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as the coast was clear, "of course you understand what turn things have taken. I need not tell you that young Stanton there expects to be my son-in-law. I make no doubt, either, that you have ceased, altogether, to regret my answer to your own courteous motion of marriage. You see that Rachel is much better suited to a youth like Mark than to a man like yourself, in full maturity, and laden with many cares and labors. Let young folk begin the world with young folk, should be the maxim of us, who are much more than grown up. Beside, it appears that these children have been in love with each other for some time back; so that it would have been downright cruelty and sin to separate them. It was not so easily done, either. My philosophy teaches me that we can divide bodies, but not spirits."

"You surely will not unite them in such an awful time as this?" Noyse was able to say.

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Very soon," replied More. "Why not? All the greater need of haste. I should like to be present at my only child's marriage; and who knows how soon I shall be spirited away?"

Noyse had no longer any wish to offer the hunter his friendship and protection; nor did he even shake hands with him, as he passed, for the last time in his life, over that threshold. It was the second occasion on which he had left the cabin in an anguish of disappointment; but now, jealousy mingled with his other painful emotions, coloring his grief with a poisonous tint of rage. He had a wretched opportunity of noting how greatly, in three months, his religious character had declined in fervor. He felt little inclination, now, to pray, although conscious that his need of prayer had never been greater. Horrible thoughts, too, entered and ranged through his spirit, which seemed inclined to entertain them rather than to eject them with instinctive aversion. He began to wonder, with a vague consciousness of pleasure in the idea, whether Mark would not be accused of witchcraft. If so, and even if he were found innocent, the marriage would be put off for a while, and might never happen. But what if Mark should, in reality, be a secret wizard? Then would his condemnation be just; and, whoever unmasked him, would do Rachel the greatest of kindness. all events, she surely would not carry VOL. IX.-20

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her foolish passion so far as to be faithful to a man attainted of communion with Satan. Be faithful to him? But did she love him now? Noyse could not believe it sometimes, and insisted to himself that she was only acting under the coercion of her father. Then what if More himself should be accused-should be condemned-should be hanged? That would be awful, indeed; but it would be a great obstacle out of the way.

Thoughts like these went to sleep that night in his heart, awoke there in the morning, and lived there perpetually. They became a part of his life; he grew accustomed to them; they were his familiars-his devils. He felt that he was wicked; that he was a hypocrite; that he was committing a great sin; perhaps the unpardonable sin. He looked at himself in the glass, and wondered if that face concealed a demon; if it would look up in endless torments. At times he tried to console himself with the idea that, having certainly been renewed once, he was now one of the elect, and, therefore, could not perish eternally. He spent hours in thinking over his earlier experiences, and weighing the probabilities as to whether they were a reality or only a delusion of his fancy. What was particularly noticeable in all these conflicts is, the sensitiveness, and, at the same time, the weakness, of the man's conscience. It writhed under an evil thought as under an evil deed, and stood aghast before a sin of omission as before a sin of commission; yet it could not restrain him from rushing blindly on in the path of his sinful imaginations-could not bend him to any lowliness of submission, nor elevate him to any sublimity of pious aspiration.

But, oh! how beautiful Rachel seemed to him all this time! How she ap peared to float, like an angel, above his abyss of hopelessness! Only, she would not deliver him when he reached toward her, but forever flew, unheedingly, away into her own heaven. How outrageous it was, that Mark Stanton, a mere boy, a farmer, who could not appreciate such a being, should come with his coarse hands and drag her down, to abide in his fleshly heart! Yes, it was an insult to the poor minister-an unexpected insult, and intolerably personal; for, were not the elders the choosers of all the hand

somest, richest, maidens of the country?

Whenever he encountered Mark, however, he was graciously civil to him; for he would not have had it imagined that such a youth as that could make him suffer. Sometimes he was a little wolfish to Deacon Bowson, who, if not remiss, had certainly been very unsuccessful, in recommending his suit to Rachel; and, as for the poor witches, he was from that day doubly severe on them, pouring upon their devoted heads the dregs of a secret bitterness, which flowed out naturally, in sermons full of denunciation, and prophecies of wrath.

