University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

On the morning following the events that have been recorded,
the first person moving in the house of Mr. Pynchon
was Commuk, the Indian, who, long before daylight, had
exhausted sleep, and newly fed the expiring fire. The earliest
beams of the morning found the family again assembled,
and while the thick smoke of the kindling pine was ascending
from each cabin chimney in the settlement, through the
still, icy air, Commuk made his way to the principal village
of his tribe, but a short distance southward. The price of
his beaver skins—a hatchet and a balance of wampum—
hung in his belt, while a few trinkets, presents from John
and Mary, found a less exposed receptacle in the honest
English pockets of his coat.

Soon after the morning devotions were concluded, Mary,
who was standing at the window, exclaimed, “I wonder
where Mr. Moxon can be going at so early an hour this
morning!”

Mr. Pynchon joined his daughter at the window, but
neither attracted the attention of the reverend gentleman,
as he made his way past the dwelling, apparently very
much absorbed in thought, and bent upon the attainment
of an immediate object. At length he passed beyond the
range of the window, and disappeared, but, in a short time,
again came in sight, on his way back, and directed his steps
towards Mr. Pynchon's house.

Mary met him at the door with a cordial grasp of the
hand, but he had hardly crossed the threshold when he drew
back, as if suddenly recollecting himself, and inquired

whether the Indian had gone. On being assured that that
individual and his offensive burden were both out of the
way, he came forward, and, without removing his coat and
muffler, related to Mr. Pynchon the events of the previous
evening, in connexion with his visit to the cabin of Woodcock;
and stated that he had started out that morning to
inform the masters of the three apprentices he had found
there of their delinquency, and its cause and probable consequences,
in order that they might take such steps with
Woodcock and the boys as they might deem proper. After
arriving at the house of the first of these masters, he had
changed his mind, and come back to ask Mr. Pynchon's
advice in the premises.

Mr. Moxon watched that gentleman as he received the
narrative, and when, as it closed, he perceived that his
hearer hesitated, his own positiveness of mind, or whatever
amount of that quality he possessed, entirely left him, and
he sat down irresolute, and with the old symptoms of
dejection.

At length Mr. Pynchon said: “I know John Woodcock
very well. I have known him for several years, and I have
seen the effect upon him of the efforts that have been made
to curb his naturally independent spirit. I think the best
thing to be done is to get him to come here, and have a
quiet talk with us upon the subject, and to treat him in a
friendly way. It is the thing to be done first, I am
certain.”

As Mr. Moxon made no objection to this arrangement, a
messenger was sent to Woodcock, requesting him to call,
as soon as convenient, at Mr. Pynchon's house, and, at the
desire of Mary, to bring his child.

The temporary suspension of this matter gave to both of
the gentlemen an opportunity to recur to the subject always
uppermost in their thoughts when together—religion; and
in this they engaged until the return of the messenger, who

reported that he had found Woodcock waiting for him, and
quite impatient that he had not come before, as he declared
he had been expecting him for half an hour. The only
thing to delay him was the bringing of his daughter, a matter
for which he had not calculated. While they were
talking, Woodcock came in sight, bearing his child upon
his back, his burden being completely covered by a wolf
skin that dangled downward to his heels.

The poorly suppressed mirth excited by his appearance
was a good preparation for his reception, and, when he appeared
at the door, there was not a frown in the room to
throw a cloud upon his coming. Even the grave lady of
the house, softened by the influences around her, looked up
kindly at the old culprit, as he entered. Woodcock paused,
and without letting go his grasp of the child's hands, held
her still suspended upon his shoulders, as he bowed to one
and another of the group; and then, after the most convulsive
workings of his features, he burst into a hearty,
boisterous fit of laughter.

This, of course, changed the aspect of things at once.
The dignity of the house and the presence had been violated,
and with such an effect as to assist him very much in
regaining control of his emotions. In the meantime, Mary
Pynchon had relieved him of his burden, and had led the
poorly clad, haggard-looking child from the room.

As soon as he could speak, Woodcock commenced an
apology. “Mr. Pynchon, I beg pardon—I meant no
offence to your honor, or your house, but I took a consait
just as I come in, that this 'ere old wolf skin is a very remarkable
strip of luther. It took twenty men two days to
get this skin, sir. They chased the critter that wore it one
day, and dug for him another, and when they brung him
home, it struck me that the animal was a mighty sight too
small for so big a fuss. So, says I to myself, here's the old
skin agin, and a miserable critter inside of it, and a big

onreasonable fuss outside. I meant no offence to you, sir,
but the consait was a little too much for me, and I couldn't
hold in.”

