"Is this a tale?Methinks it is a homily."
"Is this a tale?Methinks it is a homily."
Seymore indulged himself with a few days of perfect, unalloyed happiness. The tumultuous feeling of joy subsided, the dark shade that had begun to gather over his mind vanished, and a sober certainty of bliss—bliss too great, he feared, for mortal, appeased his too keen sensibility to his own imperfections.
The character of Edith was formed to produce this effect. There was nothing exaggerated in it. Her solitary life, without mother or sister, had taught her great self-reliance; while her genuine humility had preserved her from that obstinacy of opinion that a want of knowledge of the world sometimes creates. The grave and solid studies she had entered into with her father had strengthened her mind, as it were, with the "bark and steel" of literature; while the native tenderness of her heart had prevented her from becoming that odious creature, a female pedant. Her greatest charm was the exquisite feminineness of her character: this perhaps, without religion, would have degenerated into weakness, or, without an enlightened reason, into superstition.
How entirely is the divine spirit of Christianity adapted to woman's nature! loving as she does, and trembling for the objects of her love; doomed
"To weep silent tears, and patient smiles to wear,And to make idols, and to find them clay."
"To weep silent tears, and patient smiles to wear,And to make idols, and to find them clay."
If ever woman enjoyed all worldly advantages, if ever she was flattered, made an idol, and worshipped, it was in Europe previous to the French Revolution. Yet the letters and memoirs of the women of that time, light and frivolous as they are, reveal a depth of sadness, a desolation of spirit, a weariness of life,—destitute as many of them are of all aspiration after an immortal hope,—that tells us how indispensable to woman's nature are the hopes and consolations of religion. Love was at that time the object of woman's existence,—a love that, with our standard of morals, leaves a stain as well as a wound; but, with their peculiar notions, it robbed them neither of the adulation of society, nor of their own self-respect. But, with all this, together with their influence in the affairs of state, we read their memoirs not only with a shame that burns on the cheek, but with feelings of the deepest commiseration.
How few, even of the happiest among women, are blest with that love that can fill and satisfy a woman's heart! How many, disappointed and weeping o'er "idols of clay," stretch out the arms of their souls for something they can lean on in safety! How many, solitary at heart in the midst of gayety, turn away to look into themselves for something more satisfying! How many broken and contrite spirits feel that he alone who knows what is in the heart of man, can teach them to bear a wounded spirit!
How full of sympathy for woman is the New Testament! He knew the heart of woman who said, "She is forgiven; for she has loved much."
It must have been a woman who first thought of prayer. Madame de Stael says that a mother with a sick child must have invented prayer; and she is right: a woman would first pray, not for herself, but for the object of her tenderness.
It had been an object much at heart with Mr. Grafton to save a little property for his daughter. He had succeeded in purchasing the small house, and a few acres about it, which was kept in perfect order and good cultivation under the excellent management of Paul.
Edith's unprotected state, being without near relatives, made him desirous that she should have an independent home among his attached but humble parishioners. He knew that she was scarcely less beloved by them than himself. But he looked forward to his place being filled by a stranger; and he was mainly anxious that her comfort should not depend on the bounty, or even the gratitude, of the most disinterested of his flock.
He was able to accomplish his wish, and leave her a small patrimony, abundantly equal to the wants of their frugal establishment; and Edith thanked God, with tears of gratitude, that she was not obliged to separate herself from the graves of both her parents.
The summer and winter that followed her father's death were passed in tranquillity by Edith, watched over and guarded with the most faithful care by her two sable friends. No pastor had yet been chosen in her father's place; and an unacknowledged but cherished hope arose in her mind, that Seymore might one day stand in that sacred place, hallowed in her affections, and now regarded with trembling hope.
Seymore indulged himself with as many short visits to Edith as his circumstances would allow, always struggling as he was with almost insurmountable obstacles, and straining every nerve to attain that goal of his hopes, a position in society that would allow him to claim his bride. The joy that her presence imparted to his whole being, the change that came over him the moment his weary eye caught sight of the steeple that rose above the dear spot of all his dreams, the sunshine that she diffused in the dark places of his mind, prevented Edith from being sensible of the change, the painful change, that a constant struggle with the coarse realities of his position had made in his noble nature. She had often, indeed, said, with Jenny Deans, "It is no matter which has the siller, if the other wants it." But Seymore's nature was proud as well as tender.
He possessed, as we have before seen, the temperament of the poet—that pure, rare, and passionate nature so little able to contend with the actual difficulties of life—to whom every-day regular labor is a burden hard to bear. We have seen that his deep religious impressions had made him consecrate all his fine powers to the service of God; and the tenderness of his conscience made him fear that the sacrifice was imperfect. The conflict was ever in his soul. He was unable to satisfy his own aspirations after a spirituality and purity, which is the slow growth of a life of exertion. Despondency so intimately allied to the poetic temperament produced a morbid sensibility, a sort of monomania in his mind, having the effect of those singular mirages seen from the sea-shore, where the most trivial and familiar objects are magnified to temples and altars, and hung, as it were, in the clouds.
We touch with a reverend spirit and trembling hand the mysterious influences of hidden causes, uniting with unhappy external circumstances, to involve those who seem formed to bless and to be blessed in a self-tormenting melancholy. I know not that, under any circumstances, Seymore's would have been a happy spirit. Under the present, his love for Edith seemed the only light that could save him from total shipwreck.
The two lovers wrote to each other as often as the state of communication between different parts of the country would allow, before post-roads had been established, and when letters were often entrusted to wandering Indians, and the postage paid with a little tobacco, or a handful of meal.
