Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) DELUSION; OR THE WITCH OF NEW ENGLAND. By Eliza Buckminster Lee "There is in man a HIGHER than love of happiness: he can do without happiness, and, instead thereof, find blessedness."--SARTOR. BOSTON: HILLIARD, GRAY, AND COMPANY. 1840. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1839, BY HILLIARD, GRAY & CO. in the clerk's office of the district court of Massachusetts. PREFACE. The scenes and characters of this little tale are wholly fictitious. It will be found that the tragic interest that belongs to the history of the year 1692 has been very much softened in the following pages. The object of the author has not been to write a tale of witchcraft, but to show how circumstances may unfold the inward strength of a timid woman, so that she may at last be willing to die rather than yield to the delusion that would have preserved her life. If it is objected that the young and lovely are seldom accused of any witchcraft except that of bewitching hearts, we answer, that of those who were _actually_ accused, many were young; and those who maintained a firm integrity against the overwhelming power of the delusion of the period must have possessed an intellectual beauty which it would be vain to endeavor to portray. This imperfect effort is submitted with much diffidence, to the indulgence of the courteous reader. THE WITCH OF NEW ENGLAND. CHAPTER I. "Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod: They have left unstained what there they found,-- Freedom to worship God." New England scenery is said to be deficient in romantic and poetic associations. It is said that we have no ruins of ancient castles, frowning over our precipices; no time-worn abbeys and monasteries, mouldering away in neglected repose, in our valleys. It is true that the grand and beautiful places in our natural scenery are not marred by the monuments of an age of violence and wrong; and our silent valleys retain no remnant of the abodes of self-indulgent and superstitious devotion; but the descendant of the Pilgrims finds, in many of the fairest scenes of New England, some memento to carry back the imagination to those heroic and self-sacrificing ancestors. His soul is warmed and elevated when he remembers that devoted company, who were sustained amid hardship and every privation, on the trackless ocean, and in the mysterious and appalling solitudes of the forest, by a firm devotion to duty, and an all-pervading sense of the immediate presence of God. The faults of our ancestors were the faults of their age. It is not now understood--and how wide from it was the conviction then!--that _even_ toleration implies intoleration. Who is to judge what opinions are to be tolerated? He whom circumstance has invested at the moment with power? The scene I wish to describe was on the borders of one of the interior villages of New England,--a mountain village, embosomed in high hills, from which the winter torrents, as they met in the plain, united to form one of those clear, sparkling rivers, in whose beautiful mirror the surrounding hills were reflected. The stream, "winding at its own sweet will," enclosed a smooth meadow. At the extremity of the meadow, and shadowed by the mountain, nestled one of the poorest farm-houses, or cottages, of the time. It was black and old, apparently containing but two rooms and a garret. Attached to it were the common out-houses of the poorest farms: a shed for a cow, a covering for a cart, and a small barn were all. But the situation of this humble and lonely dwelling was one of surpassing beauty. The soft meadow in front was dotted with weeping elms and birches; the opposite and neighboring hills were covered to their summits with the richest wood, while openings here and there admitted glimpses of the distant country. A traveller coming upon this solitary spot, and seeing the blue smoke curling against the mountain side, would have rejoiced. There is something in the lonely farmhouse, surrounded with its little garden, and its homely implements of labor, that instantly touches our sympathy. There, we say, human hearts have experienced all the changes of life; they have loved and rejoiced, perhaps suffered and died. The interior consisted of only two rooms. In the ample chimney of that which served for the common room, was burning a bright flame of pine knots; for, although it was the middle of summer, the sun sank so early behind the hills, and the evenings were so chilly, that the warmth was necessary, and the light from the small window cheered the laborer returning late from his work. An old man sat by the chimney, evidently resting from the labors of the day. He was bent by time, but his brilliant eye and his flowing gray locks gave a certain refinement to his appearance, beyond that which his homely garments would warrant. A woman, apparently as aged as himself, sat by the little window, catching the last rays of evening, as they were reflected from her white cap and silvery hair. Before her was a table on which lay a large Bible. She had just placed her spectacles between the leaves, as she closed it and resumed her knitting. These two formed a picture full of the quiet repose of old age. But there was another in the room,--a youth, apparently less than twenty, kneeling before the flaming pine, over the leaves of a worn volume that absorbed him wholly. The ruddy flame imparted the glow of health to a countenance habitually pale. Over his dark, enthusiastic eye was spread a clear and noble brow, so smooth and polished that it seemed as if at seventy it would be as unwrinkled as at seventeen. His piercing eye had that depth of expression that indicates dark passions or religious melancholy. He was slender in