Having concluded what he honestly meant should be a
satisfactory apology for his rudeness, Woodcock threw his
wolf skin over a chair, sat down, and looked at Mr. Pynchon
in a way to indicate that he was ready for business.

That gentleman regarded him gravely for a moment, and
then said, “Goodman Woodcock, I am informed by Mr.
Moxon that you are pursuing disorderly practices in the
plantation by enticing apprentices to your house, and harboring
them at unseasonable hours; and that, when reprimanded
by him, you gave him disrespectful replies, to his
great grief and scandal. He proposed, at first, to bring the
matter before me as a magistrate, but I thought we had
better see you, and talk it over first, and ascertain what you
had to say about it.”

A bitter smile passed over the face of the old woodman,
as he replied, “I thank you, Square, for considerin' me, but
I'm afraid it's too late to do me any good this way. I've
been thinking how this man pushed into my cabin last night,
and I know 'twant right; and for me to set down here to
be labored with, and him to set there with his pious face a
lookin' on, as if he'd done nothin' wrong, goes agin my grain
and makes me wicked.”

Mr. Moxon sat very uneasily during this speech, and,
turning to Mr. Pynchon at its close, remarked, “I think,
sir, that you will conclude with me that my first impulse
was the true one, for I doubt not that the man is given over
to a reprobate mind, and utter hardness of heart.”

This was sufficient to throw Woodcock back upon his
old ground of mockery; and, turning sharply upon the
minister, and giving him his characteristically dogged look
of defiance, he replied, “When a man tells me in a sermon
that I have got a precious soul, and that his heart is runnin'

over with love for me, and that the Lord above loves me,
too, and then comes into my house to get me to tread on
his toes, and calls me names for hurtin' his corns, I'm thankful
I got hold of the name of John Woodcock before such
a one as George Moxon was mixed up and baked.”

“Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon, sternly, “I insist on no
such language towards your minister, and shall not allow it
in this house.”

“Well, there it is, sir; you turn agin me as soon as I
touch the minister. It's jest so down t' the Bay. Magistrates
and ministers all hang together. They seem to think
the colony was made for them; but who does the work?
They have all the honors, and the rest on us have to stand
back. It's `Mister,' and `Goodman;' and it's `set here,'
and `stand there;' and it's the top o' the milk to one, and
skim milk to the other. Here you are a rulin' on us, and I
don't see the justice on it. P'raps my memory is unsartin,
but it seems to me I have read somewhere that it's the
business of them that wants to be great to serve them that
aint so particular about it.”

Both gentlemen sat somewhat uneasily during this criticism
of the spirit of the institutions of the day, and the homely
but pointed reproofs connected with it. Mr. Pynchon
responded briefly, to the effect that he did not propose a
discussion of questions of theology or state. Woodcock
had been invited there as a man who had honorable feelings,
to settle a matter in which he was evidently at fault, in a
manner which should neither injure his pride nor be a subject
of scandal in the plantation. He hoped no more trouble
would arise in relation to this affair, and that Woodcock
would cease to give occasion for complaint. As for Mr.
Moxon, he had done simply what he deemed it his duty to
do, and in the execution of his duty had not transcended the
sphere warranted by the usages of the colony or the opinion
of the church.

Woodcock heard him through, and then inquired if they
were done with him.

“I am done,” said Mr. Pynchon, with a bow to Mr.
Moxon, intimating that the man was at his disposal.

“I wish,” said Mr. Moxon, with an earnest, solemn air,
“to say a few words of warning, and then I shall feel as if
my duty had been discharged. Goodman Woodcock, you
are placing your soul in peril by your course of life, and even
now there is reason to fear that it is given over to destruction.
Your heart, which should be humble and penitent, is
stubborn and rebellious. In your foolish pride, you speak
evil of dignities, despise the religion of Christ and its
ministers, and meet the reproof due to your course of life
and conduct with mockery. I warn you of the terrible end
of all this, and may God have mercy on you, and, in his
infinite grace, save your soul!”

