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 corresponding with that of bishop in point of authority, for that it was only a nominal title appears from her associating with herself, as we shall see presently, a bishop who is described as 'the anointed head and chief of all bishops, and she the most blessed chief of all virgins' (, p. 12). Some time after, having gone to King Dunlaing to make a request, one of his slaves offers to become a Christian if she will obtain his freedom. She therefore asks the two favours, saying, 'If thou desirest excellent children, and a kingdom for thy sons, and heaven for thyself, give me the two boons I ask.' The answer of the pagan king is quite in character: 'The kingdom of heaven, as I see it not, and as no one knows what thing it is, I seek not; and a kingdom for my sons I seek not, for I shall not myself be extant, and let each one serve his time. But give me length of life and victory always over the Húi Néill.'

The great event of her life was the foundation of Kildare (cill dara, 'the church of the oak'). Cogitosus (830-835) has left us a description of this church as it existed in his time, from which it appears that it was divided by a partition which separated the sexes, her establishment comprising both men and women. The tombs of Bishop Condlaed and Brigit were placed, highly decorated with pendent crowns of gold, silver, and gems, one on the right hand, and the other on the left of the high altar. The Irish bishops, it should be mentioned, wore crowns after the custom of the eastern church instead of mitres. After gathering her community she found she required the services of a bishop, and she accordingly chose (elegit) a holy man, a solitary, named Condlaed, 'to govern the church with her in episcopal dignity.' Condlaed was thus a monastic bishop under the orders of the head of the establishment as in the Columbian monasteries mentioned by Bæda (, p. 13).

The death of Brigit took place at Kildare on 1 Feb. 523, which is her day in the calendar, and she was undoubtedly buried in Kildare, as already mentioned. On the other hand, a tradition current for many centuries has it that she was buried in Downpatrick with St. Patrick and St. Columba. This is now known to have been a fraud of John de Courcey, lord of Down, got up by him in the hope that the supposed possession of their bodies would conciliate the Irish to his rule (Annals of Four Masters). The Irish life in conclusion says that Brigit is 'the Mary of the Gael,' or, as it is in Broccan's hymn, 'she was one mother of the king's son,' which the gloss explains 'she was one of the mothers of Christ.' This strange manner of speaking which Irish ecclesiastics made use of, not only at home, but on the continent, to the astonishment of their hearers, is explained in a poem of Nicolas de Bibera, by a reference to Matthew xii. 50: 'Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother and sister and mother.' Looking through the haze of miracles in which her acts are enveloped, we discern a character of great energy and courage, warmly affectionate, generous, and unselfish, and wholly absorbed by a desire to promote the glory of God, and to relieve suffering in all its forms. Such a personality could not but impress itself on the imagination of the Irish people, as hers has done in a remarkable degree.

 BRIGSTOCKE, THOMAS (1809–1881), portrait-painter, commenced his studies at the age of sixteen at Sass's drawing-school, and was subsequently a pupil of H. P. Briggs, R.A., and J. P. Knight, R.A. He spent eight years in Paris and Italy, and made some copies from pictures by the old masters, among them one of Raphael's 'Transfiguration' in the Vatican, which, on the recommendation of W. Collins, R.A., was purchased for Christ Church, Albany Street, Regent's Park. In 1847 he went to Egypt, and painted the portrait of Mehemet Ali. Between 1843 and 1865 Brigstocke exhibited sixteen works at the Royal Academy, and two at the British Institution. His portrait of General Sir James Outram is now in the National Portrait Gallery; that of General Sir William Nott at the Oriental Club, Hanover Square; and that of Cardinal Wiseman at St. Cuthbert's College, Ushaw. He painted an historical picture entitled 'The Prayer for Victory." He died suddenly on 11 March 1881.

  BRIHTNOTH (d. 991), ealdorman of the East Saxons, married Æthelflæd, daughter of the ealdorman Ælfgar, and succeeded him in his office, probably about 953. As Brihtnoth's sister-in-law Æthelflæd was the wife of Æthelstan, ealdorman of the East Anglians, the friend of Dunstan, it is probable that he


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 was the uncle of Æthelstan's son, Æthelwine, the leader of the monastic party (, Conquest of England, 286, 352). He strongly upheld the cause of the monks, and made lavish grants to monastic foundations, especially to Ely and Ramsey. It is said that when he went to fight his last battle he asked Wulfsige, abbot of Ramsey, for food for his army. Wulfsige replied that the ealdorman and six or seven of his personal following could be maintained, but not the whole host. 'Tell the abbot,' Brihtnoth said, 'that as I cannot fight without my men, I will not eat without them,' and he turned and marched to Ely, where the abbot gladly entertained the whole army. In return he gave the house wide estates, and much gold and silver. The story is told with some considerable differences both in the Ely and the Ramsey history (, iii. Hist. Ram. 432, Eli. 492). It has been wholly rejected by modern criticism (, Norman Conquest, i. 297, n. i). While some details in both versions are doubtless imaginary (the Ely history makes Brihtnoth ealdorman of the Northumbrians, and the Ramsey writer is regardless of geography), there seems no reason for refusing to believe that the tradition is based on fact. The Ely historian, who tells it of an earlier battle, which for lack of knowledge he also places at Maldon, may be near the truth. When in 991 a fleet of Norwegian ships under Justin and Guthmund, and possibly Olaf Tryggvason, plundered Ipswich, Brihtnoth, who was then an old man, went out to meet the invaders. He gave them battle near Maldon, on the banks of the Blackwater, then called the Panta. The fight is described in one of the very few old English poems of any length that have come down to us. In its present incomplete state this poem consists of 690 lines ( Analecta Anglo-Saxonica, 131, in translation Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry, xc., in rhythm in  Old English History}. Out of greatness of soul the ealdorman allowed a large number of the enemy to cross the water without opposition. A detailed description of the battle founded on the lay is to be found in Dr. Freeman's 'Norman Conquest' (i. 297-303). Brihtnoth was wounded early in the fight. He slew the man who wounded him and another, then he laughed and 'thanked God for the day's work that his Lord gave him.' After a while he was wounded again, and died commending his soul to God. The English were defeated; the personal following of the ealdorman fell fighting over his body. Brihtnoth's head was cut off and carried away by the enemy; his body was borne to Ely and buried by the abbot, who supplied the place of the head with a ball of wax. His widow Æthelflæd gave many gifts to Ely, and among them a tapestry in which she wrought the deeds of her husband.

 BRIHTRIC. [See .]  BRIHTWALD (660?–731), the eighth archbishop of Canterbury, whose name is variously spelt by different writers, was of noble if not royal lineage ( Gest. Reg. i. 29), and was born about the middle of the seventh century, but neither the place nor the exact date of his birth is known. It is doubtful whether he was educated at Glastonbury ; but Bede says (v. 8) that, although not to be compared with his predecessor Theodore, he was thoroughly read in Scripture, and well instructed in ecclesiastical and monastic discipline. Somewhere about 670 the palace of the kings of Kent at Reculver was converted into a monastery, of which Brihtwald was made abbot. In a charter dated May 679 Alothari, king of Kent,bestows lands in Thanet upon him and his monastery (, Cod. Dipl. i. 16). Two years after the death of Theodore, Brihtwald was elected archbishop of Canterbury 1 July 692. Being probably unwilling to receive consecration at the hands of Wilfrith, archbishop of York, who had been opposed to Theodore [see ], he crossed over to Gaul, and was consecrated by the primate Godwin, archbishop of Lyons, on 29 June 693 (, v. 8). Two letters of Pope Sergius are quoted by William of Malmesbury (Gest. Pont. ed. Hamilton, pp. 52-55), one addressed to the kings Æthelred, Aldfrith, and Ealdulph, exhorting them to receive Brihtwald as 'primate of all Britain,' the other to the English bishops, enjoining obedience to him as such ; but the authenticity of these letters is doubtful ( and, iii. 65). In 696 he attended the council of 'the great men' summoned by Wihtred, king of Kent, at Berghamstede or Bersted, in which laws were passed prescribing the penalties to be exacted for various offences, ecclesiastical and moral ; and somewhere between 696 and 716 some ordinances, seemingly drawn up by him for securing the rights of the monasteries in Kent, were confirmed by the king in a council held at Beccanceld (probably Bapchild). The document is commonly known as the 'Privilege of Wihtred' (ibid. 233-240). In 702 he presided at the council of Estrefeld or Onestrefeld (near Ripon ?), attended by [q. v.], king of

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Author:Sebastiaen Jansen Krol

Works

 * Contract of sale of land along the Hudson River from the Mahican Indians to Kiliaen van Rensselaer (1630)

Works addressed to Krol

 * Instructions to Bastiaen Jansz Krol from Kiliaen van Rensselaer (January 10, 1630) (1630)

title: Author:Sebastiaen Jansen Krol


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Author:Kiliaen van Rensselaer

Works

 * Instructions to Bastiaen Jansz Krol from Kiliaen van Rensselaer (January 10, 1630)
 * Notification by Samuel Godyn, Kiliaen van Rensselaer and Samuel Blommaert that they send two persons to New Netherland to inspect the country (1629)

Works about van Rensselaer

 * Contract of sale of land along the Hudson River from the Mahican Indians to Kiliaen van Rensselaer (1630)
 * Registration by Kiliaen van Rensselaer and associates of a colony above and below Fort Orange, on both sides of the North River (1629)

title: Author:Kiliaen van Rensselaer


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the early days of our history a belief in witchcraft, so far from being peculiar to Massachusetts, was held throughout Christendom. By no means confined to the ignorant or superstitious classes, it was entertained by educated and thoughtful men everywhere. It was a delusion for which the age was responsible, rather than any particular land or country. To us of to-day, with our light and experience, this state of affairs seems incredible; but perhaps a time may come when even some of our actions will need apologies and explanations.

