University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

It snowed incessantly. Far up in the fathomless grey the
shooting flakes mingled in dim confusion, or crossed each
other's lines in momentary angles, or came calmly down for
a brief space, and then fled traceless into the tempest; and
all, as they met the breath of the blast, became its burden,
and were swept in blinding and spiteful clouds to the earth.
All around, the storm was vocal. The pines hissed like
serpents, and the old oak, catching the wild roar of his
children in the far north-east, as it came on and on, over
writhing and bowing forests, took up the same strong
strain, and, struggling like a giant, sent it off triumphantly
to the south-western hills.

But the storm was skilful as well as strong. It wove a
wreath in the hair of the splintered stump; it chiselled fair
capitals upon rude gate-posts; it crowned stone chimneys
with layers of marble; it veneered rough house walls with
ivory; it made soft pillows and spotless shrouds for dead
old trees; it wrought fair cornices for rough cabins; it
clothed with ermine unsheltered beasts, and sought fantastic
shapes around every corner and in every nook where there
was sufficient quiet for the quest.

It had snowed thus all day, and the wind had roared
thus, and the new-born shapes had piled, and shifted, and

changed thus; and the storm had its witnesses. From the
windows of a row of humble cabins, scattered at wide distances
from each other, impatient eyes looked out, from
time to time, and, occasionally, a muffled form issued forth
to the unprotected wood-pile, to gather materials for keeping
the storm out of doors.

From the glazed window of the only framed house in the
settlement, peered out a wonderful pair of eyes. They
were dark, clear and bright, and mild and meaningless.
Their owner was a deer, a pet of the house, who stood
through long passages of the storm, and watched the falling
snow and the driving clouds of sleet, and winked as the
arrowy needles struck the window pane. Then, turning
his head without stirring a foot, he gazed intently upon
the inmates of the room, seated round the roaring fire.
Or, his hoofs tapping sharply upon the floor, he retreated
from the window, and looked closely and calmly into the
faces of those who loved him best, or rubbed his sprouting
antlers upon kind shoulders, or begged for bread at the
hand—the fairest hand in the settlement—of her who fed
him.

The other occupants of this room were a man who had
reached nearly fifty years of age, and who, undisturbed by
the storm without, was busily engaged in examining papers,
and in writing; a prim, silent lady of the same age, who
sat quietly in the corner, mending some rough article of
male apparel; and a maid of twenty years, who was employed
in teaching a boy of twelve.

It was a singular group. The old man, with his large,
pleasant eye, looked up amid the pauses of his labor, and
regarded his children with affectionate interest; the grave
dame pursued her labor in reverence and silence; while
the dumb companion, walking from one to the other of the
group, or passing between the window and the fire, and attracting
the eyes of the maiden and the boy, formed a picture

of wild and civilized life, beautifully representative of
the mixed materials and strange combinations and companionships
of a new settlement.

The scene thus opened is in the Agawam of 1638. The
family thus introduced is that of William Pynchon, the
founder of the settlement, and one of the principal men of
the colony of the Massachusetts Bay. He emigrated from
England in 1630, was one of the patentees of the colony
named in the charter of 1628, and originally settled at
Roxbury, of which town he was the principal founder.
Soon after landing in New England, he lost his wife, a woman
dearly loved and much lamented,—the mother of
children who needed her guidance, comfort, and counsel.

A few years passed away, amidst the scenes of the new
settlement, and the pressure of new and heavy public responsibilities,
when Mr. Pynchon, with a memory still true
to the mother of his children, married Mrs. Frances Samford,
“a grave matron of the church of Dorchester,” to whom
he had been attracted by an event in his family with which
she was intimately associated. Henry Smith was her son
by a former husband, and he had married Ann, the oldest
daughter of Mr. Pynchon. Thus connected, they had all
removed, in 1636, to Agawam (the Springfield of the
present); and two years, with their hardships and changes,
had passed over the family at the date of their introduction
to the reader.

Incessantly fell the snow, until, as the short day drew to
a close, the wind lulled, the sun shone through a golden rift
in the west, and the storm had passed. And, everywhere,
deep, and white, and soft, lay the snow. Once more the
village was astir. The axe that had hung idle all day swung
lustily at each cabin door; boys whose confinement had
been torture burst forth into the air with a wild whoop and
halloo; and before the sun had set, the few cattle and horses
of the settlement were yoked to a sled which held a full

freight of joyous boyhood, and with shouts the motley procession
passed through the street. Paths were shovelled
from each door to this, thus made, and the arteries for the
circulation of the social life-blood were again established.

