Howells et al. - "The Whole Family"

William D. Howells - "The Register"

Plato - "Plato's Republic"

Edgar Allan Poe - "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe Volume 1 of the Raven Edition"

The Complete Works of Whittier

J >> John Greenleaf Whittier >> The Complete Works of Whittier






June 8.

The Morse woman having been found guilty by the Court of Assistants,
she was brought out to the North Meeting, to hear the Thursday Lecture,
yesterday, before having her sentence. The house was filled with
people, they being curious to see the witch. The Marshal and the
constables brought her in, and set her in, front of the pulpit; the old
creature looking round her wildly, as if wanting her wits, and then
covering her face with her dark wrinkled hands; a dismal sight! The
minister took his text in Romans xiii. 3, 4, especially the last clause
of the 4th verse, relating to rulers: For he beareth not the sword in
vain, &c. He dwelt upon the power of the ruler as a Minister of God,
and as a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil; and showeth
that the punishment of witches and such as covenant with the Devil is
one of the duties expressly enjoined upon rulers by the Word of God,
inasmuch as a witch was not to be suffered to live.

He then did solemnly address himself to the condemned woman, quoting 1
Tim. v. 20: "Them that sin, rebuke before all, that others also may
fear." The woman was greatly moved, for no doubt the sharp words of the
preacher did prick her guilty conscience, and the terrors of hell did
take hold of her, so that she was carried out, looking scarcely alive.
They took her, when the lecture was over, to the Court, where the
Governor did pronounce sentence of death upon her. But uncle tells me
there be many who are stirring to get her respited for a time, at least,
and he doth himself incline to favor it, especially as Rebecca hath
labored much with him to that end, as also hath Major Pike and Major
Saltonstall with the Governor, who himself sent for uncle last night,
and they had a long talk together, and looked over the testimony against
the woman, and neither did feel altogether satisfied with it. Mr.
Norton adviseth for the hanging; but Mr. Willard, who has seen much of
the woman, and hath prayed with her in the jail, thinks she may be
innocent in the matter of witchcraft, inasmuch as her conversation was
such as might become a godly person in affliction, and the reading of
the Scripture did seem greatly to comfort her.



June 9.

Uncle Rawson being at the jail to-day, a messenger, who had been sent to
the daughter of Goody Morse, who is the wife of one Hate Evil Nutter, on
the Cocheco, to tell her that her mother did greatly desire to see her
once more before she was hanged, coming in, told the condemned woman
that her daughter bade him say to her, that inasmuch as she had sold
herself to the Devil, she did owe her no further love or service, and
that she could not complain of this, for as she had made her bed, so she
must lie. Whereat the old creature set up a miserable cry, saying that
to have her own flesh and blood turn against her was more bitter than
death itself. And she begged Mr. Willard to pray for her, that her
trust in the Lord might not be shaken by this new affliction.



June 10.

The condemned woman hath been reprieved by the Governor and the
Magistrates until the sitting of the Court in October. Many people,
both men and women, coming in from the towns about to see the hanging,
be sore disappointed, and do vehemently condemn the conduct of the
Governor therein. For mine own part, I do truly rejoice that mercy hath
been shown to the poor creature; for even if she is guilty, it affordeth
her a season for repentance; and if she be innocent, it saveth the land
from a great sin. The sorrowful look of the old creature at the Lecture
hath troubled me ever since, so forlorn and forsaken did she seem.
Major Pike (Robert's father), coming in this morning, says, next to the
sparing of Goody Morse's life, it did please him to see the bloodthirsty
rabble so cheated out of their diversion; for example, there was Goody
Matson, who had ridden bare-backed, for lack of a saddle, all the way
from Newbury, on Deacon Dole's hard-trotting horse, and was so galled
and lame of it that she could scarce walk. The Major said he met her at
the head of King Street yesterday, with half a score more of her sort,
scolding and railing about the reprieve of the witch, and prophesying
dreadful judgments upon all concerned in it. He said he bade her shut
her mouth and go home, where she belonged; telling her that if he heard
any more of her railing, the Magistrates should have notice of it, and
she would find that laying by the heels in the stocks was worse than
riding Deacon Dole's horse.



June 14.