We may judge of the nature of Seymore's letters by one of Edith's, which appears to be an answer to one of his:
October, 1692.How can I be so little solitary, when I am more alone than ever? I awake from dreams of you to feel your presence still with me; and my first emotion is gratitude to God for having given me this happiness. Forgive me, beloved father! that I can be so content without you! The bonds of nature are weakened, when an absorbing emotion fills the heart. The time may come when nature will be avenged. Ah, it cannot be wrong to love as I do. God has opened this fountain in the desert of life, as a solace for all its evils. Ah, how can those who love be sufficiently grateful to God? Every hour should be an act of adoration and praise.You will tell me, my friend, that this all-absorbing love should be given to God. I cannot separate God from his works. This beautiful nature—the ocean, in all its majesty, the quiet stars, as they seem to look down upon us, the beauty spread every where around me—remind me always of God. I cannot represent to myself God in his personal form: I feel him every where, and I love him especially for having made us capable of love.That religion should be a different thing from this pervading love and reverence, I cannot yet understand. Faith is the gift of God; such faith as you, my dear friend, wish me to possess; but it seems to me, like all the other precious gifts of the soul, to be obtained by earnest prayer and infinite strivings. When the young man mentioned in the gospel came to our Saviour, he demanded of him no profession of mysterious faith, but only a proof of disinterested love.Religion is not a distinct thing from the every-day life, as—pardon me, my dear friend—I think you would make it. It is like the air we breathe, requisite for a life of goodness, but not less nor more perceptible to our well-being than the air is to our existence. It should not make itself felt in storms and tempests, in hot and cold fits, but in a calm and equal power, sustaining, purifying, and nourishing our souls.You believe the direct influence of the Spirit of God upon every individual mind is necessary, to make him a religious being. I cannot but think that theindirectinfluence, the beautiful and ever-renewed miracle of nature, the observation of God's providence in the care of his creatures, and the study of the adaptation of Christianity to our particular dispositions—not merely by a process of reasoning, but aided by the religious sentiment which seems to me innate and natural to every human being—is more powerful.And now that I have finished my sermon, let me scold you for wronging yourself, as you too often do.Truthis not to be set aside, in looking at our own characters. We should do the same justice to ourselves that we do to others. There is a secret dishonesty in depreciating ourselves. Could I esteem and honor you as I do, were you what you call yourself? I honor you for all the noble exertions you have made,—for the ardor of your love of truth and duty. Ah, call me not a partial and blinded judge: your true honor and your most precious happiness are too dear to me to allow me to be a false or partial friend. I would give you a little, a very little vanity; not enough to make you a sumptuous robe, but just enough to keep you from the cold.You say you look upon this delusion of witchcraft, that is spreading through the country, with fearful and trembling interest, and that you believe God may permit his will to be made known by such instruments as these. God forbid that I should limit his power! but I fear these poor children are wicked or diseased, and that Satan has nothing to do with it.The old woman at the cliff is now very ill: I trust God will take her from the world before she is seized for a witch. There are many ready to believe that she has ridden through the air on a broomstick, or gone to sea in an egg-shell. But you do not love me to jest on this subject. Forgive me! I will not jest again.And this balmy Indian summer,—it seems as if it would last forever. But I am so happy now, I can hardly believe there is sorrow in the world, or winter in the year. Winter has no terror now: the long evenings and nights bring me dreams of you, and I awake with the consciousness that you are mine. * * *
October, 1692.
How can I be so little solitary, when I am more alone than ever? I awake from dreams of you to feel your presence still with me; and my first emotion is gratitude to God for having given me this happiness. Forgive me, beloved father! that I can be so content without you! The bonds of nature are weakened, when an absorbing emotion fills the heart. The time may come when nature will be avenged. Ah, it cannot be wrong to love as I do. God has opened this fountain in the desert of life, as a solace for all its evils. Ah, how can those who love be sufficiently grateful to God? Every hour should be an act of adoration and praise.
You will tell me, my friend, that this all-absorbing love should be given to God. I cannot separate God from his works. This beautiful nature—the ocean, in all its majesty, the quiet stars, as they seem to look down upon us, the beauty spread every where around me—remind me always of God. I cannot represent to myself God in his personal form: I feel him every where, and I love him especially for having made us capable of love.
That religion should be a different thing from this pervading love and reverence, I cannot yet understand. Faith is the gift of God; such faith as you, my dear friend, wish me to possess; but it seems to me, like all the other precious gifts of the soul, to be obtained by earnest prayer and infinite strivings. When the young man mentioned in the gospel came to our Saviour, he demanded of him no profession of mysterious faith, but only a proof of disinterested love.
Religion is not a distinct thing from the every-day life, as—pardon me, my dear friend—I think you would make it. It is like the air we breathe, requisite for a life of goodness, but not less nor more perceptible to our well-being than the air is to our existence. It should not make itself felt in storms and tempests, in hot and cold fits, but in a calm and equal power, sustaining, purifying, and nourishing our souls.
You believe the direct influence of the Spirit of God upon every individual mind is necessary, to make him a religious being. I cannot but think that theindirectinfluence, the beautiful and ever-renewed miracle of nature, the observation of God's providence in the care of his creatures, and the study of the adaptation of Christianity to our particular dispositions—not merely by a process of reasoning, but aided by the religious sentiment which seems to me innate and natural to every human being—is more powerful.
And now that I have finished my sermon, let me scold you for wronging yourself, as you too often do.Truthis not to be set aside, in looking at our own characters. We should do the same justice to ourselves that we do to others. There is a secret dishonesty in depreciating ourselves. Could I esteem and honor you as I do, were you what you call yourself? I honor you for all the noble exertions you have made,—for the ardor of your love of truth and duty. Ah, call me not a partial and blinded judge: your true honor and your most precious happiness are too dear to me to allow me to be a false or partial friend. I would give you a little, a very little vanity; not enough to make you a sumptuous robe, but just enough to keep you from the cold.
