University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

At the time Mr. Moxon issued from the house of Mr.
Pynchon, the stars were sparkling brightly in the heavens,
and the deep snow lay still and white beneath them. His
own house was not far off, but the night was so still that
he walked past it, wrapped in his thoughts, and unmindful
of the biting cold. He walked on until a fox, out upon a
marauding excursion, crossed the path but a few feet in advance
of him, when he paused, and followed with his eye
the suspicious prowler, as, with a quickened bound, he fled
to the woods upon the eastern hill.

Still pausing, he looked upward and around. There, from
above, looked down the stars, glowing and flashing upon
him by thousands, and yet those stars were worlds—parts
of great systems, freighted with wonderful life and stupendous
destinies! There they wheeled in their calm cycles,
and filled the abysses with light and order, and the music
of their endless song! There was no clash, no jar, no rebellion
there! There they hung, and swung, as if they
were the lamps that lighted the passage between the two
eternities.

He looked at them long, and then dropped his eyes upon
the dim outline of cabins, scattered along the distance, revealing
from an occasional glazed aperture the light that
gleamed from blazing hearths; and they seemed so lonely
and so small, that it appeared almost blasphemy to think
that they should come within the cognizance and care of
the infinite God of an infinite universe. And then he came
back to himself, a poor unit, a weak atom, at war with itself,

and inharmonious with its accidents; and he sank down,
down, into depths of conscious insignificance, so fearfully
profound, that death and despair could hardly have been
darker.

He started from his reverie with a pang, and began to
retrace his steps. He had walked but a few rods when, in
passing a cabin, he heard a boisterous laugh, and loud voices
in merry conversation. He knew the inmate, and disliked
him. He was a new comer in the plantation, and he had
already had an altercation with him. The minister stood
irresolutely before the door, questioning whether it were
his duty to enter or pass on. He felt sure that there were
apprentices in the house who had stolen from their homes
to listen to John Woodcock's stories.

At length, the half sarcastic, half good-natured voice of
the occupant broke out with—“Come, gal, aint it about
time you was climbin' them 'ere wooden notches?”

The reply came in the voice of a petulant, ill-trained girl
—“No, dad, I know what you want. I know what you're
goin' to do—you're goin' to play cards.”

“Well, little one, we wont trouble you to keep tally.
'Twould be oncommon perlite in you to do it, but we're
gentlemen—we cant 'low it.”

“I won't go up-stairs to-night, in the snow, any way,”
replied the girl determinedly. “I know what you want.”

“You're an oncommon smart child,” responded the
father, growing bitter in tone. “Didn't you never hear of
a little gal, about your size, that went up stairs one night,
and went to bed, and while she was sound asleep the booggers
come, and carried off her poor old father, and several
particular friends, and didn't touch the little gal, 'cause
they had such long toe-nails they couldn't get up stairs?”

An impatient, disdainful ejaculation from the girl, and a
loud, coarse laugh from the company present, were the
response to this flight of the father's fancy.

“Mary, gal,” pursued the father, “do you see that
picter? That's a beautiful picter, ain't it? 'Seems to me
that picter looks considerable like your great-grandmother.
Now if you'll come here, you'll find them features will put
you in mind of somethin'.”

This characteristic allusion to a rod that hung upon the
wall was complimented with another coarse laugh from the
speaker's companions. The girl was still determined and
silent.

The minister, who had overheard all, and had become
deeply interested, approached the door, and through a small
window, looked into the room. There sat the girl, staring
into the fire, with her thin lips pressed firmly together, and
her eyes strong with anger.

At length feeling that the storm of her father's wrath
was about to burst upon her in a form more dreadful than
that of mockery, she burst into a fit of uncontrollable crying.
Then her tongue was loosed, and she poured out upon
her father her insane wrath in one voluble stream, which at
last subsided into a hysterical alteration of sobbing and
scolding. The scene seemed rather to amuse her father,
who sat looking at her coolly during its continuance, and
then asked her what she was going to do about it.

