Through all these later years Anne Bradstreet had made occasional
records, in which her many sicknesses find mention, though never
in any complaining fashion.
Now and then, as in the following meditation, she wrote a page
full of gratitude at the peace which became more and more assured,
her doubting and self-distrustful spirit retaining more and more
the quietness often in early life denied her:
MEDITATIONS WHEN MY SOUL HATH BEEN REFRESHED WITH THE CONSOLATIONS
WHICH THE WORLD KNOWES NOT.
Lord, why should I doubt any more when thou hast given me such
assured Pledges of thy Love? First, thou art my Creator, I thy
creature; thou my master, I thy servant. But hence arises not my
comfort: Thou art my ffather, I thy child. Yee shall [be] my Sons
and Daughters, saith the Lord Almighty. Christ is my brother; I
ascend unto my ffather and your ffather, unto my God and your God.
But least this should not be enough, thy maker is thy husband.
Nay, more, I am a member of his Body; he, my head. Such
Priviledges, had not the Word of Truth made them known, who or
where is the man that durst in his heart have presumed to have
thought it? So wonderfull are these thoughts that my spirit failes
in me at the consideration thereof; and I am confounded to think
that God, who hath done so much for me should have so little from
me. But this is my comfort, when I come into Heaven, I shall
understand perfectly what he hath done for me, and then shall I be
able to praise him as I ought. Lord, haveing this hope, let me
pruefie myself as thou art Pure, and let me bee no more affraid of
Death, but even desire to be dissolved, and bee with thee, which
is best of all.
Of the same nature are the fragments of diary which follow:
July 8th, 1656. I had a sore fitt of fainting which lasted 2 or 3
days, but not in that extremity which at first it took me, and so
much the sorer it was to me because my dear husband was from home
(who is my chiefest comforter on Earth); but my God, who never
failed me, was not absent, but helped me, and gratiously
manifested his Love to me, which I dare not passe by without
Remembrance, that it may be a support to me when I shall have
occasion to read this hereafter, and to others that shall read it
when I shall posesse that I now hope for, that so they may bee
encourag'd to trust in him who is the only Portion of his
Servants.
O Lord, let me never forget thy Goodness, nor question thy
faithfulness to me, for thou art my God: Thou hast said and shall
I not beleive it?
Thou hast given me a pledge of that Inheritance thou hast promised
to bestow upon me. O, never let Satan prevail against me, but
strengthen my faith in Thee 'till I shall attain the end of my
hopes, even the Salvation of my Soul. Come, Lord Jesus; come
quickly.
What God is like to him I serve,
What Saviour like to mine?
O, never let me from thee swerve,
For truly I am thine.
Sept. 30, 1657. It pleased God to viset me with my old Distemper
of weakness and fainting, but not in that sore manner sometimes he
hath. I desire not only willingly, but thankfully, to submitt to
him, for I trust it is out of his abundant Love to my straying
Soul which in prosperity is too much in love with the world. I
have found by experience I can no more live without correction
than without food. Lord, with thy correction give Instruction and
amendment, and then thy strokes shall bee welcome. I have not been
refined in the furnace of affliction as some have been, but have
rather been preserved with sugar then brine, yet will He preserve
me to His heavenly kingdom.
Thus (dear children) have yee seen the many sicknesses and
weaknesses that I have passed thro: to the end that, if you meet
with the like, you may have recourse to the same God who hath
heard and delivered me, and will doe the like for you if you trust
in him: and, when he shall deliver you out of distresse, forget
not to give him thankes, but to walk more closely with him
then before. This is the desire of your Loving Mother,
A. B.
With this record came a time of comparative health, and it is not
till some years later that she finds it necessary to again write
of sharp physical suffering, this being the last reference made in
her papers to her own condition:
May 11, 1661. It hath pleased God to give me a long Time of
respite for these 4 years that I have had no great fitt of
sickness, but this year, from the middle of January 'till May, I
have been by fitts very ill and weak. The first of this month I
had a feaver seat'd upon me which, indeed, was the longest and
sorest that ever I had, lasting 4 dayes, and the weather being
very hott made it the more tedious, but it pleased the Lord to
support my heart in his goodness, and to hear my Prayers, and to
deliver me out of adversity. But alas! I cannot render unto the
Lord according to all his loving kindnes, nor take the cup
salvation with Thanksgiving as I ought to doe. Lord, Thou that
knowest All things, know'st that I desire to testefye my
thankfulnes, not only in word, but in Deed, that my Conversation
may speak that thy vowes are upon me.
