[i1]

MERRICK RICHARDSON AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE.

LOOKING BACK

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

By

Merrick Abner Richardson

AUTHOR OF

"JIM HALL AND THE RICHARDSONS", "EIGHT DAYS OUT", "MINA FAUST",
"ROSE LIND", "PERSONALITY OF THE SOUL", "CHICAGO'S
BLACK SHEEP", "TWILIGHT REFLECTIONS."

Privately Printed

CHICAGO: MCMXVII

Copyright 1917
By
Merrick Abner Richardson

PREFACE

My spare time, only, is occupied in literary efforts. I never allow them to interfere with either my business or social life.

In composing, in a mysterious way, I comprehend the companionship of my imaginary friends as vividly as I do the material associates of life. To me imagination is the counterpart or result of inspiration, while inspiration is light thrown upon the unrevealed. The image may be the result of known or unknown cause, but the mystery does not blot out the actual existence of the image. The material image we call sight, the retained memory, and the unknown revelation, but all are comprehensive images.

I see a bird, its form created a picture on my eye, the image of which mysteriously remained after the object had disappeared. Now what or who cognizes the primitive object, the formed picture or the retained image?

The materialist assumes he has solved the mystery when he says; The appearance of the object formed an impression on your brain; omitting the important part of who comprehends the impression.

These material and spiritual views are not the two extremes, there is no midway, one is right and the other is wrong. Either man is a spiritual, responsible being or he is just temporary mud.

Therefore imagination, to me is incomprehensible realization, while materialism is the symbol of passing events. This explains how my imaginary friends become so dear to me.

The ideas presented in my story of Mary Magdalene I gained through descriptions conveyed to me by Jona while traveling across the Syrian desert. He always began in the middle of his story and worked out both ways, which made it difficult to take notes, besides at the best it was but a legend, dim and indistinct.

In this work I have carefully avoided Oriental style, language or customs for two reasons: First, there is not an Oriental scholar now, who could do them justice, Second, one is perfectly safe in bringing any people of any age right down to our times. For, the culture of one tribe or race does not influence incoming souls for the next generation. The human family enter life on about the same plane. A child from the low tribes of the jungles or from the desert wild, if brought up by a Chicago mother, might become as great as one of the royal family. The feelings, aspirations, sorrows and love of Mary Magdalene and Peter were similar to what ours would have been under the same conditions. Therefore I bring the story of Magdalene right down to yesterday.

I first constructed the story of Magdalene while in Jerusalem, then I revised it in Egypt, and have been revising it at intervals ever since. From Jona's continued reiteration regarding her prepossessing gifts, spiritual and unwavering qualities, especially her firmness before Caiaphas, I formed her personality in my mind and associated her with bright women of today, then I let Magdalene talk for herself.

To me she was no exception from the women I associated with in Chicago. There are not wanting women in Oak Park who under the same circumstances would have followed Jesus to Jerusalem, disdained to deny him and would have pleaded before the sanhedrim at the dead of night to have saved their associate from the misguided servants of the devil.

The reminiscenses of the pioneer Richardsons, Jim and Winnie, Sunshine days around Wabbaquassett, John Brown, roving escapades of the Richardson Brothers, my athletic exploits, my travels and other scenes of my life are primitive truths copied from memory and set forth in my original form of expression.

My attack on materialists or infidelic instructors stands on its own feet and opposes a tendency that will create degeneracy if continued.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LOOKING BACK

MY ANCESTORS

Ezekiel Richardson, with his wife Susanna, joined the Protestant Church in the Village of Charlestown, Mass.—now Boston—in 1630. The following year Thomas and Samuel Richardson joined the same church; the records of the will of Ezekiel prove them to have been his brothers.

When they came to New England, or where from, is unknown, but as about thirty ships of British emigrants came into Boston Harbor about that time, it is safe to assume that they came on one of these vessels, but possibly they may have come on one of the boats which followed the Mayflower nearly ten years previous.

It appears that there arose dissensions in the church and those good Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers strove among themselves until 1634, when the three Richardsons, with several other families, withdrew and decided to start a colony and a church of their own, where they could worship God in peace.

WOBURN

Through a swamp on the west, called Cat Bird Glen, ran a trout brook to the meadows below. Beyond this woodland glen lay an upland plain, held by the Indians as a camping ground, which the Richardsons concluded they might, through the persuasion of powder and bullets, be able to occupy and leave the parent church at Charlestown to mourn their departure.

