY  PATH.
a smile of acknowledgment, and passed them into an adjoining 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 hei
gratification in an exclamation that hung upon the letter m
with a singing tone, as if her imagination were already
feasting on 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 anticipate the Indian's wants more readily than the rest,
soon deposited a pewter plate in his lap, charged with bountiful slices of corn bread and cold venison.
Meanwhile, Mr. Moxon had busied himself with a readjustment 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
responded pleasantly to his hurried " good evening."  The
beaver skins and the Indian were too much for his fastidious sensibilities, and the cold, 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 new comer is thus engaged, and the family
carry on their conversation in a quiet tone, watching Johnas he unties and holds up, one by one, the beaver skins that




TIHE BAY  PATH.                    17
are to be transferred in sale to Mr. Pynchon, it will be well
to give a brief history of the gentleman who has just
engaged 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, determination
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-conformists. At this time he was serving as chaplain
to Sir William Brereton, and preaching 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 freeman
at Boston in 1637, and, during the same year, commenced
his labors as the first minister of the church in Agawam.
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, 3Mr. Pynchon was a fountain of
strength, and light, and encouragement; and, as that gentleman 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 revealing 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 Agawam to Mr. Pynchon and his associates, and at this
time had upon his back one of the "eighteen coats"




18               THE BAY  PATH.
received as the principal consideration named in the convey.
ance. 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 picturesque.
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 upon the house.
hold.




CHAPTER II.
AT 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 beneath 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 destinies! There they wheeled in their calm cycles,
and filled the abysses with light and order, and the music
of their endless song! 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, revealing from an occasional glazed aperture the light that
gleamed from blazing hearths; and they seemed so lonely
and so small, that it appeared almost blasphemy to think
that they should come within the cognizance and care of
the infinite God of an infinite universe. And then he came
back to himself, a poor unit, a weak atom, at war with itself,




'20              THE BAY  PATI.
and inharmonious with its accidents; and he sank down,
down, into depths of conscious insignificance, so fearfully
profound, that death and despair could hardly have been
darker.
He started from his reverie with a pang, and began to
retrace his steps. He had walked but a few rods 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 new comer in the plantation, and he had
already had an altercation with him. The minister stood
irresolutely 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, aint it about
time you was climbin' them'ere wooden notches?"
The reply came in the voice of a petulant, ill-trained girl
--  No, dad, I know what you want. I know what you're
goin' to do-you're goin' to play cards."
"Well, little one, we wont trouble you to keep tally.'Twould be oncommon perlite in you to do it, but we're
gentlemen-we cant'low it."
"I won't go up-stairs to-night, in the snow, any way,"
replied 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 was 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.




THE BAY  PATI.                    21
"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 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
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
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 subsided 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 see'em at eight o'clock-business of importance-messenger jest in fiom 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. Pyn.




22               THE BAY  PATH.
chon! I trust your worship is well to-night. Sit down, 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
attracted 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
recognised each as he passed, and closed the door after
them as they retired. Then turning to Woodcock, he addressed him in a voice in which sadness and sternness were
equal ingredients:
" Goodman Woodcock, those apprentices have been seduced 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. Looking the minister doggedly in the face, he replied, " If I was
somebody else, and somebody else was John Woodcock,
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 neighbor who comes




THE BAY  PATH.                    23
snuffin' 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 meantime, I
beg that you will treat this child kindly and cease to sacrifice her comfort, and everything good in her character toto-"
"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," 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
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 therehad 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




24                THE BAY  PATH.
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 ly 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
towards his daughter, who sat looking into the fire, and
preparing 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,
composed of blankets and skins. As soon as this task was
completed, 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, resLumed 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 difference whether he does or not.  What business had he
to come in, and disturb my hen-roost, and scare my chickeng? 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




THE BAY PATH.                    25
a baby. I hav'n't asked anybody to come and watch over
me, and be my guardeen. Here they've been to work,
makin' a devil of me ever since I landed, tryin' to make me
a saint-getting me mad so's to make me better. And
there's them boys. I've got'em into a scrape, I s'pose,
but I couldn't help it. I've got to fellowship with somebody, and so have they, but we aint 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 hearin'. Wonder 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 comin'
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. He, 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 prepare a dwelling and plant corn. He was just the man to
undertake the task. At the distance of many miles from
2




26               THE BAY  PATH.
any white settlement, Windsor and Hartford being the
nearest, he had sufficient room and felt no restraint. With
a strong, original nature, he spurned all control, and only
asked for the privilege of minding his own business, or of
doin'g 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 unchecked, 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
of character. He had thought her wilful and stubborn, and
so she was; but as soon as he began to trace in her a likeness to himself, his heart softened with a kindly sympathy,
and he resolved to treat her more tenderly.




CHAPTER III.
ON the morning following the events that have been recorded, the first person moving in the house of Mr. Pynchon
was Commuk, the Indian, who, long before daylight, had
exhausted sleep, and newly fed the expiring 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 tlinkets, 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. Mloxon can be going at so early an hour this
morning!"
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 in sight, on his way back, and directed his steps
towards Mr. Pynchon's house.
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




28               THE BAY PATH.
whether the Indian had gone. On being assured that that
individual and his offensive burden were both out of the
way, he came fbrward, and, without removing his coat and
muffler, related to Mr. Pynchon the events'of the previous
evening, in connexion 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 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. Pynchon 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; an.d
in this they engaged until the return of the messenger, who




TIHE BAY PATH.                   29
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 wolf
skin that dangled downward to his heels.
The poorly suppressed mirth excited by his appearance
was a good preparation for his reception, and, when he appeared 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 convulsive 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
regaining control of his emotions. In the meantime, Mary
Pynchon 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
offence to your honor, or your house, but I took a consait
just as I come in, that this'ere old wolf skin 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 critter inside of it, and a big




30               THE BAY PATH.
onreasonable fuss outside. I meant no offence to you, sir,
but the consait was a little too much for me, and I couldn't
ahold in."
Having concluded what he honestly meant should be a
satisfactory apology for his rudeness, Woodcock threw his
wolf skin 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, "Goodman Woodcock, I am informed by Mr.
Moxon that you are pursuing disorderly practices in the
plantation by enticing apprentices to your house, and harboring them at unseasonable hours; and that, when reprimanded 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
lbokin' 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'




THE BAY  PATH.                    31
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 thank.
ful 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
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. Magistrates 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 fnilk 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
business of them that wants to be great to serve them that
aint 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
responded briefly, to the effect that he did not propose a
discussion 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 subject
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.




32              THE BAY PATH.
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 destruction. 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
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
infinite 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 recognise, but he looked at the minister sadly and
bitterly, and replied, "'Taint 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
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.




TIE BAY PATH.                     33
Mr. Pynchon stepped to the door opening into the apartment 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 re-opened, 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
entered the room. Tom (the name of the pet), went from
one to the other of the company, lifting his slender neck
towards 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
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
hav'n'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
some in it that are jest as thankful and jest as humble as
they can be, I want you should remember John Wood
cock, and think he's sayin''em to you."
2*




34               THE  BAY  PATH.
Mary was touched by his emotion, and, taking his rough
hand, said, " I am very glad if I have done anything tc
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 haint 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 sometimes, 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 does 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 wolf skin over his
shoulders, bade a homely good morning to the silent family,
and, preceded 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 confound 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 ourselves, 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 hewould wish to
appropriate to himself?" inquired Mr. Moxon, looking up.




THE  BAY PATH.                    35
"He would claim for himself neither wisdom nor might,
I presume," replied Mary.
" Hum! 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 conversation by saying that she thought they were complimenting 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 prefer 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 really had excellent traits of character,
springing from a basis of practical common sense, was accustomed, 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 innocence of pertinency and point. This seemed to spring from
the 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 irrelevant 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




36               THE BAY  PATH.
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 Mary had just given away so
readily, she felt some sensitiveness, as it was only through
her own considerate economy that it had been brought fiom
the Bay. So the frock became the prominent object in her
thoughts, and the one around which all the events and associations 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 hills-the weary
path over which she had travelled nearly two years beforeand 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 improper 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 contemporaries, but much less bigoted and intolerant than most of
them. He had the sense to see that the rigid policy of the




THE BAY  PATH.                    37
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 ignominious, 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 quarrelsome 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
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.
TnE Sabbath morning following these occurrences was still
clear, and frosty; not a soul was stirring, and it seemed almost
as if the lonely cows of the settlement had forgotten to call
to each other from their scattered sheds.
At length, when the morning had well advanced, a window 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 immediately. Men, women, and children poured out of their
humble dwellings, and bent their steps towards Mr. Pynchon'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.
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 vwas right, put
it out again to assure his friends that the survey was satisfactory, walked in,-beckoned the others to follow walked




THE BAY PATH.                     39
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 proceeded 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 tvas observed,
but made no answer. As soon as the stamping at the door
gave opportunity, however, Peter resumed:
" When have you seen old Moxon?"
"I saw Mr. Moxon yesterday," replied John, a little
indignant, as he knew that his father was liable to similar
familiar treatment.
"Oh! Mr. Moxon-yes! well-what did he say Y"
" 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.
"Oh! the darndest row-you've no idea."
"Anybody hurt?"




40               THE BAY PATH.
"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 upthese 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
being 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 company at Woodcock's.
" Now mind," said Peter to the boys, " if John says anything 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 instructions.
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




THE BAY  PATH.                    41
turned to'his companions, and, assuming a threatening aspect
of countenance, and executing several fierce diagonal nods,
said, " You do just as I tell you, now; if you don't you'll
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 Peter would have
proceeded, had it not been for a slight interruption that
occurred at this moment, it is impossible to tell, but, as
adverse fortune 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 solemn reproof. Peter immediately appeared
to have a vision of an infinitely attenuated cobweb, swinging somewhere in infinite 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 satisfied 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 deer skin small-clothes, and the puffs and
rosettes that marked the junction of the latter with his hose,
with a broad collar or band of linen lying flat upon his
shoulders, and a closely fitting cap upon his head, he was
the impersonation of quiet dignity and patriarchal grace.




42               THE BAY PATH.
Near him sat his family-Mrs. Pynchon with her stiffly
starched and formidable ruff, that cast into comparative
insignificance 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 his 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, a 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. Others, whose names need not be called, filled
up the large room; and in each corner, near their owners*
stood the faithful 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 expression 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 reserved for him, his wife and child found an
unobtrusive location 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 rebellious thoughts and bitter reflections.




THE  BAY  PATH.                       43
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 ejaculation 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, swinging 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
thought of what he was doing, he looked around and caught
Woodcock's eye. The expression that he met there did
not tend to re-assure him, but he arose and offered the open
ing 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;
Nor 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,




44                 THE  BAY  PATI.
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. Mloxon, 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
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
summer rain.
And still the voice sang on, and the old logs hissed on
the hearth.
And then came up before him  a calm, patient facecourageous and resolute in its calmness and patience-the
face of one so true to him, so loving and so loyal, that at
last, travelling willingly in the hard path over which he had
called her to walk with him, she had fainted, lain down, and
died.




THE  BAY  PATH.                   45
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
blessedness 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 prayerlong, 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 keep out his bad thoughts, if possible,
he listened for the announcement of his text.
" But after thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasurest
up unto thyself wrath against the day of wrath, and revelation of the righteous judgment of God."




46               THE BAY  PATH.
Woodcock shook his head, arose from his seat, placed his
girl upon the bench, and then, taking his gun, opened the
door and retired fiom the house. The charm was brokenthe hallowed and hallowing influence dissipated. The transition 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, "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
Qnd appreciated the cause of Woodcock's withdrawal, and
felt disturbed. 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,
"Indians!"
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 attention, Peter made another errand to his shoe, and whispered,
"What did you see?"
"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 services 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
congregation passed her in retiring. The look of recogni




THE BAY  PATH.                    47
tion 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
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 impertinent 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?" persisted Peter, in his bantering way.
" None of your business, you plague," replied Mary, in
the same angry voice.
" Well, do you know tnere'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
looking 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
lightning, struck him a stinging blow in his face. Peter,
for the moment, lost his temper, and, taking the girl by the




48               THE BAY  PATH.
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 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 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 Hpjry
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."




T' E BAY  PAT H.                   49
"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 ally 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 important subjects while in the presence of his family, because
they came in collision with the prevailing opinions and
sentiments 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
differences with a prevalent faith. But this occasion was
too important, and the lesson too necessary, to be neglected.
Accordingly, 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
reconciled 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 
overflow, in every word and action, with that love to all
mankind that shall lead him in his daily social intercourse,
and in his public religious duties, to choose his means of
grace with a wisdom and an unfailing perception of adaptedness that shall render impossible all serious offence. The




50               THE BAY  PATH.
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 indiszriminately; or worse-deals out threatenings where promises 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 the measure
of his unfitness for his office. Men with the common share
of human reason, respect earnestness, honesty, and selfdevotion, 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 recognised 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."




THE BAY  PATH.                   51
"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."
" You do not mean, brother," said Mary, laughing, " that
you would cheat so innocent a thing as an office, of so valuable
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
offended 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 minister, we ought to-to make the most of him" (slightly breaking 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, somewhat excitedly, "There comes John Woodcock, 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.




52                THE  BAY PA-TH.
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, gathering his stiffly curling hair within the grasp of his fingers,
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
musn'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 all the 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.




THE BAY PATH.                     53
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 without 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 musn'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 aint but one way to do it, and it seems's'ough
that would spile me. I can't give up hatin' men that it aint
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
silence. 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




54               THE BAY  PATH.
nothing. No one except the favorite daughter, Mary, had
the slightest apprehension of the impression that Woodcock made upon Mr. Pynchon.  This apprehension was
vague, as it must have been, with no more definite communication between them than that borne along the lines
of a magnetic sympathy, but it was none the less real for
lacking expression.
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 ol
turbid water-but still true to the essence of his constitution, and the outline of his moral conformation. He despised Woodcock'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
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! 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                    55
you are over sensitive in this matter. Besides, your daughter really needs the clothes."
"Well, I don't dispute it, but if you wont 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 comfortable clothes does not amount to much."
" Well, Square, if I must tell the whole on't," said Woodcock, straightening  up desperately, and extending  his
brawny arm for an emphatic gesture, "I don't feel in fightin' trim with them clothes on that gal. I feel as if an angel
had got a mortgage on me, and I'm afeared she'll foreclose
some time when it ain't convenient."
No one could withhold a smile at this abrupt and characteristic conceit, and under the cover of the smile Woodcock
retreated, and bent his steps homeward, leaving Mary gazing downwards upon her present, thus strangely returned,
and busy in revolving the motive that bore it companion.
ship.




CHAPTER V.
WOODCOCK'S allusions to the strangeness of his child, it
will have been seen, were not infrequent, in his conversations with others concerning her; and it has already been
hinted that her eccentricities were attributable in; great
degree to her early loss of a mother's guidance, and her
almost exclusive association with her father and his usually
coarse companions. Some weeks had passed after Woodcock returned 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 in Natur's that?  Well! she has
broke out in a new place, now!" As he stood, waiting for a
repetition of the strange sound, his cars were greeted with
a well executed imitation of the crow of a strong-lunged
cock.
"What has got into that critter now!" exclaimed Woodcock, and then, dropping his axe, he assumed an unsuspicious face, and walked into his cabin. He found Mary busy
in clearing away, and, in he; poor 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 mornin', Mary?"
" Peter Trimble," replied the girl, without pausing in her
operations.
" What have you been thiakin' about that little-littlenimshi?" inquired the father, with the softest appellation of
contempt he could call to mind.