Yesterday the wedding took place. It was an exceeding brave one; most
of the old and honored families being at it, so that the great house
wherein my uncle lives was much crowded. Among them were Governor
Broadstreet and many of the honorable Magistrates, with Mr. Saltonstall
and his worthy lady; Mr. Richardson, the Newbury minister, joining the
twain in marriage, in a very solemn and feeling manner. Sir Thomas was
richly apparelled, as became one of his rank, and Rebecca in her white
silk looked comely as an angel. She wore the lace collar I wrought for
her last winter, for my sake, although I fear me she had prettier ones
of her own working. The day was wet and dark, with an easterly wind
blowing in great gusts from the bay, exceeding cold for the season.

Rebecca, or Lady Hale, as she is now called, had invited Robert Pike
to her wedding, but he sent her an excuse for not coming, to the effect
that urgent business did call him into the eastern country as far as
Monhegan and Pemaquid. His letter, which was full of good wishes for
her happiness and prosperity, I noted saddened Rebecca a good deal; and
she was, moreover, somewhat disturbed by certain things that did happen
yesterday: the great mirror in the hall being badly broken, and the
family arms hanging over the fire-place thrown down, so that it was
burned by the coals kindled on the hearth, on account of the dampness;
which were looked upon as ill signs by most people. Grindall, a
thoughtless youth, told his sister of the burning of the arms, and that
nothing was left save the head of the raven in the crest, at which she
grew very pale, and said it was strange, indeed, and, turning to me,
asked me if I did put faith in what was said of signs and prognostics.
So, seeing her troubled, I laughed at the matter, although I secretly
did look upon it as an ill omen, especially as I could never greatly
admire Sir Thomas. My brother's wife, who seemed fully persuaded that
he is an unworthy person, sent by me a message to Rebecca, to that
effect; but I had not courage to speak of it, as matters had gone so
far, and uncle and aunt did seem so fully bent upon making a great lady
of their daughter.

The vessel in which we are to take our passage is near upon ready for
the sea. The bark is a London one, called "The Three Brothers," and is
commanded by an old acquaintance of Uncle Rawson. I am happy with the
thought of going home, yet, as the time of departure draws nigh, I do
confess some regrets at leaving this country, where I have been so
kindly cared for and entertained, and where I have seen so many new and
strange things. The great solemn woods, as wild and natural as they
were thousands of years ago, the fierce suns of the summer season and
the great snows of the winter, and the wild beasts, and the heathen
Indians,--these be things the memory whereof will over abide with me.
To-day the weather is again clear and warm, the sky wonderfully bright;
the green leaves flutter in the wind, and the birds are singing sweetly.
The waters of the bay, which be yet troubled by the storm of last night,
are breaking in white foam on the rocks of the main land, and on the
small islands covered with trees and vines; and many boats and sloops
going out with the west wind, to their fishing, do show their white
sails in the offing. How I wish I had skill to paint the picture of all
this for my English friends! My heart is pained, as I look upon it,
with the thought that after a few days I shall never see it more.



June 18.

To-morrow we embark for home. Wrote a long letter to my dear brother
and sister, and one to my cousins at York. Mr. Richardson hath just
left us, having come all the way from Newbury to the wedding. The
excellent Governor Broadstreet hath this morning sent to Lady Hale a
handsome copy of his first wife's book, entitled "Several Poems by a
Gentlewoman of New England," with these words on the blank page thereof,
from Proverbs xxxi. 30, "A woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be
praised," written in the Governor's own hand. All the great folks
hereabout have not failed to visit my cousin since her marriage; but I
do think she is better pleased with some visits she hath had from poor
widows and others who have been in times past relieved and comforted by
her charities and kindness, the gratitude of these people affecting her
unto tears. Truly it may be said of her, as of Job: "When the ear heard
her then it blessed her, and when the eye saw her it gave witness to
her: because she delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and
him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to
perish came upon her; and she caused the widow's heart to sing for joy."

[Here the diary ends somewhat abruptly. It appears as if some of the
last pages have been lost. Appended to the manuscript I find a note, in
another handwriting, signed "R. G.," dated at Malton Rectory, 1747. One
Rawson Grindall, M. A., was curate of Malton at this date, and the
initials are undoubtedly his. The sad sequel to the history of the fair
Rebecca Rawson is confirmed by papers now on file in the State-House at
Boston, in which she is spoken of as "one of the most beautiful, polite,
and accomplished young ladies in Boston."--Editor.]