In the autumn of 1671 a case of so-called witchcraft occurred at Groton, and the Reverend Samuel Willard, at that time the minister of the town, gave much attention and study to it. He wrote a long letter to Cotton Mather, giving the minutest details of the case, and Dr. Mather refers to it in his "Magnalia Christi Americana" (book vi. chapter vii. page 67). Two years later Mr. Willard published a volume of sermons entitled "Useful Instructions for a professing People in Times of great Security and Degeneracy: delivered in several Sermons on Solemn Occasions." It consists


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6 of three sermons, of which one was preached in consequence of this supposed manifestation of the Devil. The fame or notoriety of the case evidently had spread far and wide throughout the colony. Mr. Willard says:

The victim of the witchcraft was one Elizabeth Knapp, who had the long train of symptoms which were then usually ascribed to the personal influence of the Evil One, but which nowadays would constitute a well-marked case of hysteria. She was the daughter of James and Elizabeth (Warren) Knapp, and born at Watertown, on April 21, 1655. Her father's house-lot was situated on the west side of Main Street, at the southerly end of the village; and the family were living, doubtless, on that site when the daughter was seized with the symptoms.

The original letter of Mr. Willard, describing the case, is still preserved, and is found numbered 3 in the second volume of the "Mather Papers" now at the Boston Public Library. It is written in a very small, cramped hand, and contained in four pages of manuscript, which is extremely difficult to read. It has been printed in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, volume viii., fourth series, pages 555-570; but the present copy is made independently of that one, and varies slightly from it. The letter is as follows:—


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Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter II

Chapter II.
Lucy left the room immediately after breakfast.

“My pretty Lucy seems to have the megrims,” said Major Kerr. “Is that on the cards for a blushing bride?”

“She sighs for the hour when Adonis shall name her his,” replied the mother, with a half-sneer.

“Confound it, Madam! I believe you are laughing at me,” the blowsy Adonis grumbled.

He lifted himself from the table, and swaggered off to the fire, with a gorged movement. He probably had never seen a turkey-buzzard lounging away from carrion; but he unconsciously imitated that unattractive fowl.

The débris of his meal, the husks of what he did eat, remained in an unpleasant huddle on the table, proving that a great, gross feeder had been there.

He stood before the fire, a big red object, the type of many Englishmen who were sent over in the Revolution to disenchant us with monarchy. The chances are nearly ten to one in favor of an Englishman’s being a gentleman. Our mother country seemed to have carefully decimated her civil and military service of its brutes, to do the dirty work of flogging the Continentals.

Kerr stood before the fire, making a picture of himself.

A handsomish animal! Other women might call him le bel homme without Mrs. Brothertoft’s tone of contempt. He had evidently given the artists of the alcoholic school — Brandy and that brotherhood — frequent sittings. They paint rubicund, and had not been chary of carnations in his case. His red uniform-jacket gave him the air of an overgrown boy. But not a frank, merry one; nor even an oafish, well-meaning dolt of a chap. This great boy is a bully. Smaller urchins would suffer under his thumb. He would crush a butterfly, or, indeed, anything gentle and tender, without much ceremony.

So Mrs. Brothertoft seemed to think, as she surveyed him, posed there for inspection.

She smiled to herself, and thought, “This sensual tyrant will presently give Miss Lucy something else to do than insult me with her prudish airs.”

“Dash it, Ma’am!” Kerr repeated, — his caste, in his time, dashed freely, — “do you mean to hint the girl is not fond of me?”

“Fond! she adores you. See how jealous she is! She cannot leave you one moment.”

“I’d have you to know, Madam, with your sneers, that better blood than your daughter have been fond of me.”

“Why didn’t Adonis stay in the home market, then, instead of putting himself in the Provincial?”

“You know why! I don’t make any secret of my debts and my peccadillos. You know as much about me as I do about you, my mother-in-law.”

She winced a little at this coarse familiarity. It was part of her inevitable punishment to be so treated. Ah! how bitterly she remembered, at such words, the reverent courtesy of her husband! how bitterly, his pitying tenderness, even when she had dishonored him, so far as his honor was in her power! But she hardened herself against these memories, and her vindictiveness against that daughter of his grew more cruel.

“You must allow,” continued Kerr, “that you get me dem cheap.”

“Cheap!” she rejoined. “Cheap with the debts and the peccadillos! Cheap, white feather and all!”

“Who says I ever showed the white feather?” roared Kerr. “That’s one of that muscadin, Jack André’s lies. He wants my place as Adjutaut to Sir Henry. Bah! the shop-keeping, play-acting, rhyme-writing milksop! he’d better keep his Swiss jaws shut, and not slander a British nobleman!”

“Nobleman!” says his hostess, evidently taking pleasure in galling her conspirator; “I thought you were only a peer’s third son.”

“There are but three lives between me and the earldom, — an old gouty life, Tom’s jockey life, and Dick’s drunken one. Your daughter will be Countess of Bendigh one of these days, and you’d both better be careful how you treat me.”

“How could I treat you better?” I give you the prettiest girl in the Province, with the prettiest portion.”

“Have I got to tell you again, that not every man would take your daughter? You needn’t look so fierce about it.”

She did look fierce. She looked — la belle sauvage — as if she could handle a scalping-knife. And no wonder! This was not very pretty talk on either side.

It was not very pretty work they had plotted. Hate must have become very bitter in the mother’s heart before she chose this brute and booby for her daughter’s husband. She did not even perceive the dull spark of a better nature, not utterly quenched in him, — gross, dissolute, overbearing, heavy, that he was. She wished to be rid of Lucy Brothertoft, — this was the first thing. If, besides, she got an ally on the royalist side, and a son-in-law who could help her to a place in society in England, it was clear gain.

But enough of this conspiracy!

Will the father and that young rebel sans moustache be bold and speedy enough to defeat it?

title: Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter II


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 Rh

poore & miserable object, about a fortnight before shee was taken, wee observed to carry herselfe in a strange & unwonted manner, sometimes shee would give sudden shriekes, & if wee enquired a Reason, would alwayes put it off with some excuse, & then would burst forth into iḿoderate & extravagant laughter, in such wise, as some times shee fell onto ye ground wth it: I my selfe observed oftentimes a strange change in here countenance, but could not suspect ye true reason, but coneived shee might bee ill, & yrfore divers times enquired how shee did, & shee alwayes answered well; wch made mee wonder: but the tragedye began to unfold itselfe upon Munday, Octob. 30. 71, after this mañer (as I received by credible information, being that day my selfe gon from home). In the evening, a little before shee went to bed, sitting by ye fire, shee cryed out, oh my legs! & clapt her hand on ym, immediately oh my breast! & removed her hands thither; & forthwith, oh I am strangled, & put her hands on her throat: those yt observed her could not see what to make of it; whither shee was in earnest or dissembled, & in this mañer they left her (excepting ye person yt lay with her) complaining of her breath being stopt: The next day shee was in a strange frame, (as wasobserved by divers) sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, & many foolish & apish gestures. In ye evening, going into ye cellar, shee shrieked suddenly, & being enquired of ye cause, shee answered, yt shee saw 2 persons in ye cellar; whereupon some went downe with her to search, but found none; shee also looking with ym; at last shee turned her head, & looking one way stedfastly, used ye exprssion, wt cheere old man? which, they that were with her tooke for a fansye, & soe ceased; afterwards (ye same evening,) ye rest of the family being in bed, shee was (as one lying in ye roome saw, & shee herselfe also afterwards related) suddenly throwne downe into ye midst of ye floore wth violence, & taken with a violent fit, whereupon ye whole family was raised, & with much adoe was shee kept out of ye fire frõ destroying herselfe after wch time she was followed wth fits from thence till ye sabbath day; in which shee was violent in bodily motions, leapings, strainings & strange agitations, scarce to bee held in bounds by the strength of 3 or 4: violent alsoe in roarings & screamings,


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Author:Samuel Blommaert

Works

 * Notification by Samuel Godyn, Kiliaen van Rensselaer and Samuel Blommaert that they send two persons to New Netherland to inspect the country (1629)

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 Rh reprsenting a dark resemblance of hellish torments, & frequently using in these fits divers words, sometimes crying out money, money, sometimes, sin & misery with other words. On wednesday, being in the time of intermission questioned about the case shee was in, with reference to the cause or occasion of it, shee seemed to impeach one of the neighbors, a person (I doubt not) of sincere uprightnesse before God, as though either shee, or the devill in her likenesse & habit, particularly her riding hood, had come downe the chimney, stricken her that night shee was first taken violently, which was the occasion of her being cast into the floore; whereupon those about her sent to request the person to come to her, who coming unwittingly, was at the first assaulted by her stranglye, for though her eyes were (as it were) sealed up (as they were alwayes, or for the most part, in those fits, & soe continue in them all to this day) shee yet knew her very touch from any other, though no voice were uttered, & discovered it evidently by her gestures, soe powerfull were Satans suggestions in her, yet afterward God was pleased to vindicate the case & justifye the innocent, even to remove jealousyes from the spirits of the party concerned, & satisfaction of the by standers; for after shee had gon to prayer with her, shee confessed that she beleeved Satan had deluded her, & hath never since complained of any such apparition or disturbance from the person. These fits continuing, (though with intermission) divers, (when they had opportunity) pressed upon her to declare what might bee the true & real occasion of these amazing fits. Shee used many tergiversations & excuses, pretending shee would to this & that young person, who coming, she put it off to another, till at the last, on thurdsday night, shee brake forth into a large confession in the presence of many, the substance whereof amounted to thus much: That the devill had oftentimes appeared to her, presenting the treaty of a Covenant, & preffering largely to her: viz, such things as suted her youthfull fancye, money, silkes, fine cloaths, ease from labor to show her the whole world, &c: that it had bin then 3 yeers since his first appearance, occasioned by her discontent: That at first his apparitions had bin more rare, but lately more frequent; yea those few weekes that shee had dwelt with us almost constant, that shee seldome went out of one roome into another, but hee appeared to her urging of her: & yt hee had presented her a booke written with blood of covenants made by others with him, & told her such & such (of some wherof we hope better things) had a name there;