THE  BAY  PATH.                   57
" I was thinkin'," 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 encouragingly,
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 impatient.
" Now don't go into tantrums, Mary," said Woodcock
deprecatingly; " I heerd somebody crow, here, in this'ere
cabin, and thinks I to myself that's the gal, a tryin' to see
what she can do."
" I wish you'd stop tryin' to fool 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 demonstration 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,
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
3*




58               THIE BAY PATH.
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 
regard 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 anything in his power to make that transformation permanent.
WVoodcock 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, recognised 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,




TIIE BAY  PATH.                   59
sweet, han'some lookin' woman, and she had as good a heart
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 countryand 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
byre-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
interested, and, as she appeared to be in deep thought, he
proceeded.
"And so we all lived together for a spell, and then we




60               TIHE  BAY PATTI.
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 pleasant, she was goin' to die. And there was you
runnin' round, not knowin' what you was losin', and her big,
shiny eyes a-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 off'm 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
interest 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




THIE BAY PATH.                    61
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 seen'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
perfect simplicity.
"Do they come, as you say, always when you are
asleep?" inquired Woodcock, beginning to feel distressed.
" 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 recognise 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
possible, 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 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




62               THE BAY  PATH.
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 fiom 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 1635.
"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 turfs of thought into prairies of expression,
and capable of running through all the latitudes of diplomacy
in so simple a mission as that of borrowing a peck of corn.
In a tone in which pity was intended to be insultingly




THE BAY  PATH                     63
predominant, 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 confluent
nods), that is to say, on terms of intimacy (and John Cabel
coughed, with the fore-finger of his left hand on the right
aspect 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
yourself?" said Woodcock, regarding him with a look of
supreme contempt. "If you're sick to the stomach, why
don't yoa throw up, and get shet o' your slobberin'?"
Cabel smliled, coughed, and replied, "You have not forgotten how, to joke, John, and it reminds me of other days
(emphasis and confluent nods)-days when our relations
were diffe-ent; that is to say, when they were not unpleasant. They have been somewhat disturbed, it is true,
but never with my consent, and now, to be obliged, as an
officer of the law (emphasis, &c.), 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."




64               THE BAY PAT.
"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 unpleasant comment in the -plantation.
It was, therefore, with something like dejection in his air
and feelings that he threw the accustomed wolf skin 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   65
at the same tilnt, 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 Mr. Moxon,
who, on not obtaining any motion of obeisance, turned his
eyes in another direction.
"I'm  all ready, Square," said Woodcook; "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 connexion with these representations.
" Well, Square, I aint guilty of anything, as I know of,"
said Woodcock. " I don't consider it's guilty-"
"Prevarication," said Mr. Boxon, with a nod at Mr.
Pynchon.
" No,'tisn't prevarication, neither," said Woodcock, turning 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




66                 THE  BAY  PATH.
had led him into was sufficiently ludicrous to draw a smile
upon the faces of all present, and he thus escaped a reprimand.  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 reputation.
" What do I understand your plea to be?" inquired Mr.
Pynchon.
"Not guilty!"  exclaimed Woodcock, in a stiff, stern
voice, and then, tossing his wolf skin 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 Woodcock, rising.
"Certainly, if relating to the case," replied the magistrate.
"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," continued Woodcock, preparing to sit down, "for it's all the
same to me who's on the jury."*
* The following is an extract from the record of this trial in the
Pynchon Record Book.
" George Moxon complained against Jo. Woodcock in an action of
slander, in that he 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 ~9, 19s.
" The Jury. 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."




THE  BAY  PATH.                    67
"Goodman Woodcock," said Mr. Pynchon, in a firm but
pleasant tone, "it is apparent from this remark that you
intend to complain of injustice in connexion 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 OUi
judgments in establishing justice between you and Mr
Moxon. You are accused of a grave offence.  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 mind, involves one 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 man.
ner it deserves."
Woodcock sat regarding the magistrate's words and
manner 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! 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




68               THE BAY PATH.
no words to bandy with you, Woodcock. The trial will
proceed."
The witnesses were examined, one after another, by Mlr.
Moxon and the magistrate, and the evidence was conclusive
against the accused. He had charged Mr. Moxon openl)
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 aint
a smooth one, and I don't know how I should make out,
tryin' to foller 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 satis.
fied with what these folks have said, and I could a' saved'em the trouble of sayin' 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.'Tain't very comfortable for a feller
to think he haint 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."




.lHE  BAY  PATH.                   69
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 relapsed into a cough, as satisfactory to himself as it was full
of provocation to Woodcock, who, seeing that he might
proceed, resumed his remarks.
"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
fast 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
be 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 their laws, 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
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 ex



70                TI E BAY  PATH.
citedly 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 offence 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."
"WVoodcock," said Mr. Pynchon gravely, "you have
forfeited 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 offence.
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' but blowin's-sometimes right afore my child,
sometimes 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 doubtfully, 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, and was good in figures, I sh'd like to have'em find how long it would take to make a Christian of me
in this way, and about what it'll cost."




THE BAY  PATH.                     71
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
important 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
IMr. 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 plain.
tiff would regret the possession of money that would




72               THE BAY  PATH.
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."
"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 magistrate.
" John Cabel, and p'raps some of the jury, if you'll be so
kind," replied Woodcock, " though I ain't goin' to dodge,
if you do hit without hearin'."
Mr. AMoxon 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.
Yod are aware that I have had very little association with
you of late (a long quiet cough), and that I could not have




THE BAY  PATH.                   73
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?"
" Yes, or no," said 31r. Pynchon.
" Yes."
" Well, what did I say?"
"You said," replied Cabel, without any urging, "that
Mr. Moxon had sworn to a lie." (Emphasis, &c.)
" That's true," said Woodcock, "and now you may set
down, and if we wa'nt here, afore these gentlemen, 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
4




74              THE BAY PATH.
how the story got to me, and got spread up and down the
plantation. 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. Pynchon, turning to the jury, " that these are mitigating circumstances, 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
arrived 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 13s. 4d."
" Well," said Woodcock, rising, with a mingled expression of anger and disgust upon his rough features, "I'm glad
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 Woodcock, 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 magistrate 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 minister 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




THE BAY PATH.                    75
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 repeated 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.
THE winter during which these events occurred was long
and severe-so severe as to give rise, among all the settlements on the Connecticut, to serious apprehensions of scarcity of food. As a consequence, 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 settlements was by a path marked by trees a portion of the distance, 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 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 dragged. 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 which flowed news from distant friends, and through which came long, loving letters
and messages. It was the vaulted passage along which
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 BAY  PATH.'27
the blades of a hundred streams, was a bond that radiated
at each terminus into a thousand fibres 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 fiiends on the journey
and friends at home.  If every traveller had raised his
Ebenezer, as the morning dawned 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 observation had furnished only sparsely-scattered hints. The
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 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,
or two or three pedestrians, benelirg.jenealh-their packs,




78               THE BAY PATH.
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 hospitality, 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 settlers started forth upon the journey to the Bay, with his
burden of letters and messages, and his numberless commissions 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 companion, 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
easiest of access. She could not tell why she chose it. Her
feet almost by force took the path which her thoughts had
travelled 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



THE BAY  PATH.                     79
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 possible 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 inspired by the beauty around her. A form of medium size
and faultless mould was but indifferently draped and ungracefully 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 pencilled 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
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 convenient moment, it goes on, passes through maternity to maturity, and if then its work is done, it sits
down, and waits for the angels.




80               THE BAY  PATH.
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 heart seeks for an occupant. The intellect, having appropriated such aliment as was requisite to
the growth of the uncrowned feminine nature, feels the
necessity of more intimate companionship with the masculine mind, to start it upon its second period of development. Here, at this point, some stand for years, without
making a step in advance. Others marry, and astonish, in
a few brief yearsi by their sweet temper, their new beauty,
their high accomplishments, and their noble womanhood,
those whose blindness led theni 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 tlie
consciousness that she was a favorite with all. But that
was not enough; and as she sat there, on that sweet May
morning, 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 early shad 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 travelled 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




TI E   A Y  PA TH.                 81
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 fiom his chopping," said
John to his sister.
At this instant, a sharp, peculiar bark, 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.
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
fiom 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!" 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,
4*




82                T IIE BAY  PATI.
Just as she was disengaging herself from the head of
Tom, so that she could rise, she heard the gallop of
approaching 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 the 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
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 in 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,




TIIE BAY  PATH.                   83
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 unless you kiss them. A kick will kill an omen as certainly
as it will a hare."
"Poor Tom!" said Mary, looking down 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, " particularly 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 spectators 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 jealouslooking 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."
"And if the boy is the one I think he is," 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




84               THE BAY PATH.
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 anr
actor with whom the reader has already formed an ace
quaintance.




CHAPTER VII.
PETER TRIMBLE, who had grown tired of his chopping upon
the hill, left it, on the pretence 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, fill of greedy curiosity, came out to meet him.
" 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!"




86               THE BAY  PATI.
" Well, you see-you know Tom, don't you —ary 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 programme 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
usual 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 carefully
recall the scene, before he could safely venture to describe
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. lie 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 at the door, whither she had been called by




THE BAY  PATH.                    87
seeing the little company of men in the distance, he approached her.
" Do you know where those men are going, Peter?"
inquired the old lady, with a trusting look of inquisitiveness.
" They're going after John and Mary," replied the boy,
and then added, "Oh my! How I have run!"
" 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 something, 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, he 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 commenced.
"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?  (Interruption of several seconds for
mastication.) Thinks, says I, is that a bear, or a catamount?
Well! I hearked as much as five minutes, I s'h'd think,
when all at once 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!"




88               THE BAY  PATH.
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 the 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. WVell,
pretty soon I heerd a gun go off. Didn't you hear it down
here? I sh'd think you might. O!'twas a tremenduous
loud gun; it liked to spit my head; and then pretty quick
I heerd something a'r'erunning- r'rrunning-r'r'runningl'l'lipitli      alipl'l'lipitalip-l'lipitalip- lickitabang
-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?"
" 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! hullabaloo! who the devil's here!' Oh!'twas awful! You never
heerd a feller swear so in your life. When he got to where
the woman was, he dropped his bridle, and jumped offrm
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-axe, till she began to
cry, and take on, and —"
"Well, do tell me, Peter," said the old lady, whose
patience had well nigh broken down, " where Mlary and
John were all this time."




THE LAY PATH.                    89
"Mary and John?" inquired Peter, putting the last
morsel into his mouth, and wiping his lips with his shirtsleeve. "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
villagers, he said, " You'll have folks to dinner to-day, so I
guess I'll leave."
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 ot
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. Pinchon'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
jealousy in a moment, and brought tears of the sweetest
pleasure 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 lonely




90               THE BAP PATH.
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 Holyoke, 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 emotion, 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 emotions, 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 unembarrassed 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!"




THE BAY PATII.                   91
Some minutes before Mr. Pynchon concluded his biter.
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
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 starting off at a brisk pace, he was soon out of sight. The lovers,
hand in hand, followed. It was mid-day, and the tender,
half-diaphanous chestnut-leaves, and the maple boughs still
rosy with their birth-blush, and the pine-buds, whose crystalline 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 thoge 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 Iolyoke, 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. I 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




92               THE BAY PATH.
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 slightest 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. He
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 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 uttered in a playful tone, but
the quick heart of the girl recognised 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 affectionate 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




THE BAY PATH.                     93
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 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 down her
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




94               THE BAY PATH.
lady, but she was a little piqued by Mary's vehemence, and
so, bent on maintaining her point, she said, " Well, my dear,
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.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE presence of Mary Pynchon's lover at Agawam was
no less the subject of common gossip than common knowledge. He had not been within the plantation a day when
Mr. and Mrs. Pynchon 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 perhaps 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
turn out so that there might be an addition to the settlement."
Agawam had never had such a visitant before, and the
effect of his presence upon the girls and young women
particularly, 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
experience 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 coming 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




36               T II E BAY  PAT.
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
anything apparent to the eye, or comprehended in the reason.
He was a man who impressed every 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 he talked, with 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 step-daughter, and became
as early the confidant of the grave and reserved father as
of the young and nobl-hearted son. He was authority in
matters of fashion, and intelligent in questions of 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 i e was a fountain of intelligence concerning places and p rsons associated with the past. To
Mr. Pynchon he was ^ fresh, free spirit, full of vitality and
strength, able by th(i subtle powers of intuition to solve
questions that his ov a reason had grappled with in vain.
To John he became an idol-a man-by the side of whom
all the men he had c),a were pigmies-mere shows of men.
On the morning tolI )wing Holyoke's arrival at Agawam,
he walked out with 3 [r. Pynchon, while John and some of
the neighbors join, d his companions from the Bay in a fish-ng excursion. M. F ynchon communicated to him his plans
concerning the pi atxtion, gave the character and position
of each settler as   passed his cabin, and soon introduced




TIHE BAY  PATH.                    97
his visitor into all the interests of the place, and his own
policy in their management and development. 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 confirmed 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 confidence, in matters touching his religious opinions and experience; 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. Pynchon," 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, because every one reveres you; and, third, because you may
do very much as you please here," replied Holyoke.
"Are those all the reasons you can give?" inquired Mr.
Pynchon.
"They are all I thought necessary to give, because the
absolute essentials of happiness are things which a man generally carries with him,-which are, to a very great extent,
independent of circumstances.  Religion and family affection, for instance, are, or should be, unaffected by location
and associations"




98                THE  BAY  PATH.
"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 fiiends is engaged in breaking up my home."
"I understand the latter clause of your statement," returned  I-olyoke, 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 disturbed 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 enjoyment 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 proceeded
firom anything akin to guilt."
" W'here 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 doctrines 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 fiom the dignity of the divine character; 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                     99
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
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."
"What if I were to quote to you from  Romans the
words,' Hast thou faith?  Have it to thyself, before God,'"
suggested Holyoke.
" You would not help me at all," replied Mr. Pynchon,
"for I should quote from the context,' for, whatsoever is
not of faith, is sin!'"




100               THE  BAY  PATH.
" Well," said Holyoke, " your position is a hard one, 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 the
truth, and fiequently 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 I
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
vlain attempt to destroy any unimportant errors with which
it might for the moment be associated.  Martyrdom is
never pleasant, and can hardly be called respectable when
suffered at a stake which the martyr is obliged to hold up
to keep it fiom 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, without his late companion, she wished him to move; but he
could not give up the conversation so readily, and addressing
her, he said, " Mary, you mistake in regard to the nature of
our conversation, but why do you speak so contemptuously
of doctrine?  It seenms to me that some of the dryest chips




THE BAY  PATH.                    101
are the staple duties of life which you so readily associate
with beautiful things."
"Because that doctrine is good for nothing save as a
definition 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 their accompanying lamentations over neglect of duty. Men will talk of nothing but
doctrine fiom  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, as well as won honor to religion, and saved
remorse to themselves."
"That may all be true, and I am inclined to think that a
part of it is," said lHolyoke, "but I do not exactly see how
a man can find out one doctrine by performing the duties
issuing fiom relations defined by another."
" Just over the bank, there, flows the Connecticut," said
Mary, raising her hand, and blushing at her own earnestness, " and its waters come from hills and valleys very far
North. Now if you were wishing to find the sources of




102               THE  BAY  PATH.
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 promise, 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 he comprehended with new appreciation the intelligence that informed
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
to each other, and how precious a thing was love, his selfishness vanished, and a prayer for their constancy and happiness found utterance at his trembling lips.




THE  BAY  PATH.                  103
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 unfortunate 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 looking in her demure
face with a merrily twinkling eye, exclaimed, " 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 heartless?" 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




104              THE BAY PATH.
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 language the
most appropriate the equality of the pure mind with which
he was matched.
Seeking still higher ground, the lovers paused and looked
off upon the valley.
" When shall you be ready to leave your Arcadia?" inquired Holyoke tenderly.
" When love and duty agree in permitting me to leave
it," replied the girl.
"I believe you profess to find your duty in your relations," 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 iniinqung
what kind of an answver 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                   105
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 sadness."
Mary uttered these words with anxious misgivings, and
Holyoke heard them with his eyes upon 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 mould the character of this settlement, 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 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 comfort, and more valuable
than riches."
She paused for a reply, and paused with anxiety, for she
felt a chilling influence in the half offeidced look that Holyoke 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 arenot
supreme in the mind and heart of his mistress or his wife.
And so, while Holyoke was listening to the bctutiful words
of one who had honored him by her love, and by associating him with schemes of noble social and.hristian enter:
5*




106              THE BAY  PATH.
prise, a jealous feeling touched his heart,-a feeling spring.
ing 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 forgiveness. 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,
and his poor pride gave way before an honest indignation
against himself, which found vent in strong language.
" 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.




TIIE BAY PATH.                   107
"If you really knew how I have abused you, and how
heartlessly I have led you into this trap, I am not sure that
you would not reconsider your pledge of truth to me."
"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 settlement, 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
suggestion. And then you came, and here, after pouring
fiankly 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?"
"You could not have come to do this."
"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, " 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."
" May God bless you!" exclaimed Mary, and hid her
face upon his breast.
" Your prayer is answered," responded Holyoke tenderly,
" even while you are speaking."
When, at length, she lifted her head, Holyoke said in a
low voice, " Are my crimes forgiven?"
" No," replied Mary, " they are forgotten."