The diary of "Religious Reflections" was written at this period
and holds a portrait of the devout and tender mind, sensitive and
morbidly conscientious, but full of an aspiration that never left
her. The few hints as to her early life are all embodied here,
though the biographer is forced to work chiefly by inference:
TO MY DEAR CHILDREN:
This Book by Any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That, being gone, here you may find
What was your living mother's mind.
Make use of what I leave in Love
And God shall blesse you from above.
A. B.
MY DEAR CHILDREN: Knowing by experience that the exhortations of
parents take most effect when the speakers leave to speak, and
those especially sink deepest which are spoke latest--and being
ignorant whether on my death-bed I shall have opportunity to speak
to any of you, much lesse to All--thought it the best, whilst I
was able to compose some short matters, (for what else to call
them I know not) and bequeath to you, that when I am no more with
you, yet I may bee dayly in your remembrance, (Although that is
the least in my aim in what I now doe) but that you may gain some
spiritual Advantage by my experience. I have not studied in this
you read to show my skill, but to declare the Truth---not to sett
forth myself, but the Glory of God. If I had minded the former, it
had been perhaps better pleasing to you,--but seing the last is
the best, let it bee best pleasing to you. The method I will
observe shall bee this--I will begin with God's dealing with me
from my childhood to this Day. In my young years, about 6 or 7 as
I take it, I began to make conscience of my wayes, and what I knew
was sinful, as lying, disobedience to Parents, &c., I avoided it.
If at any time I was overtaken with the like evills, it was a
great Trouble. I could not be at rest 'till by prayer I had
confest it unto God. I was also troubled at the neglect of Private
Dutyes, tho: too often tardy that way. I also found much comfort
in reading the Scriptures, especially those places I thought most
concerned my Condition, and as I grew to have more understanding,
so the more solace I took in them.
In a long fitt of sicknes which I had on my bed I often communed
with my heart, and made my supplication to the most High who sett
me free from that affliction.
But as I grew up to bee about 14 or 15 I found my heart more
carnall, and sitting loose from God, vanity and the follyes of
youth take hold of me. About 16, the Lord layed his hand sore upon
me and Smott mee with the small pox. When I was in my affliction,
I besought the Lord, and confessed my Pride and Vanity and he was
entreated of me, and again restored me. But I rendered not to him
according to the benefitt received.
After a short time I changed my condition and was marryed, and
came into this Contry, where I fond a new world and new manners,
at which my heart rose. But after I was convinced it was the way
of God, I submitted to it and joined to the church at Boston.
After some time I fell into a lingering sicknes like a consumption,
together with a lamenesse, which correction I saw the Lord sent to
humble and try me and doe mee Good: and it was not altogether
ineffectual.
It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a
great grief to me, and cost mee many prayers and tears before I
obtained one, and after him gave mee many more, of whom I now take
the care, that as I have broght you into the world, and with great
paines, weaknes, cares, and feares, brought you to this, I now
travail in birth again of you till Christ bee formed in you.
Among all my experiences of God's gratious Dealings with me I have
constantly observed this, that he hath never suffered me long to
sitt loose from him, but by one affliction or other hath made me
look home, and search what was amisse so usually thos it hath been
with me that I have no sooner felt my heart out of order, but I
have expected correction for it, which most commonly hath been
upon my own person, in sicknesse, weaknes, paines, sometimes on my
soul, in Doubts and feares of God's displeasure, and my sincerity
towards him, sometimes he hath smott a child with sicknes,
sometimes chastened by losses in estate,--and these Times (thro:
his great mercy) have been the times of my greatest Getting and
Advantage, yea I have found them the Times when the Lord hath
manifested the most love to me. Then have I gone to searching, and
have said with David, Lord search me and try me, see what wayes of
wickednes are in me, and lead me in the way everlasting; and
seldom or never, but I have found either some sin I lay under
which God would have reformed, or some duty neglected which he
would have performed. And by his help I have layed Vowes and Bonds
upon my Soul to perform his righteous commands.
If at any time you are chastened of God, take it as thankfully and
Joyfully as in greatest mercyes, for if yee bee his yee shall reap
the greatest benefit by it. It hath been no small support to me in
times of Darkness when the Almighty hath hid his face from me,
that yet I have had abundance of sweetness and refreshment after
affliction, and more circumspection in my walking after I have
been afflicted. I have been with God like an untoward child, that
no longer than the rod has been on my back (or at least in sight)
but I have been apt to forgett him and myself too. Before I was
afflicted I went astray, but now I keep thy statutes.