"These papers of my honored and pious grandmother, Margaret Smith, who,
soon after her return from New England, married her cousin, Oliver
Grindall, Esq., of Hilton Grange, Crowell, in Oxfordshire (both of whom
have within the last ten years departed this life, greatly lamented by
all who knew them), having cone into my possession, I have thought it
not amiss to add to them a narrative of what happened to her friend and
cousin, as I have had the story often from her own lips.

"It appears that the brave gallant calling himself Sir Thomas Hale,
for all his fair seething and handsome address, was but a knave and
impostor, deceiving with abominable villany Rebecca Rawson and most of
her friends (although my grandmother was never satisfied with him, as is
seen in her journal). When they got, to London, being anxious, on
account of sea-sickness and great weariness, to leave the vessel as soon
as possible, they went ashore to the house of a kinsman to lodge,
leaving their trunks and clothing on board. Early on the next morning,
he that called himself Sir Thomas left his wife, taking with him the
keys of her trunks, telling her he would send them up from the vessel in
season for her to dress for dinner. The trunks came, as he said, but
after waiting impatiently for the keys until near the dinner-hour, and
her husband not returning, she had them broken open, and, to her grief
and astonishment, found nothing therein but shavings and other
combustible matter. Her kinsman forthwith ordered his carriage, and
went with her to the inn where they first stopped on landing from the
vessel, where she inquired for Sir Thomas Hale. The landlord told her
there was such a gentleman, but he had not seen him for some days.
'But he was at your house last night,' said the astonished young woman.
'He is my husband, and I was with him.' The landlord then said that one
Thomas Rumsey was at his house, with a young lady, the night before, but
she was not his lawful wife, for he had one already in Kent. At this
astounding news, the unhappy woman swooned outright, and, being taken
back to her kinsman's, she lay grievously ill for many days, during
which time, by letters from Kent, it was ascertained that this Rumsey
was a graceless young spendthrift, who had left his wife and his two
children three years before, and gone to parts unknown.

"My grandmother, who affectionately watched over her, and comforted her
in her great affliction, has often told me that, on coming to herself,
her poor cousin said it was a righteous judgment upon her, for her pride
and vanity, which had led her to discard worthy men for one of great
show and pretensions, who had no solid merit to boast of. She had
sinned against God, and brought disgrace upon her family, in choosing
him. She begged that his name might never be mentioned again in her
hearing, and that she might only be known as a poor relative of her
English kinsfolk, and find a home among them until she could seek out
some employment for her maintenance, as she could not think of going
back to Boston, to become the laughing-stock of the thoughtless and the
reproach of her father's family.

"After the marriage of my grandmother, Rebecca was induced to live with
her for some years. My great-aunt, Martha Grindall, an ancient
spinster, now living, remembers her well at that time, describing her as
a young woman of a sweet and gentle disposition, and much beloved by all
the members of the family. Her father, hearing of her misfortunes,
wrote to her, kindly inviting her to return to New England, and live
with him, and she at last resolved to do so. My great-uncle, Robert,
having an office under the government at Port Royal, in the island of
Jamaica, she went out with him, intending to sail from thence to Boston.
From that place she wrote to my grandmother a letter, which I have also
in my possession, informing her of her safe arrival, and of her having
seen an old friend, Captain Robert Pike, whose business concerns had
called him to the island, who had been very kind and considerate in his
attention to her, offering to take her home in his vessel, which was to
sail in a few days. She mentions, in a postscript to her letter, that
she found Captain Pike to be much improved in his appearance and
manners,--a true natural gentleman; and she does not forget to notice
the fact that he was still single. She had, she said, felt unwilling to
accept his offer of a passage home, holding herself unworthy of such
civilities at his hands; but he had so pressed the matter that she had,
not without some misgivings, consented to it.

"But it was not according to the inscrutable wisdom of Providence that
she should ever be restored to her father's house. Among the victims of
the great earthquake which destroyed Port Royal a few days after the
date of her letter, was this unfortunate lady. It was a heavy blow to
my grandmother, who entertained for her cousin the tenderest affection,
and, indeed, she seems to have been every way worthy of it,--lovely in
person, amiable in deportment, and of a generous and noble nature. She
was, especially after her great trouble, of a somewhat pensive and
serious habit of mind, contrasting with the playfulness and innocent
light-heartedness of her early life, as depicted in the diary of my
grandmother, yet she was ever ready to forget herself in ministering to
the happiness and pleasures of others. She was not, as I learn, a
member of the church, having some scruples in respect to the rituals, as
was natural from her education in New England, among Puritanic
schismatics; but she lived a devout life, and her quiet and
unostentatious piety exemplified the truth of the language of one of the
greatest of our divines, the Bishop of Down and Connor 'Prayer is the
peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the issue of a quiet
mind, the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness.' Optimus
animus est pulcherrimus Dei cultus.