form, and very tall; but a bend in the shoulders, produced by agricultural labor, or by weakness in the chest, impaired somewhat the symmetry of his form. They had been silent some moments. The young man closed his worn volume, an imperfect copy of Virgil, and walked several times, with hurried steps, across the little room. At length he stopped before the woman, and said, "Mother, let me see how much your frugal care has hoarded. Let me know all our wealth. Unless I can procure another book, I cannot be prepared for the approaching examination. If I cannot enter college the next term, I never can. I must give up all hope of ever being any thing but the drudge I am now, and of living and dying in this narrow nook of earth." "No, no, my son," answered the woman; "if my prayers are heard, you will be a light and a blessing to the church, though I may not live to see it." The young man sighed deeply, and, taking the key she gave him, he opened an old-fashioned chest, and, from a little cup of silver tied over with a piece of leather, he poured the contents into his hand. There were several crowns and shillings, and two or three pieces of gold. Apparently the examination was unsatisfactory, for he threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. The old woman rose after looking at him a few moments in silence, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "My son," she said, "where is the faith that sustained your ancestors when they left all their luxuries and splendor, their noble homes for conscience' sake. Yes, my son, your fathers were among the distinguished of England's sons, and they left all for God." "Mother," said he, "would that they had been hewers of wood and drawers of water. Then I should have been content with my lot. Mother, all your carefully hoarded treasure will not be enough to pay my first term in college. Without books, without friends, I must give up the hope of an education," and the large tears trickled between his fingers. "You forget," she said, "your good friend at C. who has lent you so many books. Why not apply to him again?" A deep blush flushed the young man's countenance, but he made no answer, and seemed to wish to change the subject. "It is almost evening," he said; "shall we not have prayers?" and, placing himself near the window to catch the last rays of departing daylight, he read one of the chapters from the Old Testament. The aged man, who had not spoken during the discussion, stood up and prayed with great fervency. His prayer was made up, indeed, by quotations from the Old Testament, and he used altogether the phraseology of the Scriptures. He prayed for the church in the wilderness, "that it might be bright as the sun, fair as the moon, beautiful as Tirzah, and terrible as an army with banners;" "that our own exertions to serve the church and our strivings after the Holy Spirit might not be like arrows in the air, traces in the sea, oil upon the polished marble, and water spilt upon the ground." He asked for no temporal blessing; all his petitions were in language highly figurative, and he closed with a prayer for his grandson, "that God would make him a polished shaft in the temple of the Lord, a bright and shining light in the candlestick of the church." When he had finished his prayer,--"My son," he said, "do not be cast down; you forget that the great Luther begged his bread. The servants of the church, in every age, have been poor and despised; even the Son of God," and he looked reverently upwards, "knew not where to lay his head. _You_ have only to labor. The peat at the bottom of the meadow is already dry; there is more than we shall need for winter fuel; take it, in the morning, to C----, and with the produce buy the book you need." "No," said the young man, "there are many repairs necessary to make you and my grandmother comfortable for the winter. I cannot rob you of more. I can borrow the book." He lighted his lamp, made from rushes dipped in the green wax of the bay bush, which affords a beautiful, but not brilliant flame, and went up a few steps to his chamber in the garret. The old woman gathered the ashes over the kindling coal, and, with her aged partner, retired to the bed-room opposite the narrow entrance. CHAPTER II. "Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye; Silent when glad, affectionate, though shy: And now his look was most demurely sad, And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbors stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad." Beattie. Our young student retired to his garret, a small room in the roof of the cottage, heated by the summer sun resting on its roof almost to the heat of a furnace. One small window looking towards the east admitted the evening breeze. In the remotest corner was a low and narrow pallet, by the side of which hung the indispensable articles of a man's apparel. A small table, covered with ink spots, and a solitary chair stood in the centre of the little apartment. A few deal shelves contained the odd and worn volumes of the student's library. A Greek Testament, several lexicons, half a volume of Horace, lay scattered on the table. Virgil was the book he had brought with him from the pine-knot torch, and it was the old Grecian, Homer that he was so anxious to possess. The uncarpeted floor was thickly strewn with sheets half written over, and torn manuscripts were scattered about. Wherever the floor was visible, the frequent ink spots indicated that it was not without mental agitation that these manuscripts had been produced. It was not to repose from the labors of the day that the young man entered his little chamber: to bodily labor must now succeed mental toil. He cast a wistful look towards his little pallet; he longed to rest