Accordingly about twenty families, including the Richardsons, took possession of the site, dug their cellars, and built primitive homes together with a log church and named the town Woburn.

Joy mingled with pride encouraged the men to subdue the soil, hunt, snare and trap the game and fish, while the buxom dames hummed their spinning wheels as they cooed their frolicsome babies beneath the shadows of the great forest monarchs who seemed loath to give way to the encroaching steps of the white man.

Contrary to the general rule, that rats and ministers advance hand in hand with civilization, in this case the ministers failed to appear for the reason that the home church of England refused to recognize the seceders as children of God by turning down their supplication for a regular ordained preacher.

Here the true spirit and determination which seems to tinge the veins of the Richardsons made its first appearance. Ezekiel, by the grace of God, took upon himself the leadership in all the praying and singing of the independent church for about ten years. He officiated at all weddings and funerals, besides established the whipping post for those who did not appear in church, with clean shirts on, three Sundays each month to hear him preach two long sermons, when it is said he often preached so loud that he could be distinctly heard in the Charlestown church two miles away, to the annoyance of his old-time associates.

After Ezekiel's thrifty swarm had become greater than the parent hive at Charlestown and the hand of time began pressing heavily upon his shoulders, a regularly ordained preacher was sent in, which the parishioners did not like as well as they did Ezekiel, for he could not clothe and feed himself as Ezekiel had done, but he stayed until he died, and here is a sample of primitive piety in our grandfather's days:

"The Reverend Mr. Carter of the Woburn Episcopal Church died, and being a good man, our forefathers decided to turn out in mass, give him a Christian burial and charge the expenses to the town. Of the itemized bill—coffin, shroud, grave-digging, and stimulants,—the latter, the liquor bill, exceeded all the other expenses."

See Woburn Town Records, Volume 3, page 68.

Thus while we find traces of weakness in our ancestors, a principle seems to have been involved which made New England a hot-bed for vags and tramps. No wonder we sigh for the good old days when respectable citizens did not have to lock their doors on Sunday, for all the thieves were in church.

TRADITIONS

Through the first appearance of the Richardsons in Charlestown we have an unbroken line of nine generations through Ezekiel of Woburn 1630 to Marvin of Chicago 1917.

Ezekiel of Woburn.
Theopolis of Woburn.
John of Stafford Street.
Uriah of Stafford Street.
John of Devil's Hop Yard.
Warren of Wabbaquassett Lake.
Merrick of Chicago.
Arthur of Chicago.
Marvin of Chicago.

Of course, my brothers and cousins perpetuate this name, the same as I do. Collins and Gordon, my brothers, with Orino, the son of my Uncle Orson, alone have raised about twenty boys.

The living male descendants of Ezekiel, Samuel and Thomas, who carry our name, must now be more than one hundred thousand Richardsons, and I presume few of them trace back their relation more than three generations, but they could if they would.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY

My grandmother, Judith Burroughs Richardson, who died in 1859, age 94, seemed in the evening of her life-day to think, dream and commune with her ancestors and friends, who long since entered Paradise, and now seemed to be throwing back kisses to loved ones approaching that land of delight.

From her experience and traditional reminiscences I here give a condensed sketch of her apparent and vivid memories:

James Burroughs, her grandfather, was the son of the minister, George Burroughs, her great-grandfather, who was hanged at Salem, Mass., August 19, 1692, for being in league with the devil.

James was arrested soon after, but escaped from Salem jail and, under the name of Jim Hall, lived in Connecticut for several years. Later, under his right name, he married Winnie Richardson, a Stafford Street girl, and they settled near Brattleborough, Vermont, where grandmother's father, Amos Burroughs, was born.

After James died, her grandmother Winnie came to West Stafford to live with them. She died before grandma was born and was buried in the family lot near their house. Her gravestone was still standing when my father was old enough to go with his grandfather Amos Burroughs and see them.

The homestead where Winnie died and grandmother was born and married can be found by following the south road out of West Stafford and turning the first road to the right, across the brook and up the hill to the first farm scene.

Winnie's father, Theopolis, son of Ezekiel, and several other men with their families, came West when she was a little girl and took possession, or squat, on the northern rise of a highland plain, where a grand view of the far-away Western mountains can be seen. They called their camp Stafford.