Through all the shouting, and all the boisterous demonstrations
of freedom that reached his ear from without, the
boy John Pynchon sat unmoved, or only lifted his head
from his book with a smile, as the chattering throng passed
by.

“John,” said his father, “why do you not go out, and
enjoy yourself with the rest of the boys?”

“Because I do not wish to, sir,” was the dignified and
respectful reply.

“But why do you not wish to?” inquired the father.

“I don't know, sir,—I can't tell you exactly,” hesitated
John.

“I think, with all respect to you, sir,” said Mrs. Pynchon,
bowing to her husband, “that John is afraid of tearing his
clothes, which is very good and very proper in him, I'm
sure.”

Mr. Pynchon looked at John with a quiet smile, and John
looked at Mary, his sister and teacher, and the two latter
laughed good-naturedly and heartily at the profound solution.
The old lady bent on them a not unkind look of inquiry,
and subsided to the patch and the needle.

The question remained unanswered, save in the mind of
him who proposed it. He had no difficulty in tracing, in
the memory of his own youth, the reason of the change
which had passed over his son. In high natures the transition
from boyhood to manhood is instantaneous, even if not
recognised in the consciousness. Under some deep impression,
or by some strange inspiration, the young spirit catches
a glimpse of its own depth and destiny, and, immediately,
the sports and toys of boyhood have lost their power to
charm. Or, perhaps, the eye comprehends the grace of

some fair form, and the heart, older than the head, traces
the outlines of a relation more beautiful and blissful than all
other relations, and throws a flood of light upon a future,
by the side of which all the present, and all the past, become
tame and tasteless.

John Pynchon had grown up by the side, and under the
influence of one who was to him mother and instructor, as
well as sister. Mary Pynchon! The light of a father's
heart, the light of a wilderness home, the light of every eye
that beheld her—beautiful, lovely, noble Mary Pynchon!
She had lived with this young brother, and had become a
portion of his experience. They had walked through the
dim old woods together, and she had told him of England,
and of his mother, and the long voyage across the ocean,
which he remembered as a dream; and she had patiently
assisted him in the acquisition of the elements of education,
and had been his comforter and companion, in sickness and
health, in joy and sorrow, while his father was absorbed in
the affairs of the plantation or his constant studies, and
while Mrs. Pynchon busied herself in the congenial pursuits
of a thrifty housewife. It was not strange that with such
culture the boy ripened early, and preferred the society of
his sister to that of the noisy rabble whose shouts had filled
the air.

The room in which this family were sitting was not devoid
of articles that gave even to its rough walls an air of
elegance. Gov. Winthrop's “blessing of the Bay” had
brought from Roxbury many articles of furniture, in keeping
with the wealth and position of their owner. An elegantly
mounted hunting-piece stood in one corner, while a pair of
well wrought snow-shoes hung by its side. A tall case of
drawers and a small oak secretaire occupied opposite ends
of the apartment; while a bed, shielded by curtains, was
lifted against the wall that opposed the huge fire-place.

The shadows of evening fell around the house, as the family

partook of their homely supper, and the meal had but
just been cleared away, and the candle-wood set blazing
upon the hearth, when a strong rap resounded at the door.
John answered the summons and admitted a large, muffled
figure—a man who stamped his boots furiously, but who
said not a word until he had fairly reached the middle of the
room, when, as Mr. Pynchon entered from the other side,
he effected a most obsequious bow, with a burly head of
bristling hair. The eyes of the new comer were small
organs that had an uncertain, vacillating way of looking at
everything, and his voice, as he saluted the master of the
house, was mild and nervously—querulously—musical, although
the growl of a bear would have been more in consonance
with his size and appearance.

“Ah! Mr. Moxon,” said Mr. Pynchon, courteously, “I
am glad to see you. We have both had a day pretty
much at our own disposal, I imagine, and we can afford to
spend the evening together. I hope you are very well to-night.”

“I am well, sir—well in body—better, perhaps, than is
well for me. Madam, I beg your pardon (bowing to Mrs.
Pynchon, of whose presence he had thus far been oblivious).
Yes, sir—better than is well for me. I feel as if greater
trials were necessary to me—necessary to my peace. This
poor weak heart of mine needs to be driven to its faith—
Ah! Mary! John! (an accidental recognition of two
faces hitherto unobserved)—driven to it, or else I relapse into
doubt, and especially here, where I am so much alone.”

During this brief and disconnected address, Mrs. Pynchon
had dropped her work, and sat drinking in the words without
a very perfect comprehension of their import. It was enough
to know that the speaker was her minister, and his subject
religion, and she had no doubt that he was dropping pearls;
and so, while he removed his muffler and cloak, she said, “how
true!”—an unguarded expression, as she had not heard her

husband's opinion, which she gracefully sought to cover by
brushing up the hearth with a turkey's wing.

