Twice-told tales
except to the soul and not to be controverted on grounds of human
wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions which,
abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the
rod. These extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their
cause and consequence, continued to increase, till in the year 1659 the
government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker sect
with the crown of martyrdom.
An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to
this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon
the person then at the head of the government. He was a man of narrow
mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made
hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions; he exerted his
influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the
enthusiasts, and his whole conduct in respect to them was marked by
brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less
deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates
in after-times. The historian of the sect affirms that by the wrath of
Heaven a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the “bloody town”
of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand,
as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and
triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook them in old age or at
the parting-hour. He tells us that they died suddenly and violently and
in madness, but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he
records the loathsome disease and “death by rottenness” of the fierce
and cruel governor.
On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of
two men of the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from
the metropolis to the neighboring country-town in which he resided. The
air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made
brighter by the rays of a young moon which had now nearly reached the
verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a
gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts
of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him
and his home. The low straw-thatched houses were scattered at
considerable intervals along the road, and, the country having been
settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still
bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind
wandered among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except
the pine trees and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it
was the instrument. The road had penetrated the mass of woods that lay
nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the
traveller’s ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than even that
of the wind. It was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it
seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir tree in the centre
of a cleared but unenclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could
not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made
accursed a few hours before by the execution of the Quakers, whose
bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave beneath the tree
on which they suffered. He struggled, however, against the
superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to
pause and listen.
“The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be
otherwise,” thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight.
“Methinks it is like the wailing of a child—some infant, it may be,
which has strayed from its mother and chanced upon this place of death.
For the ease of mine own conscience I must search this matter out.” He
therefore left the path and walked somewhat fearfully across the field.
Though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by the
thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that
day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness.
The traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the middle
upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been
erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death.
Under this unhappy tree—which in after-times was believed to drop
poison with its dew—sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It
was a slender and light-clad little boy who leaned his face upon a
hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth and wailed bitterly, yet
in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of
crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand
upon the child’s shoulder and addressed him compassionately.
“You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you
weep,” said he. “But dry your eyes and tell me where your mother
dwells; I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you
in her arms tonight.”
The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to
the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not
more than six years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much
of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy’s frightened
gaze and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to
reassure him:
“Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were
to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on
a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch? Take heart,
child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home.”
“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice,
“they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.”
The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the
moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made
the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung
up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the apparition
stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm
which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational
supposition. “The poor child is stricken in his intellect,” thought he,
“but verily his words are fearful in a place like this.” He then spoke
soothingly, intending to humor the boy’s fantasy:
“Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn
night, and I fear you are ill-provided with food. I am hastening to a
warm supper and bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share them.”
“I thank thee, friend, but, though I be hungry and shivering with cold,
thou wilt not give me food nor lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet
tone which despair had taught him even so young. “My father was of the
people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of earth,
and here is my home.”
The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished
it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he possessed a
compassionate heart which not even religious prejudice could harden
into stone. “God forbid that I should leave this child to perish,
though he comes of the accursed sect,” said he to himself. “Do we not
all spring from an evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light
doth shine upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body nor, if prayer
and instruction may avail for him, in soul.” He then spoke aloud and
kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the
grave:
“Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have
wandered to this unhallowed spot?”
“They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence,”
said the boy, “and I stood afar off watching the crowd of people; and
when they were gone, I came hither, and found only this grave. I knew
that my father was sleeping here, and I said, ‘This shall be my home.’”
“No, child, no, not while I have a roof over my head or a morsel to
share with you,” exclaimed the Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully
excited. “Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.”
The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold
heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. The
traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and, seeming to
acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose; but his slender
limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned
against the tree of death for support.
“My poor boy, are you so feeble?” said the Puritan. “When did you taste
food last?”
“I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,” replied
Ilbrahim, “but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day,
saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey’s end.
Trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked food
many times ere now.”
The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about
him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the
gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. In the
awakened warmth of his feelings he resolved that at whatever risk he
would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom Heaven had
confided to his care. With this determination he left the accursed
field and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy
had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his
progress, and he soon beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the
cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the Western
wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated
ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a wood-covered
hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection.
“Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head had
sunk upon his shoulder; “there is our home.”
At the word “home” a thrill passed through the child’s frame, but he
continued silent. A few moments brought them to the cottage door, at
which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were
wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were
indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The summons was answered
by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity,
who, after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the
door and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him in. Farther back
in the passageway the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no
little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their father’s
return.
As the Puritan entered he thrust aside his cloak and displayed
Ilbrahim’s face to the female.
“Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence hath put into our
hands,” observed he. “Be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear
ones who have departed from us.”
“What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?” she inquired.
“Is he one whom the wilderness-folk have ravished from some Christian
mother?”
“No, Dorothy; this poor child is no captive from the wilderness,” he
replied. “The heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty
morsel and to drink of his birchen cup, but Christian men, alas! had
cast him out to die.” Then he told her how he had found him beneath the
gallows, upon his father’s grave, and how his heart had prompted him
like the speaking of an inward voice to take the little outcast home
and be kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe
him as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction
which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into
his infant mind.
Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and
she approved of all his doings and intentions.
“Have you a mother, dear child?” she inquired.
The tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply, but