his limbs, aching with the labor of the day; but no; his lamp was on the table, and, resolutely throwing off his coarse frock, he sat down to think and to write. Wearied by a long day of labor, the student in vain tried to collect his thoughts, to calm his weakened nerves. He rose and walked his chamber with rapid steps, the drops of heat and anguish resting on his brow. "Oh!" said he, "that I had been content to remain the clod, the toil-worn slave that I am!" Little do they know, who have leisure and wealth, and all the appurtenances of literary ease--the lolling study-chair, the convenient apartment, the brilliant light--how much those suffer who indulge in aspirations beyond their lowly fortune. The student sat down again to write. His hands were icy cold, while his eyes and brow were burning hot. He was engaged on a translation from the Greek. His efforts to collect and concentrate his thoughts on his work, exhausted as he was with toil, were vain and unavailing. At length he threw down his pen. "Oh God!" thought he, "is this madness? am I losing my memory, my mind?" Again he walked his little room, but with gentler steps; for he would not disturb his aged relatives, who slept beneath. "Have I deceived myself?" he said; "were all my aspirations only delusions, when, yet a boy, I followed the setting sun, and the rainbow hues of the evening clouds, with a full heart that could only find relief in tears?--when I believed myself destined to be other than a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, because I felt an immeasurable pity for my fellow-men, groping, as I did myself, under all the evils of ignorance and sin? Was it only vanity, when I hoped to rise above the clods of the earth, and aspired to have my lips, as Isaiah's, touched by a coal from the holy altar? Was it only impatience at my lot which destined me to inexorable poverty?" "Let me not despair of myself;" and he took from his table a manuscript of two or three sheets, and began to read it. As he went on, his dissatisfaction seemed to increase. With the sensitiveness and humility of true genius, when under the influence of despondency, every line seemed to him feeble or exaggerated; all the faults glared out in bold relief; while the real beauty of the composition escaped his jaded and toil-worn attention. "Oh Heaven!" he said, "I have deceived myself; I am no genius, able to rise above the lowliness of my station. The bitter cup of poverty is at my lips. I have not even the power to purchase a single book. Shall I go again to my good friend at C----? Shall I appear as a beggar, or a peasant, to beg the trifling pittance of a book?" A burning blush for a moment passed over his pale countenance. "Will they not say, and justly, 'Go back to your plough; it is your destiny and proper vocation to labor?'" He sat down on the side of his little pallet, and burst into tears. He wept long, and, as he wept, his mind became more calm. The short summer's night, in its progress, had bathed the earth in darkness, and cooled the heated roof of his little apartment. The night breeze, as it came in at his window, chilled him, and he rose to close it. As he looked from his little window, the dawn was just appearing in the east, and the planet Venus, shining with the soft light of a crescent moon, was full before him. "O beautiful star!" he thought, "the same that went before the sages of the East, and guided them to the manger of the Savior! I aspire only to be a teacher of the sublime wisdom of that humble manger. Let me but lift up my weak voice in his cause, and let all worldly ambition die within me. '---- Thou, O Spirit! who dost prefer, Before all temples, th' upright heart and pure,' I consecrate my powers to thee." The morning breeze, as it blew on his temples, refreshed him. The young birds began to make those faint twitterings beneath the downy breast of the mother, the first faint sound that breaks the mysterious silence of early dawn. He turned from the window; the rush-light was just expiring in its rude candlestick. He threw himself on his bed, and was soon lost in deep and dreamless slumbers. CHAPTER III. "I give thee to thy God,--the God that gave thee A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee! My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be his child." While the student sleeps, we will make the reader acquainted with his short and simple annals. His maternal grandfather had been among the Puritan emigrants who sought the rock-bound coast of New England. He was a man of worth and property, had been educated at Oxford, and distinguished for classical learning and elegant pursuits. But at the call of conscience he left the luxurious halls of his fathers, the rank, and ancestral honors that would have descended to him, to share the hardships, privations, and sufferings of the meanest of his companions. He brought with him his wife and an only child, a daughter of twenty years. Like her mother, she had been carefully nurtured, and had lived in much luxury, although in the strict seclusion of the daughters of the Puritans. The wives and daughters of the Pilgrims have never been honored as they deserved to be. Except the Lady Arbella Johnson, is there a single name that has descended with pride and honor to their daughters, and been cherished as a Puritan saint? It is true they lived in an age when the maxim that a woman should consider it her highest praise to have nothing said about her was in full force; and when the remark of Coleridge would have been applauded, "That the perfection of a woman's character is to be _characterless_." But among the wives of the Pilgrims there were heroic women that endured silently every calamity. Mrs. Hemans says, with poetry and truth,-- "_There_ was woman's _fearless_ eye, Lit by her deep love's truth." But how many _fearful_ days and nights they must have passed, trembling with all a mother's timidity for their children, when they heard the savage cry, that spared neither the touching smile of infancy, nor the agonized prayer of woman! They had left the comforts, and even the luxuries, of their English homes,--the hourly attendance of servants, to meet the chilling skies of a shelterless wilderness. She whose foot had trodden the softest carpets, whose bed had been of down, who had been accustomed to those minute attentions that prevent the rose-leaf from being crumpled, must now labor with her own hands, endure the cold of the severest winter, and leave herself unsheltered; all she asked was to guard her infant children from suffering, and aid by her sympathy, her husband. It is indeed true, that the sentiment of love or religion has power to elevate above all physical suffering, and to ennoble all those homely cares and humble offices that are performed for the beloved object with a smile of patient endurance; and it asks, in return, but confidence and tenderness. The wife of Mr. Seymore soon sank under the hardships of the times, and the severity of the climate of New England. Her grave was made in the solitude of the overshadowing forest, and her daughter, who had brought with her a fine, hardy, English constitution, lived to console her widowed father. He died about five years after his wife, and then his daughter married an Englishman of small fortune, who had come over with his family: his father and mother, both advanced in life, had settled on the small farm we have attempted to describe. He built the cottage for his parents, and then, with his wife, the mother of our young friend Seymore, returned to England. She lived not long after her return. The religious enthusiasm of the time had taken possession of her mind, and, before her death, she dedicated this, her only child, to the service of the church, and requested her husband to send him to America, where poverty presented no insurmountable barrier to his success. His father, in sending him to America in his twelfth year, promised to advance something for his education; but unfortunate circumstances prevented, and the boy was left to make his own fortune under the roof of his grandparents. His disappointment was great to find his grandparents in so narrow circumstances, and himself condemned to so obscure a station. He had aspirations, as we have seen, beyond his humble circumstances. The few books he brought with him were his consolation. They were read, reread, and committed to memory; and then he longed for more. An accident, or what we term an accident--the instrument that Providence provides to shape our destiny--threw some light upon the gloom that seemed to have settled on his prospects. He met at C----, where he had gone on some business connected with his agricultural labors, the clergyman of the place. Mr. Grafton was interested by his fine intellectual expression, and pleased with the refined and intelligent remarks that seemed unsuited to his coarse laborer's frock and peasant's dress. He took him to his house, lent him the books that were necessary to prepare him for our young college, and promised his aid to have him placed on the list of those indigent scholars who were devoted to the church. From this time his industry and ambition were redoubled, and we have seen the poor aspirant for literary distinction striving to unite two things which must at last break down the body or the mind,--heavy daily labor, with severe mental toil at night. He was young and strong; his health did not immediately fail, and we must now leave him where thousands of our young men have been left, with aspirations and hopes beyond their humble fortunes. CHAPTER IV. "Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death: Wind of the sunny south, O, still delay!" BRYANT. It was the close of one of those mild days at the end of October, that we call the Indian summer, corresponding to the St. Martin summer of the eastern continent, although the latter is wanting in some of the essential elements of beauty that belong to ours. The sun was setting in veiled and softened light, while a transparent mist, like a silver gauze, was drawn over woods and hills and meadows. The gorgeous robe of autumn gave to the landscape an air of festivity and triumph, while the veil of mist, and the death-like silence, seemed as if happy nature had been arrested in a moment of joy, and turned into a mourner. The intense stillness pressed on the heart. No chirp of bird or hum of insect broke the deep silence. From time to time a leaf, "yellow and sere," loosened, as it were, by invisible fingers from the stem, lingered a second on its way, and fell noiselessly to the earth. In the deep distant wood, the sound of the ripe nuts as they fell, and, at long intervals, the shrill cry of the squirrel, came to the ear, and interrupted the revery of the solitary wanderer. The scene I would describe was bounded on one side by high rocks and the vast ocean, but sloping towards the land into soft and undulating beauty. A noble river was on one side, and on the promontory thus formed, were left some of the largest trees of the forest that covered the whole country when our fathers first arrived. Although so near the ocean, the scene had a character of tranquil sylvan beauty strangely contrasted with the ocean when agitated by storms. One of the largest villages of the time was on the opposite bank of the river; but, as there was no bridge, the place I would describe was almost as solitary as if man had never invaded it. The trees upon it were the largest growth of elm and oak, and seemed