 | CHAPTER VI. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Was this religion for a little child?
Can tender, trembling spirits thus be driven,
By whips of living scorpions into heaven?”
The next morning, as Madian Southworth sat at her window
pensively revolving in mind the tender passages that had occurred
between her and her gallant lover, at their last night's
interview, the whole of which now seemed to her so sweet, so
entrancing, and so transient did it appear, more like the
bright and fleeting representations of a dreaming fancy than
a tangible reality, her eye caught a glimpse, through the clustering
shrubbery, of the tall, stooping figure of the Shadow entering
the front gate, and approaching the house. She slightly
started, and a sort of recoiling shudder seemed to pass over
her; for, as the grating sounds of his slow, solemn tread upon
the graveled pathway fell upon her ear, she instinctively felt
that his early visit had something to do with the subject of her
thoughts, and the new born, and, as yet, almost ethereal ties,
which her heart rose up jealously to guard against the rude
touch of all others, whether the opposing or the careless.
Soon schooling herself into composure however, she respectfully
saluted Dummer as he entered, and invited him to a
seat, in which, after sundry awkward flourishes and sprawling
movements of his long, ungainly limbs, he at length became
pretty fairly settled. The native dignity of Madian, now
made the more imposing, by the cool reserve with which her
demeanor had become involuntary invested, very evidently
before he could get his thoughts sufficiently in working order
to open upon the matter of his mission.
“I came,” he at last rather falteringly began—“I came—
the best friends of the family thereunto consenting and advising—to
hold friendly communion and kindly counsel with
the daughter of our late well-beloved sister Southworth, in
matters pertaining to her spiritual welfare.”
“Indeed, sir,” responded Madian, in a sort of non-committal,
enquiring tone.
“Yea, young woman; for, in our holy anxieties for the
spiritual safety of one, who is now left without any proper
Christian guide in the family, and therefore continually liable
to be deceived and led astray by the Evil one, who watcheth
by day and by night to seduce the young and unwary by his
manifold devices, we of the household of faith are filled with
a very great desire—yea, with inexpressible yearnings, to see
you come into the sacred fold.”
“Perhaps I should be thankful, sir, for so much attention
to my condition, if it be attended with the perils you intimate.
But let me ask if the fold you speak of is the same as the one
in which, as I have been told, was once originated a decree for
banishing my father from his home and family, only for disapproving
of the persecutions of the harmless Quakers?”
“You are in grievous error, young woman. The Quakers
are not a harmless sect, but schismatic and pestilent, the
spreaders of false doctrines and dangerous heresies. And
your father, if not one of them, did commit a heinous offence
in upholding them, as he himself did admit and confess, as I was
told by Deacon Mudgridge. And hence, on account of his
repentance, he was graciously spared the banishment you
mentioned.”
“I have never before heard of any such repentance on his
part. And as he was not driven from his home, as it had
have been on the part of the movers of that Christian measure.”
“The movers repent! the church guilty of repentance,
young woman! verily thou talkest like one of the unregenerate
whereas thou art reputed to have been piously inclined, disagreeing
with us only in the matters of sound doctrines. But
this questioning of the doings of the elect betokeneth, I
greatly fear me, that there is still a chain of hell about thy
neck, drawing thee away unto all sorts of Sadducisms and
heresies. And I feel it my God-bounden duty to warn thee
of thy situation. By the terrors of the law, persuade we men
unto repentance. Wherefore I speak unto thee as one in the
gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity—as one in danger
of being given over to the buffeting of Sathan, and at once
snatched away to that awful hell of everlasting burnings where
the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. O repent
ye, repent, and straightway come out from among the workers
of iniquity, lest the terrible Avenger of sin come like a thief
in the night speedily upon thee for thy awful contumacy, and
the righteous wrath of an offended Heaven fall quickly on thy
guilty head, and utterly consume thee, like stubble in the
fiery furnace, which may God in his mercy avert.—Let us
pray.”
Before the astonished maiden had time to utter, had she
felt disposed to do so, one word in self-defence, or in deprecation
of this storm of crimination and warning, which she had
so inadvertently brought down upon her own head, the excited
zealot had thrown himself upon his knees, and began to pour
forth the loud, wordy torrent of one of his most heated invocations.