108              THIE  BA   PATII.
The lovers sat for some minutes in silence, which was at
last broken by Holyoke. "Mary," said he, "I have just
conceived an idea that seems strange to me as well as
rational."
" What is it?"
"That I have become a new being in a new world."
"Explain," said Mary.
"Do you ever think of your childhood without having a
vision of your childhood's home? Can you think of yourself as a little child, without seeing all that surrounded you
when a child?"
" Granted that I cannot," replied Mary: "What then?"
"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?"
" I think I understand you," said Mary, "and now for
your new idea."
"I felt as I was sitting here, that my soul had flowed out
upon, and fitted itself to a new scene,-as if all that I saw
around me had become a part of me; and certainly no
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 mould," 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 now intensely poetical."
" By the way," continued Mary, with a look of well disguised 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                   109
drawn away fiom his pet conceit, " and why should woodland differ from wife?"
"There is one difference, at least: the wife takes your
name and the woodland does not."
"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 for ever, 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 for ever!" 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. ToMI for ever!" said Holyoke, in sportive
imitation of Mary, and the lovers simultaneously rose, and
bent their steps homewards.




CHAPTER IX.
THE reader has not yet received a proper introduction to
the family of Mr. George Moxon, but there have been
good reasons for the delay. The family had its peculiarities,
and they were peculiarities so essentially idiocratic that
the most favorable circumstances were necessary to be in
conjunction, for their thorough exhibitic
For several days succeeding the events recorded in the
last chapter, fhe 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 refieshed 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 grey screen hid them and the sky above
them, and spread over the heavens. And then there was
much hurrying to and fro, 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
grappled, they wrestled, they writhed, they groaned, they




TIiE  BAY  PATH.                   111
roared; but the forest giants were the victors, and, in toe
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 centurieswas 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 recognised 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
levelling 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
lightning; and only stirred his limbs to change their position, which, in his nervous state, became painful after hav.
ing been sustained for very brief spaces of time.  Mrs.
Moxon sat in another chair, holding in her arms her youngest daughter, Reb'ekah, and divided her attention between




112              THE BAI  PATI.
her, her husband, the window, and the bed near it, where
lay her oldest daughter, Martha, a convalescent from a
somewhat protracted 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 remained 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, "Hlow 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
her 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 upon the information conveyed 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 question 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!"




THE BAY  PATH.                   113
"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
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
satisfactory distance, without being overwhelmed by some
unanswerable question, shocked by some strange remark,
or startled 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 refrain 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 fieaks.
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
originally 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.




114              TIHE BAY  PATH.
"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 lie, mamma?"
The poor mother rose despairingly fiom the bed, and
resumed 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.
"I wish you would go to sleep with me, papa," replied
the child, "for then you could 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!  Oh! 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




THIE BAY PATH.                    115
blows his nose, and the birds all fly out 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 two angels, and one
stands on the head-board and the other stands on the footboard, 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."
"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
seened 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 nqt. At last both father and daughter
were seized with an involuntary shudder at the same moment.




116              THE  BAY  PATH.
"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 himself, 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
that something had passed his window that had cast a shadow 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




THE BAY PATH.                    117
only other room they possessed, that they might, without
disturbing 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 comprehend, 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 watchings, 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 heavenward, 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.




CHAPTER X.
Fon many years after the settlement of Agawam, a religious meeting was held every Wednesday, at which the
minister pronounced what was denominated a "lecture."
On these lecture days, all the people were expected 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 interest to the
plantation. A portion of the day was regarded by the
apprentices and children as their own, for the purposes 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 multitude 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
observing 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,
and the lecture was over, he was observed giving sly
whispers to such boys as were in the secret, and all moved
off towards their homes.
Peter, as soon as he had arrived at his home, went back
of it, and, under the cover of trees and shrubbery, proceeded down the river bank, until he had arrived opposite




THE BAY PATH.                    119
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
features, as Peter made his appearance, and her quick forgetfulness 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 possible
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?"
" He don't brag any more'n 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,




120              THE  BAY  PATH.
"but he carries it too fur. Oh! you ought to hear him
brag."
"I don't b'lieve he brag —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 I,' I darst.' Says he,' put up your money;' says
I,' 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,'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 o' 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
confident 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 robody
else," said Mary, decidedly.




THE  BAY  PATH.                   121
At the upper end of the settlement there was a moundlike 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 mischief-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
of the plateau. At, and near this point, a careful observer
would have discovered various mysterious excavations,
booths, corn-cobs, egg shells, partridge feathers, &c., 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 predominant.
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
Woodcock. 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 promised 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 covers 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.
"LungoNt!" responded Peter.
6




122               THE BAY  PATH.
" 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 contrive 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
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 new comers.
"She's jest about tuckered me out, coming up here,"
said Peter, wiping his forehead on his shirt sleeve. " 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,
" you'll catch your great-grandmother ridin' a trottin' ridge
pole; now you'd better b'lieve that;" and, as the alternative seemed extremely improbable, it was admitted on all
hanb  that Peter would not back out.




THE  BAY  PATH.                   123
" Dad'll get back'fore I do, if I don't get through pretty
soon," said Mary, half whispering to Peter.
"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-ban, ratta-ban, ratta-biddle slap!'-you start when he
gets to' biddle-slap!' "
"Yes," said Tim, "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.
" Hold my cap, now," said Peter to the boys, spitting on
his hands, and winking in a very comical way.
"Are you all ready?" inquired Tim.
"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.
"Now!" exclaimed Tim, "Ratta-ban, ratta-ban, rattaban, 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
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 excessive. He rolled, and screamed, and beat his head against
a tree, as if he were a ram and the tree his foe. In a




124              TIIE  BAY PATH.
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 impulses 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 but just time to escape the hard blow that she
intended 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 betrayer. 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.
Peter really felt a sense of relief upon finding himself in
the hands of Elizur IIolyoke, who, while holding him with




THE BAY  PATH.                   125
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 soothe
ingly as she went, and giving her such counsel as her circumstances 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?"




135              THE  BAY PATiH,
"I do," replied Mary, firmly.
" Do you know how I feel?" inquired Woodcock.
"I have no doubt that you feel very indignant, and I certainly 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?"
"I do not 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
ewner 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.




THE BAY PATII                   127
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 MIr. 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
distinguished lad, "I think I understand your case pretty
well. You are evidently in want of a course of strong discipline. 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 tischllief 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.




CHAPTER XI.
GREAT was the joy in the settlement at Agawam when
it became known that Holyoke had determined to unite
himself to the fortunes of the plantation, as well as to its
fairest flower.
He had only allowed himself 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 accomplished their object, in seeing the country, and
had had the good fortune to 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 interviews, realized
again, in its endless repetition, that enigma of love propounded 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 strengh, 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.




THE BAY  PATH.                     129
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 was 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 ribald 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 offence. Bright, beautiful dream!
Fair flower of paradise! 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 for ever!
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 execution. 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 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
6*




130              THIE BAY  PATI.
suggestion, or rallied him  upon his drowsiness, and not
unfrequently 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 common-places, 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 temper 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 respectively 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 before
her, and the destiny to which she had devoted herself.
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
legislature. 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
messages 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




TIIE BAY  PATH.                  131
the new villages of the retiring West.  Savages-men,
women, and children-came in, in throngs. The novelty
of the settlement had not yet passed away, and those who
did not come to sell came to see.
The last man who visited Mr. Pynchon, previous to his
departure, was John Woodcock. Taking him a considerable 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 Woodcock, 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 Petel."
" 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
nlusquash, 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 misunderstand 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 haint
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
suiting you, and it is very hard for you to suit us. By the
way, have you satisfied Mr. Moxon's claim fci  damages
yet?"




132              THE BAY  PATH.
"No, Square, you know I hav'n't, you know I never will."
"Very well, you must not complain at the consequences.
You know that I feel fiiendly 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
second word, and a strong scowl of contempt.
"Go your way, Woodcock-you seem  determined to
make trouble for yourself and everybody else." Thus saying,
Mr. Pynchon bade him good-bye, 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 fiiends to take leave
of, and convey messages for, and a very lively morning it
was on every hand. At last, Mr. Pynchon took his horse's
rein upon his arm, and, with John at his side, moved off,
while Holyoke and Mary followed in the same mannerJohn to 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 neighborhood 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.




THE  BAY  PATII.                  133
"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 understood. It had been repeated several times during his visit,
whenever he had given utterance to an unworthy suspicion.
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, perhaps, 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




134              THE BAY  PATH.
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
Dursuits."
Poor Holyoke did not know what to say to such a dissection 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, temporarily
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 remainder of the distance to the summit of the hill was occupied
with practical Christian conversation, with promises 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, exclaimed,
" M3ay 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.




CHAPTER XII.
THE freight of furs had hardly retired from  sight, and
the last Indian stragglers departed, when Mr. Moxon
appeared at his door, and walked briskly towards the residence of the newly elected constable, John Searles. Calling Searles to the door, lie inquired in regard to the disposition that had been made of Peter Trimble. 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 business," 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,
and he did this the more readily as he knew his man, and
had entire confidence in his courage and efficiency. Turning




136              TIIE BAY  PATII.
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. Pynchon to attach the body of
John Woodcock, who has failed to pay the damages in the
slander case."
"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 constable
busied himself for half an hour in finding and properly
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 their corn-fields,
and Woodcock was among them. Stepping into his canoe
the constable pushed from the shore, and transported himself 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




TIIE BAY  PATHI.                  137
on his shoulder, and heard the words, "You are my
prisoner."
"How do you make out that figur'?" inquired Woodcock.
" In black and white," replied the constable, drawing the
warrant from his pocket. "Do you want me to read it to
you?"
Peter Trimble was all eyes and ears, until suddenly
reminded of his duty by a side cut from Woodcock's hoehandle. 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
slander: 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 satisfied, 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),
" ou 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
* Copied from the Record of the original Document.




138              THE BAY  PATH.
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. IIe had calculated upon
intimidating Woodcock, but he saw at once that the man
was determined, and that he would never submit until compelled by brute force.
"Don't you think you'd better go over t'other side,"
inquired 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,
accompanied the constable to assist him in making the
arrest. Woodcock saw them coming, and taking his gun,
he carefully 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 jest 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 consultation, but had hardly closed their circle when Woodcock's gun was discharged into the air, and turning suddenly, 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




THE BAY PATH.                     139
extricating himself from his feet, the constable comprehended the whole trick, and dropping his gun he leaped
upon Woodcock before he could rise, and by having immediate 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 circumstances 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 desperate, and cared nothing for life; and he knew that the
canoes in use were of 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 constable
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.




140              TIlE BAY PATH.
The transport had proceeded but a third of the way
across, 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, comprehended at a glance the position of affairs, and, without
uttering a word, moyed 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, "we have caught
the fish, and now how shall we cook it?"
"That's the question," replied the constable.




THE  BAY  PaTHl.                  141
"That's the question," responded Burr.
"Rather a serious question," said Henry Smith, gravely.
"I know what I should do," said Peter Trimble, squirting 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
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 hle 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 sard beneath, and
the kind sun above, lent him their warmth, and he had become so far restored to himself as to feel the indignity inflicted upon him as he was loaded upon a rough sled or
hurdle, and drawn by a yoke of cattle to the house of the
constable.
Peter Trimble, who had done more than any other one
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 his face, for she had heard 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.
Unfortunately for Peter's reputation as a liar, the incidents which formed the basis of his story were quite equal




142              THE  BAY  PATH.
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 swaggering 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 axe, and looked up brightly and
affectionately as her friend approached. Mary Pynchon
had started fiom 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 expression 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                  143
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
willingness and alacrity his daughter brought out her clothes,
tied 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 defence. 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 confhsed shouts of those who
swung them, and looking far up into the sky, and seeing
the clouds as they changed into cornfields, and the cornfields 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




144               TIIE BAY  PATH.
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 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 way of
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 suspicion 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. Iis legs were then loosed from
their fastenings, and a pair of strong arms lifted him to his




THE B Ar PATH.                  145
feet. He )nly knew it was a friend, and leaning upon his
shoulder hobbled off with him  through the street, and
beyond the limits )f 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
release.
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.
WOODCOCK's disappearance was a nine days' wonder among
the settlers of Agawam.  The first impression was that
he had fled to Hartford, or, perhaps, to either Wethers.
field or Windsor, the other southern settlements; but a
traveller who arrived at the plantation from Wethewsfield
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 during 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
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




THE BAY PATH.                    147
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 discovered two modes of swallowing-one upwards and the
other downwards. This was the theme of infinite speculation, 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, practising 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




148               THE  BAY  PATH.
her daily, holding  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 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 downwards.
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 healthful tone. This was a very precious missive, enjoyed much
in out-of-the-way places-an ever-abounding spring of tender 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;
shining specimens of latten and pewter ware, for the adornment 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 inclose 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




THI E  BA Y  P ATII.       ]149
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
treasures 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 "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 sumn'fier.
During iMr. Pynchon's absence from  home, lMr. Mtoxon
was in the habit of calling at the house almost daily, to
inquire for the health of the family, and to pass a few
minutes in chat with Mrs, Pynchon and M1ary.
On these occasions Mlary Woodcock was nearly always
present, or came in to ask some 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 minister addressed Mrs. Pynchon with, " I see you have
Woodcock's unfortunate little daughter with you."  This
was uttered with a kind of interrogative inflection which
was equivalent to asking how it came about.
6"Yes,  said M]rs. 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.
t"Very stron1g,)  echoed Mrs. Pynchon, again looking at
Mary,  wh-ose eyes were still on her work.
I suppose," continued the minister, "that you had no




150                 T IIE  BAY  PA TH.
idea when you brought her here that her father would leave
the plantation."
MIrs. Pyanchon knew that it was Mnary's business to answer
these questions, if it was anybody's, so this time she looked
at Maryl and. said nothing.  Mary, who knew  that it was
none of MIr. 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 conversation on the subject would be unpleasant.  But she would
not be rude, and so replied, "G 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.l
" As I remarked," persisted the minister, ~ the sense of
duty must have been very strong.'"
" I cannot take the credit of acting under even the slightest sense of duty,' replied Mary.
" You surprise me," said the minister.
" By not beilng as good as you supposed I was?" inquired
Mary, the old kind smile lighting up her face, despite her
vexation.
" No, but really, Awhat else could have induced you to
undertake such a chlare?"' Self-gratification, if you please, or impulse, or sympathy,
or a11 together," replied Mary.
" Those," and the minister assumed a bland tone,   those
may be the highest motives of a carnal heart, and doubtless
are, bout Christ's disciples should have a higher one."
It is not a natter 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
expression, so she simply replied that she regarded a sense
of duty as being quite as far removed from being the highest Christian moti-ve as those which she had assumed as the
basis of her action in regard to Mary W\oodcockl.




T iE  A Y  PA T II                  151
V Whalt can be higher as a motive of action than a sense
of duty to God?" inquired the minister, with a kind of dogS
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. Mooxon.
" 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 dilfer with
him upon its definition.
" Duty involves obligation-indebtedness.   What I
nnderstand by a sense of duty is a sense of indebtedness or
obligation. What I do fiom a sense of duty is done in discharge of an obligation or a debt; and it seems to me that
when a kind act is performed only fiom 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 froml a
sense of duty which a pure love to God and man forbids."
" These are new notions, Mary," said the minister, shaking his head sternly.
"G None the worse for that, if they are true, I suppose?"
said Mary, and then added,' but perhaps I am not nnderstood. I regard duty, and a sense of duty, as entirely different things.  I believe that all good and just and praiseworthy deeds'are performed in the realm, and under the
sanctions, though not necessarily by the commands of duty.
Thus, I may, fromn  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
measure by a sense of duty.  My motive is a higher and
better one."
NTo sooner had Mfary concluded her explanation than she
perceived lthat she had produced a marked effect upon the




152              THIE BAY PATH.
minister, and recognised on his face a look of mingled
anxiety and distress, like that which she had produced on
the occasion which introduced him to t!e reader. He sat
in entire silence, absorbed in his thoughts, until the silence
became 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, prepared
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."
" 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 practical 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.                  153
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 looking up and down, he moved homewards. Up to
this moment, he had not suffered himself to have a doubt
in regard 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.