You say you look upon this delusion of witchcraft, that is spreading through the country, with fearful and trembling interest, and that you believe God may permit his will to be made known by such instruments as these. God forbid that I should limit his power! but I fear these poor children are wicked or diseased, and that Satan has nothing to do with it.
The old woman at the cliff is now very ill: I trust God will take her from the world before she is seized for a witch. There are many ready to believe that she has ridden through the air on a broomstick, or gone to sea in an egg-shell. But you do not love me to jest on this subject. Forgive me! I will not jest again.
And this balmy Indian summer,—it seems as if it would last forever. But I am so happy now, I can hardly believe there is sorrow in the world, or winter in the year. Winter has no terror now: the long evenings and nights bring me dreams of you, and I awake with the consciousness that you are mine. * * *
Perhaps the reader may think the letter just read a very singular love-letter. But it must be remembered that religion was the all-absorbing sentiment of the Puritans, and that Seymore's enthusiastic temperament made it the subject that most interested him in his letters to Edith.
Edith's mind was too well balanced and too happily constituted to allow her to partake of his extravagance; but she gave him that dearest proof of love, that of softening all his defects, and even exalting them into the most precious virtues.
"Apart she lived, and still she rests alone:Yon earthly heap awaits no flattering stone."
"Apart she lived, and still she rests alone:Yon earthly heap awaits no flattering stone."
As it was mentioned in Edith's letter, the old woman who lived at the cottage by the cliff had become very ill, and it was apparent that she would never leave her bed again. Edith had been assiduous in her kindness. Dinah had been with her a part of every day, and had watched with her many nights. Edith insisted, at last, that her poor slave should sleep, and resolved herself to take her place by the bedside.
The old woman had made herself feared and hated by the scattered inhabitants. She was called a witch, and they deserted her sick bed,—a thing most rare among the kind-hearted dwellers in a thinly-peopled neighborhood.
It was a threatening evening when Edith took her station by the low pallet of the sick woman. The solitary hut, as I have mentioned, stood on the edge of the little bay; and, at high water, it was almost washed by the waves.
How different the whole scene from that brilliant morning when Edith visited the tenant of the cottage! A leaden cloud seemed now to rest on the water, shutting out the fair sky; and, as the sullen waves rolled on the beach, a close and stifling air oppressed Edith's spirits.
The old woman was alone: her poor grandchild, wearied with the services of the day, had fallen asleep with her hand in her grandmother's, and her head falling over the pillow: her long hair rested on the old woman's face, which she seemed not to have strength to remove.
Edith's first care was to take the little girl from her grandmother's pillow; and, laying her gently on the foot of the bed, she took off her own shawl, and made a pillow for her head. The old woman looked at her without speaking, and a tear coursed slowly down her cheek.
Edith hoped the hardness was melting from her heart. She took her hand tenderly in hers, and whispered, "Cannot you put your trust in God?"
"I cannot pray—to God; no, it is too late. But"—and her voice was interrupted with short, impeded breath. She pointed to the child, and looked at Edith with an expression so imploring, so full of tenderness for the child, of agony that she must leave her, of appeal to Edith's compassion, that the tears started to her eyes, and she answered, "Fear nothing: I will take care of her; I will be a mother to her."
The old woman pressed her hand: the look of agony passed away from her features, and she closed her eyes to sleep.
Edith sat silently by the bedside. The tempest that had been gathering over the water now shook the little dwelling: torrents of rain fell, and frequent flashes lighted the little room. At last, a gust of wind from the broken window extinguished the taper, and Edith was in total darkness. It was a warm night for the season, and no fire on the hearth to afford a spark by which she could relight it.
Edith trembled; but she tried to be calm. She only feared the old woman would die while she held her hand, which she imagined was already growing cold in hers.
The storm gradually passed away into silence. There was no sound but the short, interrupted breath of her patient, and the soft, healthful, regular breathing of infancy. Edith longed for the dawn, and looked anxiously through the little casement for the first gray streak. As far as the eye could reach, the bay was white with foam; but no light yet dawned upon it from the morning.
The old woman awoke. "I cannot see you," she said; "a film is over my eyes."
Edith told her the lamp had been extinguished with the wind.
"Alas!" she said; "and I must die as I have lived,—in darkness."
Edith assured her she was not then dying, and begged her to try to pray, or to listen while she endeavored, as far as she was able, to offer a prayer to God.
"No," she said; "I have lived without prayer, and I will not mock God on my death-bed; but, if there is mercy for me, God may listen to you, pure and good as you have ever been."
Edith knelt; and, with lips trembling with timidity and responsibility, she uttered a low, humble, and earnest prayer.
The old woman seemed at first to listen; but her mind soon wandered: broken and, as it afterwards would almost appear, prophetic sentences escaped from her lips: "Judgments are coming on this unhappy land,—delusions and oppression. Men and devils shall oppress the innocent. The good like you, the innocent and good, shall not escape!" Then she looked at the sleeping child: "Can the lamb dwell with the tiger, or the dove nestle with the hawk? But you have promised: you will keep your word; and when God counts his jewels"—
Edith arose from her knees, and trembled like a leaf. With inexpressible joy, her eyes fell on her own Dinah, standing looking on, with the deepest awe in her countenance. She had risen before the dawn, and come to relieve her young mistress, and had entered while Edith was kneeling. She now insisted on taking her place. Edith committed to her care the sleeping child, and then sought the repose the agitation of the night had rendered so necessary.