left to shelter a single dwelling, a house of moderate size, but which had much the appearance of neatness and comfort. A few rods from the house, and still nearer the headland, stood the plain New England meeting-house of that period,--square, barn-like, unpainted, solitary, but for the silent tenants of its grave-yard. A grass-grown path connected the church with the dwelling-house, and the overshadowing trees gave to the spot an air of protection and seclusion unknown to modern New England churches. At one of the windows of this modest dwelling, that looked towards the setting sun, which now bathed the whole scene in yellow light, was a young woman who might have seen seventeen summers. She was slightly but well formed, and, had it not been for her fresh and radiant health, she would have possessed that pensive, poetic expression that painters love. She was not indeed beautiful, but hers was one of those countenances in which we think we recall a thousand histories,--histories of the inward life of the soul,--not the struggles of the passions; for the dove seemed visibly to rest in the deep blue liquid eye, brooding on its own secret fancies. By the fire sat a gentleman whose countenance and gray hair showed that he was approaching the verge of threescore years and ten, and his black dress indicated his profession. His slippers and pipe presented a picture of repose from the labors and cares of the day; and, although it had been warm, a fire of logs burned in the large old-fashioned chimney. The furniture of the room, though plain, and humble, had been kept with so much care and neatness that it was seen at once that a feminine taste had presided there, and had cherished as sacred the relics of another age. The occupants of the room were father and daughter. A portrait over the fireplace, carefully guarded by a curtain, indicated that he was a widower, and that his child was motherless. They had both been silent for a long time. The young lady continued to watch with apparent interest some object from the window, and the old man to enjoy his pipe; but at last the night closed in, and the autumn mist, rising from the river, veiled the brilliancy of the stars. The daughter drew near the table, and seated herself by her father: her countenance was pensive, and a low sigh escaped her. Her father laid his hand tenderly on her head: "My poor child," he said, "I fear your life is too solitary; your young heart yearns for companions of your own age. True, we have few visitors suited to your age." Edith looked up with a smile on her lips, but there was a tear in her eye, called there by her father's tender manner. "And where," continued he, "is our young friend the student? It is long since he came to get another book. I fear he is timid and sensitive, and does not like that you should see his poor labor-swollen hands; but _that_ he should be proud of,--far more proud than if they were soft, like yours." Edith blushed slightly. "Father," she said, "I want no companion but you. Let me bring your slippers. Ah! I see Dinah has brought them while I have been gazing idly at the river. It shall not happen again. What book shall be our evening reading? Shall I take up Cicero again, or will you laugh at the Knight of the rueful Countenance." How soon is ingenuous nature veiled or denied by woman. Edith thus tried to efface the impression of her sigh and blush, by assuming a gayety of manner which was foreign to her usual demeanor, and which did not deceive her father. "We must go and find out our young friend," pursued her father. "He has much talent, and will surely distinguish himself, and he must not be suffered to languish in poverty and neglect. The first fine day, my daughter, we will ride over and visit him." Edith looked her gratitude, and the long autumn evening wore pleasantly on. It was at the time when slavery was common in New England. At the close of the evening, Paul and Dinah, both Africans, entered, and the usual family prayers were offered. At the close of the prayer, the blacks kneeled down for their master's blessing. This singular custom, though not common to the times, was sometimes practised; and those Puritans, who would not bend the knee to God except in their closets, allowed their slaves to kneel for their own blessing. They went to Edith, who kissed Dinah on both dark cheeks, and gave her hand to Paul, and the family group separated each to his slumbers for the night. The head of the little group we have thus described was one of the most distinguished of the early New England clergymen. He had been educated in England, and was an excellent classical scholar; indeed, his passion for the classics was his only consolation in the obscure little parish where he was content to dwell. He had been early left a widower, with this only child, and all the affections of a tender heart had centred in her. The mildness of his disposition had never permitted him to become either a bigot nor a persecutor. He had been all his life a diligent student of the human heart, and the result was tolerance for human inconsistencies, and indulgence for human frailties. At this time accomplishments were unknown except to those women who were educated in the mother country; but such education as he could give his daughter had been one of his first cares. He had taught her to read his favorite classics, and had left the mysteries of "shaping and hemming," knitting and domestic erudition, to the faithful slave Dinah. Edith had grown up, indeed, without other female influence, relying on her father's instructions, as far as they went, and her own pure instincts, to guide her. The solitude of her situation had given to her character a pensive thoughtfulness not natural to her age or