CHAPTER XIV.
iT was not till among the last days of June that 3Mr.
Pynchon returned from  the Bay. The more important
news had already reached him, in letters which he had
received by occasional travellers, f rom  Mro.  oxon and
Mary.
He was entirely informed of the events that had occurred
in connexion with the capture and disappearance of Woodcock, and despite that individual's contempt of his authority,
regretted the whole affair very thoroughly. IHe had arrived
somewhat late in the evening, and, after sending out the
letters he had brought from  the Bay to different individuals in the plantation, and distributing trifingg 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, which was repeated upon
his turning his eyes in that direction.
W Vho's there?"' demanded Mr. P~nchon.
" Well,'tain't a saint, but it's nobody'at'll damage you
any," replied the unmistakable voice of Woodcock.' Woodcock, is that you?"
G Yes, it's me, Square, and, if you're not too tired, I sh'd
like about five minutes' parley with you, out here on the
door-stolleo9
WVoodcock's disappearance had been a cloud upon the
mat'istrate, overshadowingll  the joy of his return, and, singular as it may seem, the rough words that met his ear
were the sweetest music he had heard for many cdays. He
immediately obeyed the summons, and shookl the hand of




TIHE BAY PATH.                   155
the fugitive fiom 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 anything 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'am 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 comin' 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'11
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 plantation, as well as the colony, —responsible to no one."




156              THIE BAY  PATH.
" )o I? Well, it's so, Square, and it always'11 be so. If
I can't have the right kind o' deaIin'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" Woodcock, what is there to hinder your 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 in 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."
" Don't make a chicken of me," said Woodcock, brushing his nose, " for it gives me an onhandy bill for nothin',
considerin' there couldn't anybody eat me."
"Do not jest, Woodcock, but tell me frankly what the
trouble is," earnestly continued Mr. Pynchon.
"There's two men in this plantation," said Woodcock,
pulling off his shoe, and shaking out a pebble, " 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 think's 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."
" You have certainly been very frank, Woodcock," re



TIHE  BAY  PATH.                 157
sponded Mr. Pynchon, "but you have made your usual
mistake of attributing all your troubles to the circumstances
under which you live, without assuming any blame yourself."
"I never shirked anything that belonged to me to shoulder," said Woodcock, "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 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
undertook to cut up here in Agawam, you'd'a said twenty
lashes, and she'd got'em, and Mr. Moxon would'a said
twenty Amens on the end on'em for a snapper."
Why is it that Mr. Pynchon does not venture a direct reply 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 main-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 reiterates " right in the main."
Woodcock left the house, and had gone but a short dis.




158              THIE BAY PATH.
tance when half-a-dozen dark forms issued fiom 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. Pynchon.
"None that I feel at liberty to reveal," replied the minis.
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 minister'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 fiom the
power of the adversary, and that the divine wrath may be
stayed."




THE BAY PATI.                   159
This was all enigmatical to Mr. Pynchon, and his curiosity
was somewhat aroused, but the case was too painful to
tamper with, and so, with the design of changing the subject, he spoke of Woodcock. The name had no sooner
been pronounced, than Mr. 1Moxon 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 alluded to the peculiar temperament of the man, his natural
impatience 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 Mr. Moxon, with
an eye that almost burned with its earnestness.
"No! But I think I know where he will be."
" 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.




160                 IIE BAY PATI.
"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 subjected to."'CI will release him," said the minister, "on these conditions;" 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 compensate for the loss of the soul. Tell him that the
devil was a liar fiom 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 cannot be aware of the strangeness of your language. Were I 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




THE BAY  PAT.                  161
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
interpose 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 respectfulness 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
nervous vehemence of her nature. The embrace was silent,
but full of love's eloquence.
" Square," said Woodcock, at last, with difficulty breaking 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




162             TTHE BAY PATH.
his child he said, in a mild, kind voice, " I'm comin' back to
the plantation to-morrow, gal."
The child sprang from his arms, as if he had struck her.
"What did I tell you, Square?" said Woodcock, whimpering 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 beggar," 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 parting 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




THE BAY  PATH.                  163
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
lecture day, and the affair blew quietly over.




CHAPTER XV.
How like a troubled, feverish dream is summer to tile
husbandman!  How early, and yellow, and hot, comes up
the brazen sun I  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 horizon with bald-headed clouds, that stand
and sleep all the afternoon in the sun; some so clear that
they mark black shadows on the hill-sides, 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
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
King descends 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 maples turn to gigantic




THE BAY  PATH.                    165
roses, and the oaks to colossal peonies, when the meadow
wears a gay bouquet 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!
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 latitudes, 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 relaxed by the season, and are only restored to their original




166              THE BAY  PATH.
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 Holyoke 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 immediate 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 coni
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 impatience on either side; but when the Autumn began to creep
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 succeeded in building a habitable house for Holyoke, to be in readiness 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 were
coolly met, and persistently repulsed. He was not living
for himself; he was not acting himself. He was engaged




THE  BAY  PATH.                  167
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 benevoiently 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 offences 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
energetically with a leather article of that name, and other
playful indiscretions of a similar character.
Mr. Moxon preached with singular earnestness, and devoted 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
convulsive 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,
hlowever, at an unusually full meeting on lecture day, the
intentions 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 disgusting to every healthful sen.
sibility 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




168              THE BAY  PATH.
the evening was appointed for the performance of the marriage 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
furbishing of old dresses, the polishing of rough shoes, the
labor night and day to finish a home-spun garment-the
contriving, the dream the dr inthe 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 November, 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 collect 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 dancing 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 while those around him gave
themselves up to levity and the natural excitements of the
occasion. He sat at the back side of the room, and as
occasionally his daughter, neatly dressed, entered the room
on some errand from her mistress, his eye followed her in
every movement, with an interest as apparent to those
around him, as it was all absorbing to himself.




THE BAY PATH.                    169
There was also something in the occasion itself that
affected him deeply. Unconsciously he had become a worshipper 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 unworthy
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 admiration that carried with it an entire submission of will and
devotion of life.
It was a strange heart-that encased in those rough habiliments. It had once loved, and might perhaps have loved
again, but for a woman who had inspired him with a sentiment 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 fiiend
of his child, and earnestly as he wished for her happiness,
he could not contemplate her marriage with Holyoke without a pang. It was to him (for what reason he knew not)
the dethronement of a goddess-the degeneration to
humanity 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
8




170              THE  BAY  PATH.
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 unconscious 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.
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 out-reaching of friendly sympathy seemed to be held in painful check,
and every one appeared afraid of doing something that
somebody 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.




TIIE  BAY  PATH.                171
This little incident broke the spell so far as the children
were concerned, and they pressed forward to make their trifling gifts, and win the smile and kiss which they coveted as
their reward.  As soon as the children had paid their
respects 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
standing 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."
" 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
recommend to him anywhere. It would'a been jest the
same if the king was your husband.'Taint in my line to




172              THE BAY PATH.
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 with Woodcock's seriousness, 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 o' bones covered with brown luther,
with the hair on,-and then look at yourn. White oak
-int 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 difference enough to show, and there's jest as much
odds in their doin's and dispositions as there is in their
hands. I know what women be. I've wintered and summerea 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




THE BAY  PATH.                    173
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 himself, but they ain't apt to stick where they ain't
wanted, and are first rate at mindin' their own business."
This direct hit was understood, and while a few turned
and went smiling to their seats, all fell back and left him to
himself 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 anybody 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 Woodcock's
lip began to quiver and his eye to moisten), but I hope it'11
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,




174              THE  BAY  PATH.
and endeavorirg 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 observant 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 evening. Holyoke was very emphatic in his expressions of
sorrow at the necessity of this step on the part of the
minister, 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 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 departure of the minister before Mary's hand had been pressed
by every guest-even the most awkward and bashful finding 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 company that the newly united pair were to be installed in their




THE  BAY  PATH.                   175
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 cheerful fire blazing upon the hearth, and a bountiful and substantial 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 portion, 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 interest. Love is beautiful in itself. Its hearty and unquestioning 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 disappointments 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




176              THE BAY PATH.
in companionship, and mutual participation in such imperfect joys as the world affords, will produce a love so sweetly
sympathetic, so perfect and profound, that the bliss of the
honeymoon shall mimic it only as a shallow 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.
THE first puff of smoke that issued from the chimney of
Holyoke's house, on the morning following the wedding,
was noticed by a dozen watchful and waiting eyes, and immediately 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 preparations 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.
At length the bountiful breakfast was smoking upon the
table, and the three occupants of the house, in a charmingly
merry mood, took 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 embarrassment, 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,
8*




178              THE BAY  PATH.
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, "Mary, did you expect
me to ask a blessing at the table this morning?"
"You probably saw that I expected it," replied Mary.
"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 been accustomed to the ceremony,
both at home and away, and saw no reason why any Christian should decline its performance."
"I shall pain you, perhaps, my dear wife," said Holyoke,
grasping her hand earnestly, "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 popular way of dishonoring God rather than of honoring Him."
" You do not conclude," replied Mary, "that because the
service is improperly performed, it is improper in itself."
"Not that, because there is nothing like intrinsic impropriety in it; but I do not deny that I believe that the habit
has, very generally, a bad tendency."
" A bad tendency?" inquired Mary, with an exclamatory
accent.
"I see that you are pained and surprised, and it is what
I expected," replied Holyoke, "but it is best for us to be
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




TIHE  BAY  PATH.                     179
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 religious 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
was not convinced of the entire correctness of his conclusions, 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




180              THE BAY  PATH.
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 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
manner 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 inclinations. 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




THE BAY PATH.                    181
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
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, commenced 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
emotion.
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 her's, 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




182               THE  BAY  PATH.
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 giving utterance to the words of prayer where bther ears than
God's can hear. Nay, it is not unfrequently the case that
those who have the most intimate relationship in life exercise 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
individual may without coming within the circle of social
influence, 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.
Holyoke's eyes were hidden for a minute, and then looking 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?" 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. 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   183
9. I encouragement, and taking his hand rose upon her
feet.
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 power 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 simnplicity 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 " 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 experienced 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.




CHAPTER XVII.
WHILE these last scenes were in progress at the house of
lIolyoke, those of a very different character were in process
of enactment at the house of his father-in-law. Mr. Moxon
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 filid 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, walking 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 case 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
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
minister, pausing and biting his lip with vexation.




THE B AY PA T H.                 185
"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." Saying
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 stigmatizing
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?"
" If you will hear me calmly and patiently, I will tell you
with perfect frankness, and certainly with perfect kindness,'
replied the magistrate.
Mr. Moxon turned his eyes solemnly upwards, and ex



186              THE BAY  PATH.
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 suspicious 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-adozen 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."
"I know you have always had a partiality for him;"
replied the minister, without any attempt to deny the
genuineness of Mr. Pynchon's interpretation of his language and actions, " and that is one reason why I have
never been fiank with you in relation to the subject."




THE  BAY  PATH.                   187
"Then I am right?"
"You are not far fiom right."
"Let me tell you then, my dear sir," said Mr. Pynchon
solemnly, "that, in giving utterance, or even secret harbor,
to these suspicions, you are assuming a terrible responsibility. 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 difference. 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 simplehearted 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 ridicule,
vhen simply narrated to you. Martha is a child who would




188              THE BAY  PATH.
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 general, 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 without
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 moie or less connected with
it."
"I think I can get at the matter," said Mr. Pynchon.
" If you will bring your child here after dinner to-day, I
hope 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," replied 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 witchcraft, 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 was
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




THE BAY PATH-.                  189
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 eccentric daughter.
The first surmise of the old man was that news had been
received from England of the death of some unknown relative, 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
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 calculation of the number of revenges which an unlimited amount
of money would enable him to execute upon that gentleman.
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 thirteen
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.'




190              THE BAY PATII.
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
Woodcock'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
boisterous 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.
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 convinced 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                  191
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
prepared for it, but, in the excitement of the moment, and
partly in consequence of an uncomfortable mist that gathered about his eyes, he shot a long inch wide of the mark.
This fact re-awakened 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 important 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. Pynchon 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.
Woodcock was dumb and motionless with astonishment,
it seemed so unlike a common fit, was induced so manifestl



192              THE BAY  PATH.
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
another 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'flictin' her?  Have I teched your young one?"
"Yes, it's him, father," exclaimed the child, becoming
conscious in a moment, and pointing her finger at Woodcock. " It's him: don't you see the blue cat on his shoulder, whispering 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 spanking
ain't good for that kind, then I wouldn't try it, that's all."




THE BAY  PATH.                   193
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 accusation.
" Woodcock, will you leave the room for a few minutes?"
said Mr. Pynchon; and, as soon as he had retired, he addressed the same request totheminister. Mr. Moxon paused,
as if he would ask a question, but Mr. Pynchbn 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-"
"Stop!" said Ml'. 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 Woodcock 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.




194              THE BAY PATI.
"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 exclaimed,  "Your daughter is no more bewitched than I
am."
"Martha! get down and come to me," exclaimed the
minister shudceringly.
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. Moxon had folded Martha to his breast, and was bending tenderly 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, " 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 Woodcock, 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
"then you shall go home," passed out of the house, and




THE  BAY  PATH.                   195
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 agreement 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 naturally 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.
" Where do you'kpect 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.
" It seems to me," replied the magistrate, thoughtfully,
"that he must necessarily abandon suspicions that are
proved to be so groundless."
"Well, Square," 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 isand 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.




196              THE BAY  PATH.
" 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
minister stickin' to little things, such as didn't come to any
given sum, any way, 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 expected 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
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. "'Taint
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."




THE BAY  PATH.                    197
"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
gettin' 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,
Squire, 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,




198              THE  BAY  PATH.'Woodcock, 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
ain't any more 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 manner.
"I imagine that he has come to no conclusion yet-he
has hardly had time," replied the magistrate.
" Well, 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 finger with an ease that
was very uneasy.
"Do you mean to ask whether for the sake of your
daughter 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'tobe
safe for a man to p'int his finger to me and say,'broom




THE BAY  PATH.                    199
sticks' more'n a dozen times. He'd lay down kind o' careless, 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 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 persecutions further, and that it was only his consideration for his
child that kept him fiomn 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
slowly away, with his head bent down reflectively, and his
hands grasping each other behind his back. He was thinking 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 associations, it would be necessary for him to retire fiom the settle



200              THE BAY  PATH.
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, and made sympathetic allusion to it.
"Well, I BE troubled," said Woodcock emphatically, " but
I don't make a p'int of goin' round to tell on't; leastways,
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 somewhere."
"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 aint 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 commencement by a rap at the door, and the entrance of Mr.
George Moxon.




CHAPTER XVIII.
WiEwI 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 her upon
the bed, and, bending over her, asked her how she felt.
She made him no reply for several minutes, when she
startled him by a sudden cry of pain, and the exclamation
--  Oh! stop him! stop him!  He's sticking pins into
me!"
" Where, child! where?" inquired the distressed father.
"In my foot-in my back-all over me," replied the
child.
She was immediately undressed, and fiom 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 paralysed 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 the bed, as if entirely exhausted, and, after lying upon
her back a few minutes, with her eyes closed, she opened
9*




202              THE BAY  PATH.
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?  Arn'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, swinging 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 bedclothes 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




THE BAY  PATI.                   203
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."
"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 absorbing
interest. Every word uttered had been indelibly stamped
upon her memory, and the whole subject and all its associations 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.




204              THE  BAY PATH.
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,
commenced 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 as
suming so heretical 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-conformity-that he had strayed away
from the true fold.
He watched his wife for a moment, looked out of the
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
commencement 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 pleasantly 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 backwards 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 connexions.
Oh, that God would rend the heavens and come down! that
he would stand and converse with him, and tell him in




THE BAY  PATH.                    205
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, fromr
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 fiom hurting the children, 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 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 fiesh for sudden closure.
There never had been another house in the settlement which




206              THE BAY  PATH.
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, wonderingly.
" 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 fiom 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
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 manners
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?"




TIIE  BAY  PATH.                 207
Mary looked imploringly at Holyoke, and he came forward, 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 fiiend
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 comin' 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



208              THIE BAY  PATH.
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! 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 move*
ment 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 incurred 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




TIHE  BAY  PATH.                  209
stan' it to hear me called hard names, and while I'm round
she shan't be abused for it."
"Miserable hypocrite!" exclaimed the minister, scowling and holding his wounded hand in its fellow-"pretending sorrow for the savage offence of your child, and yet
acting as her boastful justifier and champion!"
"Look a' here," said Woodcock, shaking his fist in the
minister's face, "the school's out and the ma'am's drownded,
and now, you old carri'n, I aint 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 aint anything that'll bring you to
your milk half so quick as a good double-and-twisted
thrashin', 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.