Before evening, the old woman died; and the next day she was to be committed to the earth. Little preparation was necessary for her funeral. No mourners were to be summoned from afar: there was no mockery of grief. She had lived disliked by her neighbors. A few old women came from curiosity to see old Nanny, who had never been very courteous in inviting her neighbors to visit her; and they came now to see how she had contrived to live upon nothing.
The poor child, since the death of her only friend, had refused to leave the body, but sat subdued and tearless, like a faithful dog, watching by the side of her grandmother, apparently expecting her to return again to life.
Towards evening, a few persons were assembled in the hut to pay the last Christian services to the dead. The old woman had always said she would be buried, not in the common grave-yard, but near a particular rock where her last son who was drowned had been washed on shore and buried.
The neighbors were whispering among themselves, as to what was to be the fate of the poor child; every one avoiding to look at her, lest it should imply some design to take charge of her. The child looked on with wonder, as though she hardly knew why they were there. She had clung to Dinah as the best known among them; but, when the prayer was finished, and they began to remove the coffin, she uttered a loud cry, flew from Dinah's arms, and clung to the bier with all her strength.
The men instinctively paused and laid down their burden. The voice of nature in that little child was irresistible. They looked at Edith, who had now made known her promise to the grandmother to take care of the child, to ask what they should do. She took the child in her arms and quieted her till all was over, and then, consigning her to the care of Dinah, she was taken to their own home.
Edith felt deeply the responsibility she had assumed in the care and instruction of this child. She knew the tenderness of her own heart, her yielding nature, and feared she should err on the side of too much indulgence. She said to herself, "She shall never need a mother's care. I know the heart of the orphan, and no unkindness shall ever make her feel that she is motherless."
The poor little Phoebe had cried herself to sleep in Dinah's arms, and had been put to bed in her soiled and dirty state. The next morning a clean new dress banished the memory of her grandmother, and her childish tears were dried, and grief forgotten.
Dinah had brought to aid her the power of soap and water, and had disentangled her really soft and beautiful hair; and when Edith came down, she would scarcely have known her again. The soil of many weeks had been taken from the child's skin, and, under it, her complexion was delicately fair: her cheeks were like pale blush roses, and her lips were two crimson rosebuds. But with this youthful freshness, which was indeed only the brilliancy of color, there was an expression in her face that marred its beauty. It was coarse and earthly, and the absence of that confiding openness we love to see in children. It reminded one of her old grandmother; although the one was fair, and smooth, and blooming, the other dark and wrinkled, a stranger would have said they were related.
Edith called the child to her, and kissed her fair cheek; but when she observed the likeness to the old woman, she turned away with a slight shudder, and something like a sigh.
Dinah, an interested observer of every passing emotion, said, softly, "The cloud is not gone over yet; a few more tears, and it will pass away from her young brow, and then it will be fair as your own."
"It is too fair already," answered Edith; "so much beauty will be hard to guide; and then look at that dark, wayward expression."
"Say not so, my dear mistress;" and Dinah drew back the hair from her fair forehead. "Look at her beautiful face: in a few days your heart will yearn to her as mine does to you."
"God grant I may be as faithful to my duty," said Edith; but this is not the way to begin it; and she drew the child to her knee, and a few moments of playful caressing brought smiles to the young countenance that nearly chased away the dark expression.
Edith, although superior to the age in which she lived, could not but be influenced by its peculiarities. The belief that an all-pervading and ever-present Providence directed the most minute, as well as the more important events of life, was common to the Puritans. She could not free herself from a superstitious feeling that this child was to have, in some way or other, she knew not how, an unfavorable influence upon her happiness. She was free, indeed, from that puerile superstition
"That God's fixed will from nature's wanderings learns."
"That God's fixed will from nature's wanderings learns."
But the tempest that shook the little building, the incoherent ravings of the old woman's mind, and the solemn darkness of the hour when she promised to take charge of the child, had made a deep impression on her mind.
It is true "that coming events cast their shadows before." Who has not felt presentiments that certain persons and certain places are, in some mysterious way, we know not how, connected by invisible links with our own destiny? The ancients gave to this hidden and mysterious power the name of Fate. The tragedy of life arises from the powerless efforts of mortals to contend with its decrees. All that the ancient tragedy taught was, to bear evils with fortitude, because they were inevitable; but the "hope that is full of immortality" has taught us that they are the discipline appointed by Heaven to perfect and prepare our souls for their immortal destiny.
"There has been too much cause to observe that the Christians that were driven into the American desert which is now called New England, have, to their sorrow, seen Azahel dwelling and raging there in very tragical instances."Cotton Mather.
"There has been too much cause to observe that the Christians that were driven into the American desert which is now called New England, have, to their sorrow, seen Azahel dwelling and raging there in very tragical instances."
Cotton Mather.
The delusion that passed through our country in 1692 has left a dark chapter in the history of New England. But it was not alone in New England that this fearful delusion influenced the minds and actions of men. It was believed all over Europe, in the seventeenth century, that evil spirits mingled in the concerns of mortals, and that compacts were made with them, and sealed with the blood of many of the most eminent persons of the age.
The desire to penetrate the mysteries of the spiritual natures that we believe every where to surround us, has taken different forms in different states of society. In New England, it seems to have begun in the wicked fancies of some nervous or really diseased children, who were permitted, at last, to accuse and persecute persons who were remarkable for goodness or intellect, and especially females who were distinguished for any excellence of mind or person.
An historian of the time says, "In the present world, it is no wonder that the operations of evil angels are more sensible than that of the good; nevertheless 'tis very certain that the good angels fly about in our infected atmosphere to minister to the good of those who are to be the heirs of salvation. Children and ignorant persons first complained of being tormented and affected in divers manners. They then accused some persons eminent for their virtues and standing in society."