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 that hee urged upon her constant temptations to murder her parents, her neighbors, our children, especially the youngest, tempting her to throw it into the fire, on the hearth, into the oven; & that once hee put a bill hooke into her hand, to murder my selfe, persuading her I was asleep, but coming about it, shee met me on the staires at which shee was affrighted,the time I remember well, & observd a strange frame in her countenance & saw she endeavered to hide something, but I knew not what, neither did I at all suspect any such matter; & that often he persuaded her to make away with herselfe & once she was going to drowne herselfe in the well, for, looking into it, shee saw such sights as allured her, & was gotten within the curbe, & was by God's providence prevented, many other like things shee related, too tedious to recollect: but being pressed to declare whither she had not consented to a covenant with the Devill, shee with solemne assertions denyed it, yea asserted that shee had never soe much as consented to discorse with him, nor had ever but once before that night used the expession, What cheere, old man? & this argument shee used, that the providence of God had ordered it soe, that all his apparitions had bin frightfull to her; yet this shee acknowledged, (which seemed contradictorye, viz :) that when shee came to our house to schoole, before such time as shee dwelt with us, shee delayed her going home in the evening, till it was darke, (which wee observed) upon his persuasion to have his company home, & that shee could not, when hee appeared, but goe to him; one evident testimony wherof wee can say somthing to, viz. the night before the Thanksgiving, Octob. 19. shee was with another maid that boarded in the house, where both of them saw the appearance of a mans head & shoulders, with a great white neckcloath, looking in at the window, at which they came up affrighted both into the chamber, where the rest of us were, they declaring the case, one of us went downe to see who it might bee, but shee ran immediately out of the doore before him, which shee hath since confessed, was the Devill coming to her; shee also acknowledged the reason of her former sudden shriekings, was from a sudden apparition, & that the devill put these excuses into her mouth, & bit her soe to say, & hurried her into those violent (but shee saith feigned & forced) laughters: shee then also complained against herselfe of many sins, disobedience to parents, neglect of attendance upon ordinances, attempts to murder herselfe & others; but this particular of a covenant shee utterly disclaimed: which relation seemed faire,


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 especially in that it was attended with bitter teares, selfe condemnations, good counsells given to all about her, especially the youth then present, & an earnest desire of prayers: shee sent to Lancaster for Mr. Rowlandson, who came & prayed with her, & gave her serious counsells; but shee was still followed, all this notwithstanding, with these fits: & in this state (coming home on fryday) I found her; but could get nothing from her, whenever I came in presence shee fell into those fits, concerning which fits, I find this noteworthy, shee knew & understood what was spoken to her, but could not answer, nor use any other words but the forementioned, money, &c: as long as the fit continued, for when shee came out of it, shee could give a relation of all that had been spoken to her: shee was demanded a reason why shee used those words in her fits, & signifyed that the Devill presented her with such things, to tempt her, & with sin & miserye, to terrifye her; shee also declared that shee had seene the Devills in their hellish shapes, & more Devills then any one there ever saw men in the world. Many of these things I heard her declare on Saturday at night: On the Sabbath the Physitian came, who judged a maine point of her distempr to be naturall, arising from the foulnesse of her stomacke, & corruptnesse of her blood, occasioning fumes in her braine, & strange fansyes; whereupon (in order to further tryall & administration) shee was removed home, & the succeeding weeke shee tooke physicke, & was not in such violence handled in her fits as before; but enjoyed an intermission, & gave some hopes of recovery; in which intermission shee was altogether sencelesse (as to our discoverye) of her state, held under securitye, & hardnesse of heart, professing shee had no trouble upon her spirits, shee cried satan had left her: A solemne day was kept with her, yet it had then, (as I apprehend,) little efficacy upon her; shee that day again expressed hopes that the Devill had left her, but there was little ground to thinke soe, because she remained under such extreame sencelessenesse of her owne estate: & thus shee continued, being exercised with some moderate fits, in which shee used none of the former expressions, but sometimes fainted away, sometimes used some struglings, yet not with extremitye, till the Wednesday following, which day was spent in prayer with her, when her fits something more encreased, & her tongue was for many houres together drawne into a semicircle up to the roofe of her mouth, & not to be remooved, for some tryed with the fingers to doe it: from thence till the sabbath seven


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 night following: she continued alike, only shee added to former confessions, of her twise consenting to travell with the Devill in her company between Groton & Lancaster, who accompanied her in forme of a blacke dog with eyes in his backe, sometimes stopping her horse, sometimes leaping up behind, & keeping her (when she came home with company) 40 rod at least behind, leading her out of the way into a swampe, &c.: but still no conference would shee owne, but urged that the devills quarell with her was because shee would not seale a covenant with him, & that this was the ground of her first being taken. besides this nothing observable came from her, only one morning shee said God is a father, the next morning, God is my father, which words (it is to be feared) were words of presumption, put into her mouth by the adversary. I suspecting the truth of her former storye, pressed, whether shee never verbally promised to covenant with him, which shee stoutly denyed: only acknowledged that shee had had some thoughts soe to doe: but on the forenamed Nov. 26. shee was again with violence & extremity seized by her fits, in such wise that 6 persons could hardly hold her, but shee leaped & skipped about the house proforce roaring, & yelling extreamly, & fetching deadly sighs, as if her heartstrings would have broken, & looking wth a frightfull aspect, to the amazement & astonishment of all the beholders, of which I was an eye witnesse: The Physitian being then agen with her consented that the distemper was Diabolicall, refused further to administer, advised to extraordinary fasting; whereupon some of Gods ministers were sent for: shee meane while continued extreamly tormented night & day, till Tuesday about noon; having this added on Munday & Tuesday morning that shee barked like a dog, & bleated like a calfe, in which her organs were visibly made use of: yea, (as was carefully observed) on Munday night, & Tuesday morning, when ever any came neere the house, though they within heard nothing at all, yet would shee barke till they were come into the house, on Tuesday, about 12 of the clocke, she came out of the fit, which had held her from Sabbath day about the same time, at least 48 howers, with little or no intermission, & then her speech was restored to her, & shee expressed a great seeming sence of her state: many bitter teares, sighings, sobbings, complainings shee uttered, bewailing of many sins fore mentioned, begging prayers, & in the houre of prayer expressing much affection : I then pressed if there were anything behind in reference to the dealings between her & Satan,


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 when she agen professed that shee had related all: & declared that in those fits the devill had assaulted her many wayes, that hee came downe the chimney, & shee essayed to escape him, but was siezed upon by him, that hee sat upon her breast, & used many arguments with her, & that hee urged here at one time with persuasions & promises, of ease, & great matters, told her that shee had done enough in what shee had already confessed, shee might henceforth serve him more securely; anon told hir her time was past, & there was no hopes unlesse shee would serve him; & it was observed in the time of her extremity, once when a little moments respite was granted her of speech, shee advised us to make our peace with God, & use our time better then shee had done, the party advised her also to bethinke herselfe of making her peace, shee replyed, it is too late for me : the next day was solemnized, when we had the presence of Mr. Bulkley, Mr. Rowlandson, & Mr. Estabrooke, whither coming, we found her returned to a sottish & stupid kind of frame, much was prest upon her, but no affection at all discovered; though shee was little or nothing exercised with any fits, & her speech also continued: though a day or two after shee was melancholye & being enquired of a reason, shee complained that shee was grieved that so much pains were taken wth her, & did her no good, but this held her not long: & thus shee remained till Munday, when to some neighbors there present, shee related something more of he converse with the devill, viz. That it had bin 5 yeers or therabouts, since shee first saw him, & declared methodically the sundry apparitions from time to time, till shee was thus dreadfully assaulted, in which, the principall was, that after many assaults, shee had resolved to seale a covenant with Satan, thinking shee had better doe it, then be thus followed by him, that once, when shee lived at Lancaster, he presented himselfe, & desired of her blood, & shee would have done it, but wanted a knife, in the parley shee was prevented by the providence of God interposing my father; a 2nd time in the house hee met her, & presented her a knife, & as she was going about it my father stept in agen & prevented, that when shee sought & enquired for the knife, it was not to bee found, & that afterward shee saw it sticking in the top of the barne, & some other like passages shee agen owned an observable passage which shee also had confessed in her first declaration, but is not there inserted, viz. that the devill had often proffered her his service, but shee accepted not; & once in ptic: to bring her in chips for the fire,


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Rh shee refused, but when shee came in shee saw them lye by the fire side, & was affraid, & this I remarke, I sitting by yᵉ fire spake to her to lay yᵐ on, & she turned away in an unwonted manner: she then also declared aᵍˢᵗ herselfe her unprofitable life she had led, & how justly God had thus permitted Satan to handle her, telling them, they little knew wᵗ a sad case shee was in. I after asked her concerning these passages, & shee owned the truth of them, & declared that now shee hoped the devill had left her, but being prest whether there were not a covenant, she earnestly professed, that by Gods goodnesse shee had bin prevented from doing that, which shee of herselfe had been ready enough to assent to; & shee thanked God there was no such thing: The same day shee was agen taken with a new kind of unwonted fitt in which after shee had bin awhile exercised with violence, shee got her a sticke, & went up and downe, thrusting, & pushing, here & there, & anon looking out at a window, & cryed out of a witch appearing in a strange manner in forme of a dog downward, with a womans head, & declared the person, other whiles that shee appeard in her whole likenesse, & described her shape and habit: signifyed that shee went up the chimney & went her way: what impression wee reade in the clay of the chimney, in similitude of a dogs paw, by the operation of Satan, & in the form of a dogs going in the same place she tould of, I shall not conclude, though something there was, as I myselfe saw in the chimney in the same place where shee declared the foot was set to goe up: In this manner was she handled that night, & the 2 next dayes, using strange gestures, complaining by signes, when shee could not speake explaining that shee was sometimes in the chamber, somet. in the chimney, & anon assaults her, sometimes scratching her breast, beating her sides, strangling her throat, & she did oftentimes seeme to our apprehension as if shee would forthwith bee strangled: She declared that if the party were apprehended shee should forthwith bee well, but never till then; whereupon her father went, & percured the coming of the woman impeached by her, who came downe to her on Thurdsday night, where (being desired to be present) I observed that she was violently handled, & lamentably tormented by the adversarye, & uttered unusual shriekes at the instant of the persons coming in, though her eyes were fast closed: but having experience of such former actings, wee made nothing of it, but waited the issue: God therefore was sought to, to signifye something. whereby the innocent might bee acquitted, or the guilty dis-


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Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter III

Chapter III.
Place aux héros!