I have had great experience of God's hearing my Prayers, and
returning comfortable Answers to me, either in granting the thing
I prayed for, or else in satisfying my mind without it; and I have
been confident it hath been from him, because I have found my
heart through his goodnes enlarged in thankfullnes to him.
I have often been perplexed that I have not found that constant
Joy in my Pilgrim age and refreshing which I supposed most of the
servants of God have; although he hath not left me altogether
without the wittnes of his holy spirit, who hath oft given mee his
word and sett to his Seal that it shall bee well with me. I have
sometimes tasted of that hidden manna that the world knowes not,
and have sett up my Ebenezer, and have resolved with myself that
against such a promise such taste of sweetnes, the Gates of Hell
shall never prevail. Yet have I many times sinkings and droopings,
and not enjoyed that felicity that sometimes I have done. But when
I have been in darknes and seen no light, yet have I desired to
stay myself upon the Lord. And, when I have been in sicknes and
pain, I have thought if the Lord would but lift up the light of
his Countenance upon me, altho he ground me to powder, it would
bee but light to me; yea, oft have I thought were if hell itself,
and could there find the Love of God toward me, it would bee a
Heaven. And, could I have been in Heaven without the Love of God
it would have been a Hell to me; for in Truth, it is the absence
and presence of God that makes Heaven or Hell.
Many times hath Satan troubled me concerning the verity of the
Scriptures, many times by Atheisme how could I know whether there
was a God; I never saw any miracles to confirm me, and those which
I read of how did I know but they were feigned. That there is a God
my Reason would soon tell me by the wondrous workes that I see,
the vast frame of the Heaven and the Earth, the order of all things,
night and day, Summer and Winter, Spring and Autumne, the dayly
providing for this great houshold upon the Earth, the preserving
and directing of All to its proper end. The consideration of
these things would with amazement certainly resolve me that
there is an Eternall Being.
But how should I know he is such a God as I worship in Trinity,
and such a Savior as I rely upon? tho: this hath thousands of
times been suggested to mee, yet God hath helped me ever. I have
argued this with myself. That there is a God I see. If ever this
God hath revealed himself, it must bee in his word, and this must
be it or none. Have I not found that operation by it that no
humane Invention can work upon the Soul? Hath not Judgments
befallen Diverse who have scorned and contemd it? Hath it not been
preserved thro: all Ages mangre all the heathen Tyrants and all of
the enemies who have opposed it? Is there any story but that which
shows the beginnings of Times, and how the world came to bee as
wee see? Doe wee not know the prophecyes in it fullfilled which
could not have been so long foretold by any but God himself? When
I have gott over this Block, then have I another pott in my way,
That admitt this bee the true God whom we worship, and that be his
word, yet why may not the Popish Religion bee the right? They have
the same God, the same Christ, the same word; they only interprett
it one way, wee another. This hath sometimes stuck with me, and
more it would, but the vain fooleries that are in their Religion,
together with their lying miracles and cruell persecutions of the
Saints, which admitt were they as they terme them, yet not so to
be dealt with all. The consideration of these things and many the
like would soon turn me to my own Religion again. But some new
Troubles I have had since the world has been filled with
Blasphemy, and Sectaries, and some who have been accounted sincere
Christians have been carryed away with them, that sometimes I have
said, Is there ffaith upon the earth? and I have not known what to
think. But then I have remembered the words of Christ that so it
must bee, and that, if it were possible, the very elect should bee
deceived. Behold, faith our Savior, I have told you before. That
hath stayed my heart, and I can now say, Return, O my Soul, to thy
Rest, upon this Rock Christ Jesus will I build my faith; and if I
perish, I perish. But I know all the Powers of Hell shall never
prevail against it. I know whom I have trusted, and whom I have
believed, and that he is able to keep that I have committed to his
charge. Now to the King, Immortall, Eternall, and invisible, the
only wise God, bee Honor and Glory forever and ever! Amen. This
was written in much sicknesse and weakness, and is very weakly and
imperfectly done; but, if you can pick any Benefitt out of it, it
is the marke which I aimed at.