All this was uttered with genuine feeling, and under the
dictates of a sense of duty that even Woodcock did not
fail to recognise, but he looked at the minister sadly and
bitterly, and replied, “'Taint no use for you to talk to me
that way. You can't do me no good. You're too far up,
and I'm too low down. Your words come down jest like
rain spatterin' on a rock. They don't soak in any. You
ain't the 'pothecary to give me physic, and that ain't the
right kind of stuff if you was. It only raises the devil in
me, and riles me all up. What's the use trying to drive a
man, and riles me all up. What's the use trying to drive a
man, and running agin his pluck, if he's got any, when you
might be kind o' human with him? No, sir, you've made
up your mind agin me, I know that—and when I know you
don't understand how I feel, and what I'm talking to you
about, it's no use for you and me to make any more words.”

The minister drew a long sigh, and Mr. Pynchon turned
to his writing-desk, as if to hint to Mr. Moxon that the
quicker the interview was terminated the better.

“Where's the gal?” inquired Woodcock, rising.

Mr. Pynchon stepped to the door opening into the apartment
occupied by the remainder of the family, and told
Mary that the child's father was about to depart. The
door was closed for a moment, then it was re-opened, and
in bounded Mary Woodcock, wild with delight, clothed
anew with articles from Mary Pynchon's stores of the well
preserved garments of her childhood, a snug pair of moccasins
on her feet, and a warm hood upon her head.

“Oh, father! father!” exclaimed the delighted child;
and unable to express her own feelings, or give direction to
his, she stood on tiptoe before him, and stretched up first one
arm for his inspection, then the other, then turned around,
put her hand upon her head, lifted, one after the other, her
feet, and exhausted every childish ingenuity to exhibit the
extent and beauty of her newly gotten treasures; and then,
as she could do no more, she threw her head upon his lap,
and burst into tears.

In the meantime, Mary Pynchon and the pet deer had
entered the room. Tom (the name of the pet), went from
one to the other of the company, lifting his slender neck
towards their faces, and making himself generally, though
inoffensively inquisitive, until he came to Mary Woodcock,
when he put his cool nose down to her cheek, and brought
her once more to her feet. Seeing the eyes of all bent upon
her, she moved off with Tom to the window, as if deeply
chagrined at having made herself so conspicuous.

Woodcock sat still for a few moments, his lips quivering
with an emotion that he could not suppress, and then, rising,
he approached Mary Pynchon, and said, “Miss Pynchon, I
hav'n't no words for such as you, and you don't need 'em.
You've got plenty of better ones made a purpose for you.
That old Bible up there is full on 'em, and when you find
some in it that are jest as thankful and jest as humble as
they can be, I want you should remember John Woodcock,
and think he's sayin' 'em to you.”

Mary was touched by his emotion, and, taking his rough
hand, said, “I am very glad if I have done anything to
make you and your little girl happy. I hope you will be
very kind to Mary, for she has no mother, and must be very
much alone. Do let her come and see me sometimes.”

“Do you understand that, sir?” said Woodcock, turning
to Mr. Moxon. “That's what I call preachin'. I haint been
much used to such preachin' as that, but I know it's genuine.
It's the only kind for my case. Do you s'pose I'd lay a finger
on that gal of mine with a heart like Mary Pynchon's lovin'
her? Do you 'spose I wouldn't work for her, and bear with
her, strange and offish as she is sometimes, when I see such
a woman fussin' over her, and makin' her comfortable and
happy? I feel as if my gal had just been baptized, which
she never was, and I couldn't feel much better myself, if I'd
been took into the church, which I ain't fit for, the Lord
knows. That's the kind o' preachin' that does me good.”

So saying, he walked up to his little girl, and was about
to lift her upon his back, but she begged to be allowed to
go by herself. He then threw the wolf skin over his
shoulders, bade a homely good morning to the silent family,
and, preceded by his child, who, elated with her new possessions,
went bounding through the snow before him,
sought his own cabin.

“God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound
the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of the
world to confound the things which are mighty,” said Mr.
Pynchon, looking with a smile at his daughter, as Woodcock
closed the door.

“I am afraid,” returned Mary, archly, “that we shall
quarrel in dividing that quotation satisfactorily among ourselves,
and it is pity John Woodcock had not remained a
little longer, as he might have assisted us.”

“What portion of it do you suppose he would wish to
appropriate to himself?” inquired Mr. Moxon, looking up.

“He would claim for himself neither wisdom nor might,
I presume,” replied Mary.