disposition. Solitude is said to be the nurse of genius, but to ripen it, at least with woman, the sunny atmosphere of love is necessary. Genius is less of the head than of the heart: not that we belong to the modern school who believe the passions are necessary to the developement of genius;--far from it. The purest affections seem to us to have left the most enduring monuments. Among a thousand others, at least with woman, we see in Madam De Sevignè that maternal love developed all the graces of a mind unconscious certainly of its powers, but destined to become immortal. Our heroine, for such we must try to make her, had grown up free from all artificial forms of society, but yearning for associates of her own age and sex. After her father, her affections had found objects only in birds and animals, and the poor cottagers of one of the smallest parishes in the country. Living, as she did, in the midst of beautiful nature, and with the grandeur of the ocean always before her, it could not fail to impart a spiritual beauty, a religious elevation, to her mind that had nothing to do with the technical distinctions of the day. Edith Grafton was formed for gentleness and love, to suffer patiently, to submit gracefully, to think more of others' than of her own happiness. She was the light and joy of her father's hearth, and the idol of her faithful slaves, and she possessed herself that "peace that goodness bosoms ever." CHAPTER V. "The mildest herald by our fate allotted Beckons! and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us, with a gentle hand, Into the land of the departed,--into the silent land. Ah, when the frame round which in love we cling, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail? Are intercessions of the fervent tongue A waste of hope?" WORDSWORTH. The two slaves that completed the evening group had been brought into Mr. Grafton's family at the time of his marriage. Dinah was the most striking in personal appearance. She had been born a princess in her native land; and her erect and nobly-proportioned form had never been crushed by the feeling of abject slavery. From the moment they entered the family of Mr. Grafton, they were regarded as children, even the lambs of the flock. They were both at that time young, and soon entered into the more intimate relation of husband and wife; identifying their own dearest interests, and making each other only subordinate to what seemed to them even more sacred,--their devotion to their master and mistress. Dinah's mind was of a more elevated order than Paul's, her husband. If she had not been a princess in her own country, she belonged to those upon whose souls God has stamped the patent of nobility. Naturally proud, she was docile to the instructions of her excellent mistress; and her high and imperious spirit was soon subdued to the gentle influences of domestic love, and to the purifying and elevating spirit of Christianity. Her mistress taught her to read. The Bible was her favorite book; and she became wise in that best wisdom of the heart, which is found in an intimate knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. Her character, under the burning sun of Africa, would have been intolerable; but it was tempered to a soft moonlight radiance, by the shading of Christianity. Though her imperious spirit at first rebelled against slavery, there was no toil, no fatigue, no menial service, however humble, which she would not have sought for those she loved. Love elevated every toil, and gave it, in her eyes, the dignity of a voluntary and disinterested service. She had been the only nurse of her kind mistress through her last long illness. Hers was that faithful affection that preferred long vigils at the bedside through the watches of the night,--the nurse that the sleepless eye ever found awake. Hers was that sentient sympathy that could interpret the weary look,--that love that steals into the darkened room, anticipating every wish, divining every want, and which, in silence, like the evening dew on drooping flowers, revives and soothes the sufferer. Her cares were unavailing: her kind mistress died, commending the little Edith to her watchful love. Dinah received her as if she had been more than the child of her own bosom. Henceforth she was the jewel of her life; and, if Mr. Grafton had not interposed, she would have treated her like those precious jewels of the old Scottish regalia, that are said to be approached by only one person at a time, and that by torch-light. Our forefathers and foremothers had a maxim that the will of every child must be early broken, to insure that implicit and prompt obedience that the old system of education demanded. Mr. Grafton wisely left the breaking of the little Edith's will to Dinah. As we have seen, she was of a gentle temper, but, as a child, determined and obstinate. Obstinacy in a child is the strength of purpose which, in man and woman, leads to all excellence. Before it is guided by reason, it is mere wilfulness. It was wonderful with what a silken thread Dinah guided the little Edith. She possessed in her own character the firmness of the oak, and an iron resolution, but tempered so finely by the influences of love and religion, that she yielded to every thing that was not hurtful; but there she stopped, and went not a hair's breadth further. It was beautiful to see the little Edith watching the mild and loving but firm eye of Dinah,--which spoke as plain as eye could speak,--and, when it said "_No_," yielding like a young lamb to a silken tether. Nothing is easier than to gain the prompt obedience of a young child. Gentleness, firmness, and steadiness, are all that is requisite. Gentleness, firmness, and steadiness,--the two last perhaps the rarest