For a few of the years that remained there were the alternations
to which she had long been accustomed, but with 1669 she had
become a hopeless and almost helpless invalid, longing to die, yet
still held by the intense vitality which must have been her
characteristic, and which required three years more of wasting
pain before the struggle could end. In August, of 1669, she had
written one of the most pathetic of her poems:
Aug: 31, 69.
As weary pilgrim now at rest,
Hugs with delight his silent nest
His wasted limbes now lye full soft
That myrie steps have trodden oft.
Blesses himself to think upon
his dangers past, and travails done.
The burning sun no more shall heat
Nor stormy raines on him shall beat.
The bryars and thornes no more shall scratch,
nor hungry wolves at him shall catch
He erring pathes no more shall tread
nor wilde fruits eate, instead of bread
for waters cold he doth not long
for thirst no more shall parch his tongue.
No rugged stones his feet shall gaule,
nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall.
All cares and feares, he bids farewell
and meanes in safity now to dwell.
A pilgrim I, on earth, perplext,
Wth sinns wth cares and sorrovys vext
By age and paines brought to decay.
And my Clay house mouldring away
Oh how I long to be at rest
and soare on high among the blesst.
This body shall in silence sleep
Mine eyes no more shall ever weep
No fainting fits shall me assaile
nor grinding paines my body fraile
Wth cares and fears n'er cumbred be
Nor losses know, nor sorrows see
What tho my flesh shall there consume
it is the bed Christ did perfume
And when a few yeares shall be gone
this mortall shall be cloth'd upon
A corrupt Carcasse ddwne it lyes
A glorious body it shall rise
In weakness and dishonour sowne
in power 'tis rais'd by Christ alone
When soule and body shall unite
and of their maker have the sight
Such lasting joyes shall there behold
as care ne'r heard nor tongue e'er told
Lord make me ready for that day
then Come dear bridegrome, Come away.
The long waiting ended at last, and her son, Simon Bradstreet,
wrote in his diary:
"Sept. 16, 1672. My ever honoured & most clear Mother was
translated to Heaven. Her death was occasioned by a consumption
being wasted to skin & bone & she had an issue made in her arm
bee: she was much troubled with rheum, & one of ye women yt tended
herr dressing her arm, s'd shee never saw such an arm in her Life,
I, s'd my most dear Mother but yt shall bee a Glorious Arm.
"I being absent fro her lost the opportunity of committing to
memory her pious & memorable xpressions uttered in her sicknesse.
O yt the good Lord would give unto me and mine a heart to walk in
her steps, considering what the end of her Conversation was, yt so
wee might one day have a happy & glorious greeting."
Dorothy, the wife of Seaborn Cotton and the namesake of her
grandmother, had died in February of the same year, making the
first break in the family circle, which had been a singularly
united one, the remainder all living to advanced years. Grief at
the loss had been softened by the certainty that separation could
not last long, and in spite of the terror with which her creed
filled even the thought of death, suffering had made at last a
welcome one. No other touch could bring healing or rest to the
racked and weary body, and deeply as Simon Bradstreet mourned her
loss, a weight rolled away, when the long suffering had ended.
That the country-side thronged to the funeral of the woman whose
name was honored in every New England settlement, we may know, but
no record remains of ceremony, or sermon, or even of burial place.
The old graveyard at Andover holds no stone that may perhaps have
been hers, and it is believed that her father's tomb at Roxbury
may have received the remains, that possibly she herself desired
should lie by those of her mother. Sermons were preached in all
the principal churches, and funeral elegies, that dearest form of
the Puritan muse, poured in, that by John Norton being the best
illustration of manner and method.
A FUNERAL ELOGY,
Upon that Pattern and Patron of Virtue, the truely
pious, peerless matchless Gentlewoman
MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET,
right Panaretes,
Mirror of her Age, Glory of her Sex, whose
Heaven-born-Soul its earthly Shrine, chose its native
home, and was taken to its Rest upon 16th
Sept. 1672.
Ask not why hearts turn Magazines of passions,
And why that grief is clad in several fashions;
Why she on progress goes, and doth not borrow
The small'st respite from the extreams of sorrow,
Her misery is got to such an height,
As makes the earth groan to support its weight,
Such storms of woe, so strongly have beset her,
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better
Her comfort is, if any for her be,
That none can shew more cause of grief then she.
Ask not why some in mournfull black are clad;
The sun is set, there needs must be a shade.
Ask not why every face a sadness shrowdes;
The setting Sun ore-cast us hath with Clouds.