“I'll tell Mr. Pynchon, and Mr. Moxon, too,” spitefully
replied the child.

The matter had at last proceeded too far to be decidedly
pleasant, even to Woodcock, for it had produced a painful
silence in his company, and he dared not then lay a finger
on his child. So, referring to her threat, he said, “Do tell
'em:—happy to have you go up and invite the gentlemen
down here. Give 'em John Woodcock's respects—happy
to see 'em at eight o'clock—business of importance—messenger
jest in from the Bay—arrival of the Church of England
on wheels—Oh! (arising and going over the mock
ceremony of receiving the gentlemen alluded to), Mr. Pynchon!

I trust your worship is well to-night. Sit down, sir;
how's the old woman, and what's the price of beaver? I
expect Mr. Moxon here soon, and then we'll have a quiet
game of cards, and something hot, p'raps.”

“I wish Mr. Moxon would come,” exclaimed the girl,
rising and looking intently at the door.

There was something in her action and manner that
attracted every eye, and even her father paused, and
looked with the company at the door.

They had been in that position but a moment, when the
wooden latch was slowly raised, the door was opened, and
Mr. Moxon stood, at his full height and broad dimensions,
in the room. There were three lads there, who did not
belong there. Pale with fright, they slunk back from the
light, and pulling their caps down over their faces, endeavored
to pass behind him out of the door. He turned, and
recognised each as he passed, and closed the door after
them as they retired. Then turning to Woodcock, he addressed
him in a voice in which sadness and sternness were
equal ingredients:

“Goodman Woodcock, those apprentices have been seduced
here by you, and it becomes my duty, as the minister
of this place, to reprimand you for your great sin in this
thing. You have also abused that child, who, without a
mother, is as much your slave as your daughter.”

Woodcock was no coward, but he was taken by surprise,
and a moment's reflection restored him to himself. Looking
the minister doggedly in the face, he replied, “If I was
somebody else, and somebody else was John Woodcock,
and a gentleman had walked into his house, and no questions
asked, and stepped between him and his friends, sayin'
nothin' about his own flesh and blood, and given him cold
sass and what's tantamount to a Pope's bull, I should say
to John Woodcock, `My friend, when you skin your own
skunks, in your own cabin, and a neighbor who comes

snuffin' round the latch-string, says the smell is onpleasant,
say to that gentleman you presume there's roses in the next
house, and people dyin' to have him come and smell on
'em.”'

“I understand you, John, and am not to be offended by
your uncharitable, not to say impertinent, remarks. You
will very probably hear of this again. In the meantime, I
beg that you will treat this child kindly and cease to sacrifice
her comfort, and everything good in her character to—
to—”

“Oh, don't be bashful, Mr. Moxon; now you're here,
you might as well finish up the business, and do your duty
—in season and out of season, you know,” said the cool,
hard-faced man, with a sneer.

“To your recklessness of religion, and your depraved
tastes,” continued the minister.

“Yes, that's it—there's where it comes. I don't know
what would become of religion in this colony if it wasn't
for John Woodcock. There's been a great many saints
made, improvin' their gifts on me, sir. It sort o' polishes
'em up, and finishes 'em off, to practise on me. I've had
people come forty or fifty miles sometimes to see a real sinner—one
of the genuine article. You see they're rare in
this country. There's so many Christians here that people
have to depend on their neighbors for sins enough to talk
about.”

The minister looked at the speaker sadly, as he went on
in his tone of biting sarcasm, and seeing that he could
effect nothing further, withdrew, and, closing the door after
him, sought his home.

The evening had been an eventful one to him. The
cabin of Woodcock and the incidents there had transformed
him. He had performed what he believed to be Christian
duty, and though it had not produced a single good result
towards him who had engaged it, so far as he could see, he

felt like a new man. He was refreshed and invigorated.
Turning from the great things of God to the small things
of duty; from infinite spheres of motion, to the modest circle
of his own responsibilities, from the passive reception of
humbling thoughts, to the active exertion of humble power
upon objects morally and intellectually inferior to himself,
he had grown in stature and in strength, measured by his
own emotions, until he had come near to God, by a faith
that satisfied, and that bathed his heart in perfect peace.