"R. G."






TALES AND SKETCHES

MY SUMMER WITH DR. SINGLETARY.

A FRAGMENT.

CHAPTER I.

DR. SINGLETARY is dead!

Well, what of it? All who live die sooner or later; and pray who was
Dr. Singletary, that his case should claim particular attention?

Why, in the first place, Dr. Singletary, as a man born to our common
inheritance of joy and sorrow, earthly instincts and heavenward
aspirations,--our brother in sin and suffering, wisdom and folly, love,
and pride, and vanity,--has a claim upon the universal sympathy.
Besides, whatever the living man may have been, death has now invested
him with its great solemnity. He is with the immortals. For him the
dark curtain has been lifted. The weaknesses, the follies, and the
repulsive mental and personal idiosyncrasies which may have kept him
without the sphere of our respect and sympathy have now fallen off, and
he stands radiant with the transfiguration of eternity, God's child, our
recognized and acknowledged brother.

Dr. Singletary is dead. He was an old man, and seldom, of latter years,
ventured beyond the precincts of his neighborhood. He was a single man,
and his departure has broken no circle of family affection. He was
little known to the public, and is now little missed. The village
newspaper simply appended to its announcement of his decease the
customary post mortem compliment, "Greatly respected by all who knew
him;" and in the annual catalogue of his alma mater an asterisk has been
added to his name, over which perchance some gray-haired survivor of his
class may breathe a sigh, as he calls up, the image of the fresh-faced,
bright-eyed boy, who, aspiring, hopeful, vigorous, started with him on
the journey of life,--a sigh rather for himself than for its unconscious
awakener.

But, a few years have passed since he left us; yet already wellnigh all
the outward manifestations, landmarks, and memorials of the living man
have passed away or been removed. His house, with its broad, mossy roof
sloping down on one side almost to the rose-bushes and lilacs, and with
its comfortable little porch in front, where he used to sit of a
pleasant summer afternoon, has passed into new hands, and has been sadly
disfigured by a glaring coat of white paint; and in the place of the
good Doctor's name, hardly legible on the corner-board, may now be seen,
in staring letters of black and gold, "VALENTINE ORSON STUBBS, M. D.,
Indian doctor and dealer in roots and herbs." The good Doctor's old
horse, as well known as its owner to every man, woman, and child in the
village, has fallen into the new comer's hands, who (being prepared to
make the most of him, from the fact that he commenced the practice of
the healing art in the stable, rising from thence to the parlor) has
rubbed him into comparative sleekness, cleaned his mane and tail of the
accumulated burrs of many autumns, and made quite a gay nag of him. The
wagon, too, in which at least two generations of boys and girls have
ridden in noisy hilarity whenever they encountered it on their way to
school, has been so smartly painted and varnished, that if its former
owner could look down from the hill-slope where he lies, he would
scarcely know his once familiar vehicle as it whirls glittering along
the main road to the village. For the rest, all things go on as usual;
the miller grinds, the blacksmith strikes and blows, the cobbler and
tailor stitch and mend, old men sit in the autumn sun, old gossips stir
tea and scandal, revival meetings alternate with apple-bees and
bushings,--toil, pleasure, family jars, petty neighborhood quarrels,
courtship, and marriage,--all which make up the daily life of a country
village continue as before. The little chasm which his death has made
in the hearts of the people where he lived and labored seems nearly
closed up. There is only one more grave in the burying-ground,--that is
all.

Let nobody infer from what I have said that the good man died
unlamented; for, indeed, it was a sad day with his neighbors when the
news, long expected, ran at last from house to house and from workshop
to workshop, "Dr. Singletary is dead!"