We have seen that Edith was disposed to think lightly of the subject at first, although she rejoiced that the old woman of the cliff had escaped suspicion by a timely death. But when she found that some of her own neighbors had been suspected, and that one old woman, in another village, for denying all knowledge of evil spirits, had been executed, she was filled with consternation; and when others, to save themselves from the same dreadful fate, increased the delusion of the times by confessing a compact with the evil one, her pity was mingled with indignation. With so much clearness of intellect, and simplicity of heart, she could not persuade herself that it was any thing but wilful blindness, and a wicked lie.
But Edith began soon to feel much anxiety for her faithful Dinah. Persons in any way distinguished for any peculiarity were most likely to be accused, and she had secretly made arrangements to send her away, and conceal her, should the smallest indication of suspicion fall upon her. For herself Edith had no fears. It would have been hard to make this pure and simple-minded creature believe that she had an enemy in the world. She had not read the French maxim, that there may be such a weight of obligation that we can only be released from it by ingratitude.
Dinah had remarked, for several days, in the little Phoebe most strange and unnatural contortions, and writhings of the body, startings and tremblings, turning up her eyes and distorting her mouth; and also that she took little food, and often was absent from home; but, with her usual tenderness, and fear of giving anxiety to Edith, she had forborne to mention it.
Indeed, the child had always been wayward and strange, and especially indocile to Edith's instructions, although she seemed at times to have a strong affection for her. She was fond of long rambles in the woods, and of basking in the sun alone on the beach, and retained all her love for those vagrant habits she had learned from her grandmother. Edith had too much tenderness and indulgence to restrain what appeared a harmless and perhaps healthful propensity.
She had tried, however, to civilize the poor, neglected child, and had taught her to say her prayers every night, kneeling at her side.
It was a cold, chilly evening in our tardy spring: the little family had drawn around the cheerful evening fire, and the evening meal was just finished: Edith felt happy, for she had been reading a cheerful letter from Seymore. The shutters were closed, and she had indulged the little Phoebe, as she often did at this hour, with a noisy game. Edith was already tired: she looked at the clock: it was the bed hour for the child.
"Come, my child, be serious for a moment, and say your evening prayer." Phoebe kneeled: the prayer was short, but whenever she came to the word God, or Savior, she cried out that she could not say it.
Edith concealed her fears, and said, very quietly, "I will say it for you; and now, my child, go peaceably to bed, and pray to God to keep you from telling falsehoods." Phoebe was awed by her calm, decided manner, and, without further disturbance, went quietly to bed.
Full of anxiety, and even terror, Edith sought her humble friend, told her the circumstance, and besought her to fly and conceal herself. She had provided the means for flight and concealment, and entreated her to use them before it was too late.
"I do not fear for myself, my dear mistress," said Dinah. "If the child has such design, she has already formed her plan and already accused us; and she will not be content with accusing me; you are not safe. You do not know her hard and stubborn temper. She is like the young hawk in the nest of the dove."
Seeing Edith was dreadfully alarmed, Dinah added, "Do not fear; we are inhishand who feeds the young ravens, and numbers the hairs of our heads."
Edith began to be a little more composed, when a loud knocking was heard at the door. Two men entered, well known to Edith; the officials in all occasions of this nature. One was the deacon of the church, a heated fanatic, full of religious bigotry, whose head was too weak to govern the passionate and blind motions of his heart. While he had been under the restraint of Mr. Grafton's calm, enlightened reason, he had been only a zealous and useful officer of the church; but now, that he considered his own light as no longer hidden under a bushel, his zeal burned out with more violence, and he lent himself to all the wild fanaticism of the time. The other was an old man, an elder in the church; with much tenderness of heart; but he was timid, and relied little on his own judgment, which was so little enlightened that he easily yielded to what he afterwards, when the delusion passed away, bewailed with bitter tears.
Edith was perfectly acquainted with the characters of both. When she saw them enter, she turned deadly pale; but she pointed courteously to a seat, and placed herself instinctively between them and Dinah, to shield her, for she knew too well that there was no escape for her humble friend if once in their power. She felt, therefore, a sensible relief when she found that she was herself the object of their visit.
Edith had had time to recover a little from her first consternation, and, with much self-possession, she asked who were her accusers, and demanded the right of being confronted with them.
The men informed her that she would be taken in the morning to the meeting-house for examination, and then it would be time enough to know her accusers: in the mean time they should leave a guard in the house, to prevent all attempts to escape.
Escape! ah, there was none for her. But Edith answered that she wished not to escape; that she should demand an examination. Alas! she knew not yet the spirit of the times. She was deluded by her own consciousness of innocence, and she thought fanaticism itself could not attach a suspicion to harmlessness like hers.
Not so Dinah. She was seized with a terror and grief that, for one moment, shook her faith in God, and took away all self-possession. She knew that innocence, youth, piety, beauty, had been of no avail against the demoniac fury of the accusers. She besought, on her knees, and with floods of tears, her dear child—as, in her agitation, she called her—to avail herself of flight. She convinced Edith that they could easily elude the vigilance of their guard; that they could escape by water. Paul was an excellent boatman, the sea smooth as a mirror, the moon nearly full; they could reach Boston without suspicion. Or she would hide her in the woods: she herself knew a place where she could bring her food and clothing, and form a shelter for her, and keep her safe till all suspicion had ceased.
It would have been better for Edith had she yielded; but her own clear reason, free from the mists of fanaticism, deluded her into the persuasion that, as nothing could appear against her, it would confirm the suspicions against her if she were to avoid by flight a full and open examination.
Before they retired for the night, they kneeled down to pray. Dinah could not subdue her sobs; but Edith's voice was calm and firm as she asked the protection of the Father of the fatherless, and committed her poor friend to him who is no respector of persons.
