University of Virginia Library

1. RACHEL DYER.

CHAPTER I.

The early history of New-England, or of Massachusetts
Bay, rather; now one of the six New-England
States of North America, and that on which the Plymouth
settlers, or “Fathers” went ashore—the shipwrecked
men of mighty age, abounds with proof that
witchcraft was a familiar study, and that witches and
wizards were believed in for a great while, among the
most enlightened part of a large and well-educated religious
population. The multitude of course had a like
faith; for such authority governs the multitude every
where, and at all times.

The belief was very general about a hundred years
ago in every part of British America, was very common
fifty years ago, when the revolutionary war broke out,
and prevails now, even to this day in the wilder parts of
the New-England territory, as well as in the new States
which are springing up every where in the retreating
shadow of the great western wilderness—a wood where
half the men of Europe might easily hide from each
other—and every where along the shores of the solitude,
as if the new earth were full of the seed of empire, as
if dominion were like fresh flowers or magnificent herbage,
the spontaneous growth of a new soil wherever
it is reached by the warm light or the cheerful rain of a
new sky.

It is not confined however, nor was it a hundred and
thirty five years ago, the particular period of our story,
to the uneducated and barbarous, or to a portion of the
white people of North-America, nor to the native Indians,
a part of whose awful faith, a part of whose inherited
religion it is to believe in a bad power, in witchcraft
spells and sorcery. It may be met with wherever
the Bible is much read in the spirit of the New-England
Fathers. It was rooted in the very nature of those who
were quite remarkable in the history of their age, for
learning, for wisdom, for courage and for piety; of men
who fled away from their fire-sides in Europe to the rocks
of another world—where they buried themselves alive
in search of truth.

We may smile now to hear witchcraft spoken seriously
of; but we forget perhaps that a belief in it is like a
belief in the after appearance of the dead among the
blue waters, the green graves, the still starry atmosphere
and the great shadowy woods of our earth; or like the
beautiful deep instinct of our nature for worship,—older
than the skies, it may be, universal as thought, and sure
as the steadfast hope of immortality.

We may turn away with a sneer now from the devout
believer in witches, wondering at the folly of them that
have such faith, and quite persuading ourselves in our
great wisdom, that all who have had it heretofore, however
they may have been regarded by ages that have
gone by, were not of a truth wise and great men; but
we forget perhaps that we are told in the Book of Books,
the Scriptures of Truth, about witches with power to
raise the dead, about wizards and sorcerers that were able
to strive with Jehovah's anointed high priest before the
misbelieving majesty of Egypt, with all his court and
people gathered about his throne for proof, and of others

who could look into futurity with power, interpret the
vision of sleep, read the stars, bewitch and afflict whom
they would, cast out devils and prophesy—false prophets
were they called, not because that which they said was
untrue, but because that which they said, whether true
or untrue, was not from above—because the origin of
their preternatural power was bad or untrue. And we
forget moreover that laws were made about conjuration,
spells and witchcraft by a body of British lawgivers,
renowned for their sagacity, deep research, and grave
thoughtful regard for truth, but a few years ago—the
other day as it were—and that a multitude of superior
men have recorded their belief in witchcraft—men of
prodigious power—such men as the great and good Sir
Mathew Hale, who gave judgment of death upon several
witches and wizards, at a period when, if we may
believe a tithe of what we hear every day of our lives,
from the mouth of many a great lawyer, there was no
lack of wit or wisdom, nor of knowledge or faithful enquiry;
and such men too as the celebrated author of the
Commentaries on the Laws of England, which are, “as
every body knows, or should know, and a man must be
exceedingly ignorant not to know” the pride of the British
empire and a pillar of light for the sages of hereafter;
and that within the last one hundred and fifty or two
hundred years, a multitude of men and women have
been tried and executed by authority of British law,
in the heart of England,for having dealt in sorcery and
witchcraft.

We may smile—we may sneer—but would such things
have occurred in the British Parliament, or in the British
courts of law, without some proof—whatever, it was—
proof to the understandings of people, who in other matters
are looked up to by the chief men of this age with

absolute awe—that creatures endowed with strange, if
not with preternatural power, did inhabit our earth and
were able to work mischief according to the popular
ideas of witchcraft and sorcery?

We know little or nothing of the facts upon which
their belief was founded. All that we know is but hearsay,
tradition or conjecture. They who believed were
eye-witnesses and ear witnesses of what they believed;
we who disbelieve are neither. They who believed
knew all that we know of the matter and much more;
we who disbelieve are not only ignorant of the facts, but
we are living afar off, in a remote age. Nevertheless, they
believed in witchcraft, and we regard all who speak of it
seriously, with contempt. How dare we! What right
have we to say that witches and witchcraft are no more,
that sorcery is done with forever, that miracles are never
to be wrought again, or that Prophecy shall never be
heard again by the people of God, uplifting her voice
like a thousand echoes from the everlasting solitudes of
the sea, or like uninterrupted heavy thunder breaking
over the terrible and haughty nations of our earth?