To-day the lady of Brothertoft Manor dines Sir Henry Clinton and suite.

If General Putnam should ever march back, and blame her that she gave aid and comfort to the enemy, she will say that she was forced to protect herself by a little sham hospitality.

It may be sham, but it is liberal. Sappho contributes her most faithful soup. The river gives a noble sturgeon, — and “Albany beef,” treated as turbot, with sauce blanche, is fish for anybody’s fork. The brooks supply trouts by the bushel. The Highlands have provided special venison for this festival. The Manor kills its fatted calf, its sweetest mutton, its sprightliest young turkey, fed on honeydew grasshoppers. There is a plum-pudding big as a pumpkin. Alas that no patriot palate will vibrate to the passing love-taps of these substantial good things!

All is ready, and Lady Brothertoft — so she loves to be called — awaits her distinguished guests, in her grandest attire.

But, calm and stately as she sits, there is now miserable panic and now cruel hate in her heart; for all the time she is whispering to herself.

“Lucy did not kiss me. It is the first time in all her life. Edwin Brothertoft’s daughter has discovered at last what I am. Did he come in a dream and tell her?”

Then she would raise her eyes as far as those fair hands lying in her daughter’s lap, — no higher, no higher, or the daughter would face her, — and think of the wedding-ring that her plot is presently to force upon one of those locked fingers. She could hardly keep back a scream of wild triumph at the thought.

So the mother sits, and holds her peace, such as it is. The daughter waits, in a strange dream of patience. Major Kerr swaggers about, admires his legs, feels embarrassed before his mute betrothed, looks at his watch and grumbles, “It’s half past two. Dinner’s three, sharp. The soup will be spoiled if they don’t show presently.”

They begin to show now upon the quarterdecks of the three frigates in the river. The guests, in full bloom of scarlet and gold, come up from cabin and ward-room of the Tartar, the Preston, and the Mercury. Jack on the forecastle has his joke, as each new figure struts forth, dodging whatever would stain or flavor him tarry. The belated men call to their servants, “Bear a hand there, you lubber, with the flour for my hair-powder! How the devil did that spot come on my coat-sleeve! Why the devil didn’t you have these ruffles starched?”

The last man now struggles into his tightest Hessians. The last man draws on his silk stockings. The last mans his pumps. Sir Henry Clinton comes out with Commodore Hotham. The captain’s gig has been swinging half an hour in the shade of the frigate’s hull. Present arms, sentry at the gangway! Here they come, down the black side of the ship. Fire and feathers, how splendid! Take care of your sword, Sir Henry, or you’ll trip and get a ducking instead of a dinner! They scuttle into the stern-sheets. The oarsmen, in their neatest holiday rig, scoff in their hearts, and name these great personages “lobsters” and “land-lubbers.” The captain’s coxswain, the prettiest man of the whole ship’s company, gives the word, “Shove off!” Boat-hook shoves, Jack on deck peers through the port-holes. A topman, aloft, accidentally drops a tarry bit of spunyarn and hits Sir Henry on his biggish nose. “Back starboard,” the pretty coxswain orders. “Pull port!” “Give way all!” And so we go to dinner! And so from men-of-war in our time heroes go to dinners ashore.

And now the gay party enters the dining-room at Brothertoft Manor.

How bright the sunbeams of the October afternoon, ricochetting from the smooth Hudson into the windows, gleam on the epaulets and buttons of a dozen gorgeous officers! One special ray is clearly detailed to signalize that star on Sir Henry Clinton’s left breast. The room is aflame with scarlet. Certainly these flamboyant heroes will presently consume away every vestige of a rebel army. Surely, after a parry or two against these dress swords, the champions of freedom will drop their points and yield their necks to the halter. Each elaborate fine gentleman, too, of all this bandboxy company, is crowned with victor bays. They plucked them only t’ other day across the river on the ramparts of Forts Clinton and Montgomery. When Jack Burgoyne sends down his bunch of laurel from Saratoga, the whole are to be tied up in one big bouquet, and despatched to tickle the nose and the heart of Farmer George at Windsor Castle.

Sir Henry Clinton — no less — Cæsar ipse — hands in the grand hostess, and takes his seat at her right. How jolly he looks, the fat little man! How his round face shines, and his protuberant nose begins to glow with inhaling the steam of the feast!

“I must have you on my left, Admiral,” says the hostess, to a hearty gentleman in naval uniform.

“Thank you for my promotion, Madam,” rejoins Commodore Hotham, dropping into his place.

At the head of her table, then, sits Lady Brothertoft, proud and handsome, flanked by the two chiefs. And down on either side the guests dispose themselves in belaurelled vista.

Major Kerr takes the foot of the table. He carves well for everybody, and best for himself. Two spoonsful of sauce blanche float his choice portion of the Albany beef. The liver of the turkey he accepts as carver’s perquisites. And when he comes to cut the saddle of venison, plenty of delicate little scraps, quite too small to offer to others, find their way to his plate.

Lucy is at his right. What? in high spirits? in gay colors? Has she so soon become a hypocrite and conspiratress? Why, the little dissembler laughs merrily, and flirts audaciously! Laughs merrily! Ah! there are bitter tears just beneath that laugh! If you call tolerating compliments from that young Captain at her right flirting, then she is flirting, and so conceals her disgust of her betrothed.

And who is that young Captain? He stole into the chair at Lucy’s right, and began to talk sentiment before he had had his soup. Who is this fine gentleman of twenty-six, with the oval face, the regular features, the slightly supercilious mouth, the dimpled chin, the hair so carefully powdered and queued? Who is this elegant petit maître? With what studied gesture he airs his ruffles! How fluently he rattles! How easily he improvises jingle! He quotes French, as if it were his mother-tongue. He smiles and sighs like an accomplished lady-killer. Who is he?

Major Emerick, of the Hessian Chasseurs, looks across the table at this gay rattle, and then whispers to his own neighbor, Lord Rawdon, “Zee dat dab maggaroni, Chack Antré; how he bake lubb to de breddy Lucie! Bajor Gurr will bide off his ’ead breddy sood.”

“Kerr may glower and look like a cannibal,” Rawdon returned, in a whisper, “but he will not eat Jack André’s head so long as there’s any of that venison left.”

“I dinked Chack was id Bedsylvadia or Cherzey,” says Emerick, wiping that enormous moustache of his, — a coarse Hessian article, planted like a bushy abattis before his mouth.

“He was,” replied Rawdon, “and I don’t see how he has been able to get here so soon, unless that is his eidolon, his wraith, and moves like the ghost in Hamlet. I suppose he heard that Kerr was going to marry the heiress, and there would be an Adjutancy looking for an Adjutant, and has posted up to offer himself. He didn’t know I was to have it. Jack is in too much hurry to be a great man. His vanity will get him into a scrape some of these days.”

So this sentimental Captain is Jack André. A pretty face; but there is gallows in it. A pretty laced cravat; but the tie has slipped ominously round under the left ear. Ah! Jack, Rawdon is right; thy vanity will be the death of thee. Suppose thou hast been jilted by the pretty Mrs. R. L. Edgeworth, née Sneyd, do not be over hasty to gain name and fame, that she may be sorry she loved the respectable Richard, and not thee, flippant Jack. Sink thy shop-keeping days; nobody remembers them against thee. Do not try by unsoldierly tricks of bribery and treachery, and a correspondence after the bagman model, to get for thyself the rank of Brigadier and the title Sir John. And, Jack, take warning that the latitude of Brothertoft Manor is unhealthy for thee in the autumn. Never come here again, or thy bootjack will draw thy boots and find death in them! Swinging by the neck is a sorry exit for a petit maître, and it must be annoying to know that, in punishment for a single shabby act, one’s fame is standing forever in the pillory in Westminster Abbey.

Captain André whispered soft nothings to Lucy. And though Kerr glowered truculently, she listened, much to the amusement of Emerick and Rawdon. Lucky, perhaps, for the daughter, that mamma, at the head of the table, did not detect this by-play! She might have scented revolt, and hastened the marriage. An hour would have brought the Tartar’s chaplain; five minutes would have clothed him in his limp surplice, and in five more, Lucy, still quelled by the old tyranny, would have stammered, “love, honor, and obey,” — and “die.”

She was not always very attentive to her butterfly companion.

Sometimes she bent forward, and looked at her mother, sitting in all her glory between Army and Navy, and the daughter’s cheeks burned with shame. She longed to fly away from all this splendor, somewhither where she could dwell innocently and weep away the infinite sorrow in her gentle heart. If she had not been too bewildered by her throng of battling hopes and fears within, by the clatter of the feast, and Jack André’s mischianza of gossip and compliment, her notions of right and wrong, of crime and punishment, would have become sadly confused.

Questions did indeed drift across her mind, — “How can she sit there so proud and handsome? How can she be so calm and hard? How can she bear the brunt of all these eyes, and lead the talk so vigorously? She wields and manages every one about her. They applaud her wit. They listen to her suggestions. She seems to comprehend these political matters better than any of them. Hear Sir Henry Clinton, ‘Madam, if you were Queen of England, these rebel Colonies would soon be taught subjection.’ It is half compliment of guest to hostess; but more than half truth. For she is an imperious, potent woman. And has evil in her soul given her this power and this knowledge? Must women sin to be strong? How can she sit there, knowing what she knows of herself, knowing what is known of her? She seems to triumph. Triumph! alas! why is she not away in silence and solitude, with a veil over her bad beauty, praying to God to forgive her for the harm she has done, and for the sin she is? Is such hypocrisy possible? Or am I deceived? May not she perhaps, perhaps, be worthy? May she not be wise and good? Is it not I who am the hypocrite? May she not mean kindly in providing me a man of rank and power as a protector in these rude times? Are not my suspicions the ignorance of a child, — my plots the wicked struggles of a rebellious heart against duty? O God, pity and guide me!”

Lucy felt tears starting to her eyes at these new and cruel thoughts, and forced herself again to listen to Jack André’s small-talk.