Mr. Pynchon sat down, and gazed for some moments into
the fire, and then, in his calm way, said—“Mr. Moxon,
unbelief never troubles me here. It never troubles me
when I am alone. Here, in these solitudes, I live with God.
I know, and constantly realize that He is above me, and
around me. It is only in crowds that I tremble. When I
see a throng—an innumerable multitude—suggestive, as it is,
of the number of a nation, and that, in turn, of the number
of a generation, and that, again, of all the generations that
have come and gone in the world's history, I stagger at the
thought of their immortality, and doubt whether there is
room for them, even in their destiny.”

“Mr. Pynchon, you and I have been frank with each
other,” replied the minister, shifting uneasily in his chair,
and looking suspiciously around the room, “and I confess
to you that my great want is faith—faith. Sometimes I feel
as if I had it—as if I had grasped it—as if (and he looked
up excitedly)—as if my arm were thrown around a pillar of
God's throne,—and then it goes from me—vanishes—and
leaves me weak and miserable. Sir, where you are the
strongest, I am the weakest. Here, alone, with nothing but
the wilderness and wild men around me, I feel as if I were
astray in God's universe; as if I were lost to His care, and
forgotten in His knowledge. I want more support, more
companionship of belief, so that my faith shall be able to
fall in no direction without striking a firmer faith that shall
throw it back to its position. I am comforted here to-night,
with you, and strengthened by being near you, and yet”—
(and he abruptly and hurriedly arose, and crossed the room)—
“I am the spiritual teacher of this settlement!” The last
sentence was uttered in a tone of deep self-abasement and
condemnation.

This exhibition had no novelty with Mr. Pynchon, but

it was new in a great measure to the family, who sat in
silence and deep interest during its continuance. Mrs.
Pynchon was bewildered, while Mary listened, both to
her father and to Mr. Moxon, with the most intense interest.
Her bright countenance caught the eye of her
father, and, turning kindly to her, he said, “Come, my good
child, my Christian philosopher, tell your minister and your
father what the trouble is with them.”

Mary's cheek became suffused with a modest blush, and
her blue eye bright with the truth and intelligence within
it, as she replied:

“Father, I cannot explain the difference between you
and Mr. Moxon, or, perhaps, I should say, the difference in
your views and feelings under the same circumstances, but
it seems to me that the great differences in religious experience
grow out of the fact that there is a great difference
between our being in religion, and religion being within us.
There are many, too many, it seems to me, who are simply
in religion. They move in a religious atmosphere, and
handle religious things, and eat religious food, for their
daily necessities or occasional emergencies, and are thus at
the mercy of their temperaments and the sport of circumstances.
There are others whose spirits religion occupies
and possesses, and it seems to me that with such God is
present, both in the crowd and in the wilderness, and that
they have no need to seek for faith anywhere, for faith possesses
them everywhere.”

“Well done! my daughter. We are both reproved,”
replied Mr. Pynchon, placing his hand upon her earnestly
up-turned forehead; but Mr. Moxon, who had stood listening
to her without looking at her, remained silent, and in
motionless reflection. A new light seemed to open upon
him, and severe self-questionings were in almost unconscious
progress within his troubled and uncertain nature. Was
that the solution of his struggle? Was he in religion or

religion in him? The voice of an angel could not have
aroused him more powerfully than the maiden's simple but
positive revelations. The assurance of a firmly poised
reason, and the confidence of a steadfast heart, were rocks
against which his bark could not dash without instantaneous
wreck. Its timbers were too loosely joined—too poorly
fitted. This child of his flock, this girl, with her fine instincts
and her well instructed heart, had thrown his soul
into entire confusion, and he certainly seemed likely to have
all the trials which he felt that his happiness and security
demanded.

Mary became instantly conscious of the effect she had
produced on her minister's mind, and would have erased it,
if possible; for she believed that his eccentricities were
more attributable to a defective mental and physical organization
than to a lack of genuine religious experience; but,
just as she had opened her lips to speak, Mr. Moxon started,
turned his head suddenly, and, snuffing the air nervously,
exclaimed, “musk!”

“Ah! Commuk! Commuk!” shouted John, breaking a
silence he had maintained since the advent of the minister,
and leaping, at one bound, half way to the uncurtained
window.

All turned their eyes in that direction, and there, staring
steadily in upon the group, the fitful light of the burning
candle-wood flashing full in his tawny face, stood a tall
Indian, holding up to view a package of beaver skins, whose
proximity Mr. Moxon had so readily detected.