After he left Woodcock's cabin, that individual sat before
his fire, for some time, in silence. At length, turning
towards his daughter, who sat looking into the fire, and
preparing her mind for whatever turn affairs might take, he
said, in softened tones, “Mary, gal, get into my bunk, and
go to sleep. I'll manage somehow.”

The girl started to her feet, and seemed, at first, as if she
were about to rush into her father's arms, but she passed
by him, and commenced gathering a bed upon the floor,
composed of blankets and skins. As soon as this task was
completed, she hastily prepared herself for the night, and
lying down upon her rude bed, was soon asleep. The father
waited until the bonds of unconsciousness were sufficiently
strong upon her, and then, lifting her gently from the floor,
he laid her upon his own rough couch, and covering her
warmly, resumed his seat before the fire.

“Well,” exclaimed he at last, commencing a rambling
soliloquy, “the gate's h'isted, the floom's full o' water, and
John Woodcock's the grist. I wonder if the gentleman
that's jest took toll likes the grain. It don't make no difference
whether he does or not. What business had he
to come in, and disturb my hen-roost, and scare my chickens?
But that's the way here—jest so in Roxbury. Ministers
and magistrates always nosin' round, 'tendin' to their
duties. Duties! who made 'em duties? This 'ere cabin's
mine, and I'm myself—John Woodcock. I don't look like

a baby. I hav'n't asked anybody to come and watch over
me, and be my guardeen. Here they've been to work,
makin' a devil of me ever since I landed, tryin' to make me
a saint—getting me mad so's to make me better. And
there's them boys. I've got 'em into a scrape, I s'pose,
but I couldn't help it. I've got to fellowship with somebody,
and so have they, but we aint any of us pious enough
for the parson, nor perlite enough for the Square, and that's
enough to drive the saints out of sight and hearin'. Wonder
if they think it's natur to live here all alone, and say
nothin' to nobody.

“Arter all, the Square is a pretty good man. He thinks
I don't know what he come here from Roxbury for, but I'll
bet my head agin a pewter mug that his reason for comin'
here and mine look enough alike to be twins. I see it plain
enough long ago. The Bay folks was too stiff for him.
He didn't like bein' crowded better'n I do.”

Here he was disturbed by words from his child, who,
dreaming, was deprecating some punishment from his hand.
“Poor gal,” continued he, “I haven't but just found you
out. You're just like me, too, and I've been crowdin' you
just as other folks crowd me. I've been too hard on you,
Mary. But you're strange—strange. I guess we'll get
along better, after this—I guess we will.”

Woodcock then added a huge log to his fire, took a few
economical whiffs from a short pipe, and committed himself
to rest.

John Woodcock has introduced himself to the reader
with sufficient detail, perhaps, but it will be proper to give
a brief sketch of his more recent history. He, with John
Cabel, was the first white man who erected a house in the
Connecticut Valley. In 1635, he was sent from Roxbury,
in advance, by William Pynchon and his associates, to prepare
a dwelling and plant corn. He was just the man to
undertake the task. At the distance of many miles from

any white settlement, Windsor and Hartford being the
nearest, he had sufficient room and felt no restraint. With
a strong, original nature, he spurned all control, and only
asked for the privilege of minding his own business, or of
doing his business in his own time and way. He was not
ill-natured, but he had grown wilful by being badgered
by church and police, until he was sensitive in the extreme.

His daughter Mary was his only child, the only child of
a wife who had been dead for some years. Her father's
peculiarities had debarred her from the associations so
necessary to the development of soft and childlike traits,
and she had grown to the age of twelve with passions unchecked,
and with a character whose affinities were coarse,
even to masculineness. It was the first time that he had ever
caught a glimpse of the secret of her singular development
of character. He had thought her wilful and stubborn, and
so she was; but as soon as he began to trace in her a likeness
to himself, his heart softened with a kindly sympathy,
and he resolved to treat her more tenderly.