Margaret Smiths Journal | Page 8

1678.
To-day Sir Thomas took his leave of us, being about to go back to
Boston. Cousin Rebecca is, I can see, much taken with his outside
bravery and courtliness, yet she hath confessed to me that her sober
judgment doth greatly incline her towards her old friend and neighbor,
Robert Pike. She hath even said that she doubted not she could live a
quieter and happier life with him than with such an one as Sir Thomas;
and that the words of the Quaker maid, whom we met at the spring on
the river side, had disquieted her not a little, inasmuch as they did seem
to confirm her own fears and misgivings. But her fancy is so bedazzled
with the goodly show of her suitor, that I much fear he can have her for
the asking, especially as her father, to my knowledge, doth greatly
favor him. And, indeed, by reason of her gracious manner, witty and
pleasant discoursing, excellent breeding, and dignity, she would do no
discredit to the choice of one far higher than this young gentleman in
estate and rank.

June 10.

I went this morning with Rebecca to visit Elnathan Stone, a, young
neighbor, who has been lying sorely ill for a long time. He was a
playmate of my cousin when a boy, and was thought to be of great
promise as he grew up to manhood; but, engaging in the war with the
heathen, he was wounded and taken captive by them, and after much
suffering was brought back to his home a few months ago. On entering
the house where he lay, we found his mother, a careworn and sad
woman, spinning in the room by his bedside. A very great and bitter
sorrow was depicted on her features; it was the anxious, unreconciled,
and restless look of one who did feel herself tried beyond her patience,
and might not be comforted. For, as I learned, she was a poor widow,
who had seen her young daughter tomahawked by the Indians; and now
her only son, the hope of her old age, was on his death-bed. She
received us with small civility, telling Rebecca that it was all along of
the neglect of the men in authority that her son had got his death in the
wars, inasmuch as it was the want of suitable diet and clothing, rather
than his wounds, which had brought him into his present condition.
Now, as Uncle Rawson is one of the principal magistrates, my sweet
cousin knew that the poor afflicted creature meant to reproach him; but
her good heart did excuse and forgive the rudeness and distemper of
one whom the Lord had sorely chastened. So she spake kindly and
lovingly, and gave her sundry nice dainty fruits and comforting cordials,
which she had got from Boston for the sick man. Then, as she came to
his bedside, and took his hand lovingly in her own, he thanked her for
her many kindnesses, and prayed God to bless her. He must have been
a handsome lad in health, for he had a fair, smooth forehead, shaded
with brown, curling hair, and large, blue eyes, very sweet and gentle in
their look. He told us that he felt himself growing weaker, and that at
times his bodily suffering was great. But through the mercy of his
Saviour he had much peace of mind. He was content to leave all things
in His hand. For his poor mother's sake, he said, more than for his own,
he would like to get about once more; there were many things he would
like to do for her, and for all who had befriended him; but he knew his
Heavenly Father could do more and better for them, and he felt
resigned to His will. He had, he said, forgiven all who ever wronged
him, and he had now no feeling of anger or unkindness left towards any
one, for all seemed kind to him beyond his deserts, and like brothers

and sisters. He had much pity for the poor savages even, although he
had suffered sorely at their hands; for he did believe that they had been
often ill-used, and cheated, and otherwise provoked to take up arms
against us. Hereupon, Goodwife Stone twirled her spindle very
spitefully, and said she would as soon pity the Devil as his children.
The thought of her mangled little girl, and of her dying son, did seem to
overcome her, and she dropped her thread, and cried out with an
exceeding bitter cry,--"Oh, the bloody heathen! Oh, my poor murdered
Molly! Oh, my son, my son!"--"Nay, mother," said the sick man,
reaching out his hand and taking hold of his mother's, with a sweet
smile on his pale face,--"what does Christ