John, Winnie's brother, who was conducting an Indian trading post at Medford came on later, with his two brothers, Gershom and Paul, and opened up the famous Stafford Street, which was laid out twenty rods wide and about two miles long, the southern terminus being about one mile northeast of Stafford Springs.

John Richardson took up the first farm at the north entrance on the west side and Silas Dean took the first on the left, or east, side from the old campus on the hill at the north end of the street.

All between the walls, which was later changed to sixteen rods, was commons. The church in the center was used for spiritual devotion, recorder office and court of justice.

[i18]

ARRIVAL OF THE WOBURN PIONEERS AT STAFFORD STREET WHEN WINNIE RICHARDSON WAS TEN YEARS OF AGE. RECENT VIEW OF THE WESTERN HILLS FROM THE ORIGINAL CAMP.

RECORDS

The records of those New England pioneers are dim, as the Puritans considered church members only, as persons.

Boston records (Woburn), as we have seen, seem to extol Ezekiel.

Theopolis according to his will, must have been a financial success.

The Stafford Street records, I was informed by Mrs. Larned, who now lives on the old homestead, were kept in their family from the beginning until lately, when they became such a source of annoyance from ancestor seekers, like myself, that they sent them to the recorder's office at Stafford Springs.

At the recorder's office at Stafford Springs I found that John Richardson from Medford came to Stafford Street in 1726, this, though meager, acts as the official connecting link between Woburn and Stafford.

Another scrap I found was that Paul Richardson had taken land adjoining his brother, John Richardson, this identifies both John and Paul.

Regarding Gershom, the other one of the three brothers, I found this:

"Gershom Richardson, son of Gershom and Abigail, born in 1761."

This would make the elder Gershom Richardson contemporary with John and Paul.

E. Y. Fisk, an early settler, told me that a part of the early church records have been burned.

In the old graveyard just south of the brook which crosses Stafford Street still remains the headstone of Lot Dean, who died in 1818.

Lot would be of the next generation from Silas Dean, who took the farm opposite John Richardson.

Near the grave of Lot are the headstones of Uriah Richardson and his wife Miriam, who died October 18, 1785, at the age of 75. Uriah must have been all right, for Miriam, who died twenty years later, had had inscribed on his headstone:

"The memory of the just is blessed."

Grandmother remembered Uriah, the son of John and the father of John, her husband.

Now while the traditions, records and gravestones may prove each in themselves to be weak evidence, together they form an unbroken chain from Ezekiel down to our times.

[i22]

ANCIENT CEMETERY OF THE STAFFORD STREET PIONEERS WHERE MOST OF THE GRAVE STONES ARE FOUND BROKEN AND IN THE WALL WHICH IS BUILT AROUND THE LOT.
LEFT TO RIGHT. M. A. RICHARDSON. WALTER SKINNER. LUCIUS ABORN.

OLD HOMESTEAD

With my interesting nieces, Joe and Lina Newell, one bright summer day, I visited the ancient homes of the Stafford Street, Conn., Richardsons.

E. Y. Fisk and his son now possess the historical property. The son from Springfield, who was haying there at the time, invited us and all the other Richardson tribe to come and camp on the homestead grounds, sit on the old walls, gaze over the western mountains and even coquet with the star Venus evenings, all of which look now the same as when our ancestors saw them 200 years ago.

That day, July 19, 1916, with those girls, viewing the scenes and taking pictures of the surroundings, imprinted on my mind an oasis of beauty ever awaiting recall as I journey over the trackless sands of time.

The present seemed to pass away as the past unfolded its charms while we were reminded of the long ago.

Sacredly we listened to the voice of Mother Mary calling Winnie from the kitchen door, saw the men in homespun shirts and trousers coming up from the meadow below. Heard the careless boy whistling while unyoking the lazy oxen. Saw old dog Towser sleeping in the shade. And in the pasture far away we seemed to hear the faint tinkling of the cow bell on the brindle steer.

Day dreams, says one.

Imagination, says another.

May it not be that when death removes this earthly garment, we will again realize that the past, present, and future are one.

If the image of the face before me now is the retention of the face I saw yesterday, may not all fiction, invention and imagination be retention of occurences we can only recall in parts?

The power of recall is mysterious. If we dream of the dead as living when we know that they are dead, but we cannot recall that which we know, may we not know of pre-existence but lack the power to recall?