Jack was telling a clever story of a raid he and some brother officers had made from New York on the poultry-yards of Staten Island. An old lady with a broomstick had endeavored to defend the Clove Road against these turkey-snatchers, and he gave her drawl to the life. “Then,” says Jack, “out came Captain Rambullet, with the rusty matchlock of Rambouillet his Huguenot ancestor, and interposed a smell of cornstalk whiskey between us and his hen-roost.” This scene, too, Jack gave with twang and drawl to the life, amid roars of laughter, and cries of “Coot! coot!” from Major Emerick.

Lucy did not laugh. She had all at once discovered that her sympathies were with these rebels, nasal twang and all. “My father is one of them,” she thought. “If I am to be saved from marrying this coarse glutton, it must be by a rebel. Putnam and his officers were not so showy as these men; but they seemed more in earnest.”

I do not succeed in entertaining you, fair lady,” says André, sotto voce. “Your thoughts are all for that happy fellow beside you,” — and he looked with a little sneer towards Kerr, who was applying to Bottle for the boon of wit.

A feeling of utter despair came over poor Lucy, as she turned involuntarily, and also glanced at the animal. Then she drew away indignantly from the man who had put this little stab into her heart.

“Are there no gentlemen in the world?” she thought. “Do men dare to speak so and look so at other young ladies?”

“Loog ad de breddy Meess,” says Emerick, holding a wine-glass before his bushy abattis, as a cover. “Zhe is nod habbie wid Chack, nor wid Gurr!”

“A dozen fellows,” Rawdon rejoined, behind his glass, “of better blood than Jack, and better hearts than Kerr, would have cut in there long ago. The daughter is as sweet and pure as a lily. But who dares marry such a mother-in-law?” — and he shrugged his shoulders expressively toward the hostess.

Do we talk so at dinner-tables in 1860? eh, nous autres?

The hostess now rose, and beckoned her daughter.

“I leave you, gentlemen, to your toasts,” she said. “Major Kerr will be my representative.”

She moved to the door. Army and Navy, Albion and Hesse, all sprang to open for her. A murmur of admiration for her beauty and bearing applauded the exit. Lady Brothertoft seemed to be at her climax.

Kerr of course did not let the toasts lag.

“The King, gentlemen!”

Cheers! Drank cyathis plenis.

Sir Henry Clinton rises, gleaming star, red nose, and all, and proposes, “Our hostess!” Bumpers and uproar!

Then they load and fire, fast and furious. Bottle can hardly gallop fast enough to supply ammunition.

“The Army!” “Hooray, hooray! Speech from Lord Rawdon!”

“The Navy!” “Three cheers for Commodore Hotham!”

“The captured forts!” Drank in silence to the memory of Colonel Campbell and Count Grabowski, killed there.

“Luck to Jack Burgoyne!” “Pouting Jack,” André suggests. “May he be a spiler to Schuyler, and fling Gates over the hedge into the ditch!” Laughter and cheers, and immense rattling of glasses on the table.

“Here’s to General Vaughan and his trip up the river to-morrow! May he add a moral to the Esopus fables!”

“The Brandywine! and here’s hoping Mr. Washington may have another taste of the same cup!”

Are modern toasts and dinner-table wit of this same calibre?

Kerr rose and endeavored to offer the famous sentiment known as The Four Rules of Arithmetic. He was muddled by this time, and the toast got itself transposed. He gravely proposed, in a thick voice, and in words with no syllables, — “Addition to the Whigs! Subtraction to the Tories! Multiplication to the King’s foes! Division to his friends!” And added Kerr, out of his own head, — “Cuffush’n t’ ev’ryborry!”

Ironical cheers from Jack André. Whereupon good-natured Emerick, to cover the general serio-comic dismay, rose and said, “Shettlemen, I kiv Bajor Gurr and his breddy bride.” Double bumpers. Hoorayryrayryray! Rattle everybody, with glasses, forks, and nut-crackers. One enthusiast flung his glass over his head, and then blundered out a call for Captain André’s song, “The Lover’s Lament.” Lord Rawdon was the only one to perceive the bad omen.

So Jack, without more solicitation, began, in a pretty voice, —

“Return, enraptured hours, When Delia’s heart was mine,” —

and so on through a dozen stanzas of Strephonics, — a most moving ditty, the words and music his own.

Everybody felt a little maudlin when this Jack of all airs and graces closed his lay with a dulcet quaver. There was a momentary pause in the revel.

In such pauses young gentlemen who love flirtation more than potation dodge off and join the ladies.

Let us follow this good example. A revel, with Major Kerr for its master, may easily grow to an orgie; and meanwhile the mother and daughter are sitting in the parlor alone.

title: Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter III


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 discovered, & 'hee Answered our prayers, for by 2 evident & cleere mistakes she was cleered, & then all prejudices ceased, & she never more to this day hath impeached her of any apparition: in the fore mentioned allegation of the person, shee also signifyed that somet. the devil alsoe in the likenesse of a little boy appeared together with the person: Fryday was a sad day with her, for shee was sorely handled with fits, which some perceiving pressed that there was something yet behind not discovered by her; & shee after a violent fit, holding her betweene two & 3 houres did first to one, & afterwards to many acknowledge that shee had given of her blood to the Devill, & made a covenant with him, whereupon I was sent for to her; & understanding how things had passed, I found that there was no roome for privacye, in another alredy made by her soe publicke, I therefore examined her concerning the matter; & found her not soe forward to confesse, as shee had bin to others, yet thus much I gathered from her confession:

That after shee came to dwell with us, one day as shee was alone in a lower roome, all the rest of us being in the chamber, she looked out at the window, & saw the devill in the habit of an old man, coming over a great meadow lying neere the house; & suspecting his designe, shee had thoughts to have gon away; yet at length resolved to tarry it out, & heare what hee had to say to her; when hee came hee demanded of her some of her blood, which shee forthwith consented to, & with a knife cut her finger, hee caught the blood in his hand, & then told her she must write her name in his booke, shee answered, shee could not Write, but hee told her he would direct her hand, & then took a little sharpened sticke, & dipt in the blood, & put it into her hand, & guided it, & shee wrote her name with his helpe: what was the matter shee set her hand to, I could not learne from her; but thus much shee confessed, that the terme of time agreed upon with him was for 7 yeers; one yeere shee was to be faithfull in his service, & then the other six hee would serve her, & make her a witch: shee also related, that the ground of contest between her & the devill which was the occasion of this sad providence, was this, that after her covenant made the devill showed her hell & the damned, & told her if shee were not faithfull to him, shee should goe thither, & bee tormented there; shee desired of him to show her heaven, but hee told her that heaven was an ougly place, & that none went thither but a company of base roagues whom he hated; but if shee would obey him, it should be well with her:


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 but afterward shee considered with herselfe, that the terme of her covenant, was but short, & would soone bee at an end, & shee doubted (for all the devills promises) shee must at last come to the place hee had showne her, & withall, feared, if shee were a witch, shee should bee discovered, & brought to a shamefull end: which was many times a trouble on her spirits; this the Devill perceiving, urged upon her to give him more of her blood, & set her hand agen to his booke, which shee refused to doe, but partly through promises, partly by threatnings, hee brought her at last to a promise that shee would sometime doe it: after which hee left not incessantly to urge her to the performance of it, once hee met her on the staires. & often elsewhere pressing her with vehemencye, but shee still put it off; till the first night shee was taken when the devill came to her, & told her he would not tarry any longer: shee told him shee would not doe it hee Answered shee had done it already, & what further damage would it bee to doe it agen, for shee was his sure enough: she rejoyned shee had done it already, & if shee were his sure enough, what need hee to desire any more of her: whereupon he strucke her the first night, agen more violently the 2nd as is above exprest : This is the sum of the Relation I then had from her: which at that time seemed to bee methodicall: These things she uttered with great affection, overflowing of teares, & seeming bitternesse: I asked of the Reason of her weeping & bitternesse, shee complained of her sinns, & some in particular, profanation of the sabbath &c: but nothing of this sin of renouncing the goverment of God. & giving herselfe up to the devill: I therfore, (as God helped) applied it to her & asked her whether shee desired not prayers with & for her, shee assented with earnestnesse, & in prayer seemed to bewaile the sin as God helped, then in the aggravation of it, & afterward declared a desire to rely on the power & mercy of God in Christ: shee then also declared, that the Devill had deceived her concerning those persons impeached by her, that hee had in their likenesse or resemblance tormented her, persuading her that it was they, that they bare her a spleen, but he loved her, & would free her from them, & pressed on her to endeavor to bring them forth to the censure of the law. In this case I left her; but (not being satisfied in some things) I promised to visit her agen the next day which accordingly I did, but coming to her, I found her (though her speech still remained) in a case sad enough, her teares dryed up, & sences stupifyed, & (as was observed) when I


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Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter IV

Chapter IV.
The sun of October had gone down below the golden forests on the golden hills. It was dusk, and the two ladies sat in the parlor, dimly lit by a glimmering fire.

They were alone; unless the spirit of the first Edwin Brothertoft was looking at them from Vandyck’s portrait on the wall.

That wonderful picture hung in its old place. More than a century, now, it had been silently watching the fortunes of the family.

No Provincial daubs had ventured within sight of this masterpiece. Each successive Brothertoft was always proud to know that his face, at its best, was his ancestor’s repeated. Each descendant said, “Vandyck painted us, once for all, in the person of our forefather. When there is another Colonel Brothertoft, or a second Vandyck, it will be time to give the picture a companion.”

So one perfect work had vetoed a whole gallery of wooden visages.

The present Mrs. Brothertoft had always disliked the picture. She had used it as a pretext for first summoning her husband to her side. When she brought shame into the house, she began to dread its tacit reproach. The eyes of the Colonel, sad and stern, seemed forever to follow her. His wife’s gentle face grew merciless. Even the innocent child on the canvas read her secret heart.

By and by, to escape this inspection, she had the portrait covered with a crimson silk curtain.

“A Vandyck,” she said, “is too rare and too precious to be given up to flies.”

For many years the ancestors had been left to blush behind a screen of crimson silk.

To-day, before dinner, her guests had asked to see this famous work of the famous master.