qualities in tender mothers. When a young child finds its mother uniform--not one day weakly indulgent, and the next capriciously severe, but always the same mild, firm being--she is to the child like a beneficent but unchanging Providence; and he no more expects his own will to prevail, than children of an older growth expect the sun to stand still, and the seasons to change their order, for their convenience. As soon as the little girl was old enough, she became the pupil of her father. Under his instruction, she could read the Latin authors with facility; and even his favorite Greek classics became playfully familiar as household words, although she really knew little about them. But the Christian ethics came home more closely to her woman's heart: their tender, pure, self-denying principles were more congenial to the truly feminine nature of the little Edith. The character and example of her mother were ever held up to her by Dinah. At night, after her little childish prayer, when she laid her head on her pillow, her last thought was of her mother. Ah, it is not necessary to be a Catholic, to believe in the intercession of saints. To a tender heart, a mother lost in infancy is the beautiful Madonna of the church; and the heart turns as instinctively to her as the devout Catholic turns to the holy mother and child. In all Edith's solitary rambles, her pensive thoughts sought her mother. There was a particular spot in the evening sky where she fancied the spirit of her mother to dwell; and there, in all her childish griefs, she sought sympathy, and turned her eye towards it in childlike devotion. CHAPTER VI. Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat? Let in through all the trees, Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright: Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles like beams of light. BRYANT. A few days after the evening before mentioned, Edith and her father prepared for their little journey, to visit the young student. It was a brilliant morning in the very last of October. All journeys, at this time, were made on horseback: they were mounted, therefore, Mr. Grafton on a sedate old beast, that had served him many years, and Edith on the _petite fille_ of this venerable "ancestress,"--gentle, but scarcely out of its state of coltship. The Indians, at this time, were much feared, and the shortest excursions were never undertaken without fire-arms. Paul, as well as Mr. Grafton, was well armed, and served them as a guard. As soon as they had left their own village, their course was only a bridle-path through the forest; and the path was now so hidden with the fallen leaves, that it was sometimes indicated only by marks on the trees. The trees were almost stripped of their foliage, and the bright autumn sun, shining through the bare trunks, sparkled on the dew of the fallen leaves. It was the last smile of autumn. The cold had already commenced. No sound broke the intense stillness of the forest but the trampling of their horses' feet as they crushed the dry, withered foliage. The sky was intensely blue, and without a cloud. The elasticity of the air excited the young spirits of Edith. She was gay, and, like a young fawn, she fluttered around her father, sometimes galloping her rough little pony in front, and then returning, she would give a gentle cut with her whip to her father's horse, who, with head down, and plodding indifference, regarded it no more than he did a fly. Mr. Grafton, delighted with his daughter's playfulness, looked at her with a quiet, tender smile: her gayety, to him, was like the play of her infancy, and he delighted to think that she was yet young and happy. Edith had ridden forward, and they had lost sight of her, when she came galloping back, pale as death, and hardly able to retain her seat from terror. "Edith, my child," said her father, "what has happened?" She could only point with her finger to a thin column of blue smoke that curled above the trees. Mr. Grafton knew that it indicated the presence of Indians, at this time the terror of all the inhabitants. "No doubt they are friendly, my dear child," said Mr. Grafton; and he sent Paul, who was armed, forward to reconnoitre. Paul soon returned, showing his white teeth from ear to ear. "The piccaninnies," he said. Mr. Grafton and Edith rode forward, and in a little hollow at the foot of a rock, from which bubbled a clear spring, a young Indian woman, with a pappoose at her feet, was half reclining; another child, attached in its birch cradle to the pendent branch of an elm tree, was gently rocked by the wind. A fire was built against the rock, and venison suspended before it to roast. It was a beautiful little domestic scene, and Mr. Grafton and Edith stopped to contemplate it. They soon learned that the husband of the Indian was in the forest; but he was friendly, and, after exchanging smiles, Edith dismounted. She sat on the grass, caressing the young pappoose, and talked with the mother in that untaught, mute language that young and kind hearts so easily understand. This little adventure delayed them so long that it was past noon when they reached the secluded farmhouse we have described in the first chapter of our little tale. The old man was sitting at the door, enjoying the kindly warmth of the declining sun. Seymore was not far off, at work in his laborer's frock. A vivid blush of surprise, and pleasure, and shame, covered his temples and noble brow, as he came forward to meet them. Edith, quick in her perceptions, understood his feelings, and turned aside her head while he drew off his laborer's frock. This gave an appearance of embarrassment to her first greeting, and the vivid delight faded in a moment from his brilliant countenance, and a melancholy