Why should we not think as well of him who believes
too much, as of him who believes too little? Of him
whose faith, whatever it may be, is too large, as of him
whose faith, whatever it may be, is too small? Of the
good with a credulous temper, as of the great with a
suspicious temper? Of the pure in heart, of the youthful,
of the untried in the ways of the world, who put much
faith in whatever they are told, too much it may be, as
of them who being thoroughly tried in the ways of the
world put no faith in what they hear, and little in what
they see? Of the humble in spirit who believe, though
they do not perfectly understand, as of the haughty who
will not believe because they do not perfectly understand?

Of the poor child who thinks a juggler eats fire when
he does not, as of the grown-up sage who thinks a juggler
does not swallow a sword when he does? Of the
believer in Crusoe, who sits poring over the story under
a hedge, as of the unbeliever in Bruce who would not
believe, so long as it was new, in the Tale of Abyssinia?
Of those in short who are led astray by self-distrust, or
innocence, or humility, as of them who are led astray by
self-conceit, or corruption, or pride?

In other days, the Lion of the desert would not believe
the horse when he came up out of the bleak north, and
told a story of waters and seas that grew solid, quiet and
smooth in the dead of winter. His majesty had never
heard of such a thing before, and what his majesty had
never heard of before could not be possible. The mighty
lord of the Numedian desert could not believe—how
could he?—in a cock-and-a-bull-story, about ice and
snow; for to him they were both as a multitude of such
things are to the philosophy of our age, out of the course
of nature.

A solid sea and a fluid earth are alike to such as have
no belief in what is new or contrary to that course of
nature with which they are acquainted—whatever that
may be. There is no such thing as proof to the overwise
or over-mighty, save where by reason of what they
already know, there is not much need of other proof.—
They would not believe, though one should rise from the
dead—they are too cautious by half; they are not satisfied
with any sort of testimony; they dare not believe
their own eyes—they do not indeed; for spectres when
they appear to the eye of the philosopher now, are attributed
altogether to a diseased organ.(1) They care
not for the cloud of witnesses—they withdraw from the
Bible, they scoff at history, and while they themselves

reject every kind of proof, whatever it may be, such
proof as they would be satisfied with in a case of murder,
were they to hear it as a jury—such proof as they
would give judgment of death upon, without fear, proof
under oath by men of high character and severe probity,
eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses of what they swear to—
they ridicule those who undertake to weigh it with care,
and pursue with scorn or pity those who shiver through
all their arteries at a story of the preternatural.

As if it were a mark of deplorable fatuity for a babe to
believe now as a multitude of wise and great and gifted
men have heretofore believed in every age of the world!
As if to think it possible for such to have been right in
their belief, were too absurd for excuse now—such men
as the holy Greek, the upright immovable Socrates,
who persuaded himself that he was watched over by
a sort of household spirit; such men too as the “bald”
Cæsar, and the rock-hearted Brutus, both of whom
spite of their imperial nature and high place among the
warlike and mighty of their age, believed in that, and
shook before that which whether deceitful or not, substance
or shadow, the very cowards of our day are too
brave to be scared with, too full of courage to put their
trust in—afraid as they are of that, which the Roman pair
would have met with a stern smile and a free step; such
men too of a later age, as the profound, wise and pure
Sir Matthew Hale, who put many to death for witchcraft
—so clear was the proof, and so clear the nature of the
crime—while the nature of larceny, the nature of common
theft was forever a mystery to him, if we may believe
what we hear out of his own mouth; such men too
as the celebrated Judge Blackstone, who after a thorough
sifting of the law, says--“It seems to be most elegible
to conclude that in general there has been such a thing
as witchcraft, though we cannot give credit to any particular

modern instance of it;” such men too as Doctor
Samuel Johnson, L L. D. who saw through all the hypocricy
and subterfuge of our day, when he said, speaking
of a superstitious belief, that men who deny it by
their words, confess it by their fears—nothing was ever
so true! we who are most afraid, want courage to own
it; such men too as the Lord Protector of England,
while she was a common wealth; and such as he, the Desolator—

for they were both believers in what the very rabble of
our earth deride now; such men, too, as the chief among
poets—Byron—for he believed in the words of a poor
old gypsey, and shook with fear, and faltered on the way
to his bridal-chamber, when he thought of the prophecy
she had uttered years and years before, in the morning of
his haughty youth; such men too as the head lawgiver
of our day, the High-Priest of Legislation, the great and
good, the benevolent, the courageous Bentham, who to
this hour is half afraid in the dark, and only able to satisfy
himself about the folly of such fear, when his night-cap
is off, by resorting with suitable gravity to his old refuge,
the exhaustive mode of reasoning. If a ghost appear
at all, argues he, it must appear either clothed or
not clothed. But a ghost never appears not clothed,
or naked; and if it appear clothed, we shall have not only
the ghost of a human creature—which is bad enough;
but the ghost of a particular kind of cloth of a particular
fashion, the ghost of a pocket-handkerchief, or a
night-cap—which is too bad.