Thus Lina, Joe and myself spent a happy summer day on the New England hills, which we will pleasantly recall when the cold winds of winter rattle the doors and windows and we are hugging the radiators.

JIM HALL

During the days of the New England pioneers our early church had more trouble in evolutionizing Christianity from bigotry than in driving the red man from his native lair. Therefore, as the records show my ancestors to have been entangled in this muss, I have arranged, in this family record, and the story of my life, the story of Winnie and Jim.

One warm May evening, in 1693, a stranger, who said his name was James Hall, appeared at the door of Deacon Felker's home in Stafford, Conn., and applied for a job. His face betokened firmness, his speech was clear and distinct, while a tinge of sadness seemed to pervade his distant smile.

He claimed to be a good chopper and, as the deacon was now clearing up his future home in the New England wilderness, he soon bargained with Jim for all the season.

Hall soon became a favorite in the colony, broke all the unruly steers, saddled the ugly colts, collared Bill Jones, the terror of the town, and thrashed him soundly; but did not attend church until the influence of Winnie Richardson changed hatred to forgiveness.

LOVE SPATS

For some weeks the Felkers had had many callers, who sympathized deeply with the poor broken-hearted mother over her lost Juda among the Indians, but time, the blessed obliterator of all earthly troubles, soon brought forward other scenes and changes, and people laughed, joked and enjoyed themselves at Stafford as usual.

Winnie Richardson and her father were over to see the Felkers almost every day and Mr. Richardson would hear nothing about the pay for the colt which the Indians had stolen from Jim while searching for Juda, saying he had another one as nice, which, if Jim would come over and break, so Winnie could ride it, he would call it square.

One evening Winnie came over and, as was her custom, fluttered around and fussed over Jim, bandaging up his sore foot, which he had hurt during the hunt for Juda. Then she made tea for Mrs. Felker and slicked up the room, while Jim lay back in the chair and watched all her movements.

Jim felt almost like crying, he was so worn out and heart-broken over the loss of little Juda. Everyone knows how sweet home and friends seem under such circumstances; but here was Winnie, who had won his heart, and he wanted to tell her so, but she would not let him.

"Winnie," he said, in as a careless a manner as he was capable of, "you do not know how much that new gown becomes you."

[i29]

WINNIE RICHARDSON, WAITING ON THE EASTERN BLUFFS OF OLD WABBAQUASSETT.

"Thanks, Jim, I'm glad you like it; do you know I have worked on it ever since you went away? I was so worried about you I had to work or ride old Dan, to keep from going wild. Several times I rode down to the Springs, followed the trail around the west bend way up to old Wabbaquassett, around to the eastern highlands from where I gazed across the pretty waves, hoping to see you coming, but saw only Nipmunk maidens sporting in their canoes."

"Then, if I had never come back, Winnie, I suppose you would have worked on that gown and ridden to Wabbaquassett Lake all the remainder of your life."

"I do not know. I know I wanted you to come home."

Jim was encouraged. This was more than she had ever said before, so he ventured to say, "Winnie, come here and give me your hand."

She came forward, and placing her hand in his, said, laughingly, "Well, Jim, what?"

"Now, Winnie, why were you worried for fear I would not come home and what did you want me to come back for?"

"Why, Jim, are you so simple as all that? You know that father expects you to break his colts in the spring, besides he thinks he cannot get along without your opinion on cabbages and turnips, then why would it not worry me? Now, Jim, I'm going home, and I want you to limp over tomorrow and see me, and stay all day, and we will have a good visit. But, really, Jim, you must not talk serious to me; you must give up that." Both were silent a moment and then she continued: "There, James Hall, has that little lecture almost killed you? I see you have the dumps. That will never do. Look up here, Mr. Hall, have you forgotten that Miss Richardson is present?"

Jim looked up and endeavored to catch her eye, but no use. When she saw how pitiful he looked she burst out laughing and walked away with her chin way up high, then came back with a smile, bade him good-night, and she was gone.

Jim was in trouble. Mrs. Felker was delirious with grief. Little Juda, the sunshine of the home, was gone, and Winnie had told him plainly he must abandon all serious thoughts. He lay awake way into the night and formed his plans thus: "I will not go over to Richardsons in the morning, nor the next day nor the next, and perhaps never. I will take my axe and go up among the old hickory trees and work from sun to sun and try to banish little Juda from my mind, and also try to forget what a fool I am; fool—fool—of course I am, tossing around here all night over a girl that does not care for me. The idea of my consulting with her father over a cabbage patch. I think Jim Hall is not quite dead gone yet—no, I will not show my face there again very soon, of course not. Now I will turn over and go to sleep." But poor Jim, like many others, would like to forget his Winnie, but could not. Winnie had won his heart. She had come to stay.

