University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

The trial of a witch and a murderess was an event well
calculated to excite the General Court and the people of
the Bay settlements; and not a few of the more superstitious
freely expressed their convictions that both the
witchcraft and the murder were consequences of Mr.
Pynchon's defection, either as a direct, legitimate result, or
a special judgment from Heaven. In this manner, the
cases of the venerable heretic and witch-murderess became
associated in the public mind; and, as no man, possessing
common human susceptibilities, can live by the side of a
great superstition without coming more or less into its
shadow, so Mr. Pynchon became touched with the prevalent
sentiment, and was unable entirely to separate himself from
the responsibility of events with which he had no direct
connexion.

Mary Parsons was taken to the jail, for safe keeping and
for rest. She was so feeble as to be entirely unable to
appear before the General Court, and plead to the charges
against her. During the days that intervened, Mr. Moxon
had very little difficulty in so arranging matters as to bring
the trial for witchcraft into the order of precedence, and,
before Mary was sufficiently removed from death to be tried
for her life, considerable impatience began to be felt in
various quarters for her appearance.

During this period, Hugh, though rarely allowed to see
his wife, was not without sympathetic companionship; for,
upon the second day after his arrival at Boston, his old,
unknown, and still disguised benefactor, arrived, severely

worn by the journey, and giving evidence of recent illness,
which explained to Hugh a neglect which he had noticed
for several weeks previous to the murder.

The old man was more thoroughly disguised than on the
occasion of his first and only interview with Hugh, and
passed for an Indian wherever he appeared. Matters had
arrived at such a condition that he had no hesitation in informing
Hugh of the nature of his connexion with Mary,
and the pair became united by a tender and touching sympathy.
Day after day they lingered around the door of
the jail, and, whenever Hugh was admitted, the old man
waited without until he re-appeared, and then listened, with
painful interest, to the report which he brought, and the
messages she sent.

To Mary, the decay of vitality brought the full return of
reason. The terrible journey over which she had passed,
while it seemed to destroy the very foundations of her
physical strength, restored, through some mysterious process
of nature, the balance of her mind. The past was with
her in all its brightness and all its darkness. The terrible
present was something which she fully realized. The future
—dark, uncertain, and strewn thick with dangers—lay before
her. But the ties which bound her to the world had
nearly all been severed. There was but one left, and that
was her husband. Even this was losing its power, under
the conviction that she was destroying his position and his
happiness, and, perhaps, dragging him into infamy. And
when the possibilities of the future impressed themselves
upon her mind—when she saw that she might, and very
probably should, lose her reason again, and perhaps be left
to the performance of still further deeds of violence, the
prospect of death became more and more tolerable, till it
was entertained with pleasure.

There was one thought which, more than all others, reconciled
her to the fate which seemed inevitable. She

believed that she had her husband's confidence—that no
power could deprive her of it. She believed that, when
she should die, he would mourn her sincerely—that he
would think of her tenderly, and cherish her memory,
even should it be trodden under feet by malice, prejudice,
and superstition. There were so many things with her
that were worse than death, and so little in her life that
was desirable, that the thought of dying sometimes filled
her heart with an unutterable peace.

The time at last arrived for her to be brought forth. The
fact that she was to appear for trial had been noised abroad,
and a large crowd had collected about the jail, in order to
catch a glimpse of one who had been represented to be a
monster of sin. Hugh and his disguised companion were
at the door, and, as she made her appearance, feebly walking
between two officers, and saw the sea of upturned and
excited faces, and comprehended the fact that she was the
object of curiosity, her cheek, which was deadly pale at
first, grew bright as if it were burning, and her dark eye
flashed defiance. After the first glance, she looked around
as if to seek familiar faces, and, as she met that of Hugh
and his trembling companion, a sweet smile overspread her
face, and she bowed to them with a cordiality and composure
that, for the moment, won upon the sympathies of the
crowd, and betrayed it into a murmur of admiration.

A preliminary examination under the forms of law peculiar
to the period, resulted in the finding of two indictments
against her—one for witchcraft and one for murder; and
when she was brought into the General Court and arraigned
on the first, she pleaded “not guilty” with a vehemence of
tone that startled the ears of all.

The tale of her trial for this offence would be a disgusting
record—weary to write, and sickening to read. Mr. Moxon
was the principal witness, and as he brought forward his
flimsy and ridiculous testimony, and exhibited his bits of

epistolary birch bark, and laid out the whole ground of his
evidence, he saw for himself that the case was hopeless for
him, for he met on every hand only smiles of derision, or
blank stares of incredulity. The facts upon which he had
relied for proof, began, even in his own mind, to assume a
shadowy and unsatisfactory aspect, so that when he was
allowed to resume his seat, it was with a sensation of relief,
and a somewhat indistinctly formed conviction that he
had ruined his own reputation, and saved that of the
prisoner.

The trial occurred at a date more than forty years previous
to the great delusion of New England on the subject
of witchcraft, and found the court sufficiently calm to be
able to judge between valid and worthless evidence, so that
Mr. Moxon's impression in regard to the effect of his testimony
was almost literally correct. The other evidence
offered amounted to nothing against the prisoner, and she
was immediately acquitted. The fact seemed rather to detract
from than increase her strength, and she almost swooned
upon her seat.