210              TII E IBAY PATH.
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 flat hand across his
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. IIe had
patiently withstood injuries and insults, but the outcry of
this large and powerful man seemed so cowardly to himso mean and unmanly-that, having once broken over the
restraint under which he had held himself, he became suddenly maddenedQ 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
instantly 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




TIlE BAY  PATII.                 211
her any way, you'll catch that thing between your eyes and
under your ear agin, and when it comes you won't 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 paralysed 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 remember 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
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, shifting 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'raps
shall help her some."
Holyoke and his wife said but little to him. Both felt
unpleasantly in consequence of being associated with the
scene of violence which had just occurred, at the sudden




212              THE  BAY  PATH.
cloud it had drawn over their happiness, and at the rupture
of the peace, and the wound to the reputation of the
settlement.
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 bye!"
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 velocity, 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




THE BAY PATH.                   213
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
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
plantation 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.
TEN years! A segment of the great circle of eternity!
How much of the long past abides in so brief a period!
Rivulets of influence which started, perhaps, with the subsidence of the flood, and have been joined by other rivulets
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 armormultitudes chasing golden phantoms-eager-eyed and sleepless multitudes-multitudes in rags and wretchednessmultitudes trodden upon and forgotten in death. Ten
years!  Ten hours of joy-ten ages of sorrow!  Seedtime 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 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,




THE  BAY  PATH.                  215
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 simple 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
unfiequently numbered sdme of the women of the plantation, 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 influence 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 beginning 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 endeavoring to mould into the semblance of his beautiful Ideal had
become warped, so that he hardly recognised it. Driven in
upon himself, forced in his declining years to see others
outstripping him in enterprise, and conscious of the advance
of errors which he had from motives of policy sought to
neutralize in their effect, rather than oppose in themselves,
he busied himself with his Bible, his thoughts, and his pen.




216              THE BAY PATH.
He began to write-uncertainly at first, reading and carefully 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.  During the day he wrote, and during the night
he studied the 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 its leaves, interlining a sentence here, and
correcting a word there, that his own fate and that of the
plantation were involved in its pages!
The changes that began in Mr. Moxon, when he first became 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 intermittent, and then ceased altogether, until at last he had
degenerated 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 appearance 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 authorship 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 enlargement, and there, hemmed in on every side, and afraid to




THE BAY  PATH.                  217
bu'st out, he had clutched at effete superstitions, and eaten
them in silence and fear. His ministrations upon the Sabbath
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 loqked so pleasantly around, and so many delightful
asstciations were connected with it, that it had a cheerful
looi' to all. On Holyoke, ten years had wrought a great
wol'. Satisfied in his affections, blest in his home, happy
in h's 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
grox i h, and become, in his own modest consciousness,
more noble and manly than he had once supposed a man in
active  contact with the world could be. Everyone looked
upon him as one of the coming men-one who, in the
futur, would fill an important place in the plantation, if
not ib 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; and while, from this fact, he was
able to give his whole soul and undivided energies to whatever work he undertook, his mental and spiritual growth
was, from the same fact, symmetrical, and strong as a natural consequence of its symmetry.
Mary Holyoke hardly looked older by a day than when
she was married, yet she had known many cares and anxieties, for three beautiful children played around the hearthstone. 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
10




218              THE BAY  PATH.
sweet cares imposed upon her by her children, she became
greatly self-forgetful. The more intimately she communed
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 measure 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 labored, 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 opportunity, to him and the home in which he had made her so
happy and himself so essential to her happiness. She asserted 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 ploughed no furrows across her brow; and even the
fresh blush of maidenhood had only given place to a maturer 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 respectively 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




THE BAY PATH.                    219
with whom a sense of duty was the highest motive of action.
He 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 service in that light, and not as any direct manifestation of
love to him. Thus labor became a burden, and sacrifice a
sorrow. Thus toil lost its dignity and its dignifying influence. 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 appropriate 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 strengthened. 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 reputation of being clear-headed and strong-minded. He had




220              THE BAY PATH.
tracked over every channel of his soul till he knew it as Le
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 useful 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
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
trowsers in the immediate vicinity of his knees. He saw
that the boy had begun to grow in earnest, and then recognised the fact that as the length of his limbs had increased
his roguishness had diminished.
Year after year this process went on until he arrived at
manhood with a stoop in his shoulders, bashfulness in his
manners, a tuft of white beard upon his chin which was invisible 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 half
unconsciously adopted his legs as a moral standard, and
they certainly answered an excellent purpose. While his




THE  BAY PATH.                   221
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 burning 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 inflammation.
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 simple 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 recognised 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 sympathies, very beautiful. It was a most legible index to an uneasily balanced, passionate nature. It seemed sympathetic
and inviting, and yet repulsive, with a kind of reckless disdain. 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



222               THE  BAY  PATI.
tion ot that wonderful revelation of character, that subtle
detecter of sy mpathy, that inquisitor of motive, that inspheration of soul.  One watched it involuntarily, and without
being conscious that that was the only object observed, as
one watches a whole face for the perusal of the emotions
which express themselves in its changes.  It had its sunshine, its clouds, its depths of thoughtful coolness, its flashes
of passion, its dances of delight, its phases of humid softness,
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
attractions, was afraid of her. There was a scar upon the
minister'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 credulous-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




THE  BAY  PATH.                  223
could by possibility be indulged, had been taken up by the
reckless fingers of gossip, turned over, and droppel, the
ill-starred orphan was fixed upon as the one who m( st
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 everybody knew of them, and had not the girl been under the
protection of Holyoke and his wife, she would have been
subjected to great annoyances, if not to unrestrained persecution. As it was, she became aware of the suspicions
held, and influences operative against her, and the consciousness-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 fo6r 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.




224              THE BAY  PATH.
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 of communications, rudely traced upon strips of birch bark, consisting of
warnings, bits of information in regard to her position in
the neighborhood, scraps of advice, &c. 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 messenger answered no questions, and made no explanations.
Within the first year after Woodcock's withdrawal fiom
the plantation, the discharge of a gun was occasionally
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
plantatfon of Agawam. As he recognises, 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.
IT was a bright autumn day of the year to which the
reader was advanced by the last chapter, when the Agawam
training band, under the command of Captain Holyoke,
paraded upon the village green. The band was composed
of all the men in the plantation capable of bearing arms,
including even boys of sixteen years, and old men with the
first infirmities 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 remembered 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 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
remarkable degree of agitation.
10*




226              THE BAY  PATH.
As they approached the house of Holyoke, he frequently
looked down upon his legs, 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 confused 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 probabilities 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
knew Mary Woodcock's origin, the nature of the prejudices
that popularly prevailed against her, and her own consciousness that the majority of the young men shunned her; and
the remnants of his old cunning had turned his mind




THE BAY  PATH.                     227
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
absorbed by some other member of the corps, and that she
only turned to him once, and then with a smile that greatly
resembled derision. When the company was dismissed,
Peter had become quite unhappy-not from  unrequited
affection, but in consequence of a vague consciousness that
he had made a miscalculation. He was unable fully to satisfy
himself, 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 favorite with the women of the settlement. The fact was not
due, however, to any vice of his nature or habit, to any low
associations, or to any ugliness of person. He was unpopular
because he was not manlike in his constitution. He was a
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
effeminate man, and to his nature Mary had felt herself
more and more attracted, as the years had' brought her to
maturity. From  the stronger masculine natures she had
felt herself 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




228              THE BAY PATH.
choose the feminine man. And as she saw him marching
by with the training band, and watched him as he went
through the exercises of the occasion, every step and
motion seemed 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 morningl 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, without a sacrifice of tie 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
survey of his nether proportions-a feat which he accomplished by stretching  his head out from  his stooping
shoulder, giving an earnest squint inwards, and arching his
eyebrows, 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 certainly not a very handsome face, and it was not
by any means smooth in its details; but, take it at a distance-say about as far as Mary stood from him when she
met him-and the expression could be called good. Ife
tried his looking-glass across the room, but, as it would




THE BAY  PATH.                   229
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. lie was enough for her. As for her temper,
he would let her know she couldn't play off 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!"
After he had made considerable progress in Mary's affections 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. Pynchon'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 time-piece 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 commence, 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, freeand-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




230              THE BAY PATH.
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
beloved. 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 re-assurance, he
found it necessary to brace himself against the assent and
encouragement of some one else. He cast about among his
acquaintances for the proper recipient of his precious secrets.
He found himself afraid to speak of the matter to any
acquaintances 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
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 threwhim 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 porringer upon a side-table, and doubling up his pewter spoon




THE  BAY  PATH.                     231
under the imnpressi on that he was closing the blade of his
jack-knife, put it into his pocket. The new comer 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 centre, 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.
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
chest, and placing his candle on the other, put his face between 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,
"Why, you see," said Peter, " I'm great on cutting hair.




232                THE  BAY  PATH.
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 companion, 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
everybody 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,
-several 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 knowcutting 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
rthe 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 exhibition 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




THE BAY  PATH.                    233
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
shears and comb, and, holding them  up to the amused
visitor, 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 ha* 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 connexion between his
hair and Peter's secrets, and declined the operation.
"You see," said Peter, " the folks down stairs will wonder 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




234              THE BAY PATH.
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
between us."
"Just as you say," responded Hugh, with a slight struggle to drown in a smile a little irritation which sought the
surface; for the study of Peter, while it had been an amusing
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 to the delusion to which, in imagination, he had committed them; then executed a subdued
whistle, and, crossing his hands, and leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, he said to Hugh, in the slyest possible manner, "Between you and I, I think of taking a
pullet."
"Robbing a henroost, in other words?" said Hugh interrogatively, 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 phantom 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 presume 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   235
training day,-but "-and Peter suddenly recollected himself, " 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' 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 mlind, 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
vehement so suddenly as to surprise himself; and then,
with the idea that his violence might compromise his interests, 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




236              THE BAY PATH.
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
wanted 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 flattered 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 yotl ain't. I know all the
rest of'em. They ain't anything. Land ahead! they think
they are, but I've 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."




THE BAY  PATH.                   237
"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 elsenow 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. I 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 quarrelled, 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 getting along-that's a fact. Now, Hugh, you're first rate at
guessing, and before I tell you, I want you should tellme
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 becoming so far mirthfully excited that he seized Hugh by the
shoulders, and shook him till he laughed in self-defence,




238              THE BAY  PATH.
"How  come you to think of that? Mly wife!" And he
stretched up towards the ridge-pole, and swsung his shears
three times around his head.'Land ahead!" pursued
Peter; still unable to work off his admiration of Hugh's
inventive powers, and his delight with the pleasantly ominous coincidence, " I'd no idea you was up to that sort of
thin'."
"My wife —   ary 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'le the greatest feller I ever see in my life.
Now about the business."
"What do you want?"
"Wxell, 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 fiiend 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 Huglh.'"Vell, 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,




THE BAY PATH.                   239'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 no
won't anybody else."
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 anything 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.
May be 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
manoeuvring 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.




240              THE BAY PATH.
" I must, positively."
Peter looked at Hugh, and his lip began to tremble. He
undertook to say something, but he broke down, and putting his head between his knees, he began to sob like a
baby.
"Peter," said Iugh, 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 grasping his hand, the scant tears in his grey eyes changing from
those of disappointment to those of sudden joy.  "I 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
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 furiously 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 wont 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




THE BAY PATH.                    241'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 business, 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 sudden 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 r'ally 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 stacks to reach acrost the river."
"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, between 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 quarrelling every
11




242              THE BAY PAIH.
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 biow, 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 stand up like a man, and tell the silly coxcomb 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.




CHAPTER XXI.
AFTER the house of Mr. Moxon was built a room was
finished in one corner for a study. This looked out upon
the street, and being furnished with a snug fire-place
afforded the occupant a pleasant view, whether he confined
his attention within the room or dissipated it in looking
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 observed 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 disappointments 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
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




244              THE BAY  PATI-.
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 inflicted 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 fibre
of his frame.  This was the sorest spot in all his experience, 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 circumstance 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
in all possible directions. While, upon this occasion, he




THE BAY  PATH.                  245
was wondering what means could be resorted to for the
detection of Mary Woodcock, he recalled the singular communication 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 from 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:'" Mlry: —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 resident 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 minister saluted with much warmth, and who, on advancing
into the little study, looked around, with a not unpleasant
expression in his keen grey eyes, and said, "It seems pleasant, now and then, to visit the place where yoi prepare the
food for the flock of Christ. I warrant I have disturbed




246              THE BAY  PATH.
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 minister'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
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
was a good man, and thoroughly understood the road to
his minister's heart.  He did not become a settler at Agawar 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 meetings 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 wholesome discipline.
In short, he had been an active man, in everything pertaining 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




THE BAY  PATH.                    247
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 preferment 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 befbre Mr. Moxon's fire, after his considerate expression 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."
Dea. 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."
Dea. Chapin bowed again, as if he perfectly understood
the allusion, and would spare the minister the pain'of referring to them more definitely.
"You doubtless know something of the trials I have
experienced in my family since your residence here."
Dea. 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 fiee 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."




248              THE BAY  PATH.
Dea. 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."
" 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 address to the minister. He was in the habit of saying comforting things, and pleasant things, to those who held position 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 fiom an
interview with Dea. Chapin with a self-respect that was a
rarity in his experience, and played a better and more dignified part in life, until the influence of the interview had




THE BAY  PATH.                    249
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 marvellous effect upon all with
whom he came in contact.
It is true that it all made the deacon's path more pleasant and easy, and gave him consideration and power with
all, but few ever dreamed that he had an eye to his own interests 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 honestly 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 question.
" 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 examining a little communication 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 against the light,
and then inquired of the minister whether he knew the
hand-writing.
" I do not," replied the minister. "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?"
11*




250              THE BAY  PATH.
These questions were pronounced at little intervals, the
deacon bowing at each, as if he were swallowing it for digestion. When they were concluded, he simply said, " It's all
very strange, is it not?"-and reaching down to the minister'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 grey 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 suggestively together.
"Doctrinal, mostly," said the minister.
"Orthodox, I'll warrants  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 fiiendship 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 released 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 preceded it, but he hesitated to speak fully of matters concern



TIlE BAY  PATH.                   251
ing which he knew it became him to preserve silence; so he
simply assented to the latter clause of the deacon's exclama
tion without any allusion to the former.
"Man's inability?" suggested the deacon, with an inquiring turn of the head.
"No. Oh! no."
"Depravity?"
" 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 tb 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," interrupted 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
advanced 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 conceive
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 salvation 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?"




252              THE BAY  PATH.
" 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 connected with a consciousness of personal guilt, could never
be experienced by Jesus Christ, from the fact that personally 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 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 informing 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 come, " the book has long been in the
hands of the printers in London, and may be expected at
the Bay within a short time."




THE  BAY  PATH.                  253
Deacon Chapin shook his head slowly as he sat gazing
into the fire, and said, "I'm sorry-very sorry," and then,
as he had sifted this matter sufficiently, he suddenly remembered 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 centre of that apple, which has
been roasting before the fire ever since you have been here."
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 witnessing, 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,




254               THE  BAY  PATH.
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 trembling and fitful glories, the imagination of the deacon
became 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 preternatural 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,
" 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 greediness that was sickening. When she had swallowed the
apple, she turned again to the fire, and gazed unblinkingly
into the blaze.




THE BAY  PATH.                   255
"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."
" 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 manuscript 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 anticipated, and was really anxious to leave the house.
His superstitious fears had never been so much excited,
and had never been excited on so rational a stimulant.
"Perhaps," said the deacon kindly, addressing the
minister, and rising and rubbing his trembling hands, "you
would prefer to be left alone with your poor children. I
think I had better bid you a good evening."




256               THE BAY  PATI.
The minister rose, as Deacon Chapin addressed him, and
the latter observed that he was under a new and strange
influence. 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 spasmodically, 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 detected 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 himself that it was not an illusion wrought by the imperfect
glass, but the face remained. Ie 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 myself. 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 fire-light, 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




THE  BAY  PATI.                     257
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
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 fiom distant hill sides.
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
beginning to cry, when their father hurriedly led them from
the room.* The visitor could not leave, of course, until the
return of the minister, and so stood, hat in hand, in the middle 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 emotion. 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 analysing what he had seen.  There was
something in it very mysterious-that was certain. There
* It can hardly be necess: ry, 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
connexion with witchcraft, associated in a greater or less degree with
deception and delusion, will not, it is presumed, be denied.




258              THE  BAY  PATH.
was such a thing as witchcraft-everybody admitted thatand 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 expurgat
ing the community of it, or to keep in the background, 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 neighboi
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 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 particular-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 fire-light.




