AN EVENING AT HOME.
The ample kitchen was the centre of family life, social and industrial. Here around the rough table, seated on rude stools or benches, all partook of the plain and often stinted fare. A glance at the family gathered here after nightfall of a winter's day may prove of interest. After a supper of bean-porridge, or hominy and milk, which all partake in common from a great pewter basin, or wooden bowl, with spoons of wood, horn, or pewter; after a reverent reading of the Bible, and fervent supplication to the Most High for care and guidance; after the watch was set on the tall mount, and the vigilant sentinel began pacing his lonely beat, the shutters were closed and barred, and with a sense of security the occupations of the long winter evening began. Here was a picture of industry, enjoined alike by the law of the land and the stern necessities of the settlers. All were busy. Idleness was a crime. On the settle, or a low arm-chair, in the most sheltered nook, sat the revered grandam—as a term of endearment called granny—in red woollen gown, and white linen cap; her gray hair and wrinkled face reflecting the bright firelight; the long stocking growing under her busy needles, while she watched the youngling of the flock, in the cradle by her side. The goodwife, in linsey-woolsey short gown and red petticoat, steps lightly back and forth in calf pumps beside the great wheel, or poises gracefully to give a final twist to the long-drawn thread of wool or tow. The continuous buzz of the flax wheels, harmonizing with the spasmodic hum of the big wheel, shows that the girls are preparing a stock of linen against their wedding day. Less active, and more fitful, rattles the quill-wheel, where the younger children are filling quills for the morrow's weaving. Craftsmen are still scarce, and the yeoman must depend largely on his own skill and resources. The grandsire, and the goodman, his son, in blue woollen frocks, buckskin breeches, long stockings, and clouted brogans with pewter buckles, and the older boys, in shirts of brown tow, waistcoat and breeches of butternut-colored woollen homespun, surrounded by piles of white hickory shavings, are whittling out with keen Barlow jack-knives, implements for home use,—ox-bows and bow-pins, axe-helves, rakestales, forkstales, handles for spades and billhooks, wooden shovels, flail-staff and swingle, swingling knives, pokes and hog-yokes for unruly cattle and swine. The more ingenious, perhaps, are fashioning buckets, or powdering tubs, or weaving skepes, baskets, or snow-shoes. Some, it may be, sit astride the wooden shovel, shelling corn on its iron-shod edge, while others are pounding it into samp or hominy in the great wooden mortar.
There are no lamps or candles, but the red light from the burning pine knots on the hearth glows over all, repeating, in fantastic pantomime on the brown walls and closed shutters, the varied activities around it. These are occasionally brought into a higher relief by the white flashes, as the boys throw handfuls of hickory shavings on to the fore-stick, or punch the back-log with the long iron peel, while wishing they had "as many shillings as sparks go up chimney." Then, the smoke-stained joists and boards of the ceiling, with the twisted rings of pumpkin, strings of crimson peppers, and festoons of apple, drying on poles hung beneath; the men's hats, the crook-necked squashes, the skeins of thread and yarn hanging in bunches on the wainscot; the sheen of the pewter plates and basins, standing in rows on the shelves of the dresser; the trusty firelock, with powder-horn, bandolier, and bullet-pouch, hanging on the summer-tree, and the bright brass warming-pan behind the bedroom door—all stand more clearly revealed for an instant, showing the provident care for the comfort and safety of the household. Dimly seen in the corners of the room are baskets in which are packed hands of flax from the barn, where, under the flax-brake, the swingling-knife and coarse hackle, the shives and swingling tow have been removed by the men; to-morrow the more deft manipulations of the women will prepare these bunches of fibre for the little wheel, and granny will card the tow into bats, to be spun into tow yarn on the big wheel. All quaff the sparkling cider or foaming beer, from the briskly-circulating pewter mug, which the last out of bed in the morning must replenish from the barrel in the cellar. But over all a grave earnestness prevails; there is little laughter or mirth, and no song to cheer the tired workers. If stories are told they are of Indian horrors, of ghosts, or of the fearful pranks of witchcraft.