Ask not why the great glory of the Skye
That gilds the stars with heavenly Alchamy,
Which all the world doth lighten with his Rayes,
The Persian God, the Monarch of the dayes;
Ask not the reason of his extasie,
Paleness of late, in midnoon Majesty,
Why that the pale fac'd Empress of the night
Disrob'd her brother of his glorious light.
Did not the language of the stars foretel
A mournfull Scoene when they with tears did Swell?
Did not the glorious people of the Skye
Seem sensible of future misery?
Did not the low'ring heavens seem to express
The worlds great lose and their unhappiness?
Behold how tears flow from the learned hill,
How the bereaved Nine do daily fill
The bosom of the fleeting Air with groans,
And wofull Accents, which witness their Moanes.
How doe the Goddesses of verse, the learned quire
Lament their rival Quill, which all admire?
Could Maro's Muse but hear her lively strain,
He would condemn his works to fire again,
Methinks I hear the Patron of the Spring,
The unshorn Deity abruptly sing.
Some doe for anguish weep, for anger I
That Ignorance should live, and Art should die.
Black, fatal, dismal, inauspicious day,
Unblest forever by Sol's precious Ray,
Be it the first of Miseries to all;
Or last of Life, defam'd for Funeral.
When this day yearly comes, let every one,
Cast in their urne, the black and dismal stone,
Succeeding years as they their circuit goe,
Leap o'er this day, as a sad time of woe.
Farewell my Muse, since thou hast left thy shrine,
I am unblest in one, but blest in nine.
Fair Thespian Ladyes, light your torches all,
Attend your glory to its Funeral,
To court her ashes with a learned tear,
A briny sacrifice, let not a smile appear.
Grave Matron, whoso seeks to blazon thee,
Needs not make use of witts false Heraldry;
Whoso should give thee all thy worth would swell
So high, as'twould turn the world infidel.
Had he great Maro's Muse, or Tully's tongue,
Or raping numbers like the Thracian Song,
In crowning of her merits he would be
Sumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole.
To write is easy; but to write on thee,
Truth would be thought to forfeit modesty.
He'l seem a Poet that shall speak but true;
Hyperbole's in others, are thy due.
Like a most servile flatterer he will show
Though he write truth, and make the Subject, You.
Virtue ne'er dies, time will a Poet raise
Born under better Stars, shall sing thy praise.
Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor
For Art ne're feigned, nor Nature fram'd a better.
Her virtues were so great, that they do raise
A work to trouble fame, astonish praise.
When as her Name doth but salute the ear,
Men think that they perfections abstract hear.
Her breast was a brave Pallace, a Broad-street,
Where all heroick ample thoughts did meet,
Where nature such a Tenement had tane,
That others Souls, to hers, dwelt in a lane.
Beneath her feet, pale envy bites her chain,
And poison Malice, whetts her sting in vain.
Let every Laurel, every Myrtel bough
Be stript for leaves t'adorn and load her brow.
Victorious wreaths, which 'cause they never fade
Wise elder times for Kings and Poets made
Let not her happy Memory e're lack
Its worth in Fame's eternal Almanack,
Which none shall read, but straight their lots deplore,
And blame their Fates they were not born before.
Do not old men rejoyce their Fates did last,
And infants too, that theirs did make such hast,
In such a welcome time to bring them forth,
That they might be a witness to her worth.
Who undertakes this subject to commend
Shall nothing find so hard as how to end.
Finis & Non,
JOHN NORTON.
Forty years of wedded life, and a devotion that remained unaltered
to the end, inclined Simon Bradstreet to a longer period of
mourning than most Puritan husbands seemed to have submitted to,
but four years after her death, the husband, at seventy-three,
still as hale and well-preserved as many a man of fifty, took to
himself another wife.
She was the widow of Captain Joseph Gardner of Salem, killed in
the attack on the Narragansett fort in December, 1675, and is
described by her step-son Simon, in his diary as "a Gentl. of very
good birth and education, and of great piety and prudence." Of her
prudence there could hardly be a doubt, for as daughter and sister
of Emanuel and George Downing, she had had before her through all
her early years, examples of shrewdness and farsightedness for all
personal ends, that made the names of both, an offence then and in
later days. But no suspicion of the tendencies strong in both
father and son, ever rested on Mistress Gardner, who was both
proud and fond of her elderly husband, and who found him as tender
and thoughtful a friend as he had always been to the wife of his
youth. For twenty-one years he passed from honor to honor in the
Colony, living in much state, though personally always abstemious
and restrained, and growing continually in the mildness and
toleration, from which his contemporaries more and more diverged.