Morning came and as the sun banished the dew from the grass, so daylight had upset all of Jim's plans concerning the hickory logs. He did not want to see Winnie in particular—no, but then he must not treat Mr. Richardson shabbily because Winnie had misused him. "Oh, I'll go over, of course I will, and visit the old folks, and if I see her I will pass the time of day to her—that is all."

[i33]

GOOD MORNING, MISS RICHARDSON!

He found the old gent out feeding pigs and soon they were engaged in a friendly conversation. When they turned into the house, Aunt Mary came briskly forward to greet him and asked many questions concerning his long hunt for Juda among the Indians, which he could have answered more sensibly had he not been expecting Winnie. Of course, he was not anxious to see her, but he wondered where she was.

"Jim," said Mr. Richardson, "you will find plenty of those early apples down in the orchard if you care for them." So Mr. Hall started through the orchard and came spat upon Winnie by the wild rose bush, on the orchard wall.

"Good morning, Miss Richardson," he said, as he extended his hand in a cold businesslike manner.

Winnie paid no attention to his good morning, but brushing aside his extended hand she began fixing a white rose in the buttonhole of his coat as she said in a soft tone: "Jim, how would you feel if you were a girl and had gone and primed yourself all up nice so as to look sweet as possible, waiting for your fellow to come and say, 'Hello, Winnie, how sweet you look this morning!' but instead to see him come stalking through the trees as though he was monarch of all he surveyed, saying 'good morning, Miss Richardson.' Now, own up, Jim, that you deliberately planned that scheme to frighten me."

"Well, but you see, my dear."

"Yes, Jim, I see. I know all about it. You have been nerving yourself up to show that you did not care for me. You did it nicely. I thought you could not hold out more than a minute, but I think you did about two. And now you're smiling, calling me dear, and will not let go of my hand. You did not sleep well last night, did you?"

"No, I did not."

"Was Mrs. Felker nervous?"

"Yes, she did not sleep a wink before two o'clock."

"And how about Frank?"

"Oh, he always sleeps like a log."

"Say, Jim, why do you take such an interest in Frank; where did the Felkers get him?"

"Boston, or somewhere East."

"What is his name?"

"Burroughs, they say."

"Burroughs—Burroughs—he did not come from Salem, did he?"

Winnie, noticing Jim's emotion, turned back to the original theme and continued: "And I suppose Juda was on your mind?"

"Yes, she was, and still I know it is wrong to worry about her, but I shall never cease to love that little angel. You know, I have lots of love letters she wrote me? She used to bring them over into the lot herself and then turn her back while I read them. She said she could not bear to see a man read a love letter. She was like her mother, artful as she could be. She used to enjoy our love spats, as she called them; she would pretend to get mad and go pouting around all day and expect me to come and make up with her, and sometimes it required lots of coaxing, but, of course, she always gave in at last. You see, now she is gone, I cannot help thinking about those things, and that is not all the trouble with me, either."

"That is enough, Jim. You need not tell your other troubles. Come along to the grove, I want to talk with you."

Following the cart path they entered the woods, when she turned quickly and said: "Jim, I have something on my mind which I wish to unload, and you will not think me silly even if I am wrong?"

"No, no," he replied with a searching look. "I like to have you confide in me."

"Do you know, Jim, that I think there is a possible chance yet to find Juda alive."

He sprang to his feet as he exclaimed, "Tell me, Winnie, tell me all you know!"

"Do not get excited; I have no proof. Tell, me, Jim, all about the first day you were out hunting for Juda, who you saw and what they said?"

After he had gone through with the particulars she asked: "How many Indians camped at Wabbaquassett Lake that first night?"

"Only four, besides those regular lake dwellers."

"Did you see them all at one time?"

"Yes, we saw the four and talked with them. They came from the West."

"Were they Mohawks?"

"No, they were Narragansetts."

"Well, if Juda had been with the camp when you and Frank came upon them, could they have concealed her?"

"Certainly, but I do not think she was there."