“Tell him to come in, John,” said Mr. Pynchon. John
was at the door in a moment, and, releasing Commuk from
his burden of peltry, brought it in, and laid it upon the
hearth. The Indian, with whom John was a favorite, and
who was no less a favorite of the boy, followed the latter
with a brace of partridges, which he insisted upon putting
into no hands but those of Mary, who received them with

a smile of acknowledgment, and passed them into an adjoining
apartment.

This strange interruption broke up the whole current of
thought and conversation. Mrs. Pynchon, to whom the
singular appearance of the minister had become extremely
oppressive, was immediately alive to the new order of things.
She had seen the partridges, and given expression to her
gratification in an exclamation that hung upon the letter m
with a singing tone, as if her imagination were already
feasting on the broiled and buttered birds. The prospect
of the trade which was wrapped up in that valuable package
of beaver skins had also tended to enliven the good old
lady. It looked like living. It looked like business.

Commuk had said nothing. Nothing but grunts, of
greater or less significance, had escaped him, in response to
the various remarks that had been addressed to him. Mrs.
Pynchon gave up to him her corner, and John, who seemed
to anticipate the Indian's wants more readily than the rest,
soon deposited a pewter plate in his lap, charged with bountiful
slices of corn bread and cold venison.

Meanwhile, Mr. Moxon had busied himself with a readjustment
of his muffler, had replied to Mary's kind inquiries
concerning his wife and children, and was hurrying on
his cloak, apparently holding his breath, so far as possible,
when the family gathered respectfully around him and
responded pleasantly to his hurried “good evening.” The
beaver skins and the Indian were too much for his fastidious
sensibilities, and the cold, clear air outside was as grateful
to him as balm. Commuk had watched him through
the process of leave-taking without tasting his food, but
when the door closed he gave a satisfied grunt and settled
back to silence and his supper.

While the new comer is thus engaged, and the family
carry on their conversation in a quiet tone, watching John
as he unties and holds up, one by one, the beaver skins that

are to be transferred in sale to Mr. Pynchon, it will be well
to give a brief history of the gentleman who has just
engaged our attention.

The Rev. George Moxon received Episcopal ordination in
England, and sought within the regular forms and lofty
sanctions of the established church that peace of mind and
stability of belief for which he had longed and prayed; but
he sought in vain. He then studied the Puritans, and the
vitality of their sturdy virtues became attractive by degrees,
as it was developed in fixedness of purpose, determination
of will, devotion to duty, and steadfastness of faith, until he
lost his hold of the mother's hand, and passed over to the
non-conformists. At this time he was serving as chaplain
to Sir William Brereton, and preaching in St. Helen's Chapel,
near Warrington, in Lancashire, from which place he
was obliged to flee in disguise, a citation for his appearance
having been placed upon the door of his chapel. He embarked
at Bristol, crossed the Atlantic, became a freeman
at Boston in 1637, and, during the same year, commenced
his labors as the first minister of the church in Agawam.

In Mr. Pynchon he had found a mind self-poised, a clear
judgment, a steady friendship, and a true Christian charity.
To such a nature as his, Mr. Pynchon was a fountain of
strength, and light, and encouragement; and, as that gentleman
was his patron in a certain sense, and a man who
was his equal in education, and eminently his superior in
social and political position, he felt no humiliation in revealing
to him his trials, and throwing himself upon his counsels
and sympathies.

Commuk, the Indian, who sat devouring his supper in
the corner, was altogether less civilized than his dress indicated,
for that was, at least, half English. He was one of
the thirteen Indians who conveyed by deed the territory
of Agawam to Mr. Pynchon and his associates, and at this
time had upon his back one of the “eighteen coats”

received as the principal consideration named in the conveyance.
The deer-skin leggings and moccasins that appeared
below it, and the long hair and nondescript head-gear exhibited
above, produced a figure hardly less ludicrous than
wild and picturesque.

The effect of the warm fire and of the supper upon Com
muk was such as to interfere entirely with the progress of
the trade, for he had no sooner completed his meal than,
securing his peltry, he stretched himself upon the floor near
the fire, and went to sleep. This was a step beyond Mrs.
Pynchon's calculations. It interfered with all her ideas of
good housekeeping. Besides, he might, if allowed to remain
there, set the house on fire. She had no special fear
of the Indian, but she would not consent to sleep in the
room with him; so she and Mary retired together, and left
John and his father to occupy the apartment with the Indian.
The fire was replenished with heavy logs, and, at an
early hour, silence and sleep had settled upon the household.