Thus much for authority: and here, but for one little
circumstance we should take up our narrative, and pursue
it without turning to the right or the left, until we
came to the sorrowful issue; but as we may have here

and there a reader, in this unbelieving age, who has no
regard for authority, nor much respect for the wisdom
of our ancestors, what if we try to put the whole argument
into a more conclusive shape? It may require
but a few pages, and a few pages may go far to allay
the wrath of modern philosophy. If we throw aside the
privilege of authorship, and speak, not as a multitude but
as one of the true faith, our argument would stand thus:

In a word, whatever the philosophy of our age may
say, I cannot look upon witchcraft and sorcery as the
unbeliever does. I know enough what the fashion is
now; but I cannot believe, I do not believe that we
know much more of the matter than our great progenitors
did; or that we are much wiser than a multitude
who have been for ages, and are now, renowned for their
wisdom; or that we are much more pious than our noble
fathers were, who died in their belief—died for their
belief, I should say, and are a proverb to this hour on
account of their piety. Nor can I persuade myself that
such facts would be met with in grave undoubted history,
if they were untrue, as are to be met with in every page
of that which concerns the period of our story; facts
which go to prove not only that a fixed belief in witchcraft
prevailed throughout Europe as well as America,
and among those with whom there was no lack of probity
or good sense, or knowledge, it would appear; but
that hundreds of poor creatures were tried for witchcraft
under the authority of British law, and put to death,
under the authority of British law, (and several after
confession) for the practice of witchcraft and sorcery.

May it not be worth our while therefore, to speak
seriously and reverently of our mighty forefathers? to
bear in mind that the proof which they offer is affirmative
and positive, while that which we rely upon, is
negative—a matter of theory? to keep in view, moreover,

that if a body of witnesses of equal worth were
equally divided, one half saying that on such a day and
hour, at such a place, when they were all together, such
or such a thing, preternatural or not, mysterious or not,
occurred; while the other half say positively, man for
man, that so far as they heard or saw, or know or believe,
no such thing did occur, at such a time or place,
or at any other time or place, whatsoever—still, even
here, though you may believe both parties, though you
may give entire credit to the words of each, you may be
justified, in a variety of cases, in acting upon the testimony
of the former in preference to that of the latter.
And why? Because the contradictory words of both
may not be so contradictory as they appear—not so contradictory
as to neutralize each other on every hypothesis;
but may be reconcilable to the supposition that such
or such a fact, however positively denied by one party,
and however mysterious it may seem, really did occur:
and this while they are not reconcilable to the supposition
that such or such a fact really did not occur.—It being
much more easy to overlook that which is, than to see
that which is not; much more easy to not see a shadow
that falls upon our pathway, than to see a shadow where
indeed there is no shadow; much more easy to not hear
a real voice, than to hear no voice.

If the multitude of trustworthy and superior men,
therefore, who testify to the facts which are embodied
in the following narrative, and which may appear incredible
to the wise of our day, or out of the course of
nature to the philosophy of our day, like ice or snow to
the Lord of the Desert; if they were positively contradicted
step by step, throughout, by another like multitude
of trustworthy and superior men—still, though the
two parties were alike numerous and alike worthy of
credit, and although you might believe the story of each,

and every word of it, and give no preference to either:
—Still I say, you might be justified in supposing that
after all, the facts which the former testify to really did
occur. And why? Because though both speak true,
that hypothesis may still be supported; while if both
speak true, the contrary hypothesis cannot be supported.
Facts may occur without being heard or seen by the
whole of a party who are together at the time they occur:
but how are they to be seen or heard, if they do
not occur at all?

I have put a much stronger case than that on which
the truth of the following story is made to depend; for
no such contradiction occurs here, no such positive testimony,
no such array of multitude against multitude of
the same worth, or the same age, or the same people.
On the affirmative side are a host here—a host of respectable
witnesses, not a few of whom sealed their testimony
with their blood; on the negative, hardly one either of
a good or a bad character. What appears on the negative
side is not by facts, but by theory. It is not positive
but conjectural, The negative witnesses are of our age
and of our people; the affirmative were of another age
and of another people. The former too, it should be
remarked were not only not present, but they were not
born—they were not alive, when the matters which they
deny the truth of, took place—if they ever took place at
all. Now, if oaths are to be answered by conjecture,
bloodshed by a sneer, absolute martyrdom by hypothesis,
much grave testimony of the great and the pious, by a
speculative argument, a brief syllogism, or a joke—of
what use are the rules by which our trust in what we
hear is regulated? our faith whatever it may be, and
whether it concern this world or the next, and whether
it be of the past, the present or the future? Are we to
believe only so far as we may touch and see for ourselves?

What is the groundwork of true knowledge?
where the spirit of true philosophy? Whither should
we go for proof; and of what avail is the truth which
we are hoarding up, the truth which we are extracting
year after year by laborious investigation, or fearful experiment?
If we do not believe those who go up to the
altar and make oath before the Everlasting God, not as
men do now, one after another, but nation by nation,
to that which is very new to us, or wonderful, why
should posterity believe us when we testify to that which
hereafter may be very new to them or very wonderful?
Is every day to be like every other day, every age like
every other age in the Diary of the Universe? Earthquake,
war and revolution—the overthrow of States and
of empires, are they to be repeated forever, lest men
should not believe the stories that are told of them?