Before long, he found an occasion for discharging his ministerial duties in such a way as to take a slight vengeance on More. That utopian individual was bent upon inoculating devout, practical New England with a taste for May-days, out-of-door gayeties, and athletic sports. He lost no opportunity of gathering the Salem youth around him, and setting on foot a strife at running, jumping, wrestling, or something of the sort. Very likely, he thought, that by thus quickening the blood and aiding the digestion of these ponderous lads, he was gradually sweating out of them those bilious doctrines of witchcraft, election, and original sin. Or, perhaps, as he saw Bildad Hewit and Medad Jewet scuffling, in a perspiration, round the common, he reveled in thoughts of the Olympian games, and saw, in fancy, the new dawn of Spartan days. His own prodigious strength gained him great admiration and influence among the young fellows of that hale and active generation. They applauded his feats with boisterous gayety, and did their best to win his approbation of their own springy legs and stiff backbones. The fellow who could show a mighty biceps muscle, was something of a hero, in those old times of hand-to-hand warfare with forests and Indians.

The rustic trials of strength on the common, excited no animadversion from either the clergy or magistrates, until the arrival of the witch excitement. Then, Justice Curwin observed that, "Our young men had better be wrestling in prayer against Satan, than wrestling with their legs against each other;" while Cotton Mather made a "lengthy and reproving extemporary" on the subject, one Sabbath that he preached

for Elder Higginson. From this time, the serious part of the community frowned upon gymnastics, and characterized them as "one of the present. temptations of the old serpent to youth and vanity." Still, there were a few heedless youngsters, such as Mark Stanton, who persisted in aiding and abetting Master More in his attempted revival of the Olympics. One pleasant summer twilight, this unthinking crew were amusing themselves with flinging a sledge-hammer on the common, and, of course, in sight of Master Noyse's dwelling. In the height of their sport, that troubled elder rode by, returning, perhaps, from some solemn pastoral duty, in which he had had a severe struggle with the demons of darkness. Steering his horse through the squad of children, Indians, and negroes, who had gathered as lookers-on, he pulled up in front of the gymnasts and gave them the severest lecture that he could frame against "such a foolish waste of time in unprofitable and light-minded amusements."

More suffered himself to be provoked to no bitter reply, and stood, with folded arms, gazing rather pitifully, than otherwise, on the haggard face of the minister. People began to slink off, as soon as the philippic was over; and Noyse, touching his horse, moved on with dignity toward the parsonage. As he passed More, he glanced stealthily at his face, and read its expression of scornful forbearance-an expression which must have soured him to the bottom of his feelings; for he scarcely replied to the hunter's salutation. that moment, a yelping younker, who had better have held his tongue, but whose ten-year-old enthusiasm was too much for his prudence, was distinctly heard saying to a comrade: I wish I could throw a hammer as far as Master More-by George, I do!"

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Here was another pastoral duty to perform, also very well suited to the elder's present frame of spirit. Riding round the thicket from behind which the voice proceeded, he came upon a group of garrulous urchins, and exclaimed, with his whip uplifted, "Where is that profane boy? Which is he?"

"That's him. It's Jim Bowen, sir,' said a little coward, pointing to a broadbacked minor of about three-feet-six, who looked very red in the face, but said nothing. The minister dismount

ed, and, making one of the other boys hold his horse, proceeded to give Jim Bowen a most memorable fogging; after which, still holding the sore younker by the collar, he lectured the small crowd on the sinful folly of profane language. Suddenly, he caught sight of More, listening, with his hat off, in evident mockery, his lips twitching, with an expression of amused contempt. The elder's face was very much flushed, as he mounted his horse; he struck the animal a sharp blow, and pushed on to his own gate.

That is the way boys were served in the good old days of New England; their parents hided them, the ministers hided them, and the magistrates sometimes hided them. I do not say that they were, in general, any the worse for it; I am inclined to sustain, very decidedly, the contrary opinion. Young America had a more disagreeable time of it than now; but, on the other hand, Young America was a good deal better behaved. As for Master More, I think he was quite to blame for counteracting the salutary manual advice of Elder Noyse, by his scornful smile and his irreverent air. I charitably hope, however, and do really believe, that what drew forth his mute sarcasm was not the whipping, nor the very proper sentiments of the minister in regard to profanity, but the spiteful, unworthy spirit, which he detected at the bottom of all that seeming zeal for good morals and religion.

CHAPTER XIV.

RACHEL made one more attempt to see Martha Carrier; but Daunton, the jailer, refused her admittance. "And I must tell you, pretty mistress," he added, "that it'll be waste time for you to come here any more for the visitin' of prisoners."

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Why so?" asked Rachel, a good deal surprised; for she thought herself on friendly terms with the official.

"Your father's in bad repute among the elders and justusses. Don't you know? There be some curous reports about, as to his havin' to do with these 'ere sorcerers. And, furthermore, I'll jest tell you a piece of my mind. I don't choose to let folk in here who've got the stomach to go a kissin' of witches."

"She is no witch," asserted Ra

chel bravely. "Martha Carrier is no witch."