CHAPTER XXII.
Two or three days after the interview between Peter Trimble and Hugh Parsons, those individuals accidentally met.
The former was ready for the meeting, but the latter was
not. Peter had arranged his inquiries for every possible
contingency, and (there being several individuals present) he
asked Hugh if he had " been to Spain." On receiving the
reply 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 obligingly 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 whether 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
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 awaiting 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,




260              THE  BAY  PATH.
when she took his hand, and invited him  into the
house.
Fortune had favored Hugh with the choice of an evening when I-olyoke 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 interview, 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 something 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 utterances, 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




TIIE BAY PATH.                  261
she was making upon him crept into his consciousness, the
object of his visit obtruded itself, and in dissipating a beautiful 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 Maryadding, "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 ringinlg laugh which disturbed
the sleeping children in the next room. Then, as her merriment 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 fiiend 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 position and the subterfuge of which he had become the mouthpiece, 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 performance 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 spindleshanked, squash-headed fool! And if you are so good at




262              THE BAY PATH.
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,
Mary gave the back log another punch, set the tongs in
the corner, and looked at Hugh in silence.
That individual was dumbfoundered, and his admiration of
the woman before him was fast dying out, when her countenance 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 determined 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   263
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 being
finished, and, as he met the direct gaze of her marvellous
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 fibre 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
shadow of a nature stronger 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 contemptuous passion swept wildly through his memory, and every
artery was throbbing with a passion as new as it was delicious. 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.




264             THE BAY PATH.
Perfectly absorbed in his new thoughts, he had proceeded
but a short distance on his way homewards when Peter
stepped forth fiom a road-side 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! I'd 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 ascertain 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 scrutiny, 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 whatever 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?"
"We will go to my room," said Hugh.
"Have you got a board there, or anything for me tomake a few chalk marks on?" inquired Peter, and then addod,  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 rvw that was!" and




THE  BAY  PATH.                   265
Peter shrugged his shoulders as the memory of the stirring
occasion 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 experienced. 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 interesting soliloquy by a grand flourish of his fists at Hugh's
back, as he entered his chamber, and a kick into the darkness 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?"
Hugh assented.
"Well, now you see I'm standing right iri themrot&'obf
the roads, don't you?" (and Peter ma4;thIEakiinarssxiso
the floor representing a road brmichingxOi4r intGriti:t*ooad:.
the whole being a rude representatiohbof a bhifkjrJltfrffIl
this way," continued Peter, definatia g ttihel ft hindi:pAh
"is where I live. Beyond tlei-De^ oiO9 h -^pikhiro:s
12




266              THE BAY  PATI.
and his lot tha't 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?"
HIugh assented again.
"Now I'm bound not to make a fuss, any way, 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 occupied 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 preservation 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, iin a




THE BAY PATH.                    267
tone of curiosity rather than of apprehension, " Is it r'ally
so, Hugh?"
IIugh asserted that the left was the only direction he
could give him.
" Well, how did you get at it, Hugh, any way? 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, r'ally? 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, bursting 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."




268              THE BAY PATI.
" 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.
"If you'll jest whip them chalk marks," said Peter,
looking considerately down upon the diagram of his life,
"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 committed himself to his bed. In an instant, the face and form
of Mary Woodcock were before him. He transported himself 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 excitement, 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




THE BAY PATH.                   269
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-something 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 barefoot to the Bay-nay, she would walk the world overthrough 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.




CHAPTER XXIII.
MORNING came to both, and it was morning in a new
world. They had been translated in their relations, 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 acquaintances, 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 evil of her-and yet a
spirit smitten through by a fascination that exalted its
author to the pinnacle of feminine power, grace, and glory.
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
the 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 sell control
was not possible in her presence.




THE  BAY  PATH.                     271' You will take a short wtalk with me to-night, will you
not?" said MaLary, 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 h-e 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 midnigiht-of
ashes upon the hearth left by fires which no one had kindled,
and of confused voices heard by distant watchers-and the
association of Mary, in her tainted reputation, with the
building was such as, for a moment, almost to impel him to
break finom 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



272              THE BAY  PATH.
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 tonight with you, Hugh, to tell you that I love you better
than anybody and everybody else in all the world. Nobody
living 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
passing her arm around Hugh, continued: "It seenls 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                   273
are sick, and do everything for you when you are well, and
I should rather work for you tnan 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!"
As she closed her impassioned declaration, she drew
Hugh to her heart, and there, his sensitive frame wrought
into the most painful nervous fienzy, 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 drivelling silliness
that would disgrace him in her eyes for ever.
" 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 crystallized the whole into something definitely and permanently
good, while an improper one might have broken it into
eddies that would have drowned heart and brain in forgetfulness and madness. But no word was spoken, and the
spell was broken at last by a slight noise within the cabin,
followed by a half whispered exclamation, which, in the ears
of both the lovers, shaped itself to the words " 0 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
12*




274              THE BAY PATH.
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
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 convinced 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 determination, 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 previously 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 suspicion should have been so universal, but none were
found to dispute it. It was a natural deduction from their
relative 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 her



THE  BAY  PATH.                  275
self, 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 expressedfears springing from genuine Christian love-and she drank
in gentle counsels that were dictated by a heart that realized the full preciousness of human affection; and she found
one who looked upon the match more than charitablypleasantly-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, sirif 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.
HITHERTO 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 friendship, 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, fiaught 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 conscientiously to risk it, and bravely to abide by it, committed it
to the public.
Saying nothing to any one of his proceeding, and leaving
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 worshipful and worshipping gentlemen gazing over their noses




THE  BAY  PATH.                  277
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 personally 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, anO
return home  thus giving to all time to consider his work
more calmly, and allowing opportunity for the subsiding of
the storm. Accordingly, he asked for leave of absence
from the Court-a request which was readily grantedand, with two or three fiiends, commenced his journey
homewards.
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 reputation of
their friend and counsellor, 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 confirmed in a letter from Mr. Pynchon himself. John felt
every indignity offered to his father as a personal offence,
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




278              THIE BAY  PATH.
confidence in his thorough Christian principle, her knowledge of his deep conscientiousness, and her insight into his
delicate 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.
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 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 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 settlement, 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
meeting-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 travelling gear. A cordial
smile illuminated 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




THE BAY  PATH.                  279
Peter Trimbli 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 attempt 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 homewards, in a glow of happy excitement, Mr. Pynchon regarded 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
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 aggravated 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 happened 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.
"When you get ready" (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.




280              THE BAY  PATH.
" 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 terminate without reaching across the walk, behind Mary, and
giving Hugh a sly kick.
Mary understood the allusion, for she had long previously
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 today?"
"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 wont hear fiom their friends
over and above often. Land ahead! 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 hojhead. 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?"




THE BAY  PATH.                   281
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. Pynchon'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 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, pull the
string again, 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 dangerous 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 enterprise 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 oi
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,




282              THE BAY PATH.
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 lend 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
become 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 their 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
tenantable dwelling.  They were on the roof and under
the 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.




THE  BAY  PATH.                  283
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 axe,
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-pleased 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 ceaselessly 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 secresy, 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 at 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
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 telling what changes she should make, so soon as she




284              THE BAY PATH.
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
somewhat 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 impulse 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 agi'n, 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."




THE BAY  PATH.                   285
During all this scene Hugh had stood as if il a dreamhis mind filled with strange fears and fancies. The abundant 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 had 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 comin' here, away from Mary Holyoke and her husband, 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 exclaimed, "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




286              THE BAY  PATI.
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 elseyou 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, "I've 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 wampum, 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




THE BAY PATH.                   287
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 ysou have seen this morning. Some time 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 expression 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
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.
"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 determination mantling her face. "Do you suppose that I would put
it off an hour for fear? I would see Mr. Mtxon (and her
voice sank to a low whisper) and the miserable fools who
believe in him and his crazy children, sunk to the bottom
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!" exclaimed Hugh, with
tender importunity.
Mary kissed him passionately, and resumed: " Ah, Hugh!




288              THE BAY  PATH.
They've tried to get you away from me, but they shaL
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 decision, the two replenished the fire, and took their way back
to Mary's home.
The wedding was solemnized in the meeting-house just
at night-fall, 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 not a happy one, and was
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
addressed to her; and was evidently rejoiced when the
party separated, and when, with a choice company of




THE BAY  PATH.                    289
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.




CHAPTER XXV.
THE first month of Mary Woodcock's married life passed
pleasantly away. The cloud which overshadowed her as
she entered it, was temporarily lifted, and a calm and sweet
content succeeded 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 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 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
renewed. 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 return 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 oppress
sive to her.
For herself, she could defy and despise those who sought




THE BAY  PATH.                   291
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
anxiety, 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 expressions that were tortured into slander, and perverted into
confessions of guilt. These expressions were bandied about
fiom  mouth to mouth, till once more she had become
thoroughly and offensively notorious.
Matters had gone on badly in this way, until, one evening 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 sufficiently to reveal the visitor. Hugh went to the door and
undertook to open it wider, but it was held where he found




292              THE BAY  PATH.
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 exclaimed, " 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 plantation 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 impulsively 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 lb,,' 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 P  Who are you talking to —Hugh, or me?" inquired Mary with sudden energy.
" Well, I meant you, but I was talking to Hugh, because
I didn't expect to say anything to you."
" What is the matter?"




THE BAY PATH.                  293
"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 something bad about widow Marshfield;" and as he 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 aint 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 countenance 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!




294              THE BAY  PATH.
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 tolerating smile, and ask Peter if he knew what charges were to
be brought against her. Peter did not know, but he rather
thought there would be enough of them, and that perhaps
it would be safe to assume the double affliction of rheumatism 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 consciousness 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




THE BAY PATH.                   295
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 departure
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
wretchedness until the 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 sympathy upon his wife. She was looking into the fire, whispering to herself, and nervously shaking her head, as if she




296              THE BAY PATH.
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 approaching, and, as he came into the yard, Mary rose to hei
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.
" Goodman Merrick," said Mary, walking closely up to
him, and looking him fiercely in the eye, " 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   297
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 people 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 despised 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 accordance 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 constable. 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 allthe chimneys of the settlement
like incense. Children were shouting in the distance, the
teamster was merrily cracking his whip, tidy housewives
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 herself, and the one dearest to her.
13*




298              TEII  BAY  PATH.
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 forbeal
raising her eyes to see if her truest friend were the witness of her disgrace. Mary Holyoke stood at the window,
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 magistrate.
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. progress, 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
before, he had unintentionally greeted them at their hearthstone. Mr. Moxon, Mr. Holyoke, Deacon Chapin, and nearly
a dozen women, were also among the crowded audience.
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 anxiously at the prisoner, who turned with a look of honest
innocence 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
peculiar regard for her as the child of a strange man whom




TIHE BAY  PATH.                  299
he had never ceased to love And respect. Her present
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 warrant for her arrest.
As he met her look-so pleading and trustful-he repented 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 offence, 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 discriminated 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 proceeding.
"You are charged," continued he, ".with defaming the
good name of the widow Marshfield, in reporting her to
heave been suspected for a witch. The bringing of such a
suspicion as this-a suspicion of having familiar dealings
with the Adversary-against a respectable and innocent




300              THE BAY  PATH.
woman, is a very grave offence. 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 but a short distance from the prisoner, and, tossing her
head saucily, nodded at two or three friends with a smile
which, being interpreted, said, "Did any one ever see such
impudence!"
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 favorite, 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.
"John Matthews," said the magistrate, after administering the oath to the pair, "have you ever heard Mary




THE  BAY  PATH.                  301
Parsons 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
circumstances 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'v'e took a child to
bring up, but he's so small he'll never make much Hughand-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-Widow
Marshfield 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, 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
charming 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 was 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 Devil 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




302              THE BAY  PATI.
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 character. 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 anything 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."
" Then your husband's 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
offended 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.




TIE  BAY PATH.                      30S
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 tcat's 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 magistrate.
" 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 witchel away?' and
says I, 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 tile wvool into rolls.
Says I, who is it?  Says she, it's her."
" Who do you mean?"9 inquired Mr. Pynchon.
"I mean wlidow Marshfield, that we'd just been talking
about; and then says she, TMr. Stebbins told me all about
it, and told me how she was always set down for a witch in




304              THE BAY PATH.
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
children?"
"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."
"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, stamping 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 4witch' as easy as anybody else could. They have




THE  BAY  PATH.                     305
said many things that are absolutely false, and what they
have repeated from. me was said with no intention of injuring anybody."
"Then it is not all a downright lie."
"It is, as they have given it."
"I notice," 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 was conscientiously opposed to the practice
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 fioward spirit.  Such matters were treated at the Bay
with great severity, as the only true policy. IIe 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 MIarshfield'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




306               THE BAY  PATH.
case, or in any other; or to influence the magistrate's decision 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. Iolyoke 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 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 constable-"
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 childcried 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 sentence 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 concluding his sentence, after the momentary interruption and
excitement were past, " to the widow Marshfield the sum of
threp rounds, in satisfaction of the damages inflicted by you
upinrher reputation."




THE  BAY  PATH.                         30o
As he concluded, Mlary still stood, looking vacantly at
hiln.  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
Mary by the arm, and endeavored to lead her awayr.  As
the magistrate saw that she hesitated, he told her that she
wvas 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.*
* 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 it was the wid



308                  T IE  BAY  PAT I.
As the door closed upon the distressed pair, HIolyoke,
who had not resumed his seat, pointed at their retreating
figures, and said slowly and solemnly, " You have had an
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 offenceless
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
punishment 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 accordance with the spirit of the Bay, I pray God the
Bay Path may be obliterated, that no more of the spirit
dow 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.
" (oodwife 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 chamber, 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 widdo w 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 finding
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.                     309
reach us. I believe this whole system  of brutal punishments 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
every one 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
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




310              THE BAY PATH.
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, instead
of visiting her, rose from his table a dozen times in a day,
and asked the question: " Where did she get that money?"




CHAPTER XXVI.
IF Mr. Pynchon really supposed that time and a more
extended examination of his book would palliate the harsh
judgments that had been rendered 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 settlement, who, in order to give him such aid as he might desire
in the General Court, consulted him in regard to their selection 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
unanimous votes of the freemen.
When Mr. Pynchon set out for the Bay, he was accompanied 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 departed 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 travellers.
Here and there, some shrub or vine had shed down its
shower of foliage in radiant flakes, until it lay fetlock deep
upon the ground; but the hoofs of the horses, brushing it
and crushing it, scarcely broke the thread of league-long
reveries. The squirrel chattered upon the bough; the blue




312              THE BAY  PATH.
jay chided the dull-eared silence that lay dreaming among
crickets, under the forest arches; coveys of partridges, like
well delivered files of musketry, discharged by single birds
their platoons 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
doctrines of his book should be drawn up to satisfy all;nen
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 exe.
cutioner in the market-place at Boston, on the following
day, at the conclusion 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




THE BAY  PATH.                   313
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
wherewith Christ maketh his disciples free, an offence 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 imperturbable 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 withdrawal from the room, as further action upon his
case would doubtless follow, and he might possibly be led
into imprudences 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
administration 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 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 gentleman, and an assistant in the government of this colony. I
have neither been displaced nor disgraced. Neither impeachment nor proscription has been visited upon me.
Happily, injustice is not dishonor; and truth-blessed be
God! —does not depend for its authenticity, vitalty, and
14




814              THE BAY PATH.
power, on the breath of the General Court of the Massachusetts!"
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 vanished before the conviction that truth was able to stand 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 however false a position he might be placed before the Christians of the Englands, Old and New, he was a freer man, a
larger Christian, and a better magistrate, for having given
a thorough expression of himself-for asserting his own
reason-for vindicating his own independence.
Previous to the scene which has been thus briefly described, quite as exciting and interesting a one had transpired 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 proposed 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
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 boldy 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




T IE BAY PATH.                   315
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 occasion 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 containing no small amount of personal abuse. He felt that he
could do this with perfect safety, as he knew that the sympathy 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 defence-to
have the hardihood to do it-to place themselves on record
as having done it-to disgrace themselves before the Chris
tian world by doing it.