As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to stand, the
second indictment was read to her. This accused her of
murdering her child, and to this she as unhesitatingly
pleaded guilty as she had denied the charge in the first indictment.
Of the proceedings in this case, preliminary to
her sentence, there is neither record nor hint. It could not
be that one whose infirmities were so well known as those
of the prisoner, and one who had such friends near her as
Mr. Pynchon and Mr. Holyoke, as well as a townsman in
the General Court who was disposed to regard her charitably,
should have been left to the fate which naturally
hung upon her confession, and that no effort whatever was
made to save her. The fact was doubtless proved, that
although she had had the reputation of being insane, she
had been to all appearance rational from the hour of the

murder; or from the time when the people crowded into
the cabin upon Goody Tomson's alarm. Whatever the
efforts in her behalf may have been, or whatever aspect the
evidence may have assumed, she was condemned to death,
and received her sentence with entire calmness and fortitude.

The prisoner was carried from the court room in the
arms of the officers, being entirely unable to walk; and the
open air failed to revive her when it was reached. A carriage
was called, and amid a throng of curious faces, and a
tumult of insulting cries, the poor convict was conveyed to
her prison to await the time of her execution.[1]

As Mary Parsons retired from the court, a large number
of spectators bore her company, and among them, Elizur
Holyoke, who was accompanied by the deputy from Springfield,
his brother-in-law, Henry Smith. The cause of the
retirement of the two last soon became apparent, for silence
had no sooner been secured than it was announced that Mr.
Pynchon had made a retraction of his errors, in a formal
note in the hands of the clerk, and it was accordingly
received by the court, and read. The steps which led to
this recantation have been sufficiently apparent in the progress
of the narrative. An over sensitive conscientiousness,
which, when acted upon by popular denunciation, learned
casuistry, and a superstitious interpretation of providential
occurrences, had beclouded his reason and benumbed his
will, was the active agent in bringing him to an unwilling

relinquishment of opinions which he had formed in his
strong and healthy years.[2]

The effect of this retraction on the General Court was
just what it ought to have been under the circumstances.
They could not help but see that, insomuch as Mr. Pynchon
had been convinced of the errors of his book, he had
been convinced against his will, and in fact against his convictions.
Their action in the matter, while it greatly disappointed
and terribly mortified him, was exactly what was
necessary to restore him thoroughly to himself, and re-invest
him with the native dignity of his character.

As the retraction was read there were nods and winks
among the members, which meant much to Mr. Pynchon's
disadvantage. He had humiliated himself, and the instant
effect of his action was to diminish a certain degree of respect
which the court had not ceased to entertain for him
since Mr. Holyoke's manly defence of him at the previous
session. There seemed to arise in the minds of nearly all
the members a disposition to humiliate him still further.

As he had allowed himself to be cajoled and threatened and
argued into a virtual surrender of his position, they were
determined that the surrender should be complete and in
terms. So they voted that as through the blessing of God
on the efforts of the reverend elders, Mr. Pynchon appeared
to be “in a hopeful way to give good satisfaction,” they
would give him, in accordance with a request which it
appears he had made, leave to return home in the following
week, taking with him Mr. Norton's reply to his book—in
order that at the next session of the court, to be held in
the following October, he might appear, having had full
time to consider the matter, and then “give all due satisfaction.”
They considered that he had only half accomplished
the work of recantation, and judged that it would be comparatively
easy, and perfectly proper, for him to complete
the task.

Mr. Pynchon was not present during this action, but
when it was conveyed to him by Henry Smith, he was stung
to the quick. In an instant the whole secret of the affair
flashed upon him, and, with one struggle of will, he had cut
loose from crafty advisers, zealous counsellors, private misgivings,
and the whole train of agents and influences that
had enslaved him, and was once more, what he ever afterwards
remained, a man.

The court was not unaware of the sympathy felt for Mr.
Pynchon at home, and, while doing what lay in its power
to humiliate him, felt it necessary to do something to conciliate
his friends in the distant settlement. As Henry
Smith was a son-in-law of Mr. Pynchon, and had received
the confidence of the settlement in his election as deputy,
he was appointed in Mr. Pynchon's place to be the magistrate
of Springfield. How much there may have been of
political craft in this appointment—how far it was intended
to stop the mouth of the deputy, and retain the good will
of the family, it may be hard to determine.

Without making any remarks, Mr. Smith rose in his
place, and, stating that it was very necessary for him to
return home, requested permission to do so. Permission of
absence for the session was immediately granted, and when
he sought Mr. Pynchon, he announced to him, not only the
action of the court upon his case, but also his own appointment
as magistrate, and his intention to return home with
his father-in-law in the following week. He also asked for
his advice in regard to accepting the appointment which
had been conferred upon him. Mr. Pynchon adjured him
by all means to obtain his commission and retain it, until it
should seem best to relinquish it, that so the court should
not appoint some one in his place whose incompetency or
unpopularity would make the place unpleasant, and subject
the family to unnecessary mortifications.

Once more to the mind of the venerable controvertist,
returned the elasticity and confidence, the firm poise and
free action, which had been its experience when he boldly
asserted himself among the magistrates. Men who met
him were surprised to find him in excellent spirits—almost
careless of the opinions of those around him, unconcerned
in regard to his position in the colony, and hopeful and confident
in regard to the future. He had at last and for ever
learned that self-respect is a better possession than the good
opinion of others, that nothing is too costly and nothing too
precious to be sacrificed to perfect liberty of thought and
action, and that his declaration, made once before the magistrates,
and half unmade by his confession, “that truth
does not depend for its authenticity, vitality, and power on
the breath of the General Court of Massachusetts,” was one
to be maintained and acted upon in all his future dealings
with that body.