“Hum! No—that belongs to the confounded party, of
course,” replied the minister, slightly nettled. “I do not
approve of playing with texts of Scripture, but it seems to
me that, with this application, the quotation should have
been extended. `And the base things of the world, and
things which are despised,' would more fully complete the
description of the man, in my opinion.”

Mary did not like the tone in which these remarks were
uttered, and playfully sought to divert the course of conversation
by saying that she thought they were complimenting
Woodcock too highly. She claimed a little credit for
herself, and even Woodcock had accorded to her the merit
of being a good preacher; though for her part, she could
not see as her sermon had more than one head, and that
had a hood on it, or that its application consisted of more
than an old frock and a pair of moccasins. She would prefer
that those articles of apparel receive the compliments
bestowed on Woodcock rather than he should have them all
to himself.

Mrs. Pynchon, who abounded especially in the grace of
silence, and who really had excellent traits of character,
springing from a basis of practical common sense, was accustomed,
in the course of any family scene or social interview,
to make some remark which, with a fatal perversity, rarely
failed to be one that amused its hearers with its utter innocence
of pertinency and point. This seemed to spring from
the fact that she did not remember the conversation and
events out of which grew the peculiar aspect of the subject
upon which she might happen to remark; and it was for
this reason, doubtless, that her choice speeches were irrelevant
by rule, and rarely failed to excite a smile, even
among those who respected her most and loved her best.
Her reverence for her husband was thoroughly sincere, and

as formal as sincere, and, with many of the matrons of her
day, she believed that her special duties pertained to the
good ordering of the house, the economical administration
of the kitchen and the wardrobe, and that when this was
done, and well done, there was little time for anything else.

In regard to the frock that Mary had just given away so
readily, she felt some sensitiveness, as it was only through
her own considerate economy that it had been brought from
the Bay. So the frock became the prominent object in her
thoughts, and the one around which all the events and associations
of the morning clustered; and when she felt moved
to speak, she stated that the frock was really a very good
one, and she was sorry it had made so much trouble. She
had taken care of it, thinking that perhaps by and by Mary
might get married, when she was sure she would find it very
handy.

“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, blushing to her temples,
and then turning quickly to the pet she said, “Come, Tom,
let us go,” and retired from the room. But the blush retired
with her, as well as Tom, and her thoughts wandered off
and away, along the Bay Path, through the thick, dark
woods, and over the streams, and across the hills—the weary
path over which she had travelled nearly two years before—
and there came up to her mind the form of one who had
moved with grace and majesty in her dreams, and whose
bright, bold face, and mild, resolute eye, had been to her
through all the months of her lonely dwelling at Agawam,
a charming presence and a kindly power.

Mr. Pynchon, Mr. Moxon, and Woodcock, were not improper
representatives of three prominent classes of men in
the early days of the Massachusetts Bay colony. The first
represented the highest and noblest class in the colony. He
was as intelligently orthodox in faith as any of his contemporaries,
but much less bigoted and intolerant than most of
them. He had the sense to see that the rigid policy of the

government of the colony, intimately connected, as it was,
not only with the government of the church, but with its
type of religious faith and life, and the double tendency of
dwarfing and perverting the development of those who came
willingly and conscientiously under its yoke, and of driving
into recklessness and desperation those free and strong
spirits who felt the yoke to be an intolerable, if not an ignominious,
burden. To the last class Woodcock belonged.
The spirit which he manifested in his interview with Mr.
Moxon was the legitimate result of the treatment to which
he had been subjected. He had grown morose and quarrelsome
under it, until he had come to regard a minister
with hatred and contempt, and to look upon the leading
men in the colony as in league with the ministers to do him
evil. He seemed, however, to appreciate the difference
that existed between Mr. Pynchon and most of his class,
and to regard him with a sympathetic respect that betrayed
a nature still, in many respects, true to itself.

It was with the more rigid class of political religionists
that Mr. Moxon sympathized; and that class was in power,
and maintained their position for many years, until at last
the church became separate from the government, and more
liberal and enlightened counsels prevailed in both bodies.

Consequently it was that, as the minister left the house
of Mr. Pynchon, he left it poorly satisfied with the result
of the morning's operations. He thought too lenient a
course had been pursued with Woodcock—one calculated
to make him regard his sin as of little account—one, even,
that seemed to reward him for his obstinacy.