"I do not think, Jim, she was killed by the wolves," said Winnie, as she frowned thoughtfully while looking on the ground. "If she is dead the Indians killed her."

"Did not you and all the neighbors, after we had gone, find the place where the wolves had killed her?"

"Oh, yes, Jim, I was there, but those Indians are so cunning. You see they broke camp about noon and that must have been about the time she would have arrived there. Now, if she arrived at the camp after they had gone, she could have come back home, but if lost, why did she not hear the calls for her, for the wolves disturb no one until after dark."

"Suppose your theory is true, Winnie, what steps would you take to find her?"

"Will you do what I want you to do about it?"

"Yes, Winnie, I feel like Queen Esther, when risking her life for her people."

"Queen Esther? Jim Hall, who taught you the Bible?"

He studied a moment and then said: "Go on about Juda, please."

Winnie scrutinized him keenly, then turned from the painful subject and continued about Juda. "I want you to wait several months until the Indians think we have given her up, then go quietly among the tribes; you know you talk all their tongues, and if you find her, Jim, I will love you for your bravery, and if you do not, the endeavor ought to count some. Now I suppose you want to go in and visit with papa and mamma."

"Y-e-s."

"What makes you drag out that 'yes' so long?"

"I thought you might like to take a walk in the grove."

"If you had not been so cross to me this morning."

"Well—but, I really did think—"

"What has changed your mind, Mr. Hall?"

"Well, Winnie."

"Well, Jim, say, do you really want to make up? Oh, catch me, Jim, my heart—my heart!"

Jim sprang and saved her from falling into the brook, as she pushed him from her and began laughing.

"Oh, Winnie, you do not know how you did frighten me, you are a roguish girl, but I like you and think you a perfect pet."

"Perfect pet—get out. Did you know John Bragg was over to see me?"

"John Bragg?"

"Yes, John Bragg."

"I thought you had given him up?"

"Oh, no. I did think when you and I came home from church on the black colt, it would give him a shock, but he is all the more attentive. Think of it, all the fathers and mothers have had their daughters cooing around him for the last three years and he does not bite, but is in great agony over me. Now, what can I do? I will have to marry him to get rid of him, won't I?"

"To get rid of him?"

"Oh, Jim, but his father is rich. You see, it is dignified to have such a beau. He came over last night after I left you and said his father had bought of Mr. Converse a beautiful saddle horse and he wanted me to take a ride on it, but when I told him I was engaged he looked downcast. He proposed to bring over his sister Lydia and, if it pleased you, we would all go up to the west bend fishing together and have a fish fry. What do you thing of that?"

"I would be delighted to go."

"Yes, but he will expect to escort me and leave you to attend to Lydia."

"That is all right; I like Lydia."

"You do?"

"Of course, I do."

"But, Jim, you are older than Lydia."

"I do not think she cares for that by what she said."

"What she said? When was all this talk?"

"Oh, not long ago."

"Not long ago? Look around here, James Hall!" At this he smiled and she said, "There, now, you were fooling me—own up that it was not true."

"It may not be exactly true, but bordering on the truth."

"What do you mean by bordering on the truth?"

"I actually saw her."

"Did you talk that way to her?"

"Oh, no; we did not speak."

"There, Jim, now I like you just a little bit; sort of sisterly love, you know. That is all, Jim—do you hear?"

"No," he said, drawing her to him. "I did not catch that last sentence. Come a little nearer, Winnie."

"Never! Never! James Hall," she said, withdrawing with a flushed face. "You are holding a secret from me and unless you confide all, Winnie Richardson will die an old maid."

"Thank God," he replied, with irony, "That cuts off John Bragg."

"John is already cut off. I love the tracks you make in the dust more than I do him, but no girl should allow herself to follow a love trail into a snare. You may be all right. I think you are, but do not advance another shade until I know all."

Jim dried her falling tears as caressingly as he dared, but the mystery still remained.

Winnie turned and gazed to the far away hills, but she did not see them, for her soul was silently summoning courage for the trying ordeal. Jim could but see in her the model of pure virtue and loveliness, as she turned to him, saying:

"Is your name James Hall?"

"No."

"Were you ever married?"

"Yes."

"Is your wife alive?"

"No."

"What is your name?"

"James Burroughs."

"Is your father alive?"

"No."

"What was his name?"

"George Burroughs."

"Where did he die?"

"Salem."

"When?"

"August 19, 1692."