Clear-sighted, and far in advance of his time, his moderation
hindered any chafing or discontent, and his days, even when most
absorbed in public interests, held a rare severity and calm. No
act of all Bradstreet's life brought him more public honors than
his action against Andros, whose tyranny had roused every man in
New England to protest and revolt. Almost ninety years old, he met
the deputation who came to consult him, and set his hand to a
letter, which held the same possibilities and was in many senses,
the first Declaration of Independence. From the Town House in
Boston went out the handbill, printed in black letter and signed
by fifteen names, the old patriarch heading the list. Bancroft,
who is seldom enthusiastic, tells the story of the demand
upon Andros of immediate surrender of the government and
fortifications, and the determination of the passionate and
grasping soldier to resist.
"Just then the Governor of the Colony, in office when the charter
was abrogated, Simon Bradstreet, glorious with the dignity of
four-score years and seven, one of the early emigrants, a
magistrate in 1630, whose experience connected the oldest
generation with the new, drew near the town-house, and was
received with a great shout from the free men. The old magistrates
were reinstated, as a council of safety; the whole town rose in
arms, with the most unanimous resolution that ever inspired a
people; and a declaration read from the balcony, defending the
insurrection as a duty to God and the country. 'We commit our
enterprise,' it is added, 'to Him who hears the cry of the
oppressed, and advise all our neighbors, for whom we have thus
ventured ourselves, to joyn with us in prayers and all just
actions for the defence of the land.' On Charlestown side, a thousand
soldiers crowded together; and the multitude would have been
longer if needed. The governor vainly attempting to escape to the
frigate was, with his creatures, compelled to seek protection by
submission; through the streets where he had first displayed his
scarlet coat and arbitrary commission, he and his fellows were
marched to the town-house and thence to prison. All the cry was
against Andros and Randolph. The castle was taken; the frigate was
mastered; the fortifications occupied."
Once more Massachusetts assembled in general court, and the old
man, whose blood could still tingle at wrong, was called again to
the chair of state, filling it till the end of all work came
suddenly, and he passed on, leaving a memory almost as tenderly
preserved as that of "the beloved governor," John Winthrop.
In the ancient burial place at Salem may still be seen the tomb of
the old man who had known over sixty years of public service.
SIMON BRADSTREET.
Armiger, exordine Senatoris, in colonia Massachusettensi
ab anno 1630, usque ad anum 1673. Deinde ad anum 1679,
Vice-Gubernator. Denique ad anum 1686, ejusdem coloniae,
communi et constanti populi suffragio, Gubernator. Vis,
judicio Lynceario preditus; guem nec numma, nec honos
allexit. Regis authoritatem, et populi libertatem, aequa
lance libravit. Religione cerdatus, vita innocuus, mundum
et vicit, et deseriut, 27 die, Martii, A. D. 1697.
Annog, Guliel, 3t ix, et Aet, 94.
Few epitaphs hold as simple truth. "He was a man," says Felt, "of
deep discernment, whom neither wealth nor honor could allure from
duty. He poised with an equal balance the authority of the King,
and the liberty of the people. Sincere in Religion and pure in his
life, he overcame and left the world."
The Assembly was in session on the day of his death and, "in
consideration of the long and extraordinary service of Simon
Bradstreet, late Governor, voted L100, toward defraying the
charges of his interment."
They buried him in Salem where his tomb may still be seen in the
old Charter Street burying-ground, though there is grave doubt if
even the dust of its occupant could be found therein. His memory
had passed, and his services meant little to the generation which
a hundred years later, saw one of the most curious transactions of
the year 1794. That an ancestor of Nathanael Hawthorne should have
been a party to it, holds a suggestion of the tendencies which in
the novelist's case, gave him that interest in the sombre side of
life, and the relish for the somewhat ghoul-like details, on
which he lingered with a fascination his readers are compelled to
share. On an old paper still owned by a gentleman of Salem, one
may read this catastrophe which has, in spite of court orderings
and stately municipal burial, forced Simon Bradstreet's remains
into the same obscurity which hides those of his wife.