He had not any enemy left among them; in one way or another he had been
the friend and benefactor of all. Some owed to his skill their recovery
from sickness; others remembered how he had watched with anxious
solicitude by the bedside of their dying relatives, soothing them, when
all human aid was vain, with the sweet consolations of that Christian
hope which alone pierces the great shadow of the grave and shows the
safe stepping-stones above the dark waters. The old missed a cheerful
companion and friend, who had taught them much without wounding their
pride by an offensive display of his superiority, and who, while making
a jest of his own trials and infirmities, could still listen with real
sympathy to the querulous and importunate complaints of others. For one
day, at least, even the sunny faces of childhood were marked with
unwonted thoughtfulness; the shadow of the common bereavement fell over
the play-ground and nursery. The little girl remembered, with tears,
how her broken-limbed doll had taxed the surgical ingenuity of her
genial old friend; and the boy showed sorrowfully to his playmates the
top which the good Doctor had given him. If there were few, among the
many who stood beside his grave, capable of rightly measuring and
appreciating the high intellectual and spiritual nature which formed the
background of his simple social life, all could feel that no common loss
had been sustained, and that the kindly and generous spirit which had
passed away from them had not lived to himself alone.

As you follow the windings of one of the loveliest rivers of New
England, a few miles above the sea-mart, at its mouth, you can see on a
hill, whose grassy slope is checkered with the graceful foliage of the
locust, and whose top stands relieved against a still higher elevation,
dark with oaks and walnuts, the white stones of the burying-place. It
is a quiet spot, but without gloom, as befits "God's Acre." Below is
the village, with its sloops and fishing-boats at the wharves, and its
crescent of white houses mirrored in the water. Eastward is the misty
line of the great sea. Blue peaks of distant mountains roughen the
horizon of the north. Westward, the broad, clear river winds away into
a maze of jutting bluffs and picturesque wooded headlands. The tall,
white stone on the westerly slope of the hill bears the name of
"Nicholas Singletary, M. D.," and marks the spot which he selected many
years before his death. When I visited it last spring, the air about it
was fragrant with the bloom of sweet-brier and blackberry and the
balsamic aroma of the sweet-fern; birds were singing in the birch-trees
by the wall; and two little, brown-locked, merry-faced girls were making
wreaths of the dandelions and grasses which grew upon the old man's
grave. The sun was setting behind the western river-bluffs, flooding
the valley with soft light, glorifying every object and fusing all into
harmony and beauty. I saw and felt nothing to depress or sadden me. I
could have joined in the laugh of the children. The light whistle of a
young teamster, driving merrily homeward, did not jar upon my ear; for
from the transfigured landscape, and from the singing birds, and from
sportive childhood, and from blossoming sweetbrier, and from the grassy
mound before me, I heard the whisper of one word only, and that word
was PEACE.




CHAPTER. II.

SOME ACCOUNT OF PEEWAWKIN ON THE TOCKETUCK.

WELL and truly said the wise man of old, "Much study is a weariness to
the flesh." Hard and close application through the winter had left me
ill prepared to resist the baleful influences of a New England spring.
I shrank alike from the storms of March, the capricious changes of
April, and the sudden alternations of May, from the blandest of
southwest breezes to the terrible and icy eastern blasts which sweep our
seaboard like the fabled sanser, or wind of death. The buoyancy and
vigor, the freshness and beauty of life seemed leaving me. The flesh
and the spirit were no longer harmonious. I was tormented by a
nightmare feeling of the necessity of exertion, coupled with a sense of
utter inability. A thousand plans for my own benefit, or the welfare of
those dear to me, or of my fellow-men at large, passed before me; but I
had no strength to lay hold of the good angels and detain them until
they left their blessing. The trumpet sounded in my ears for the
tournament of life; but I could not bear the weight of my armor. In the
midst of duties and responsibilities which I clearly comprehended, I
found myself yielding to the absorbing egotism of sickness. I could
work only when the sharp rowels of necessity were in my sides.

It needed not the ominous warnings of my acquaintance to convince me
that some decisive change was necessary. But what was to be done? A
voyage to Europe was suggested by my friends; but unhappily I reckoned
among them no one who was ready, like the honest laird of Dumbiedikes,
to inquire, purse in hand, "Will siller do it?" In casting about for
some other expedient, I remembered the pleasant old-fashioned village of
Peewawkin, on the Tocketuck River. A few weeks of leisure, country air,
and exercise, I thought might be of essential service to me. So I
turned my key upon my cares and studies, and my back to the city, and
one fine evening of early June the mail coach rumbled over Tocketuck
Bridge, and left me at the house of Dr. Singletary, where I had been
fortunate enough to secure bed and board.

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