And now feeling relieved from the disquieting effects
of the calm, searching looks he had been compelled to encounter,
and taking advantage of the privilege usually accorded
to this exercise—that of being permitted to utter, unquestioned,
he redoubled his efforts to frighten and overawe the fair object
of his holy onset. By a long and terrible tirade on the enormity
of her sins of commission and omission, he prayed her to
the depths of hell, and then, by a pretended wrestling and
wrangling with the Almighty, to snatch from him the victim
as a reward for his assumed faith, he prayed her out again;
and finally he prayed her into the church, where, in a sort of
prophetic rhapsody he claimed he now clearly beheld her;
and thereupon fell into shouts of thanksgiving to God that
she was at last safely placed beyond the reach of the snares
and devices of the devil in hell, and all his schismatic, Quaker,
heretic, and false-doctrine spreading emissaries on earth.
Having thus brought to a close his desperate effort for
driving Madian into the church, in part performance of the
plan which he and the Deacon had the evening before concocted,
the Shadow now rose with a self-satisfied air; when,
without adding a word by way of retiring civility, lest it
might weaken the effect of a performance, which, if left to work
its full power on her mind, could not fail, he thought, soon to
result in the desired consummation, he demurely took his hat
and departed to report progress to his great exemplar.
Madian scarcely knew what to make of this strange visit of
one with whom she had not the honor of hardly a passing acquaintance,
and still less of the stranger manner in which he
had conducted it. She had early been deeply impressed with
all the generally received tenets of the Christian faith, and
sincerely loved and admired the pure and simple teachings of
the Evangelists, and those of St. John more than the rest,
because they breathed more particularly through the whole
of them, that trustful and childlike love to her God and
Savior, which was so much in unison with the feelings of her
own heart, and which, she felt, was all the religion she possessed.
At that period, she might have sought admission to
that establishment through the bigoted eyes of her mother,
she esteemed it too pure, exalted, and infallible to make it
proper to receive into fellowship one so unworthy as herself.
But as she became older, and began to see with her own eyes,
and reflect for herself, she witnessed such a want of what she
thought to be the requirement of Christian charity in the
church, as then conducted; so much intolerance, as exhibited
particularly in the case of her father, which she had begun to
call to mind and investigate, and so much wrangling and disputation
about the niceties of doctrines—all which she felt to be
distracting her mind and dampening her heart's devotion, that
she at length lost all desire to become one of them; fearing,
indeed, if she did so, that not only whatever of the Christian
spirit she possessed would be smothered in the profitless polemics
then in vogue among all church members, but that on
account of their intolerant notions, she should find herself
among those who would not be likely long to extend her their
fellowship, and to whom she certainly could not extend full
fellowship herself.
These views she had not latterly hesitated to express openly,
and for this reason, the visit of Dummer, coming with the
avowed object of urging her to join the church, had taken her
by surprise. She could not understand, and the more she
reflected, the more was she at a loss to comprehend, why the
church or any of its members should desire her to take a step
which, according to her views, should be entirely voluntary,
and which, if not so, would be little less than a sacrilege.
Yes, why should such a measure be urged upon her, especially
just now, unless there was ulterior and unworthy motives somewhere
at the bottom of the movement? What that motive
was, and by whom, and with what object entertained, she believed
she knew; but what she had as yet witnessed was not
sufficient to reduce her conjecture to a certainty. She theerfore
wait for further developments.
And for such developments, she was not kept long in
waiting.
The next day, a good and pious matron of the village paid
her a formal visit, during which the lady urgently advised
Madian, not only for her own good, but as the means of more
extended usefulness, to make a public profession of religion.
And this was followed up on the day succeeding that, by
another female church member, who urged, as an additional
reason for the step recommended, that it would be a safeguard
against the scandals which otherwise would be likely to get
into circulation against a lone and unprotected young lady.
On the next day to that, she had to entertain yet another visitor
on the same errand; and on yet the next, two, both evidently
freighted with similar loving duties, to be discharged
towards the persecuted Madian. And so it continued through
the week; when Deacon Mudgridge himself, by way of bringing
up the rear, was seen, towards night, leisurely approaching
the house.
To all these besiegers, Madian had thus far given very civil
though rather evasive answers. But having, while so treating
the subject with them, succeeded in fishing out from one and
another of them enough to satisfy herself who was either directly
or indirectly the moving spirit of their conjoint labors
of love and duty, she resolved, that she would now, if the
Deacon gave her an opportunity, bring the matter to an
eclaircissement; for she began to tire under an appliance which
she felt to be as insulting to her, as she was determined to
make it useless to all others.