shade passed over it. They entered the house, and Edith endeavored to remove the pain she had given, by more marked attention to Seymore; but simple and sincere, ignorant as she was of all arts of coquetry, it only increased the bashfulness of her manner. The family had already dined; but, after some delay, a repast was prepared for the travellers; and, before they were ready to depart, the long shadows of the opposite hills brought an early twilight over the little valley. Mr. Grafton looked at his daughter; he could not expose her to a dark ride through the forest; and the pressing invitation of the good old people, that they should stay the night, was accepted. After much pleasant talk with the enthusiastic young student, to which Edith listened with deep interest, Mr. Grafton was tasked to his utmost polemical and theological knowledge by the searching questions of the old Puritan. Like douce Davie Deans, he was stiff in his doctrines, and would not allow a suspicion of wavering from the orthodox standard of faith. But Edith soon gave undeniable evidence that sleep was a much better solacer of fatigue than theological discussions; and, after the evening worship had been scrupulously performed, a bed was prepared for Mr. Grafton on the floor of the room where they sat, for he would not allow the old people to give up theirs to him. Seymore gayly resigned his poor garret to Edith, and slept, as he had often done before, in the hayloft. Slept? no; he lay awake all night thinking how lovely Edith looked in her riding _Joseph_,[1] which fitted closely to her beautiful shape, and a beaver hat tied under the chin, to confine her hair in riding. She was the angel of his dreams. But why did she turn aside when they met? and the poor student sighed. [Footnote 1: We have in vain endeavored to find the etymology of this name. It might first have been of many colors, and named from the coat of the patriarch's favorite son.] Edith looked around the little garret with much interest, and some little awe. There were the favorite books, heaps of manuscripts, and every familiar object that was so closely associated with Seymore. Nothing reveals so much of another's mind and habits, as to go into the apartment where they habitually live. The bed had been neatly made with snowy sheets, and some little order given to the room. Edith opened the books, and read the marked passages; the manuscripts were all open, and with the curiosity of our mother Eve, she read a few lines. She colored to the very temples as she committed this fault; but she found herself irresistibly led on by sympathy with a mind kindred to her own; and when she laid her head on the pillow, tears of admiration and pity filled her eyes. She lay awake, forming plans for the student's advancement; and, before sleep weighed down her eyelids, she had woven a fair romance, of which he was the hero. Ah, that youth could be mistress of the ring and the lamp! then would all the world be prosperous and happy. But wisdom and experience, the true genii, appear in the form of an _aged_ magician, who has forgotten the beatings of that precious thing, the human heart. The next morning, when they were assembled at their frugal breakfast, Seymore said, "I fear you thought, from the frequent ink-spots on my little garret, that, like Luther, I had thrown my ink-bottle at the devil whenever he appeared." "I hope," said Edith, "you have not thrown away all its contents; for I had some charming fancies last night, inspired, I believe, by that very ink-bottle." Seymore blushed; but he did not look displeased, and Edith was satisfied. The next morning was clear and balmy, and, soon after breakfast, they mounted their horses for their return. There are few things more exhilarating than riding through woods on a clear autumnal morning; but Edith felt no longer the wild gayety of the previous morning. With a thoughtful countenance, she rode silently by her father's side when the path would permit, or followed quietly when it was too narrow. "You seem to have found food for thought in the student's garret, my dear," said her father. Edith blushed slightly, but did not answer. They had accomplished about half their journey, when Mr. Grafton proposed turning off from the direct path to visit an old lady,--a friend of Edith's mother, an emigrant of a noble family from the mother country. Edith followed silently, wondering she had never heard her father mention this friend of her mother before. They soon after emerged from the forest upon open fields, cleared and cultivated with unusual care. A beautiful brook ran winding in the midst, and the whole domain was enclosed in strong fences of stone. About midway was built a low, irregular, but very large farmhouse. It consisted of smaller buildings, connected by very strong palisades; and the whole was enclosed, at some distance, by a fence built of strong timbers. It was evidently a dwelling designed for defence against Indians. They entered the enclosure by an iron gate, so highly wrought and finished that it must have been imported from the mother country. Edith found herself in a large garden, that had once been cultivated with much care and expense. It had been filled with rose-bushes, honeysuckles, and choice English flowers; but all was now in a state of neglect and decay. The walks were overrun with weeds, the arbors in ruins, and the tendrils of the vines wandering at their own wanton will. It seemed as if neglect had aided the autumn frost to cover this favorite spot with the garb of mourning. There was no front entrance to this singular building; and the visitors rode
{'title': 'Delusion; or, The Witch of New England by Eliza Buckminster Lee', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}