"Was he that George Burroughs?" Here Winnie's voice failed, and Jim answered, "He was."

Winnie stepped back while her thin lips parted and seemed to look as white as the ivories between them.

"Was your wife that beautiful Fanny Shepherd, who died with a broken heart at Casco Bay, after the report of your death?"

"She was."

Winnie stood a moment as if to satisfy herself that the world was real and she was not dreaming, then coming softly forward she sat on his knee and putting her arm around his neck began kissing him, while she said: "Mother is to have hot biscuits, butter and honey for supper, and we must go now, and after that I will give her a hint of what has happened, and we will take to the parlor and you must tell me the story of your life, and you may talk just as serious as you please. Now, Jim, I want you to hug and kiss me for keeps."

Father and mother were puzzled to conjecture what had caused the turn in the tide, for the distance between Winnie and Jim had suddenly disappeared, and Winnie began bossing him around, just like regular married folks.

"Jim," said Winnie, as they entered the parlor. "Your clothes do not fit, your boots are too big, and your hair is too long. Oh, dear me, after we are married what a time I will have fixing you up. What makes you smile?"

"Who has said anything about marrying, Winnie?"

"I did."

"When is all this to take place?"

"Oh, it will be several months yet. You know, papa and mamma will want me to look nice and I will have to make all my new clothes. Now begin your story."

"Will you promise not to cry, Winnie?"

"Really, I will try. But think of it, it seems to me something like one rising from the dead; and still, believe me, dear, something of this kind impressed me from the day you arrived in Stafford, nearly eight years ago. If I should tell you my dreams you would call me visionary, but I will tell that some other time. Now begin and I will be good except when I want to pet you."

JIM'S STORY

I was born in Boston, May 1, 1670. My father, George Burroughs, then an ordained minister, was traveling on a circuit, preaching in stores, schoolhouses or any place where it was convenient, as most preachers did at that time. When I was four years old we moved to Salem, where father had charge of the Salem Mission, and when I was twelve years of age my mother died.

Father's liberal views did not please Samuel Harris and several other officials of the church, and they petitioned the presiding elder that he be removed.

Soon father learned that a settlement at Casco Bay, Maine, a landing on the coast nearly 100 miles north of Salem, had no preacher, so accordingly, one morning after a friend had given us our lodging, breakfast and two dollars in money, we started on foot for Casco Bay. The evening before leaving, we had spent several hours fixing up mother's grave, and as we passed by the yard the next morning we went in and knelt, and I remember how father thanked God that our angel mother had passed to the land of dreams, "Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."

On our way along the north shore road, father preached several times, for which the people lodged, fed and gave us some money. On arriving at our destination, father announced that he would preach next morning, Sunday, in Gordon Richardson's barn. Well do I remember the text, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give ye rest." I noticed all paid close attention and some shed tears, and when we sang, all joined in and it seems to me I have never heard such voices since. It was a bright, clear summer day, all the little settlement was quiet, and when those standing outside joined in the chorus the peaceful strains seemed to waft my soul far away and make me think that I was with my mother.

After it was over Lucius Aborn, when shaking hands, said, "Your talk suits me, Mr. Burroughs, and although I'm not a church-going man, here is my dollar, and I want you and the boy to come right up to my house and stay six or eight weeks, and we will all pitch in and find you a place to live and preach."

CASCO BAY

Oh, how well we prospered in that little one-horse town, where there was little money, but the fields, orchards and gardens brought forth their fruit abundantly, while fish and game were plenty. The business center consisted of one large grocery and notion store, a sawmill, gristmill, fish and game market, and several large storehouses. I soon found employment in the store which was kept by Obadiah Stubbs, where I worked while I was not in school as long as I lived there.

At the end of one year, father had ninety members in his flock, and was still preaching in the schoolhouse. Eight years after our arrival, the congregation had built a commodious log and plastered church and father was receiving four hundred dollars salary, while I had saved two hundred dollars. With this and father's savings, we bought the Dimmick place, a comfortable village home.

On my twenty-first birthday I married Fanny Shepherd, a beautiful blue-eyed girl of eighteen, when we, with father, moved into our new quarters, and as Mr. Stubbs had proposed taking me in as a partner, we looked forward to a happy and prosperous life.