The persistent Deacon, consequently, found her, evidently
much to his surprise and vexation after what had been done,
a very intractable subject. And when, after he had paddled
round to the point, and repeated the proposition which his
form of a request, savoring much of the air of a command; when
she told him respectfully, but decidedly, that she must be her
own judge in the matter, and decide for herself when, and
whether ever, she should seek admission into his church or
any other, he seemed greatly disturbed, shook his head
gravely, and solemnly throwing his white pig eyes upward, in
seeming ejaculation, muttered something about “a lost sheep
of Israel.”
For some time he appeared quite determined not to give up
beat in this important preliminary to success in his main object,
after taking so much pains to pave the way for its accomplishment;
and he returned again and again to the charge.
But finding himself completely foiled in every new attempt,
he at length appeared to be convinced of the uselessness of
further effort in that direction, and soon evidently made up
his mind that he might as well now as ever, hazard the
chances of the main assault.
“The Scripture,” he said, after some boggling in fixing on
the manner of introducing his subject—“the Scripture moveth
us in sundry passages thereof unto the searching out our duty
pertaining to our relations as man and woman. It is not good
for man to be alone—much less helpless woman, as we are
everywhere in the Word led to infer; hence we find Bethuel
and Laban giving their daughters to wife, when they arrived
to woman's estate. And I, standing in place of father in this
family, am minded, in sense of duty, to speak to you in the
matter of changing your condition to one more fitting, and
less encompassed with the snares that beset the young and
unwary, than the unprotected one you are now standing in.”
“But I am not at all troubled about that matter, Deacon
Mudgridge, and have no thought of changing my condition at
present,” promptly responded Madian, though not without a
slight tremor in her voice.
“The feeling that prompteth to that is peradventure but
maiden reserve, which is not unbecoming a young woman,
albeit soon overcome, as I trust it will be in the present case,
for you are now arrived to woman's estate, and it is meet you
should have a suitable protector. In view of these things, I
confess I have for some time been exercised with many anxieties
in this behalf. Wherefore, it has given me great pleasure
to hear that my nephew, Mr. Timothy Sniffkin, has made
honorable proposal to raise you to the marriage estate.”
“I am glad, sir, the proposal gave pleasure to any one. I
am sure it did not to me.”
“Now, verily, young woman, you cannot have been so
hasty and inconsiderate as to have answered Mr. Sniffkin in
a manner savoring forwardness and opposition to his advantageous
proposal?”
“As Mr. Sniffkin has seen fit to disclose part of what occurred,
I choose that you should look to him for the rest.”
A visible frown passed over the hard, warty visage of the
Deacon, at the equivocal remark of the other, but without
deigning any direct reply to it, he proceeded:
“As the law of God and the regulating of men made in
conformity therewith, as abundantly established by the various
precedents of infallible Scripture, fully empowereth the father
to bestow the daughter on whom it may seem to him meet and
proper; and as those properly authorized to represent the father
in the matter thereto pertaining, and moreover, as Mr.
Sniffkin did not move in this thing without my knowledge,
and without my consent and approbation first fully obtained,
it remaineth only for me to say, that I expect thy acquiescence
in the measure, young woman.”
“Then, Deacon, it only remains for me to say, that you
must be sorely disappointed.”
“Nay, I am not to be disappointed in this. It is not a new
thing, the fitness whereof is now to be discussed, but one that
months ago.”
“Settled, sir! How can a case, in which you make me one
of the parties, have been either settled or agreed on and I
know nothing about it?”
“Natheless, it has been settled.”
“Settled, I again ask? Settled how, and by whom?”
“Your mother and myself, perverse young woman, and that
many weeks before her lamented departure. Yea, she and I,
by fair and understanding agreement then and thereinto entering,
did betroth you to Mr. Timothy Sniffkin.”
“My mother!” almost shrieked the astonished girl. “My
mother! Impossible! I will not believe she acted such a
part, without one hint, one word of consultation with me on
the subject. No, I will never believe it, sir, till she come up
from the dead to confirm the slanderous story.”
“Woman is a weak vessel,” at length responded the relentless
Deacon, in a moderated and commiserating tone, rallying
from the surprise and momentary abashment into which the
bold reply and the bolder intimations of the aroused maiden
had thrown him—“yea, woman is verily a weak vessel, else
the word of a high and never-before-doubted officer in the
Church of God had never thus been so irreverently gainsayed.
