Home of Mrs. Howe
Located. The Conclusion
This map delineates a part of the homestead of Mrs. Eliza Howe Perley, now in her ninety-third year (May 15) whose residence is at “6.” The ascent of the estate is: Mrs. Perley’s father, Aaron Howe; his second cousin, Joseph Howe; Joseph’s father, Abraham Howe; his father, Abraham Howe, Jr.; his cousins, Abigail and Mary Howe; their father, James Howe, Jr.; his father, James Howe, Sr.,—a continuous Howe ownership of two hundred sixty years.
The house pictured on the opposite page stood at “2,” and was built, probably, in 1711, since Abraham Howe, Jr., bought the land in February of that year, “to set a house upon.”
James Howe, Jr., owned “a small house in the orchard,” “3,” and a third of other “housing,” which may have included “the old house,” that stood in 1711, “near” “5” south of “2,” “the southwest corner of the orchard.”
While searching the records of deeds, the writer noted a course in a description: “Thence to the gate opposite James Howe, Junior’s.” The locality was well known to him, and that knowledge located the gate. He had often seen a gate there, between 1840 and 1850. It swung at the entrance of the avenue leading to the residence of James Howe, Senior, marked “gate” on the map. That fact was tangible; Mrs. Howe’s home was at “2” on the map or near it.
Thus far and no farther, till one day looking over the ground back of the present residence of Mrs. Eliza Howe Perley, “6” on the map, the writer noticed a peculiar hollow in the otherwise level surface, and to his question, What made it? she replied, “I don’t know; I have always heard it called Mary’s hole.” He immediately exclaimed, “Mary Howe, daughter of the witch.”
His conclusion: There the surviving daughters, Mary and Abigail, lived, secluded and alone, beneath the shadow of the cruel attainder. After the death of Mary, their home became Mary’s cellar; and when all appearance of a cellar was gone, it became “Mary’s hole.” To-day there is not the slightest vestige of “Mary’s hole”; the old home, known only to the saddest pages of New England history, is arable ground.