No one could detect the tremor in her heart at this request. No one could see how white her face grew as she fumbled with the cords, nor how suddenly scarlet as she drew aside the curtain.

Every one exclaimed in genuine or conventional admiration.

The picture represented that meeting at Old Brothertoft Manor, after the battle of Horncastle, in the time of the Great Rebellion. The Colonel was in his corslet, buff and jackboots of a trooper. His plumed hat, caught by a cord, had fallen upon his shoulder. He wore his hair long, and parted in the middle, like a Cavalier, not like a crop-eared Roundhead. On one arm rested the bridle of the grand white charger beside him. With the other he held his fair boy, now pacified from his Astyanax fright, and smiling at his father’s nodding crest and glinting breastplate. The wife, the first Lucy Brothertoft, stood by, regarding the two she loved best with tender solicitude. It was, indeed, a sweet domestic group, and the gentleman’s armor, his impatient war-horse, and that hint in the background of the Manor-House, smoking and in ruins, gave it a dramatic element of doubt and danger, — a picture full of grace, heroism, and affection, — one to dignify a house, to ennoble and refine a household.

Lucy looked at her mother as the curtain parted and revealed the three figures. To the guests they were Art; to the ladies they were mute personages in a tragedy. Lucy saw her mother’s glance, quick and covert, at these faces she had so long evaded. The daughter could understand now why, as Mrs. Brothertoft looked, her countenance seemed resolutely to harden, and grow more beautifully Gorgon than ever.

“Quite a chef-d’œuvre!” says Sir Henry Clinton, looking through his hand, with a knowing air. — “What color! what chiar’ oscuro! what drapery!” Jack André exclaimed. — “No one has ever painted high-bred people as Vandyck,” said Lord Rawdon. — “Breddy bicksher!” — was Major Emerick’s verdict. “You must be proud, Madam,” said honest Commodore Hotham, ignorant of scandal, “to bear this honored and historic name.”

While these murmurs of approval were going on, Plato announced dinner. The guests filed out, leaving the picture uncovered. It still remained so, now that the mother and daughter sat in the dusky room, after dinner. The flashing and fading fire gave its figures movement and unreal life.

Lucy glanced at her mother’s face, now dim, and far away, and now, as the fire blazed up, leaping forth from its lair of darkness.

“Certainly,” she thought, “my mother was never so terribly handsome.”

It was true. She was an imperial woman, face, form, and bearing. How majestic her strong, straight nose, her full chin, her vigorous color, her daring eyes, her brow of command, and her black hair dressed, after a mode of the day, in a tower, and falling in masses on the neck! More flesh and more color would have made her coarse. Is it possible that the excitement of a bad conscience has refined her beauty? Must the coarse take the poison of sin, as the fine take the medicine of sorrow, to kill the carnal element in their natures? Is it needful for some to wear, through life, a harsh dishonor next the skin?

“How can this be?” thought Lucy. “Should not the heart have peace, that the face may wear beauty, the emblem of peace? Can there be peace in her heart?”

Peace! As if in answer, at a flash of firelight, the mother’s face glared out fierce and cruel. Sternness, but no peace there!

Lucy turned, and took refuge with the personages of the picture.

“You,” she addressed them in mute appeal, “are a world nearer my heart than this unmotherly woman beside me. O chivalric gentleman! O benign lady! encourage and sustain me! My heart will break with these doubts and plots and perils.”

The two ladies sat silent by the firelight. The guests were noisy, two doors off. They were laughing and applauding Kerr’s tipsy toasts, André’s song, Emerick’s Hessian butchery of the King’s English.

At a louder burst of revelry Lucy started, shrank, and glanced at her mother’s impassive face, — a loyal mask to its mistress.

Mrs. Brothertoft also looked up, and caught Lucy’s eye. For an instant the two gazed at one another. There was an instant’s spiritual struggle, — the fine nature against the coarse, the tainted being against the pure. Their two souls stood at their eyes, and battled for a breath, while the fire flashed like a waving of torches.

The flash sunk, the room was dark again. But before the light was gone the guilty eyes wavered, the guilty spirit cowered. Mrs. Brothertoft looked away, seeking refuge from her daughter, against whose innocent heart she was devising an infamy.

As she turned, she caught sight of the picture. It was steadily regarding her, — a judge, remote, unsympathetic, Rhadamanthine.

At this sight, the perpetual inner battle in her evil heart stormed to the surface. Her countenance was no longer an impassive mask.

Lucy suddenly saw a bedlam look leap out upon those beautiful features.

It seemed to Mrs. Brothertoft that the Furies, whose companionship and hints she had so long encouraged, now closed in upon her, and became body of her body, soul of her soul.

She rose, and strode up to the uncovered portrait.

She stood a moment, surveying it in silence, — herself a picture in the fire-lit obscure.

How beautiful her white shoulders, her white bosom above the dark silk, cut low and square in front, after a fashion of the time! How wondrously modelled her perfect arms! The diamond at her throat trembled like the unwinking eye of a serpent.

She raised her white right arm, and pointed at the figure of the Parliamentary Colonel.

By the firelight, it seemed as if he, thus summoned, still holding his eager white horse by the bridle, stepped out before the canvas, ready for this colloquy.

Lucy was terrified by her mother’s wild expression and gesture. The gentleman in the portrait had taken more than ever the semblance of her father’s very self. But he wore a sterner look than she remembered on that desolate face.

The daughter shuddered at this strange meeting of her parents, — one in the flesh, one in the spirit.

“Sir!” said Mrs. Brothertoft, still pointing at the picture. There was scorn, veiling dread, in her voice.

Lucy could not control herself. She burst into tears.

At the sound of her first sob, the mother came to herself. Bedlam tore itself out of her face with a spasm. She let fall her round, white arm. A tremor and a chill shook her. With these, the Furies seemed to glide forth from her being. They stood for an instant, dim and rustling forms in the glimmer. Then they vanished to their place of call. Mrs. Brothertoft dashed the curtain over the picture and moved away.

She did not perceive — for she looked thither no more — that by her violent movement she had broken the cord, and let down one fall of the curtain, at the top, so that there was space for the heads of the soldier and his white horse to appear.

There those heads wait, as if at a window. There they seem, horse and man, to watch for their moment to spring into that dusky room, lit by the flashes of a dying fire.

Mrs. Brothertoft turned, and laid her hand on her sobbing daughter’s shoulder.

“You seem agitated and hysterical, my dear,” she said, almost gently. “Perhaps you had better hide your tears in your pillow. We shall not see our noisy friends for some time.”

Again their eyes met for an instant. But the mother mistook Lucy’s pleading expression. She had lost her power of deciphering an innocent face. She fancied she read contempt and triumph, where there was only pity and love longing to revive. She turned away, and, yielding to a brutal emotion, resumed, — “Yes, go, Lucy, and keep out of sight for the evening! We must not have red eyes and swollen cheeks when Adonis comes from dinner with pretty speeches for his fair bride.”

Lucy rose, disappointed and indignant, and left the parlor without “Good night.”

Given two weeks instead of two days before marriage, and this gentle spirit might emancipate itself. But obedience is still a piety with Lucy. Mute mental protests against injustice do not train the will. It must win strength by struggles. Her will has sunk into chronic inertia. She suffers now for her weakness, as if it were a crime.

She fled by the noisy dining-room and up to her chamber in the tower at the northwest corner of the house. In the mild, clear, star-lit night she could see yellow autumn among the woods around the mansion. Beyond, the white river belted the world. The lights of the British frigates sparkled like jewels in this silver cincture. Dunderberg, large and vague, hid the spaces westward, where night was overflowing twilight. Northward, the Highlands closed the view, dim as Lucy’s hope.

Ah! why was there no clairvoyante Sister Anne to cry that she saw “somebody coming,” — to tell the desolate girl, staring from her window into the unfriendly night, that succor was afoot, and hastening in three detachments southward, as fast as the boulder, the bog, and the forest would permit.

But there was no Sister Anne, no friend within or without the house. And so, closed doors! Weep, sob, pray, poor child. Suffer, suffer, young heart! Suffer and be strong!

Closed doors at last, and quiet at the Manor. Songs silent. Revelry over. The guests have gone, walking as men walk after too many bumpers. Sentinels here and there have received the inarticulate countersign. The boats’ crews, chilly and sulky with long waiting, have pulled the “lobsters” off to the frigates, and boosted them up the sides. They have tumbled into their berths in ward-room or cabin, — one, alas! with his Hessians on! They must quickly sleep off wassail, and be ready to stir with dawn, for at sunrise General Vaughan starts with his flotilla up the river. And most of the diners-out, whether their morning headaches like it or not, must go with the General to commit arson upon Esopus, alias Kingston, a most pestilent nest of rebels.