316              THE BAY  PATH.
All this was said, and much more of the same import,
with very slight allusions to the real merits of the book
which the order, in effect, condemned. The heretical character 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 interests and character in that
house.
Mr. Holyoke rose amid whispers, and sneers, and poorly
disguised laughter, to reply, and, addressing the speaker,
said: "About twenty years ago, a worthy gentleman of
education, living comparatively at his ease in England,
became one of the patentees 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 discouragements 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 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 people 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                   317
forest. In every relation which this man has sustainedpublic 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 responsibilities, 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
counsellor, 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 envy not the
hand that dispenses, nor the maw that accepts, such miserable slanders and such unchristian calumnies as human
food."
The concluding words were uttered in a tone of contemptuous 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 proposed 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 attention, than




318              THE  BAY  PATH.
boldly to condemn them and their author, because they run
counter to the common judgment. Has it not always been
the few who have held the right? 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 Deputies
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 enjoymento 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 legitimately 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 ministers of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It cannot be that they have been




THE  BAY  PATI.                   319
brought here from any desire to see an independant thinker
and writer sacrifised; and I only wish that it were consonant 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
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 recognised, or had long forgotten,
had sprung into life before them, and they were struck with
its marvellous 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 lightthat character was something more essential than opinionand 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




320               THE BAY  PATH.
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 Mleritorious Price of our Redemption, Justification, &c., clearing it from  some common errors, cc.,
which book, containing many errors and heresies generally
condemned by all orthodox 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 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 contained 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 be burned in the market-place, at Boston, by the common executioner, and do purpose with all convenient 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 satisfaction,
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 protestation and declaration. Also, we further purpose, with what
convenient speed we may, to appoint some fit person to
* Copied from the Colonial Records, Vol. iii., p. 215. The ortho.
graphy is modernized.




THIE BAY  PATH.                   321
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 discovered, 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 ot
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 summoned 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 respect which he had momentarily lost; and in the deputies, 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
14*




322              THE BAY  PATII.
colony. The resolution was a bold one, when it is considered 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. Holyoke'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.
Towards evening, as Mr. Pynchon was sitting in his
room  busily engaged in writing, his landlady appeared,
and informed 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




THE BAY PATH.                   323
circumlocution, and with no assistance from him, that they
approached the object of their visit.
"We have come," said Mr. Cotton, at last, "to speak
m ith 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!" 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
your eyes to see, and your ears to hear, the commotion
which you have aroused in the mind of the churches of this
colony, and even among those of the Plymouth. A rock
may be turned over where it lies, upon the level ground,




324              THE BAY PATH.
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 important 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 Christian, 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."




TH1E  BAY  PAT H                     325
The two divines rose from their chairs, and M31. 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 the basis of conversation.  Mr. Pynchon assured hit that
he should be ready to engage in such a conversation at any
convenient opportunity, and then politely bowed the gentlemzen 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 partookhowever strong it might be-of his own f:railty.
Then came up to his imagination the ordeal through
which he had agreed to pass. He had agreed to pit himn
self against the most learned divines and the subtlest dialecticians of the day in a discussion of some of the flindamental doctrines of Christianity. This thought was full of
excitement, and his mind ran off into the field of thought
and argument vwith which it had become so familiar, as if
aaxious to see whether the old fortifications were still standing, and the pieces upon which lie 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 possibility 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.




326              THE BAY  PATH.
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 had many interviews with the divines before
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 darkened his whole mental vision-and he found himself unable to
cope with the cool heads and ready speech of his antagonists.
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 opportunity
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 which 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.




CHAPTER XXVII.
DURING 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 obstructed 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 unsatisfied 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
past. As Mary lay upon her bed, tossing in feverish restlessness, 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




328              THE BAY  PATI.
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 hel
and those blessed eyes, and often she struggled with these
obstructions through whole nights, and waked in the morning 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 spirit with a spell of peace, as the moon
sometimes 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 confinement, 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 disappointed whenever the resource
failed him.
Occasionally, neighbors called to see how Mary was getting along, or from some motive of curiosity, and, as they
frequently came in at meal times, and saw what excellent




THE BAY  PATH.                   329
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
obtain 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 plantation.
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
circumspection 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
exhibited anger, she was under the influence of the devil.
If she won a fiiend, 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
occupation.
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




330              THE BAY  PATH.
by disease and care. There was not one in all Mr. Pynchon's family who felt the wounds inflicted on that gentleman'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. Her
mental organization was so fine, and her physical powers so
exquisitely adjusted, that, irritated by the harsh influences
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 comfort 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




THE BAY PATH.                   331
leading place in her mind. She was, within a few months,
to become a mother.  The thought thrilled her with a
strange, sweet pride, that quite subdued her natural fears
and apprehensions; 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
r.egard 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-andone little 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 display, 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
hurriedly, and in an under tone. 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




332             THE BAY PATH.
I'd no idea you'd got so 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 exactly 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
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 into 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."




THE BAY PATH.                    333
"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 regular, in the meeting-house, don't you?"
"Yes," replied Mary and Hugh together.
"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 before.
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,
" 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.
"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.




834              THE BAY  PATH.
" 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, " 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. Byre-by I looked up,
and there stood the widow, crying. Says I,' What's the
matter?' Says she,'I was thinking how Tomson used to
snap that same gun, with the children all standing around
him.' Says, I,' Goody Tomson, there is no use in crying for
spilt milk.' Says she,'I know it, but what'll become of
the children?' Says I,' Can't you put them out to live?'
Says she,' I don't know how I should get places for them, for
I can't leave them a minute.' Says I,' Perhaps you'd like
to have me try for you.' Says she,' Peter, that is jest what
I've been wanting to ask you to do for me a long time.'
Says I,'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.
"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
grow smaller as you get along down, and people 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




THE BAY PATH.                   335
making a fuss, and learning to do things, and full of fun?
By George! Hugh, she's as lively as a little squirrel, and I
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, because 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 handkerchief 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? "




336              THE  BAY PATH.
"'So you are really going to marry the widow Tomson,
are you, Peter?" said Mary, affirmatively and interrogatively 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 extremely 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 Tomson's-Esther she wants me to call her-more than twenty
times."
This statement was too much for the gravity of his
auditors, 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
seizing 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
bereaved Esther, as in securing her and the balance of her
family; 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. Assuring 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 environments, 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, fmeanwhile, new anxieties
descended upon both.




THE BAY PATH.                    337
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
positive 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
which filled him with the deepest perplexity and distress.
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 instituting 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,
endeavoring to soothe her heated fancies. Hour after hour
she lay upon her bed, gazing upwards with her large, lustrous eyes, and brushing away with her white and spectral
hands the long succession of filmy shapes and shadows that
interposed 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
15




338              THE  BAY  PATH.
obstruction, and fled before a wild burst of her impatient temper. Then, after laboring ineffectually for hours,
she would renounce the essay, and sink into a long fit of
hysterical weeping 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
them a very marked effect. Martha listened with a pleased
and most interested smile upon her face, and, at last, reaching 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 conpinuance in the
paroxysm which had come upon them. All day long Martha 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 neighbor
of the birth of Mary Parsons's child; and heard the announcement with a sigh so deep as to startle his informant.




THE BAY PATH.                    339
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 Tompson for some of the kindest and
most important offices of friendship.
Mary, for weeks and months after the birth of her child,
saw not one sane day or hour. Hugh, in th'e midst of his
perplexity, called upon his friend Peter to help him; and
Peter, with his uniform policy, was ready to lend the services 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 Tompsons-and
after doing what she could in the cabin, and ascertaining
that Mary's child would have to be kept away from her, took
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
followed Mr. Pynchon's misfortunes at the Bay, and the
birth of Hugh's unwelcome child. Mr. Pynchon shut him.
self closely in his room and hardly appeared at all, except




340               THE  BAY  PATH.
at the public religious exercises in the meeting-house. There
was a general air of thoughtfulness throughout his household, and among his connexions. There were no merrymakings 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.
In his lonely contemplations, the thought had occurred to
him that perhaps all these calamities had come upon his
people m  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 responsibilities? Was he but a Jonah upon the vessel, who mdst
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.
As soon as the Bay Path became passable, and the
streams that crossed it fordable, in the following spring,
Mr. Pynchon 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                   341
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 his 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 recantation of his alleged errors.
At this juncture, an event occurred which brought a
sudden 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.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. PYNCIION had been absent from the settlement but a
few days when symptoms of amendment appeared 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 which she sought; and he-unwittingly and with
much agitation-told her where the child was, and how
long and for what cause 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 wandering 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 camne between her
eyes and the double vision the old tormenting shapes with
which her long struggle had been held, and her efforts to




THE BAY  PATH.                    343
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 MIary Holyoke, and asked for her
advice 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 tie 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 arm; and the little one smiled with
a sweetness that thrilled the trembling Hugh to the very
depths of his heart, as it composed itself, fiom 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, 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 sleeping 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,




344              THE BAY PATH.
and ran down unon 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
witness 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 Tomson 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




T IE BAY PATH.                  345
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 committed to its shadowy keepers.
Goody Tomson was soon joined by Mary Holyoke and
Iugh, 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 approaching, 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
15*




346              THE  BAY  PATH.
Mary Holyoke, with a beseeching expression that seemed
the very opposite of that which she had previously exhibited.
" She shall not go!" 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
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 touching the management of affairs, Mary Holyoke bent her
steps homeward to attend to the duties of her own household.
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
motion 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, alternately looking at the flickering flame and the patient at the




THE  BAY PATH.                   347
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 dreadfully among the trees, and roared in and around the chimney-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
successors; sometimes making a feint, and, wheeling around
the corner, spending its strength at an unexpected pointat 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 manoeuvres. In a brief hour, a still, sombre 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
windows, 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.




348              THE BAT  PATH.
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 momentarily 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, sending forth 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
marvellously 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 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 intervened. 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




THE  BAY  PATI.                  349
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 sumimer 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 rain 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
enthralment. 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,
was at her bedside in an instant.
" Tell Goody Tomson," 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."
" 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,




350              THE BAY PATH.
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
almost 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 Tomson, 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;wo 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 BAY  PATH.                    351
the leak was so small that the drops came in at long and
measured intervals upon a body of water whose increased
depth gave forth a sad strange resonance, like the tolling
of a lonely bell.
Mary lay in death-like stillness listening to the knell, and
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 minutesall the time keeping distinctly in her sharpened apprehensions 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
^ sadder intonation, as if they were griefburdened, 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 sensibilities, 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 innocent in its sleep, that she paused for another look in its
face. She could not be mistaken. It was the same facethe same child-that had come between her and her own
child-it was the little impostor.




352              TTlE BAY  PATH.
The wind came up again with a wail from the woodsand 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
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 palpable 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
rootf 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




THE BAY PATH.                   353
crackle in the fire-place, 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 bedside, 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.
"O Mary! 0 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




354              THE BAY  PATH.
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 willbecome of us now!" and Hugh-poor, worn, weary,
and despairing fellow-cried as ifhis heartwere wholly broken.
Goody Tomson was not long in making her determination. Throwing her shawl over her head, as the most expeditious 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.
Not until she had run nearly the length of the village
could she be stopped, so as to direct the steps of the attendance 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.




THE BAY  PATH.                   355
While Hugh was engaged in the endeavor to restore
composure and some degree of rational consciousness to his
wife, he heard the tramp of approaching feet, and the confusion 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,
instead 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 descended 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 bed-side,
burst into wild lamentations over the little body which, in
life, they had accused of looking like a cat; or gave vent
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




356              THE BAY  PATH.
darkled through her mental gloom, what fancies she built
up fiom 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 pictured,
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 fiom 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 infanticide burst with an appealing cry of distress from
the arms of her husband, and hid her face upon Mary Holyoke'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 —ugh 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 me, by this shocking and most unnatural murder. The
witchcraft is the primary crime, it is the crime which pro



THE BAY PATH.                   357
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,
in the absence of the magistrate," said Mr. Holyoke, "but
I do object to loading her down with the odium of witchcraft when she is brought before her judges for the only
crime she has been guilty of."
" 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 monomaniac," replied Mr. Holyoke firmly, "and, in this matter,
I 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, calling Deacon Chapin's attention to it, opened it in Mr. Holyoke'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
occasion 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 monomaniac."




358              THE BAY  PATH.
"This is too solemn a place for jesting," said Mr. IHolyoke,
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 tile,
he had supposed it in some manner connected with witchcraft, 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. "There," said he, as he laid
his hand upon the cold forehead of the dead child, and
turned to his two companions, "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
regulate 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




THE BAY  PATII.                 359
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 inquest, the burial, the throngs of curious eyes that peered
into and around the cabin during the day, the hasty preparations 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.
It was a terrible journey for an invalid like Mary to undertake. She was seated upona 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




360              THE BAY  PATH.
than alive, she arrived at Boston, and was taken directly to
the lodgings 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.




CHAPTER XXIX.
THE trial of a witch and a murderess was an event well
calculated to excite the General Court and the people of
the Bay settlements; and not a few of the more superstitious freely expressed their convictions that both the
witchcraft and  the murder were consequences of Mr.
Pynchon's defection, either as a direct, legitimate 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, possessing
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
connexion.
MIary Parsons was taken to the jail, for safe keeping and
for rest. She was so feeble as to be entirely unable to
appear before the General Court, and plead to the charges
against her. During the days that intervened, Mr. Moxon
had very little difficulty in so arranging matters as to bring
the trial for witchcraft into the order of precedence, 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
16




362              THE BAY  PATH.
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 murder.
The old man was more thoroughly disguised than on the
occasion of his first and only interview with Hugh, and
passed for an Indian wherever he appeared. Matters had
arrived at such a condition that he had no hesitation in informing Hugh of the nature of his connexion with Mary,
and the pair became united by a tender and touching sympathy. Day after day they lingered around the door of
the jail, and, whenever Hugh was admitted, the old man
waited without until he re-appeared, 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 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 pleasure.
There was one thought which, more than all others, reconciled her to the fate which seemed inevitable. She




THE  BAY  PATH.                   363
believed that she had her husband's confidence-that no
power could deprive her of it. She believed that, when
she 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 superstition.  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 unutterable 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 the door, and, as she made her appearance, feebly walking 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 offence 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




364               THE  BAY  PATH.
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 previous 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.
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 indictment.  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 charitably, 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




THE  BAY  PATH.                       365
murder; or from the time when the people cromwed into
the cabin upoA Goody Tomson's alarm.  Whatever the
efforts in her behalf may have been, or whatever aspect the
evidence may have assumed, she was condemned to death,
and received her sentence with entire calmness and fortitude.
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.*
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 Springfield, 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
note in the hands of the clerk, and it was accordingly
received 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, 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
* "Mary Parsons of Springfeild, having two bills of inditement
framed agaynst hier, the one for havinge familyarity with the devill, as
a witch, to which she pleaded not guilty & not suffycyent euidence
appearing to prone 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, confest the fact, &
accordinge to her deserts, was condemned to dy.   per Curiam."
Colony Records, vol. III. page 229.




366                 THE  BAY  PATH.
relinqlushment 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 convictions.  Their action in the matter, while it greatly disappointed and terribly mortified him, was exactly what was
necessary to restore him thoroughly to himself, and re-invest
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 respect which the court had not ceased to entertain for him
since Mr. Holyoke's manly defence 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.
* The halting, unwilling, unconvicted spirit in which this retraction
was conceived and written, is sufficiently apparent in the document
itself, 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 advice, I have conferred with the Reverend 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 meritorious price of mans redemption; but now, at present, I am
much inclined to thinke that his sufferinges were appoynted by God fof
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  PATH.                    367
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
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
appears 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 satisfac
tion."  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 conplete
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 counsellors, private misgivings, and the whole train of agents and influences that
had enslaved 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, and had received
the confidence 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.