"Ben, son of Col B. Pickman, sold ye tomb, being claimed by him
for a small expence his father was at in repairing it aft ye yr
1793 Or 1794 to one Daniel Hathorne, who now holds it." Having
taken possession, Daniel Hawthorne, with no further scruples
cleaned out the tomb, throwing the remains of the old Governor and
his family into a hole not far off. The New England of Simon
Bradstreet's day is as utterly lost as his own dust. Yet many of
the outward forms still remain, while its spirit is even more
evident and powerful.
Wherever the New England element is found--and where is it not
found?--its presence means thrift, thoroughness, precision and
prudence. Every circumstance of life from the beginning has taught
the people how to extract the utmost value from every resource.
Dollars have come slowly and painfully, and have thus, in one
sense, a fictitious worth; but penuriousness is almost unknown,
and the hardest working man or woman gives freely where a need is
really felt. The ideal is still for the many, more powerful than
the real. The conscientiousness and painful self-consciousness of
the early days still represses the joyful or peaceful side of
life, and makes angles more to be desired than curves. Reticence
is the New England habit. Affection, intense as it may be, gives
and demands small expression. Good-will must be taken for granted,
and little courtesies and ameliorations in daily life are treated
with disdain. "Duty" is the watchword for most, and no matter how
strange the path, if this word be lined above it, it is trodden
unquestioned.
As in the beginning, the corner-stone still "rests upon a book."
The eagerness for knowledge shown in every act of the early
colonial years has intensified, till "to know" has become a demon
driving one to destruction. Eternity would seem to have been
abolished, so eager are the learners to use every second of time.
Overwork, mental and physical, has been the portion of the New
England woman from the beginning. Climate and all natural
conditions fostered an alertness unknown to the moist and equable
air of the old home. While for the South there was a long
perpetuation of the ease of English life, and the adjective which
a Southern woman most desires to hear before her name is "sweet";
the New England woman chooses "bright," and the highest mark of
approval is found in that rather aggressive word. Tin pans,
scoured to that point of polish which meets the New England
necessity for thoroughness, are "bright," and the near observer
blinks as he suddenly comes upon them in the sun. A bit of
looking-glass handled judiciously by the small boy, has the same
quality, and is warranted to disconcert the most placid
temperament; and so the New England woman is apt to have jagged
edges and a sense of too much light for the situation. "Sweetness
and light" is the desirable combination, and may come in the new
union of North and South. The wise woman is she who best unites
the two. Yet, arraign New England as we may--and there are many
unmentioned counts in the indictment--it is certain that to her we
owe the best elements in our national life. "The Decadence of New
England" is a popular topic at present. It is the fashion to sneer
at her limitations. Our best novelists delight in giving her
barrenness, her unloveliness in all individual life--her
provincialism and conceit, and strenuous money-getting.
"It is a good place to be born in," they say, "provided you
emigrate early," and then they proceed to analyze her very
prominent weaknesses, and to suppress as carefully as possible
just judgment, either of past or present. Her scenery they cannot
dispense with. Her very inadequacies and absurdities of climate
involve a beauty which unites Northern sharpness of outline with
Southern grace of form and color. The short and fervid summer owns
charms denied a longer one. Spring comes uncertainly and
lingeringly, but it holds in many of its days an exquisite and
brooding tenderness no words can render, as elusive as that half-
defined outline on budding twigs against the sky--not leaves, but
the shadow and promise of leaves to be. The turf of the high
pasture-lands springing under the foot; the smell of sweet fern
and brake; the tinkle of cow-bells among the rocks, or the soft
patter of feet as the sheep run toward the open bars--what New
England boy or girl does not remember and love, till loving and
remembering are over for the life we live here? Yet in all the
ferment of old and new beliefs--the strange departures from a
beaten track--the attitude always, not of those who have found,
but of those who seek, there has ever been the promise of a better
day. The pathos which underlies all record of human life is made
plain, and a tender sadness is in the happiest lines. And this is
the real story of New England. Her best has passed on. What the
future holds for her it is impossible to say, or what strange
development may come from this sudden and overmastering Celtic
element, pervading even the remotest hill-towns. But one
possession remains intact: the old graveyards where the worthies
of an elder day sleep quietly under stones decaying and crumbling
faster than their memories. It all comes to dust in the end, but
even dust holds promise. Growth is in every particle, and whatever
time may bring--for the past it is a flower that "smells sweet and
blossoms in the dust"--for present and future, a steady march
toward the better day, whose twilight is our sunshine.
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