Quiet then aboard the Tartar, the Preston, and the Mercury, swinging to their anchors in the calm river! Quiet at the Manor-House! but not peaceful repose, for in their dreams the spirits of the mother and the daughter battle, and both are worn and weary with that miserable war.

title: Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter IV


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 could get nothing from her, & therfore applyed myselfe in counsell to her, shee regarded it not, but fixed her eye steadfastly upon a place, as shee was wont when the Devill presented himselfe to her, which was a griefe to her parents, & brought mee to a stand; in the condition I left her: The next day, being the Sabbath, whither upon any hint given her, or any advantage Satan tooke by it upon her, shee sent for mee in hast at noone, coming to her, shee immediately with teares told me that shee had belied the Devill, in saying shee had given him of her blood: &c: professed that the most of the apparitions shee had spoken of were but fansyes, as images represented in a dreame; earnestly entreated me to beleeve her, called God to witnesse to her assertion, I told her I would willingly hope the best, & beleeve what I had any good grounds to apprehend; if therefore shee would tell a more methodicall relation than the former, it would be well, but if otherwise, she must bee content that every one should censure according to their apprehension, shee promised soe to doe, & expressed a desire that all that would might heare her; that as they had heard soe many lyes & untruths, they might now heare the truth, & engaged that in the evening shee would doe it; I then repaired to her, & divers more then went; shee then declared thus much, that the Devill had sometimes appeared to her; that the occasion of it was her discontent, that her condition displeased her, her labor was burdensome to her, shee was neither content to bee at home nor abroad; & had oftentime strong persuasions to practice in witchcraft, had often wished the Devill would come to her at such & such times, & resolved that if hee would, shee would give herselfe up to him soule & body: but (though hee had oft times appeared to her, yet) at such times hee had not discovered himselfe, and therfore shee had bin preserved from such a thing: I declared a suspicion of the truth of the relation, & gave her some Reasons; but by Reason of the company did not say much, neither could anything further be gotten from her: but the next day I went to her, & opened my mind to her alone, & left it with her, declared (among other things) that shee had used preposterous courses, & therfore it was no marvell that shee had bin led into such contradictions, & tendered her all the helpe I could, if shee would make use of me, & more privately relate any weighty & serious case of Conscience to me, shee promised me shee would if shee knew any thing, but said that then shee knew nothing at all; but stood to the story shee had told the foregoing evening: & indeed what to make


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 of these things I at present know not, but am waiting till God (if hee see meet) wind up the story, & make a more cleere discoverye. It was not many dayes ere shee was hurried agen into violent fits after a different manner, being taken agen speechlesse, & using all endeavores to make away with herselfe, & doe mischiefe unto others; striking those that held her; spitting in their faces; & if at any time shee had done any harme or frightened them shee would laugh immediately; which fits held her sometimes longer, sometimes shorter, few occasions shee had of speech, but when shee could speake, shee complained of a hard heart, counselled some to beware of sin, for that had brought her to this, bewailed that soe many prayers had bin put up for her, & shee still so hard hearted, & no more good wrought upon her; but being asked whither shee were willing to repent, shaked her head, & said nothing. Thus shee continued till the next sabbath in the afternoone; on which day in the morning, being somthing better then at other times, shee had but little company tarryed with her in the afternoon; when the Devill began to make more full discoverye of himselfe: It had bin a question before, whither shee might properly bee called a Demoniacke, or person possessed of the Devill, but it was then put out of Question: hee began (as the persons with her testifye) by drawing her tongue out of her mouth most frightfully to an extraordinary length & greatnesse, & many amazing postures of her bodye; & then by speaking, vocally in her, whereupon her father, & another neighbor were called from the meeting, on whom, (as soon as they came in,) he railed, calling them roagues, charging them for folly in going to heare a blacke roague, who told them nothing but a parcell of lyes, & deceived them, & many like expressions. after exercise I was called, but understood not the occasion, till I came, & heard the same voice, a grum, low, yet audible voice it was, the first salutation I had was, oh ! you are a great roague, I was at the first somthing daunted & amazed, & many reluctances I had upon my spirits, which brought mee to a silence and amazement in my spirits, till at last God heard my groanes & gave me both refreshment in Christ, & courage: I then called for a light, to see whither it might not appeare a counterfiet, and observed not any of her organs to moove, the voice was hollow, as if it issued out of her throat; hee then agen called me great blacke roague, I challenged him to make it appear; but all the Answer was, you tell the people a company of lyes : I reflected on myselfe, & could not but


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 magnifye the goodnesse of God not to suffer Satan to bespatter the names of his people, with those sins which hee himselfe hath pardoned in the blood of Christ. I Answered, Satan, thou art a lyar, and a deceiver, & God will vindicate his owne truth one day: hee Answered nothing directly, but said, I am not Satan, I am a pretty blacke boy; this is my pretty girle; I have bin here a great while, I sat still, and Answered nothing to these expressions; but when hee directed himselfe to mee agen, oh! you blacke roague, I doe not love you: I replyed through God's grace, I hate thee; hee rejoyned, but you had better love mee; these manner of expressions filled some of the company there present with great consternation, others put on boldnesse to speake to him, at which I was displeased, & advised them to see their call cleere, fearing least by his policye, & many apish expressions hee used, hee might insinuate himselfe, & raise in them a fearlessenesse of spirit of him: I no sooner turned my backe to goe to the fire, but he called out agen, where is that blacke roague gon: I seeing little good to bee done by discorse, & questioning many things in my mind concerning it, I desired the company to joyne in prayer unto God; when wee went about that duty & were kneeled downe, with a voice louder then before something, hee cryed out, hold your tongue, hold your tongue, get you gon you blacke roague, what are you going to doe, you have nothing to doe with me, &c: but through Gods goodnesse was silenced, &, shee lay quiet during the time of prayer, but as soone as it was ended, began afresh, using the former expressions, at which some ventured to speake to him: Though I thinke imprudentlye: one told him, God had him in chaines, hee replyed, for all my chaine, I can knocke thee on the head when I please: hee said hee would carry her away that night. Another Answered, but God is stronger than thou, He presently rejoyned, that 's a ly, I am stronger than God: at which blasphemy I agen advised them to bee wary of speaking, counselled them to get serious parsons to watch with her, & left her, commending her to God: On Tuesday following shee confessed that the Devill entred into her the 2nd night after her first taking, that when shee was going to bed, hee entred in (as shee conceived) at her mouth, & had bin in her ever since, & professed, that if there were ever a Devill in the world, there was one in her, but in what manner he spake in her she could not tell: On Wednesday night, shee must forthwith be carried downe to the bay in all hast, shee should never be well, till an assembly of


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Author:Thomas Campbell (1763-1854)

Works

 * Declaration and Address of the Christian Association of Washington (1809)

title: Author:Thomas Campbell (1763-1854)


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 ministers was met together to pray with & for her, & in particular Mr. Cobbet: her friends advised with me about it; I signifyed to them, that I apprehended, Satan never made any good motion, but it was out of season, & that it was not a thing now fiezable, the season being then extreame cold; & the snow deepe, that if shee had bin taken in the woods with her fits shee must needs perish: On friday in the evening shee was taken agen violently, & then the former voice (for the sound) was heard in her agen, not speaking, but imitating the crowing of a cocke, accompanied with many other gestures, some violent, some ridiculous, which occasioned my going to her, where by signes she signifyed that the Devill threatened to carry her away that night, God was agen then sought for her. & when in prayer, that expression was used, the God had prooved Satan a liar, in preserving her once when hee had threatned to carry her away that night, & was entreated soe to doe agen, the same voice, which had ceased 2 dayes before, was agen heard by the by-standers 5 times distinctly to cry out, oh you are a roague, and then ceased: but the whole time of prayer, sometimes by violence of fits sometimes by noises shee made, shee drouned her owne hearing from receiving our petition, as she afterwards confessed: Since that time shee hath continued for the most part speechlesse, her fits coming upon her sometimes often, sometimes with greater intermission, & with great varietyes in the manner of them, sometimes by violence, sometimes by making her sicke, but (through Gods goodnesse) soe abated in violence, that now one person can as well rule her, as formerly 4 or 5: She is observed alwayes to fall into her fits when any strangers goe to visit her, & the more goe the more violent are her fits: as to the frame of her spirits hee hath bin more averse lately to good counsell than heretofore, yet sometime shee signifyes a desire of the companye of ministers. On Thursday last, in the evening, shee came a season to her speech, & (as I received from them with her) agen disouned a Covenant with the Devill, disouned that relation about the knife fore mentioned, declared the occasion of her fits to bee discontent, owned the temptations to murder; declared that though the devill had power of her body, shee hoped hee should not of her soule, that she had rather continue soe speechlesse, then have her speech, & make no better use of it then formerly shee had, expressed that shee was sometimes disposed to doe mischiefe, & was as if some had laid hold of her to enforce her to it, & had double strength to her owne, that shee knew not whither the devill


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Edwin Brothertoft/Part III Chapter V

Chapter V.
There were three headaches next morning at the breakfast-table at Brothertoft Manor.

Major Kerr carried an enormous ache in his thick skull. His was the crapulous headache. He knew it well. Every manner of cure, except prevention, he had experimented upon. The soda-water-cure did not reach his malady. The water-cure, whether applied in the form of pump or a wet turban, was equally futile.

“It couldn’t have been t’ other bottle that has made me feel so queer,” Kerr soliloquized. “Must have been Jack André’s mawkish songs. I never could stand poetry.”

So he marched down to breakfast, more Rubens in complexion than ever, and twice as surly.

Spending tears had given Lucy her headache. She had wept enough to fill a brace of lacrymatories. The pangs sharpened when she saw Adonis appear, very red and very gruff. He seemed fairly loathsome to her now.

“Must such a beast — yes, I will say beast — as that come near me?” thought she.

Strong language for a young lady; but appropriate. It is well to have a few ugly epithets in one’s vocabulary. Hard words have their virtue and their place, as well as soft ones.

Mrs. Brothertoft also had a headache.

She looked pale and ill this morning. This will never do, Madam. Consider your beauty! It will consume away, if you allow so much fever in your brain.

Breakfast was more silent even than yesterday’s. No headache cared to ask sympathy of either of the others.

Lucy said not a word. She compelled herself to be at table. She dreaded her mother’s presence; but she dreaded her absence still more. Lucy suffered under the uneasiness of a young plotter. She knew that her plot was visible in her face. She trembled at every look. And yet she felt safer while she was facing her foes. Poor child! if she could have wept, as she wished, freely and alone, a dozen of lacrymatories — magnums — would not have held her tears.

Moody Mrs. Brothertoft is also silent.

She does not think it good policy to draw out her son-in-law this morning. Only a wretchedly low card, and no trump, will respond to the attempt. T’ other bottle rather drowns the power of repartee. Major Kerr was too inarticulate last night to be very coherent this morning. A courtly bow and a fine manner are hardly to be expected at levée from a hero lugged to his couchée by Plato and two clodhoppers, — themselves a little out of line and step with too many heeltaps. The hostess does not choose by solicitous questions to get growls from the future bridegroom, such as, —

Kerr loquitur. “Yes, thank you; my tea is mere milksop; my egg an addle; my toast a chip; my butter lard; my buckwheat cakes dem’d flabby. Everything has a tipsy taste and smells of corked Madeira. O, my head!”

Such talk would not make the lover more captivating. He had better be left to himself, to take his breakfast with what stomach he may.