Dinah entreated her mistress to allow her to sit by her all night and watch, while she tried to sleep. This Edith refused: she wished to be alone. She had much to do to prepare herself for to-morrow, and she justly feared that Dinah's distress would soften her heart, and shake her firmness too much.
As they passed through the chamber, Dinah bearing the candle, the little Phoebe, restless in her sleep, had nearly thrown herself out of bed. Edith stopped, and, bending over, replaced the bedclothes, and said softly to Dinah, "If to-morrow should be fatal, if I should not live to keep my promise to the old woman, I can trust her to you: you will be to her, as you have been to me, a mother; O, more than a mother?"
She stopped; her voice choked. She removed the thick hair from the brow of the sleeping child, but even in sleep her face wore the frown that so often marred its beauty. "Dinah," she said, "she is yours; you will love her as you have me."
"That I can never promise; but I will do my duty," said Dinah.
Edith pressed her lips—thirsting as they ever did for a return of love—on the fair brow, and then, taking the candle from Dinah, entered her own room. Her heart was oppressed with apprehension, and she would not trust herself to say good night to her faithful servants.
"But ye! ye are changed since ye met me last:There is something bright from your features past;There is that come over your heart and eye,Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die.Ye smile; but your smile has a dimness yet:Oh! what have ye looked on since last we met?"The Voice of Spring.
"But ye! ye are changed since ye met me last:There is something bright from your features past;There is that come over your heart and eye,Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die.Ye smile; but your smile has a dimness yet:Oh! what have ye looked on since last we met?"
The Voice of Spring.
Before the events mentioned in the last chapter occurred, the winter had passed away, and the reluctant footsteps of our northern spring began to appear. The purple Hepatica opened her soft eye in the woods, and the delicate Sanguinaria spread her snowy bosom to catch the pale sunbeam. Already the maple-trees had hung out their beautiful crimson blossoms, and the thrilling note of the song-sparrow echoed through the forest. Then came the chilling wind from the east, its wings loaded with frost; and the timid spring hid her tender blossoms, and wrapped herself in a watery veil.
The weather and the spring were unnoticed by Dinah, when she sought, soon after sunrise, the pillow of her mistress. The night had brought no rest to her throbbing temples and anxious heart: she was surprised, therefore, to find Edith still sleeping. She had sat up late, arranging her father's and her own papers, and providing, by a distribution of her little property, for the old age of her two faithful servants. They were no longer slaves; Mr. Grafton had given them freedom at his death. She left the little Phoebe under their guardianship. She had also written a letter to Seymore, to ask him to come and aid her by his counsel in this extremity. It was nearly dawn when she sought her pillow; and sleep, which has been called the friend of sorrow—"but it is the happy who have called it so"—had only for a few moments left her with untroubled dreams. Her sleep was not heavy; for the gentle footstep of Dinah awoke her. When she saw her humble friend's troubled expression, she tried to smile; and, stroking her dark cheek as she bent over her, she said, "We must look bright to-day, my poor Dinah, or they will think we are afraid."
They prepared for the arrival of the officers; and, when breakfast was ready, the little Phoebe was not to be found. Although Dinah looked very grave, this occasioned no anxiety in Edith, when she recollected the vagrant habits of the child.
After breakfast, which was indeed not tasted, the same persons who had visited her the night before came to conduct Edith to the meeting-house, the place of examination. The house was nearly full; and among that crowd there was scarcely one to whom Edith had not been a friend and a benefactor, as far as her humble means would allow. As she entered, there was one by whose sick bed she had watched; another whose infant had died in her arms; and children stood looking on with stupid wonder to whom she had given flowers, and primers, and, more than all, her own gentle smile. But now every eye was averted, or turned on her with suspicion and terror,—so hardening is the power of fanaticism.
I believe I have said that my heroine was not beautiful; but the inward harmony must have given a spiritual beauty to features animated with intellect, and softened by tenderness of heart; and a self-relying innocence and purity imparted something more of grace to her person than the most finished art could have given.
Edith became very pale as she entered; and Dinah, who had followed her closely, begged permission to stand near and support her. This was denied, and she was placed between two men, who each held an arm, and in front of those who were to examine her.
The afflicted—that is, the accuser—was now called in. Edith looked eagerly around, and, with grief and astonishment, saw her little Phoebe, the child of her care, when almost close to her, utter a piercing cry, and fall down in violent convulsions. She started forward to assist and raise her, but the men drew her rudely back. And this was her accuser!
At the same time with Edith, a poor old woman, nearly eighty years of age, was brought in. Her accuser was her own grandchild,—a girl about the same age as Phoebe. Together they had concerted this diabolical plot, and had rehearsed and practised beforehand their contortions and convulsions, excited, no doubt, by the notoriety of wicked children they had heard of.
The poor old creature was bent and haggard. She would have wept, but, alas! the fountain of her tears was dried up; and she looked at her grandchild with a sort of stupid incredulity and wonder. Her inability to weep was regarded as an infallible proof of her guilt. As she stood beside Edith, she shook with age and terror; and Edith, touched with pity, though she trembled herself, and was deadly pale, tried to give her a smile of hope and encouragement. The poor old wretch did not need it: she not only confessed to every thing of which she was accused, but added such circumstances of time and place, and of the various forms the devil had taken in her person, that Edith almost sickened with disgust. She could not understand how an old person, on the very verge of the grave, could wish to lengthen out her few years by such base and wicked lies.
The young cannot believe that the old are unwilling to die. But it is an acknowledged truth, that the longer we have worn our earthly vesture, the dearer becomes the thin and faded remnant. The young resign their hold of life with hardly a regret, while the old cling with the utmost tenacity to the wavering and nearly-parted thread.