Father's affectionate acts and words to Fanny caused her to love him and, when we were blessed with a little baby boy, our happiness was complete, but, oh, how little did I dream of the dark storm that was gathering on yonder horizon, whose distant thunder I could not hear, and angry lightning I could not see, but whose dark mantle, when spread over, would cause me to bow down in grief, such as few ever realize.

DEACON HOBBS

Deacon Hobbs, returning in March, from Salem, stated in open church that he had learned that George Burroughs was not a regularly ordained minister, even if he once had been, and if he received spiritual aid, as he claimed, it was not the spirit of God, but that of the devil. He advised all members to beware of wolves in sheep clothing.

Father replied: "'An evil tree cannot bring forth good fruit.' Look to the right and left, Deacon Hobbs, and view the two hundred members working in the Master's vineyard. Compare my life of the past few years with yours. I, with my son's assistance, and the liberality of my flock, have saved enough to buy a modest home, while you have sponged up nearly half the wealth of this town. Your barns, storehouses, and pockets are full. I have not charged usury for money, cheated the red man out of his honest dues or trampled upon the rights of widows and orphans; all these things you have done. I think I divine your purpose; but now listen, you steeple of soulless piety, neither insinuations nor acts will intimidate me. Not for an extension of this momentary life would I budge one hair to the right or left from the path my Master has laid out for me. He knows it all, and why should I fear?" At this point Hobbs left the church.

THE ARREST

On May 4, 1692, father, Fanny and myself were at the table with the baby boy in father's arms, he saying that it did not seem to him that the whole family was there unless he had the baby on his knee. As dear Fanny was joking him about feeding a baby two weeks old, two officers stepped into the room and read a warrant to him. It was for the arrest of George Burroughs as being suspected of being in complicity with the Devil. The warrant was dated Boston, April 30th, 1692. (See Boston Records.)

Without permission to bid us privately good-bye, his hands were shackled, he was placed on a horse, and they rode away at full gallop.

Fanny was in no condition to be left alone, but she urged me to saddle her father's horse at once and follow on. Soon the horse was waiting for me, but she could not let me go, she wept so bitterly while she flung her lovely arms around my neck, but at last with one sweet kiss she bade me hasten and said she would go home to Father Shepherd's until I returned.

Fanny, oh, Fanny! How little did I think the heart which loved me so fondly would soon be silent in the grave and I a fugitive and a wanderer—no friends, no home, and no one to love me.

Twenty miles away I caught up with them, when we rode nearly three days, with father's hands unnecessarily shackled, most of the time. The second day he said: "Jimmy, this is my last earthly ride. The church is in error and will continue its injustice until some tragedy awakens the people, then it will be restrained. I may as well suffer as another. Jesus intends righteousness to eventually govern His church, but his professed followers are often blind to truth and righteousness, and will be until some great wrong is committed whereby they can place right against wrong for compromise. Do not weep, my boy, soon, in a moment as it were, you and I will stand before the judge, and who will this judge be? Our lives, just the plain record of our lives. There and then we can easily forgive those who have wronged us, but if we have wronged others, will their forgiveness to us set us free? Not unless a higher power steps in. Oh, this will be all right, my son, when the sunlight of Jesus shall awaken us to the new born day. I was thinking last night how glad I was that Jesus had already pleaded my cause. Oh, yes, the cause of poor unworthy me. Pray, pray, humbly my brave boy. Pray that you enter not into temptation and seek revenge. Do not forget that your Heavenly Father knows your inmost secret thoughts, and when you pray ask Jesus to forgive my tormentors, for as he said on Calvary, 'They know not what they do.'"

I will omit the bitter experience I passed through during father's sham trial and cruel execution.

THE MARTYRS

The public records of the execution of the Salem martyrs were:

June 10, 1692.

Bridget Bishop.

July 19, 1692.

Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes, Lizzie Howe, Rebecca Nurse, Susanna Martin.

August 19, 1692.

George Burroughs, John Proctor, George Jacobs, John Willard, Martha Carrier.

September 19, 1692.

Giles Corey.

September 22, 1692.

Martha Corey, Mary Easty, Alice Parker, Ann Pudeator, Margaret Scott, Wilmot Reed, Samuel Wardwell, Mary Parker.

Abel Pike, John Richardson, Mary Parsons, Annie Hibbins, Margaret Jones, and others were known to have been executed, but there is no record of their arrest or trial at Salem. On the gallows, Richardson said: "Go on with your hanging, I do not want to live in a world with such fools."