Nor does Mrs. Brothertoft think it wise to remark upon yesterday’s dinner and its distinguished guests to her daughter. Remark brings rejoinder. This morning, again, Lucy had no kiss for her mother. Instead of the warm, tender caress of other days, with warmth and tenderness for two, Lucy’s manner was grave and distant.

Mrs. Brothertoft divines incipient rebellion in her daughter. She does not wish to let it cultivate itself with contradictions. If she should propound, “It is a fine morning,” Lucy might say, “It seems to me cold as Greenland.” If she suggested, “My dear, have the horses saddled, and take Major Kerr to see the view from Cedar Ridge,” Lucy would probably respond, “Major Kerr is not fond of nature, and I am afraid of marauders.” If she remarked, “What a grand, soldierly creature Major Emerick is! What an amusing accent! and his moustache how terribly charming!” Lucy might curl her pretty lip, and reply, “Grand! soldierly! the hirsute ogre! As to his accent, — I do not understand Hessian; and it does not amuse me to hear good pronounced ‘coot,’ and to have pictures, flowers, soup, and the North River, all classed together and complimented as ‘breddy.’ And as to his moustache, — no moustache is tolerable; and if any, certainly not that great black thing.” Nor would it do for the mother to say, “I am sure you found Captain André an Admirable Crichton,” and to hear from her daughter in reply, “Don’t speak of him! I am still sick with his sentimentality of a Strephon. He is a flippant coxcomb. I do not wonder Miss Honora Sneyd got tired of him, with his little smile and his little sneer.”

Such responses Lucy would probably have made to her mother’s attempts at breakfast-table talk. Do these answers seem inconsistent with the great sorrow and the great terror in the girl’s heart? Our passions, like our persons, are not always en grande tenue. It is a sign that the heart is not quite broken, when its owner has life enough to be pettish. The popgun is the father of the great gun. Silly skirmish and bandying of defiance precede the great battle for life and death.

So Mrs. Brothertoft knew, and she was not willing to give Lucy the chance to hear herself say, ‘No.’ If she were once publicly compromised as of the negative faction, she might, even at this late hour, foster her little germ of independence. She might wake up to-morrow with a Will of Her Own, grown in a single night as big as Jack’s bean-stalk. She might expand her solitary, forlorn hope of a first No into a conquering army. No, No, — only a letter and a cipher, — she might add ciphers, multiply it by successive tens and make it No,ooo,ooo,ooo, — and so on, until she was impregnable to the appointed spouse.

This of course must not be.

The mother did not know that Lucy had hoisted a signal of distress, and that she was almost ready to haul her flag up from half-mast, and fly it at the masthead of defiance. This Mrs. Brothertoft did not suspect of her submissive and meek child. She knew nothing of Voltaire’s errand. But she had grown suddenly apprehensive and timorous, and hardly recognized her old intrepid self this morning. She began to quail a little more and more before her daughter’s innocence. For all reasons, she did not desire to provoke discussion.

A grim, mute breakfast, therefore, at Brothertoft Manor.

Each headache looked into its tea-cup in silence. Major Kerr crunched a bit of dry toast, instead of feeding omnivorously.

There is no conversation of this party to report, gay or glum.

But tableau is sometimes more dramatic than talk.

A new-comer at the door glanced at this unsociable trio, and deciphered the picture pretty accurately.

It was old Voltaire, limping forward from the kitchen.

Lucy sat with her face toward the pantry door, and first saw him.

Flash! Lucy lightened and almost showered tears at the rising of this black cloud, charged with fresh electricity.

Flash back! from the whites of Voltaire’s eyes and from his teeth.

It was a brief flash, but abiding enough to show Lucy, through her gloom, one figure stealing to her succor. Him she was sure of, — her father. But one gleam from the whites of a black could not reveal the other recruits to her rebel army. So they must remain latent, with their names and faces latent, until she can have an interview with her complotter.

But what a hot agony of hope blazed up within her at Voltaire’s look and cunning nod!

“I must not scream with joy,” she thought. “I must not shriek out this great, wicked, triumphant laugh I feel stirring in me. I must not jump up and hug the dear old soul. Thank Heaven, my tea is hot, and I can choke myself and cry.”

Which she proceeded to do; and under cover of her napkin got her face into mask condition again.

She was taking lessons — this fair novice — in what a woman’s face is made for; — namely, to look cool when the heart is fiery; to look dull, when the wits have just suffered the whetstone; to look blank, when the soul’s hieroglyphs will stare out if a blush is only turned on; to look tame, when the spirit is tiger; to look peace, when there is no peace; to look mild as new milk, when the blood boils and explosion butts against the wired cork of self-control. A guileful world, guileless lady! and you must fight your fight to-day with silence and secrecy, lest mamma detect a flutter in your bosom, and your fledgling purpose of flight get its pin-feathers pulled, if not its neck wrung.

Voltaire limped forward with a plate of buckwheat cakes. They were meal of the crop which had whitened the slopes of Westchester this summer, and purpled them this autumn. They were round as a doubloon, or the moon at its fullest. Their edges were sharp, and not ragged and taggy. Their complexion was most delicate mulatto. Their texture was bubbly as the wake of a steamboat. Eyes never lighted on higher art than the top cake, and even the one next the plate utterly refused to be soggy. Indeed, each pancake was a poem, — a madrigal of Sappho’s most simply delicate confectioning, round as a sonnet, and subtle in flavor as an epigram.

These pearls Voltaire cast before the party. Nobody partook. Nobody appreciated. Nobody noticed. The three appetites of the three headaches were too dead to stir.

The old fellow was retiring, when Mrs. Brothertoft addressed him roughly.

“I shall promote Plato and break you, Voltaire, if you are taken sick at the wrong time again.”

“Sorry, missus. Colored mobbas, missus. No stoppin’ him. Bery bad indeed!”

His appearance disarmed suspicion. He was a weary and dismal object after his journey. No one, to look at him, would have divined that his pangs were of the motive powers, and not the digestive, — that he suffered with the nicked shin, the stubbed toe, and the strained calf, and was utterly unconscious of a stomach, except as a locality for colonizing a white lie in.

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 were in her or no if hee were shee knew not when or how he entered; that when shee was taken speechlesse, she fared as if a string was tyed about the roots of her tongue, & reached doune into her vitalls & pulled her tongue downe, & then most when shee strove to speake:

On Fryday, in the evening shee was taken wth a passion of weeping, & sighing, which held her till late in the night, at length she sent for me; but then unseasonablenesse of the weather, & my owne bodily indisposednesse prevented: I went the next morning, when shee strove to speake somthing but could not, but was taken with her fits, which held her as long as I tarried, which was more then an houre, & I left her in them: & thus she continues speechlesse to this instant, Jan. 15. & followed with fits: concerning which state of hers I shall suspend my owne Judgment, & willingly leave it to the censure of those that are more learned, aged, & Judicious: only I shall leave my thoughts in resp. of 2 or 3 questions which have risen about her: viz. 1. Whither her distemper be reale or counterfiet: I shall say no more to that but this, the great strength appearing in them, & great weaknesse after them, will disclaime the contrary opinion: for tho a person may counterfiet much yet such a strength is beyond the force of dissimulation: 2. Whither her distemper bee naturall or Diabolicall, I suppose the premises will strongly enough conclude the latter, yet I will adde these 2 further arguments: 1. the actings of convulsion, which these come nearest to, are (as parsons acquainted with them observe) in many, yea the most essentiall parts of them quite contrary to these actings: 2. Shee hath no wayes wasted in body, or strength by all these fits, though soe dreadfulle, but gathered flesh exceedinglye, & hath her naturall strength when her fits are off, for the most part: 3. Whither the Devill did really speake in her: to that point which some have much doubted of, thus much I will say to countermand this apprehension: 1. The manner of expression I diligently observed, & could not perceive any organ, any instrument of speech (which the philosopher makes mention of) to have any motion at all, yea her mouth was sometimes shut without opening sometimes open without shutting or moving, & then both I & others saw her tongue (as it used to bee when shee was in some fits, when speechlesse) turned up circularly to the roofe of her mouth. 2. the labial letters, divers of which were used by her, viz. B. M. P. which cannot bee naturally expressed without motion of the lips, which must needs come within our ken, if observed, were uttered without any such motion,


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 shee had used only Lingualls, Gutturalls &c: yᵉ matter might have bin more suspicious: 3. yᵉ reviling termes yⁿ used, were such as shee never used before nor since, in all this time of her being thus taken: yea, hath bin alwayes observed to speake respectively concerning mee; 4. They were expressions which yᵉ devill (by her confession) aspersed mee, & others wᵗʰall, in yᵉ houre of temptation, particularly shee had freely acknowledged yᵗ yᵉ Devill was wont to appear to her in yᵉ house of God & divert her mind, & charge her shee should not give eare to what yᵗ Blacke coated roage spake: 5 wee observed when the voice spake, her throat was swelled formidably as big at least as ones fist: These argumᵗˢ I shall leave to yᵉ censure of yᵉ Judicious: 4. whither shee have covenanted wᵗʰ yᵉ Devill or noe: I thinke this is a case unanswerable, her declarations have been soe contradictorye, one to another, yᵗ wee know not wᵗ to make of yᵐ & her condition is such as administers many doubts; charity would hope yᵉ best, love would alsoe feare yᵉ worst, but thus much is cleare, shee is an object of pitye, & I desire yᵗ all yᵗ heare of her wˡᵈ compassionate her forlorne state, Shee is (I question not) a subject of hope, & thererfore all meanes ought to bee used for her recoverye, Shee is a monumᵗ of divine severitye, & the Lord grant yᵗ all yᵗ see or heare, may feare & tremble: Amen.

S. W.

During the witchcraft excitement at Salem, in the year 1692, no man of that day did more to expose the wicked character of the examinations and convictions than Thomas Brattle, of Boston. His good sense, and regard for truth and justice, are shown in a letter written at that time, though not published for more than a century later. It is found in the fifth volume of the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and the writer thus mentions Elizabeth Knapp's case:—

I cannot but admire [wonder] that these afflicted persons should be so much countenanced and encouraged in their accusations as they are: I often think of the Groton woman, that was afflicted, an account of which we have in print [in Mr. Willard's sermon], and is a