This was the age of superstition. Women were hung for witches in Salem, and witchcraft believed in everywhere. Every untoward event was imputed to supernatural causes. Did the butter or soap delay its coming, the churn and the kettle were bewitched. Did the chimney refuse to draw, witches were blowing down the smoke. Did the loaded cart get stuck in the mud, invisible hands were holding it. Did the cow's milk grow scant, the imps had been sucking her. Did the sick child cry, search was made for the witches' pins. Were its sufferings relieved by death, glances were cast around to discover the malignant eye that doomed it. Tales of events like these, so fascinating and so fearful, sent the adults, as well as children to bed with blood chilled, every sense alert with fear, ready to see a ghost in every slip of moonshine, and trace to malign origin every sound breaking the stillness—the rattle of a shutter, the creak of a door, the moan of the winds or the cries of the birds and beasts of the night. For more than a century later, the belief in witchcraft kept a strong hold on the popular mind and had a marked influence on the character of the people.
For two or three evenings previous to Feb. 29, 1704, a new topic of supernatural interest has been added to the usual stock. Ominous sounds have been heard in the night, and, says Rev. Solomon Stoddard, "the people were strangely amazed by a trampling noise round the fort, as if it were beset by Indians." The older men recalled similar omens before the outbreak of Philip's War, when from the clear sky came the sound of trampling horses, the roar of artillery, the rattle of small arms, and the beating of drums to the charge. As these tales of fear, coupled with their own warning, were in everybody's mouth, what wonder if the hearts of the thoughtful sank within them; that they cowered with undefinable dread, as under the shadow of impending disaster; and asked each other with fear and trembling the meaning of this new and dire portent. They had not long to wait the answer.
Even then, only just beyond the northern horizon an avalanche was sweeping down to overwhelm the settlement. A horde of Frenchmen turned half Indian, and savages armed with civilized powers of destruction, under Hertel de Rouville, a French officer of the line, were hurrying towards our doomed frontier, over the dreary waste of snow which stretched away for three hundred miles to the St. Lawrence. In the dark shade of some secluded glen, or deep ravine, a day's march nearer our border, each night their camp was pitched and kettles hung. Their fires lighted up the mossy trunks and overhanging branches of the giant hemlock and the towering pine, throwing their summits into a deeper gloom, and building up a wall of pitchy darkness which enclosed the camp on every side.
A frugal supper, and quiet soon reigned within this circle; around each camp-fire the tired forms of the invaders were soon stretched on beds of evergreens—great dark blotches, with luminous centres, on the crystal snow—a sound sleep undisturbed by the relief of sentinels, or replenishment of fires—up at dawn, a hasty breakfast, and onward. The nearer and nearer prospect of blood and plunder added new strength to their limbs, and sent new gleams of ferocity across their swart faces. Dogs with sledges aided to transport the equipage of the camp, and the march was swift.
The errand of this horde was to murder the inhabitants and burn the dwellings of an unprotected town; its ultimate purpose was to please the Abenaki Indians of Maine. These Indians had complained to the governor of Canada about some fancied or real wrong done them by the English, and begged for redress. The prayer of the savages, and the policy of the French, were in full accord, and this expedition was sent out to prove to the Indians that the French were their friends and avengers. Its object was accomplished.
Leaving the dogs, sledges, and such baggage as suited his purpose, at the mouth of West River, under the shadow of Wantastiquet, De Rouville, with scouts well advanced, pushed forward his eager army on its last day's march with caution and celerity, and reached the bluff overlooking our valley on the night of Feb. 28, 1703-4. Here, behind a low ridge, the packs were unstrapped, the war-paint put on, and final preparations made. Not long before dawn, at the darkest hour of the night, the attack was made on the sleeping town with fire and sword.
Many attempts have been made to depict the shocking tragedies of this dreadful morning, but no pen or pencil ever has succeeded in fitly portraying the terrible reality, the ghastly horrors of this crowning event in the life of a frontier town.
TRUST.
BY J. B. M. WRIGHT.
There's a lesson ever hiding
Deep within the floweret's cell,
Of an endless trust abiding
Safe with Him who guideth well.
As the flowers are ever gazing
To the land above the stars,
We, our earnest life upraising,
Look beyond life's sunset bars,
With our eager footsteps wending,
Strive to reach the summits grand,
Where, the past and future blending,
His own guardian angels stand.