But I am not here to bandy vain words with the perverse and
petulant on the question of my own truthfulness, or the fitness
and wisdom of your godly mother's doings, for it is not needful
that I should do either. I am here myself, and, in her
absence in another and better world, stand clothed with full
authority to act in the premises, and carry out her wishes unto
the working out of your temporal welfare.”
“You, sir? What right have you, sir, to dispose of me in
marriage without my consent? Please show me your authority
for such a strange proceeding.”
“Peradventure you will not find me wholly unprepared for
arrogancy and forwardness little deserveth my condescending
thereto,” replied the deacon, with an air of cool triumph, as
he drew out a paper, and, passing it to the other, directed her
attention to the last clause of the instrument.
The whole of it was in the hand-writing of Deacon Mudgridge,
but signed “Richard Southworth,” and in the bold,
well-known characters of the colonel's chirography; and the
clause referred to ran thus:—
“And in addition to the aforesaid appointing of the said
John Mudgridge to be sole agent and manager of my property,
I hereby appoint him also the guardian of my daughter
Madian, to be operative in case her mother should die before
she arrives at the lawful age of twenty-one, and then to hold
during her said minority.”
With paling cheeks and growing dismay, the trembling girl
slowly read the fatal paper to the end; when, spurning it from
her, she rose and stood a moment confronting her persecutor,
with a look that made him, with all his self-assurance, quail
and shrink, as some foul spirit may be supposed to do from
the rebuking gaze of an angel of light. She then turned
away with chilling dignity, and, without uttering one word of
comment or courtesy, immediately swept out of the apartment.
The disconcerted Deacon sat waiting some time, often uneasily
glancing towards the door through which Madian had
so unceremoniously departed for her expected reappearance.
But he waited in vain, and finally rose, took up his hat and
church-going cane, proceeded with a noisy tread to the front
door, and there also stood lingering a while longer, purposely
hitting his cane against the casing, and rattling the latch to
apprise her, if within hearing, that he was on the point of
going. At length finding, however, that none of these artifices
was likely to induce her to return, he reluctantly made
of his gathering vexation, every step of his progress and
fiercely muttering to himself as he went:—
“Now, who would have thought it, that she would have
broke away in such a huff? But mayhap it is better as it is,
than if I had charged her obstinate standing-out against my
plan, to her secret leanings to that pestilent Willis, as I intended,
if she had not run away, and as I still more than ever
opine to be the true reason of her contumacy. Yea, I think
it better left as now; for the prospect looks dubious enough
at that. Well, well, matters are safe enough I think, even if
this plan should miscarry. She, nor any one else now alive,
can know much about the amount of that property at the beginning,
except the farm and things visible here, which, of
course, she can have when she becomes of age. But then,
again, how much better it would be to have one of my family
and under my control placed at the head of the whole matter,
in case of doubts and contingencies sometimes strangely arising!
Then the farm itself, with the rest of the property here
—why, is not that worth bringing into my family, and keeping
within the line of the church, unto the strengthening of
God's heritage? Of a verity it is. And why can't it be secured
yet? Am I thus to be foiled and thwarted in this vile
manner, by a silly forward girl? Am I in such power in
church and state for nothing, that I must submit to such a
vexatious rebuffing at such feeble hands? And is it not all
the work of Sathan and that accursed Vane Willis? And
haven't I enough shrewdness to meet and whip both of them
on their own ground? Is it John Mudgridge that can't do
this? We'll just see— ay, by the Lord of Sabaoth, and it
shall go hard, if I don't yet see my plan, even to the last jot
and tittle, all carried out and accomplished.”
When Madian ascertained that the Deacon had fairly
made good his exit from her premises, she repaired, it
where usually were found sitting, after the labors of the
day, her two faithful domestics, Taffy and Maggy; who,
though now on the downhill of life, were both vigorous and
active, and still found competent to conduct all the out-door and
in-door labors and duties of the establishment, which now, since
the death of Mrs. Southworth, more fully than ever devolved
upon them. She had often taken a seat with them when she
had no company of her own to entertain, to while away the
evenings and enjoy their society; for though their manners
and dialect still betrayed their purely Celtic origin, they were
quite shrewd and intelligent. But this evening she had a
particular motive for holding communion with them; and, in
pursuance of her object, she, after a few commonplace remarks
had been exchanged, turned to the man and said hesitatingly—
“Taffy.”