368              THE BAY  PATI.
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
absence 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 conferred upon him. Mr. Pynchon adjured him
by all means to obtain his commission and retain it, until it
should seem 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,
returned the elasticity and confidence, the firm poise and
free action, which had been its experience when he boldly
asserted himself among the magistrates.  Men who met
him were surprised to find him in excellent spirits-almost
careless of the opinions of those around him, unconcerned
in regard to his position in the colony, and hopeful and confident in regard to the future. He had at last and for ever
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
action, and that his declaration, made once before the magistrates, 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.
THE 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 assembled at Mr. Pynchon's room, when an officer
from the jail arrived with a message from Mary Parsons,
requesting the attendance of Mi'. Pynchon and Mr. Holy
oke 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 fearfully
hollow eye, and a faint smile of recognition and gratitude
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 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 troubledthat He has taken me from the terrible death I was sentenced to."
Holyoke could not restrain his tears, and, as there was
16*




370               THE  BAY  PATH.
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 signified her assent, and the old man, forgetting custom, prejudices, 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 committed 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 wan.
der, 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 concluded, 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




THE BAY  PATH.                    371
and Mr. Holyoke pressed her hand, and bade her an affectionate farewell.  A long passage of laborious breathing
terminated all intelligible conversation with her, and hei
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 unobstructed 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 advanced and tenderly closed her transparent eyelids.
Hugh abandoned himself to griePs 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 tell," 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
ill 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




372              THE BAY PATH.
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 became convinced of the identity of the speaker, and overcame
his astonishment so as to be able to speak.
"Square Pynchon, God bless you!" exclaimed Woodcock, 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, " 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
Marshfield 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' with 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 seems 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 knvw, and how
one thing and another is always cuttin' into us, and how
we get knocked round, and I've no notion that he's goin'
to come down on all alike. Now, I don't say that Mary was




THE BAY  PATH.                   373
very good, but I say she was pretty good considerin', 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 listening to the conversation.
"That's it exactly," pursued Woodcock, "but that's nothin' 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,"
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'tore 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




374               THE BAY  PATH.
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
insignificant 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, and 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,
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
sentence; 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 companionship to which he had so long submitted, and to




THE BAY  PATH.                   375
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 offences, 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 expression 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, doubtless, 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'n't 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."
" I've been thinkin' of this, too, in my way," responded
Woodcock. " I was thinkin' on it when I was settin' on the
floor, jest as you come in. I've made up my mind that the
Lord keeps a pretty close look-out for us, if we be small,




376              THE BAY PATH.
There was my wife-she lived out all her happy days, and
when the Lord saw what she was comin' 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 I can't
think of anything 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 recognised the
operations of Providence, and adopted the lesson they were
designed to inculcate.
As the two old friends closed their conversation, the
officers 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
occasion, overwhelmed Hugh with a fresh influx of grief,
and informed 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
following 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 grey of the morning, the
words of a prayer pronounced in deep solemnity by a
minister, the nailing of the rough coffin, its transportation
in a yard back of the jail to a spot where a grave had but




THE BAY PATH.                     377
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, before he began calmly to apprehend the scenes through which he had passed, he, with
the whole Spring field 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 convenience.
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
allusion 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
plantation 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
cheerfulness and equanimity, succeeded in controlling the
rising discord, and restoring patience and peace to the
people.




CHAPTER XXXI.
No 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
children 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 tenderest 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, however,
she inquired for her children. Peter told her that they
were well, and quieted her curiosity in regard to the place
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 t ie house a




THE  BAY PATH.                   379
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. I'll bet she cried one night as
much as five hours. Land ahead! I never see a little critter tune up so in my life. Well, that set the other two agoing, 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 neighbors. 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 to the
real cause of her grief, continued to fill her mouth and
weep, but did not dare to trust herself with speech. Her




380             THE BAY PATH.
unrestrained mastication, however, led Peter to mistrust
that he had not judged correctly of the cause of her unhappiness, and he inquired if her back did not ache terribly
after riding so far, stating that it not unfrequently affected
him in that manner, 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
actively and powerfully, and her tears fall less copiously, as
she subsided into her usual genial placidity.
" Where did you say the baby was?" inquired Esther,
looking fixedly upon her trencher.
Peter had not said, but he informed her.
" Don't you think she is too young to be put out?" continued 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. "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.
" I kind o' reckoned," pursued Peter, "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'11 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."




THE BAY PATh.                   381
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, "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 which had taken
ple-possession 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 lavishing 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' practice, 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




382              THE BAY PATH.
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.
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 fiom 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 putting a huge bone into her mouth, and her eyes all afloat




THE BAY PATH.                   383
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
-nobody 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 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 shallowness, could not but be touched by his grief, and the wonderfully sad change it had wrought upon him. Peter was
even sufficiently considerate to allow Hugh to tell his story




384              THE BAY  PATII.
-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 sympathy, 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 whole 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 hlis 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.
thing about women, don't you? As you say, the children
may help a little one of these days, and, on the whole, I




TIHE  BAY  PATH.                  385
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 Tomson,
under a vague impression that so precious a creature as the
former had described her to be, must necessarily be overwhelmed 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 after 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.
Pynchon invited his children to his house-at the same
time giving them an intimation that important business was
to be advised upon, at the interview. The party wasstrange 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 mu17




386              THE BAY  PATH.
sic, 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 sunshine from youthful spirits, and once more to forget, in
innocent pleasure, the various ills that had beset the path
of each. Of all this joy Mr. Pynchon was, in truth, the radiating centre. 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 grandchildren; and the mutual reaction from spirit to spirit that
made the meeting happier than the family had known, even
in 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 cannot. and I must not, live in bonds. After having
been, during 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



THE BAY PATH.                   387
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 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
blessing at the expense of their usefulness and prosperity.
You have all a future before you, and your children will
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 unpleasant 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




388              THE BAY  PATH.
did not fully appreciate, did not materially deepen the
solemnity that attended their opening, and so, having been
heard, she subsided to her knitting, and sailed out into her
placid sea of thought, on a woollen 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 England. 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
nothing thus far, decided the question at last. He had no
doubt that it was the duty of one or more of the children
to return 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
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-bye, 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 memories, 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 development in the history of the plantation-a development which




THE  BAY  PATH.                   389
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 secresy, told his family of his discovery of John Woodcock, of his long residence near them
among the Indians, of his charities to Mary and Hugh during 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, during the comparatively brief interview that he held
with Woodcock on the morning of his departure fiom 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 fiom Woodcock the assurance that he would gladly return with him. The family
had always known the sympathy that existed between Mr.
Pynchon and Woodcock-two individuals as widely diverse
in their character, apparently, as could be imagined-but
now that they more fully comprehended the character of
both, they were less at a loss in accounting for the pleasant
anticipation 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 wonderful
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.




890              THE BAY  PATH.
"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.
MoxoI.  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, il 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
offence, 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.
Tle company little imagined that, at the very moment
wheat 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
Mo: on 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 Parsons, 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 opportunity to witness the scenes which had made such an impression upon him, and by that means to vindicate as well
his opinions as his proceedings.
It was remarkable to see the air of deep sadness which
pervaded the Pynchon family as this announcement was




THE  BAY  PATH.                  391
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 re-union, 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 we e 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 gaping
crowd one of her limbs, which was covered with black and
blue spots, inflicted, as he assured them, by her invisible
tormentor.  As he raised his head and recognised the new
comers, he informed them that his daughter had just recovered from a terrible paroxysm, and had made an accusation 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 fiantic 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.




392               THE  BAY  PATH.
" 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
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
innocent 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 epidemic 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.




CHAPTER XXXII.
THE summer which followed these events was a brief and
hurried season. So many things had occurred to divert
the planters fiom their labor that little time was left-for
any purpose-fiom the toils of the forest and the field.
Mr. Pynchon was busy 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
defence by what they had seen, and he seemed to be in
danger of meeting with a fate as lamentable as that which
had befallen 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 centre of devoted
sympathy and attachment, as well to those who had once
been at difference with him, 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
17*




394               T HE  BAY  PATH.
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 dignity back upon
his manhood-than he became one of the best friends he
had. Whether, if his power had been restored, 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 autumnn 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
himself of Mr. Smith's services previous to his departure.
Having, 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 important ceremony. Informing the gentleman that he
would like to see him  out of doors, he proposed, in a
manner not wholly free from  embarrassment, though
sufficiently charged with a sense of self-importance, thie
buisness 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
I'm ever going to be, for you see Esther may change her
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."




TI E BAY  PATH.                  395
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
minutes.  An idea had entered his mind of so novel
and important a character that walking could only have
diverted his attention from its consideration. Having
viewed it in 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 admiring widow, pausing in her work.
"Got hold of my head," responded Peter, with a readiness 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,




396              THE B AY PATH.
ain't you?  Land ahead! I've got to look out; I ain't
nowhere."
The new admiration on the part of Peter, and the glow
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's 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 td 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 exhorted 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-possession.
As soon as Peter and Esther had been pronounced husband and wife, they received the hearty congratulations of
all present, many of whom turned, and jocosely congratu




THE BAY  PATH.                    397
lat3d 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,"
replied 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 handkerchief, 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 congratulate 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 resounding in every direction among the closely crowding company,




398              THE BAY  PATH.
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.
" I wish we'd went out jest as quick as'twas done," remarked Peter to his wife, thoroughly vexed with the child,
and apprehensive that the manceuvre 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 family. In a state of mingled
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 magistrate and the party, he found his child asleep in the corner;
and taking her in his arms, he departed, followed by the
smiling Mrs. Trimble. Both were glad to be out of the
house, and were heartily rejoiced when they found themselves quietly seated before 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 anything, has it?"
Peter's marriage was an event to be merry over in the
plantation, but, while its events were retailed with charming exaggerations from house to house, the Pynchon family




THE BAY  PATH.                    399
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 immediate family of Mr. Pynchon, had supposed that the latter
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 present, 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 himself to the General Court before the close of the
session. Mr. Pynchon read the letters, laid them  aside
without exhibiting 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




400                 THE  BAY  PATI.
ject of excessive annoyance to many of the leading mem
bers 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 appearance before the General Court as quickly as possible.
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
General Court, and to attach a penalty to a non-compliance
with the requisition.*
The action of the General Court was not seen by Mr.
* "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 & heresies published in his booke; & for the end doe give him time to the
next Generall Courte in May, more thoroughly to consider of the said
errours & haeresies in his said booke, & well to weigh the judicious
answer of Mr. John Norton thereto; and that he may give full satisfaction 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 satisfaction; the Court doth therefore order, that the judgment of the cause
be suspended till the Generall Courte in May next, & that Mr. Wm. Pynchon be enjoyned under the penalty of one hundred pounds, to make
his personal appearance at & before the next Generall Courte, to give
a full answer to satisfaction (if it may be) or otherwise to stand to the
judgment & censure of the Courte." —Records of Massachusetts, vol. III.
page 257.




THE BAY  PATH.                    401
Pynchon until some months after it was taken and recorded.
He read it with many smiles, and with a pleasant compliment to its excessive kindness and toleration. The manner
in which he treated this new order may be judged from the
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
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 womanhood, they were but children still-all to the fate which alone
could be their legitimate inheritance; but there is one individual who, through his personal innocence and dependence,
and the associations of his later life, has enlisted the sympathies of the reader, and is still beneath the ban of the minister'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 angelhis reputation tarnished by his association with her name
and crime itself, the subject of the most terrible suspicions




402                 THE  BAY  PATH.
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. Suspicious circumstances seemed to walk with him  like companions wherever he went, to stand at his side whenever
he paused, to group themselves about him  whenever he
talked, re-echoing 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
had been in the practice 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.  IHe was brought before the grand jury, and indicted, and then before a trial jury, which, by an unanimous verdict, found him guilty.   The verdict came before
the magistrates for review, who, on examination of the evidence upon which it was based, set it aside. The case then
came legally before the General Court, which sustained the
view taken by the magistrates, and acquitted him.*
* "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 Springfield,
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  BAY  PATH.                     403
The ruin of Hugh could not have been more complete
had the verdict of the jury been sustained, and the sentence 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 appeared 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 discouraged.  He was thoroughly grieved, not only in consequence of the fact that Hugh had escaped from the punishment which he fully believed was his
due, but because the people had turned against himself; the
only individual, besides 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 be ii his friends-men who had pitied his calamities
and exercised charity for his fiailties-he felt that none
would be left behind who would trust him as they had done.
" The jury of trjalls found him guilty. The magistrates not consenting to the verdict of the jury the cawse came legally to the Generall
Courte. The Generall Courte, after the prisoner was called to the barr
for t:jall 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
ords of Massachusetts, Vol. IV. part 1, page 96."




404              THE BAY  PATH.
There seemed to be no way left open for him but to return to England, with his old friend and patron, and fill 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; 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 morning 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 impressed 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 BAY PATH.                    405
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
passage eastward; and yet it was as solemn as a funeral
procession. 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 very spot where, sixteen years before, Mr. Pynchon 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-dayall 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 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




406               THE  BAY  PATH.
words of prayer and thanksgiving. He prayed for the
community he was leaving-for their safety and 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 change which was then in progress in the affairs of 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 scene 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
preparations for the voyage, the return of alienated friends
of Mr. Pynchon to their old fidelity; of the tender partings
— partings which, in some instances, were like the sunderings of the heart's quickest fibres, 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 distance, the return of the silent and sorrowful
planters homeward, and their arrival among their friendsthe particulars do not call for a rehearsal. They brought
to a close, as the devout planters fully believed, a providential dispensation, 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




T HE  BAY  PAT H.                  407
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 religious opinion, a becoming restiveness under
laws unnecessarily 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 returned to the place from whence they came
out.
In his conversations with Mr. Pynchon upon the vessel,
Woodcock (for the reader will have recognised 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
employment, while they should be spared alive.
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 inferior, if not menial employments.*
Mr. Pynchon and his family, which embraced that of
I-enry Smith, settled down at Wraisbury, in Buckingham* "There is a tradition that he" (Mr. Moxon) "was silenced after ho
returned to England, and died in great obscurity, and as a common servant."
Historical Sermon by Rev. Win. B. Sprague, D.D.
"He" (Mr. Moxon) "died, very poor, out of the ministry. Sept. 15, 1687."
Bliss's Historical Address




408                THE  BAY  PATH.
shire, a small place on the Thames, where he spent the remainder of his cays 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 garden, 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
Woodcock, 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
reprobate 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 regained 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 resurrection; 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.  Simplehearted, 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, th



T IE BAY PATH.                  409
quaint views 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 remarkable 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 generations of men.
18




CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE 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, 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
life     and  ffairs 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 military affairs. His
excellent wife, who was the daughter of Gov. Willis of




THE BAY PATH.                   411
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 become 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 confidence of the town and the colonial government.  He
was 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 consequence 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
determination 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 carme among them, a young man, crowned
with the graces of his blessed Master, and walking in the




412              Tl  E BAY PATH.
light of God's countenance. He went hi 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 Christian 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 predecessor 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 multipliedas 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 of the wheat and the fattest of the flocks and
herds were transported to the Bay, whose young commerce
had already begun to whiten the coast, and to stretch off
upon broader enterprises 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, travelling night and day-splashing the mud,
brushing up the dust, dashing up to inns, and curving more
slowly up to post-offices. The journey was reduced to a
day. And then-miracle of miracles-came the railway
and the locomotive. The journey of a day is reduced
to three hours. Where the traveller toiled over swamps
and through thickets, and slept under the canopy of the
trees, disturbed all night by the howls of savage beasts, the




TI E BAY  PATHI.                  413
train flashes and thunders by, bearing a thousand happy
hearts, travelling for pastime, or bound upon errands of
business or fiiendship.
How fared Peter Trimble amid the changes of the succeeding years? In the first place, his pimples disappeared.
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
became 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 predecessor, 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
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 receive a small fee for his services in those
fields of effort.
And the widow Tomson made him an excellent wife, and
was quite equal in every respect to his deserts. She might
have been more elegant and refined, keener of intellect and
more profound 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 sensitiveness 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




414               THE  BAY  PATH.
supper at night, the reader could have seen Peter making
rabbits on the wall in a kind of animated fiesco for the
amusement of the children, or giving the youngest one an
imaginary ride to Boston on his foot, cantering ieebly 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.
HugTh 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 lie.
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 fiom the
others early. The stone, if the reader have patience, shall
tell her 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 clum
sily inscribed, was placed above their heads.  Years and




TIIE  BAY  PATH.                  415
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 maiden with the bloom upon her cheek and life's discipline 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-now this way, now that-till the mounds settled
down to the level around them, and the stones sank down
into the mould, 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 spotsacred, oh, very sacred-but dressed in few of the charms that
the sensitive Christian mind loves to gather around the
place where its silent friends lie, and where it expects to lay
down its own frail tenement.  So, in the later times, when
the steamboat 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




16               TIHE BAY  PATH.
and nodded upon its hill-sides, 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 recognised 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 graduated 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, sighing 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 promontory, 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 beautiful 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




THE BAY  PATHI.                   417
long 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 Agacwam with the Connecticut settlements wasa
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 sail boat and the steamer. But the age demanded
something 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
mould and sand at one side of the field, and every pound
of earth, spadeful by spadeful, was scrutinized for such
firail 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
and the western range of mountains, rests the fallen generation. 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
18*




418               TIIE  BAY  PATH.
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 hundred 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 O&ober z6, 1657.
SHEE YT LYES HERE WAS WHILE SHE STOODE
A VERY GLORY OF WOMANHOODE;
EVEN HERE WAS SOWNE MOST PRETIOUS DVST
WHICH SURELY SHALL RISE WITH THE JVST.
THE  END.