Edith turned away from the partner of her suspected guilt, and asked to have the child brought near her. She held out her hand, and looked mildly in her face. The moment the child touched Edith's hand, she was still: this was a part of the plot: but the moment her hand was withdrawn, she fell down again in violent convulsions, and cried out that pins were thrust into her. In the midst of this acting, she caught Dinah's stern, reproachful eye fixed upon her, and she instantly became still. But this did not aid poor Edith's cause; for they cried out that the child was struck dumb by the accused.
The old woman also, feeling perhaps that Edith's integrity was a reproach to her own weakness, cried out that she was pierced with pins, and pinched by Edith, although with invisible fingers, as she stood near her; and, turning back her sleeve from her bony and wrinkled arm, she showed a discolored spot, which she declared had not been there when she left her home. It had not, indeed; but every one knows how quickly a bruise is visible in the stagnant blood of age, and the mark had been left by the hand of the person who held her arm.
Edith, wearied and disgusted, desired to be taken back to her prison, there to await her trial before the judges of the Province. Every thing had occurred that was most unfavorable to her, and she felt but too well that she must bear the suspicion of a crime of which she was as unconscious as the unborn infant. Her heart yearned towards the poor infatuated child, and she earnestly begged that she might be permitted to talk with her alone. This was granted, and she was guarded to her prison.
There was no proper prison in our village, and Edith was guarded in one of the rooms of the deacon's house who had been so active in her accusation.
During the night that passed after her examination, Edith had time to arrange her thoughts. Before she knew who her accusers were, she had been moving in the dark; and now, when she thought of the whole insane proceeding, she could scarcely believe they would be guilty of the monstrous crime of condemning her on the testimony of that child alone.
When the deacon visited her in the morning, she said, with much warmth, "Have the days of Queen Mary come back? Am I to be suspected, condemned, imprisoned, on the testimony of that poor child,—the child that I took to my home when no one else among you would offer her a shelter?"
The deacon answered, "that the testimony was so much more convincing, as the child had lived in the house with her."
"And is her word to be taken against the testimony of my whole life? You know how I have lived among you from my infancy."
"Yes; but God may choose the fairest of his works as instruments of his sovereign will."
"Have you forgotten my father?" said Edith,—"how he lived among you? He was ever your friend—always near you in every trouble. And myself"—she stopped; for she would not remind them of her deeds of kindness,—of the daily beauty of her life in their humble circle; nor would she recall her orphanhood, her unprotected state; but she looked down, and her eyes filled with tears. "God," she said, at length, "is the protection of the orphan; and he will avenge this great sin, and you will answer for it at his bar."
The deacon looked sternly decided and unmoved, but he began to urge her to confess,—to do as others had done, and save her life by acknowledging the crime.
Indignation kindled in Edith's eye; but she checked it, and said, "I cannot, I durst not, belie my own soul, and commit so great a sin. God, who is the searcher of my heart and your heart, as we shall both answer at the judgment day, is witness that I know nothing of witchcraft,—of no temptation of the evil one. I have felt, indeed—as who has not?—the temptations that arise from our own passions; but I know no other, and can confess no other."
She then desired that Phoebe might be brought to her, and Dinah permitted to attend her in her prison. They consented that Edith should see the child in the presence of one witness; and the mild old man who was with the deacon said he would bring her himself.
"I am constrained to declare, as the result of as thorough a scrutiny as I could institute, my belief that this dreadful transaction was introduced and driven on by wicked perjury and wilful malice."Upham's Lecture ox Salem Witchcraft."Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?"Lear.
"I am constrained to declare, as the result of as thorough a scrutiny as I could institute, my belief that this dreadful transaction was introduced and driven on by wicked perjury and wilful malice."
Upham's Lecture ox Salem Witchcraft.
"Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?"
Lear.
There seems sometimes to be an element of evil in the heart of a child, that would almost persuade us to believe in original sin. In the breast of those who have been favorably born and kindly nurtured, it may sleep forever; but, when the conscience has been soiled in early childhood, it awakes the appetite for sin, and the restraint that comes afterwards curbs without subduing the disposition to evil.
It is true that poor Phoebe had felt a strong affection for her grandmother; and, without all other moral restraint, it was the only point in which her heart could be touched. The vagrant life she had led had also had its influence:
"Happy because the sunshine was her dower,"
"Happy because the sunshine was her dower,"
she could not always be insensible to the beauty of the heaven that had so often canopied her sleep, or the grandeur of the ocean where she had passed whole days playing with the waves. She rebelled against the restraint that every feminine occupation imposed on this wild liberty. She quailed, indeed, before Dinah's more resolute spirit; but Edith's gentleness had failed to touch her heart; and she knew that her forced obedience to Dinah was only the result of Edith's authority.
When the child appeared, Edith held out her hand with her own grave, sweet smile; but, the moment the child saw her, she began again to act her part, and to throw her body and limbs into violent contortions. Edith was not alarmed: she saw it was feigned; and, drawing her to her knees, she held both her little hands tightly clasped in hers. Phoebe became instantly calm; but this was a part of the system of deception,—that, as soon as the accused touched the afflicted, they should be calmed and healed.
Edith looked in her face, and said, very kindly, "Tell me, my poor child, who has persuaded you to do this wicked thing,—to accuse me of this horrible crime? tell me truly. I shall not be angry with you, I shall not punish you, if you tell me the truth. Who first spoke to you about it? What have they promised you for bringing this trouble on me?"
The child, unmoved, said, "You yourself made me do it."
"I! O, my poor Phoebe, how can you be so wicked as to tell this dreadful lie? Do you not know that God sees you and hears you, and that he will punish you for it? I may die: you may cause my death; but you will live to repent; and, O, how sorry you will be in after years, when you think how much I loved you, and you have caused my death! But, my poor Phoebe, you know not what you do; you know not what death is."