“What's your wull, my young leddy?” responded the little,
brisk old Welchman, respectfully.
“Nothing of much consequence perhaps; but I thought I
would ask you, Taffy, who do you consider to be in control
here—in other words, who do you consider mistress or master
of this establishment?”
“Who mistress of this dwalling-stead and land gear?”
asked the honest Celt, throwing a look of surprise on his idolized
young mistress,—“Why, who should it be, but my young
leddy?”
“I had rather supposed so, myself, Taffy. But Deacon
Mudgridge, I find, claims to be my guardian, as well as manager
of all the property.”
“Aweel, he's frequent speeched that to me, whan he's come
speering about the wark an' things,—an' I list to what he said respectful-like,
to plase your mother, whan live, though the
wark an' all's jist as gude done without him. But you!—
carl minting at, Madian?”
“I've kenned what he's minting at, this long while,” here
interposed Maggy, glancing knowingly from her husband to
Madian. “He wants a good maik for one of his kin,—the
short-faced carl, that he got on here a-purpose. But he's
ganging for more than he'll ever get, I hope.”
“I hope so, too, Maggy,” said Madian,—“And I hope you
and Taffy will stand by me, in case of need; for I fear he intends
to make me trouble about the affair. He has got a paper,
which appears to have been signed by my father, and
which he pretends gives him authority to dispose of me as he
pleases.”
“Then he's got a paper the kurnel wud never hev writ his
name to, an' he had thocht twud force his dochter to wed agin
her free wull. That wud not be kurnel Southworth, God bless
the noble man! But he were so hastened and fashed up, in
getting away that night he so handsome chated the gallows,
the cuss't tyrants over the water thocht they had got sure made
for him, that he might not hev seen the effect of what was fixed
up for him to sign by that cunning church carl, that has so
much preach about the dervices of Sathan. It might be that
same, or it might be some tother way the thing got fixed so;
the whilk I wud rather not explicit.”
“Then, Taffy, your thoughts are running in about the same
direction as mine; but let us all keep our own counsel.”
“That I wull do; but if he comes speering and ordering great
deal mucher about the wark and bizness things, with the leave
of my young leddy, I'll not budge a fot for him.”
“Nor need you; for if you are content to go on, and be as
trusty and capable, in the labors and management of the
place, as you and Maggy have always shown yourselves, I
shall be happy to be the mistress here, without much help,
either from Deacon Mudgridge or his hopeful nephew.”
“Ah, now! that is the old kurnel hisself, speeching through
his own, whole-blud dochter!” exclaimed Taffy, who had long
secretly disliked and distrusted Deacon Mudgridge, and was
consequently highly gratified with this discovery of his young
mistress's views and feelings. “Maggy! my dule and doubt are
over! It is all right with her, she shall be top of the hape,
in spite of long-faces or short-faces, deil or dummy. Yes, my
braw young leddy, you shall be whole mistress here till you
take one of your own chusing to hold the reins with you.”
“And whan she do chuse,” added Maggy, with a roguish
glance to Madian, “I hope he will be a nary worse one than
the goodly young man that helped her and her mother through
the snow-storm, on their visit to Boston two year agone.”
“Tush! tush! Maggy,” said Taffy, jocosely, “you mak my
young leddy look rud in the cheek. But she needn't shame
about it; for Vane Willis is a young man the kurnel hisself
wud be proud of.”
“I thank you both,” said the blushing, but gratified girl.
“And now, as I think we all understand each other, I will
bid you good night, and retire. But one word more,” added
she, lingering and hesitating in the door-way,—“I have
some reason to suspect that there is a plot afoot to work mischief
for Mr. Willis,—by whom, you can guess, perhaps.
Now if you go out into the street to-night, Taffy, you might
gather something about it, perhaps. You remember the attempt
they once made to banish my father on charge of
Quakerism?”
“Certes, I do; but they daur not come to drive him away;
an they had, I wud hav gin my old flint-lock a warming with
gunpowder. An they wull as little daur touch Mr. Willis,
I opine. But we'll find out what they're at,” he added, taking
his hat, and on the hint thus received, immediately
leaving the house on his way to the village.
“Let others do the talking, and you the listening, Taffy, if
Maggy, calling after him.