"That remains to be found out," replied Daunton. "Anyhow, what I've got to tell you, mistress, is all the same, which is, that you ain't to come here any more, unless, perchance, old Herrick fetches you."

The girl's face flushed up at this coarse and threatening personality, but she bade the man a civil good-morning and walked away, wondering in no little uneasiness what might be those curious reports concerning her father. She heard soon enough that he had at last been cried out upon vehemently by several of the afflicted. She went home crying, and tried to persuade him to leave the colony for a while. He Tefused resolutely, and asked her if she wished her father to show himself a coward by running away from his duty as soon as it became dangerous. This duty, as he understood it, consisted in arguing on all occasions against the doctrine of witchcraft, criticizing the proceedings of the courts, and denouncing without stint those who urged on the prosecutions. He carried on this warfare almost alone; and his adversaries were by this time more provoked at him than at any other person in the village; but such was the general respect for his talents, learning, and family, that the magistrates were unwilling to commit him, except on grounds which would insure his condemnation. I must do them the justice to say that, before proceeding to violence, they tried their best to effect his conversion. In imitation of Deacon Bowson, Cotton Mather visited him at his cabin; and the two disputed all night there, taking occasional sips of cider and bites of venison to support over-fatigued nature. The elder left in the morning, his eyes red with watching, and his patience quite fretted out by the hunter's skeptical obstinacy.

But all that More could say or do, retarded not one particle the progress of the murderous delusion; and the great car of superstition rolled on steadily, its wheels dripping redder and redder with the blood of New England. John Willard, who had fled as far as Nashua, forty miles distant, was arrested by the town authorities there, and sent back to Salem for the satisfaction of Juggernaut. The great, greedy. gory-mouthed idol also screamed loudly for the blood of Elder Burroughs, Giles

Cory, Martha Carrier, and other persons not so well known to us. Deputy Governor Stoughton and five brother judges, such men as the Winthrops, Saltonstalls, Sewalls, and Sergeants, of Boston, persons of the highest respectability and most exemplary piety, met in the First Church of Salem, listened to the shrieks of the possessed ones, and decided that a great sacrifice should be made to Juggernaut on the nineteenth of August. Admirable indeed was the bearing of Willard and those new sufferers, Proctor and Burroughs, through all the agonizing suspense of that trial, and through the fearful shock of condemnation. What Christian patience, what unostentatious courage was theirs, as they answered not again their revilers, but professed their innocence before God, and accepted death, bringing no angry accusation against their accusers! "I blame no man," said Willard, still as honest, credulous, and kindhearted as ever: "I do myself yet believe there be witches; and I justify the jurymen for condemning me on the evidence they have had."

Not thus beautifully did poor Martha Carrier listen to the railing testimony against her, and face those who pressed her relentlessly toward the grave with an array of grotesque yet deadly falsehood. She was vexed to extremity at her persecutors, and would ask none of their mercy, nor hardly deign to affirm to them her guiltlessness. Imprisonment had emaciated her face, but there was still an undaunted flush on each sunken cheek, and in her dark eyes a sparkle of speechless anger. Once only, a few tears shot to her eyelids, when she found that her child was not to be brought before her, and that Newton, the king's attorney, would simply read its confession as drawn up by Parris. "May it please the court!" she exclaimed, in a loud, shrill, unnatural tone. "Peace, woman!" said Justice Curwin in a hoarse whisper, pinching her arm. "What does the prisoner want?" asked Saltonstall, who had observed Martha's effort to speak. I want to see my child," she cried. Why shouldn't she come before me, like the other witnesses? If she has anything to say against me, her mother, let her say it to my face."

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"Woman!" answered Stoughton, harshly, "we cannot be thus delayed. The court is oppressed already with

testimony, and with the pain of drawing it from these poor afflicted creatures. Your child's confession comes before us properly attested. It is enough."

"It is a trick to destroy me," shrieked the half crazed woman. "Sarah would take all back if she were here to look me in the face."

"Yes, I see through it all," replied Stoughton. "You think that the magical power of your eye would twist her and turn her at will. But have done now with these unseemly interruptions, and suffer the deposition to be read."

He glanced with no amiable expression at Saltonstall, who the next day threw up his post and retired from the court in disgust. "Thank God, brother Mather, thank God, I say," chuckled Parris, as, rubbing his hands with glee, he walked out of church after the last trial had closed in a conviction. "We have great reason to praise the Lord. It appears that not even the defection of rulers can weaken our cause. Behold, Major Saltonstall retired; and yet the cart will carry as full a load as ever to the gibbet. Truly may we sing, The face of the Lord is against them that do evil, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth.' Is not his face against them that do evil? I am sure that none but an atheist would deny it."

"I hold it to be a great mercy that we have brought about the conviction of that Martha Carrier," replied the author of the Remarkables. "I take her to be the most dangerous hag of them all. I should say that she was one of the very carrier pigeons of the pit."

"Yea," continued Parris, with a coarse relish of the grim pun, “and a pigeon who will shortly be roasted before a hotter fire than any in our kitchens."

It was while still unreconciled to her fate, still in fierce bitterness of spirit toward her accusers, that Martha Carrier was led, on a Sabbath afternoon, in chains, to the First Church of Salem. She was placed on a lofty stool in the main aisle, with a paper cap on her head, whereon was written in great letters, A WITCH. And then, before the whole congregation, Elder Noyse solemnly excommunicated her from the church of Christ, and consigned her over to Satan as an apostate and a sorceress. How could she be gentle, and

humble, and penitent, with such hot wrongs heaped like coals of fire on her soul? It was with amazement, and almost with anger, that she looked on the resigned face of Elder Burroughs, and heard him talk, with a hope that seemed ecstatic, of that world where the weary are at rest. So peaceful was this condemned man, so forgiving, that he did not even say, "the wicked shall cease from troubling," lest he should seem to speak harshly of those who had sentenced him to die. "Let the whole world count me vile," said he, "or what they will: I matter it not: I shall be blessed. The Saviour has kept the best wine until the last. I have heretofore thought it an hard thing to die; but now I find that it is not so. If I might have my choice now, I would choose to go."

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'Sir," said John Willard, "the Lord hath enlarged your faith."

"Friend," replied Burroughs, "this is sense; the Lord hath even satisfied my sense. I am sensibly satisfied of everlasting glory."

Over the wronged, resentful Martha Carrier even, there soon came a change of gentleness. With that inconstancy of sentiment which had always marked her, she, in the first place, forgave Noyso, who had certainly not thought of asking a reconciliation. The very day after the excommunication she spoke of him with no ill-will, but rather with a warm kindness. She listened seriously to Elder Higginson, when he talked and prayed with her; but her last request to him was, that he would send his colleague to aid her in preparing for death; and so Noyse came, pale, haggard, embarrassed, and for a while almost speechless. Martha kissed his hand, wept, and begged his forgiveness for all that she had ever done to offend or injure him. I cannot conceive what his feelings were, as he knelt down to commend her to the shriving mercies of heaven. But his petition was appropriate and fluent; for he was too much accustomed to that duty to falter in it; and words of piety had become a habit of his utterance. After that, the condemned woman whispered long in his ear; detained him whispering until he almost struggled to get away from her. When he finally quitted her, she gazed after him with a passion of tenderness, abasement, and despair; an expression painful to behold, but which gave a better promise

of heaven than the workings of his disturbed visage; for he issued from the prison, ghastly, shaken, downcast, and looking fearfully round, with the air of a haunted murderer.

It was strange that the devotions of a man so harassed by a remorseful conscience could act as the consolation of one condemned to die. Yet so it was. All that evening Martha repeated passages of his prayer to herself. At midnight she still murmured them, mingled with her own petitions. At that hour, suddenly-without warning-the prison seemed to be filled with a light which drowned ber in inexpressible calmness. She felt as if its unearthly splendor must penetrate the adjoining cell and the surrounding night. She wondered if the other prisoners saw it; if the sentinels without saw it; if the villagers were rising to gaze at it. She felt nothing like anger now toward her accusers-nothing toward them like forgiveness even for she had lost the sense that they had ever wronged her. She regarded them with affection-she thought of her very judges with benedictions. She would go to the gallows fearlessly; ay, more, with a joy that was unspeakable. Before she was aware, she had sunk to sleep amid this serene radiance.

It was with a calm and resigned look that she rode in the execution-cart, beside Willard and Burroughs, to Gallows Hill. As she glanced unsteadily around the crowd which had gathered before the prison, she saw Rachel looking at her with eyes fascinated by pity and horror. She nodded mechanically in farewell, and saw the girl hide her pale face against her father's shoulder.

More led Rachel into the house of his brother-in-law, and then hurried after the awful procession. His strong hands clenched, and his brave face white with anger, he saw the five condemned ones lifted from the abominable cart on to a ladder whose summit, as he hoped, was invisible and pierced the heavens. To each one, as he stood on the terrible verge, Sheriff Herrick cried, bidding him use this last opportunity to confess his misdeeds, and pray for forgiveness. "Friends," said John Willard, I led others here, and it's right I should come here myself. I pray God I may be the last who shall be unjustly executed for witchcraft. But I condemn no one-the evidence was against

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