"My grandmother died," said the child.
"Ah, yes; but she died quietly in her bed, and you were sleeping near; and when I took you in my arms to look at her, you saw only her peaceful countenance. But I shall not die thus: I shall be dragged before angry men, and, with irons on my hands and ankles, I shall be lifted to the scaffold, and there, before hundreds of angry faces turned towards me, I shall die alone! not peacefully, as your grandmother did, when with my own hands I closed her eyes, but horribly, in pain and agony! and you will have done this,—you that I have loved so"—
Phoebe became very red, and the tears came to her eyes.
Edith thought she had touched the child's heart, and continued: "I knew you could not be so wicked, so young and looking so innocent. No, my child; you love me, and you will unsay all you have said, and we will go home again together."
The child answered, with much violence, "No, no, never! you pricked me with pins, and you tormented me."
"O, monstrous!" said Edith; "if I could believe in devils, I should believe you were now possessed. O, it is not natural! so young, and with a woman's nature! You do not love me, then. I have punished you when you have done wrong, and you have not forgiven me: you wish to be revenged. You do not answer. Phoebe! tell me: are you angry that I punished you? God knows it pained me to do so. But your poor grandmother gave you to me that I might try to make you a good child; and if I had not punished you when you did wrong, you would have grown up a wicked woman. God grant you may not be so now! you are already revenged."
Phoebe said, very sullenly, "You punished me twice."
"Good God! and is it for that you have brought on me this terrible evil? Can such revenge dwell in so young a heart?"
Edith walked several times across the room, trying to calm her agitated nerves. The child stood with an expression of obstinate determination in her whole manner.
At length Edith went to her, and took her, as she had often done at home, in her arms.
"My dear Phoebe, do you remember the day when your grandmother died? I was there by her bedside; and you, a poor, deserted child, were crying bitterly. I took you home to my house. Like myself, you were an orphan; and I prayed to the orphan's Father that from me your little heart might never know a pang of sorrow. You fell asleep in my arms; and since then I have ever loved you almost as though I were indeed your mother, and you were my own child. And you, Phoebe, you have loved me, have you not?"
The child was silent.
"Do you remember the fever you had soon after? when you were restless in your bed, and I took you in my arms, and all night my bosom was your pillow, and I watched you many nights, and thought not of sleep or fatigue when I held your little hand, burning with fever, in my own all night? Ah! you loved me then; you will love me again, and—"
"I never loved you," said the child; "I do not love you now."
Edith put her quickly from her arms, and turning to the man who was present, "Take her away," she said; "take the poor child away. O, my God! is it for this I have lavished on her the tenderness of my heart! I warmed her in my bosom, and she has stung me to the quick. O, had I been less indulgent, I might have subdued her stubborn nature. Of what avail has been a life of self-denial, of benevolence? Of what avail that I have striven to enlighten my own mind and to do good to others? In one moment, by that child of my own cherishing, but the creature of my own bounty, I am suspected of a horrible, contemptible crime; humiliated to the very dust. O, my Father! it is too much." She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
The person who had witnessed the scene with the child was the same elder I have mentioned as possessing much tenderness of heart, but too weak a head to listen to its dictates when opposed to the influence of others. He had been much affected by her appeal to the child, and came back to urge her, if she had any friends to espouse her cause, to send for them. He said the fanaticism was increasing; that the prisons in many villages were filled with the accused; that the hearts of the people were hardened against them; and that her own cause had been much injured by the confession of the old woman: and he ended by entreating her to confess also, and save her life.
To the last proposal, Edith did not answer. She said she had already written to the only friend on whom she could rely, and that Paul had gone himself with her letter. Her cause, she said, seemed already lost, and all she wished at present was, that Dinah might be permitted to visit her, and that she might be left alone.
When Edith was alone, she felt the depression that succeeds to great excitement. She looked back on her life with that sick and heart-broken feeling that the young experience after severe disappointments. She was too young to die; and, though her life had been comparatively blameless, the excess of feeling she had lavished on a few idols seemed now to her almost like a crime. She had forgotten, she thought, that her duties had been plain, and simple, and humble, lying all about her path like unnoticed flowers, while she had longed for something more exciting to fill her heart.
It is easy for the accused to believe themselves guilty. She trembled when she thought how many, not weaker than herself, when suspected and deserted by friends, had yielded to their fears, and even fancied themselvesguiltyof crimes which they abhorred; and she mentally prayed, "Ah, my Father, save me from myself." Then came the thought of Seymore, of his grief, his desolation! "Ah, who will understand him," she said; "who will comfort him when I am gone? But will he remember me?" thought she; "will he think of me in 'widowhood of heart?'"
Who would die and be wholly forgotten? We long intensely to live in the hearts that love us now. We would not pass away "like the summer-dried fountain," forgotten when its sound has ceased. We would have our lowly grave visited by holy, twilight thoughts, and our image return at the hour of prayer. How few are thus remembered! Now Edith thought of her father, and all the yearning of her heart, which her love for Seymore had stifled, came back, and torrents of tears flowed as she recalled her happy childhood.
They were checked by the entrance of Dinah. She brought comfort with her, and a cheerful countenance, for she did not know the result of Edith's conversation with the child, and she was full of hope that Phoebe would retract all she had said.
Edith could not bear to undeceive her poor friend, and smiled, and thanked her as she arranged a nice, clean bed, placed the books she had brought within her reach, and pressed her to eat of the delicacies she had prepared. She arranged the little repast with all the neatness of home, and gave to the gloomy apartment an air of comfort; and Edith smiled again, and felt lightened of half her load of despondency, by the presence of this faithful guardian.