Having thus seen love's garrison at the Southworth domicil
put in as good a state of defence as the circumstances
would permit, we will now follow Taffy in his news-gathering
rounds through the village, to see, with him, what might there
be going forward.
Sauntering along the street, with an air of indifference, but
with all his senses intent on whatever came within their
reach, the cautious Welchman at length reached the central
square, where the street scene described in the opening of
the last chapter occurred, and where a crowd was again assembled,
discussing the events of the preceding evenings, and
recounting the omens and prodigies which had then come to
light, together with others that had been since heard of as
constantly occurring in almost every part of the country.
When Taffy joined the group, Dick Swain was proceeding
in full blast with a description of his adventure with a prowling
band of King Philip's Indians, and his marvelous escape,
which he attributed solely, as Willis had predicted he would,
to his own prowess.
“But the instigator of that foul deed, which came so near
costing me my life,” he added, in conclusion,—“the instigator
is well known; and he is a marked man, too, as you might
judge for yourselves, maybe, if you could see all the papers
now in the constable's pocket.”
Others then held forth on the alarming portents of the
times—of the sights seen in the heavens, and
Of charging steeds careering fast,
Along the mountain's shingly side
Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride.”
But as many and alarming as had been these prodigies, the
still engaged in discussing those that had occurred, their attention
was arrested by a solitary voice, which was heard rising
from some elevated point in the distance. All wildly started,
and then fixed themselves in an attitude of intense listening.
For a moment all was silent; then the voice came swelling on
the gentle night breeze louder than before.
Who, or what could it be? It could not be a man, they
thought, for it seemed to come from some point far above the
level of the earth; and besides that, there was a strange and
awful solemnity in the tones, that recalled the conceptions
they had formed of the voice of a warning angel. But
“Hark! hark!” they cried, in eager, half-whispered exclamations.
“How clear and distinctly it comes now! It utters
words! there! listen! listen!”
“Woe to this wicked land! woe! woe to the inhabitants
thereof! They have polluted the altars of the Lord, and made
many to stumble at his law by their works of injustice and
oppression. Woe! woe to them all, for fiery judgments are
at hand, and they shall be humbled, for that they have gone
astray and done wickedly—for that they have—!”
Here the words became too inaudible in the dying of the
breeze that had wafted the sounds to the ears of the dismayed
listeners, to enable them to make out any connected sentence.
But the voice for some time continued to reach their ears, and
enough was distinguished to tell them that the burden of the
strange message was one of solemn warning, and predicted
woe.
It were, perhaps, a hopeless task to undertake to make
readers, in this present age of almost entire disbelief in aught
not explainable on natural principles, realize how great was
the effect produced on the public mind at that time, by incidents
of the character we have introduced here and in some
of the preceding pages. But it must be recollected that it
years later, seized on the public mind, and became fully
developed in that strange and fearful delusion now familiarly
known under the appellation of the Salem Witchcraft, and
that all the elements that produced it were already generated,
and would have now, probably, burst into action, but for the
powerful diversion of the current in which the thoughts of
men were running, caused by the terrible realities of the
desolating war that intervened. The class of theologians—
demon-ologians they might more properly be called—who then
controlled public opinion, becoming bewildered in the fogs of
mystic philosophy, and launching out on its sea of uncertainties
till they were hopelessly beyond the moorings of reason,
had been, for many years previous, palming on the too willing
ear of the multitude, their distempered imaginings, for the
doctrines of truth and revelation; and the crop that ere long
sprang up was but the natural result of broad-cast dissemination.
The public mind became—only more intensely like that
which had formed it—dark, mysticised, bewildered. Men saw
and heard strange and ominous sights and sounds in all the
heavens above, and on the earth beneath. To their distorted
conceptions, all space had become peopled with dark, indefinite,
mysterious, and questionable incorporeal agencies. Spirits,
sprites, goblins, gnomes, demons, and devils, of every class,
size, shape, and degree, were all around, above, below, upon,
and within them; and the consequence was, that a whole
people came near perishing—not from the lack, but the repletion
of vision.
But to return to the incident above narrated. Not one in
ten of those whose senses had thus attested it, probably, had
the least doubt that the voice and words that had so mysteriously
fallen on their ears had proceeded from other than the
human organs of speech. This conviction alone was enough
to fill them with fear and perplexity, while the words, so significant
The affair, therefore, as well might be expected, spread like
wild fire through the town and surrounding country, and
became almost the sole topic of conversation, both in private
circles and public gatherings, through the next day. There
were a few, it was true, who ventured to suggest that there
might be some misapprehension or mistake about the alleged
fact that a voice, uttering intelligible words, had been heard.
But the doubts of this class were all silenced when the now
almost dreaded darkness had again shrouded the earth; for
then the same clear, trumpet-like voice was again heard rising
on the night air, and pouring forth, in solemn and pitying
accents, its burden of prophetic woe. And on the next, and
on many of the succeeding nights, the same awe-inspiring
mystery was repeated; and then it was heard no more. But
it had been heard enough to complete the work of agitation
and alarm among all classes, which the preceding prodigies
and other ill-omened incidents had put in such rapid progress.
The court of Plymouth were called together, to take the
alarming aspect of public affairs under consideration. The
leaders of the church also held a special conclave, in which,
although Deacon Mudgridge expressed the opinion that the
voice, which had been the greatest cause of the general alarm,
“was only that of the Man of Sin, or Great Deceiver, come
to distract the people and frighten them from their duty,” it
was yet at length decided to appoint a day of public fasting
and prayer. And the Deacon and his Shadow thereupon
immediately set to work in drawing up an enumeration of
subjects to be made the special themes of humiliation and
prayerful confession to the offended Heaven; among the
principal of which was “the wicked laxity latterly shown by
the church and state in not bringing, as formerly, all Quakers
and heretics to the condign punishment they deserved, and
threatening to visit the land in judgment.”
As soon as this was arranged by the church leaders, they
joined the civil functionaries; and their united deliberations
soon resulted in the determination, not only to appoint a
public fast, and carry out the suggestions of Mudgridge in regard
to Quakers and other heretical persons, but to raise a
company of soldiers, and also to despatch at once fast-riding
couriers to the sister colony of Massachusetts, to invite their
co-operation and assistance, by sending on one or more armed
companies, to aid in the war which had now been shown to be
inevitable and imminent.
But as deeply and exclusively as the subject of the impending
calamities of war were occupying the minds of all others,
there was one man with whom these matters appeared to be a
secondary interest. During all the commotion, the untiring
Deacon Mudgridge had never, for one hour, lost sight of his
determinate project of uniting his nephew and Madian Southworth
in marriage. Aud instead of being willing to await the
softening influences which time and gentle means might work
on her feelings, he seemed strangely intent on pressing the
matter to an immediate issue. After brooding a day or two
over his chafed and chagrined feeling, occasioned by the resolute
resistance with which the spirited girl had met his infamous
requirements at the interview we have described, he
at length worked himself up to the determination of staking
all on a bold and desperate measure to forestall her opposition,
believing the strength of his position and his influence to be
sufficient to enable him to carry it out with safety and success.
This new and bold plan was, without consulting or apprising
Madian, or apprising her or any one else of his intention, to
cause the bans of the projected match to be proclaimed in
church the next Sunday. And it was done—to the utter astonishment
and blank dismay of the unapprised maiden, it
close of the services, while the people were already in motion
to depart. Under the first impulse, she tried to speak out to
forbid the bans. But so great was the tumult of her feelings
that her tongue utterly refused to do its office. And deeply
muffling her face in her veil to hide her emotions, she hurried
home with a heart bursting with indignation and outraged
pride and delicacy.
But we do not propose to follow the doughty Deacon through
all the measures he now actively put in motion, under the
supposed advantage of his last resort for sacrificing the girl to
subserve his own selfish purposes. Suffice to say, that although,
through his various emissaries and tools, he worked
untiringly and desperately for the speedy accomplishment of
his base purpose—although, through the mistaken construction
of the obstinate silence, into which the menaces of himself
and the persecuting importunities of his minions had at
length driven the poor girl, he had taken so much courage as
to fix on the day for the wedding, and supposed the victory
was now as good as won—he was yet destined to disappointment.
He was doomed to undergo the mortification of witnessing
the failure of his plans in a manner he had little
anticipated, and to guard which he had made no calculations.
One morning Madian Southworth was unaccountably missing
from her home; and no one could tell where she had gone,
or what fate had befallen her, even Taffy and Maggy professing
to be as ignorant and anxious on the subject as the rest.
And notwithstanding all the efforts of the enraged Deacon and
his active satellites, not the least trace of her could be discovered,
nor any satisfactory explanation found for her mysterious
disappearance.
| CHAPTER VI. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago | |