with flabby lips, she hobbles towards the trysing place; nor alone, from every bush starts up a shape as fantastic as those carved by some Gothic artisan. Fitz James witnessed not a stranger transformation, "When every tuft of broom gave life, To plaided warrior arined for strife," than that of the field appointed for the rendezvous of the powers of darkness. Nor, in truth, was there such cause to shiver at bristling steel, as at the brandishing of those multitudinous broomsticks and hazel wands. But their uncanny rites are not for us to describe. We leave them to their plots, their unholy sacrament, or, perchance, to their darker incantations, at which the dogs howled, the winds rushed away in affright, and the moon swooned in eclipse! Lest some of our friends of the legal profession should consider it a serious omission, we insert a copy of an indictment. It will be seen that it has nearly all that elegant redundancy which characterizes similar documents at the present day. When Jones knocks down Smith, we are informed that he "wickedly, maliciously, and without cause, struck, bruised, beat, trampled on and wounded him, the said Smith, in the peace, &c., then and there being, with fists, feet, clubs, stones, knives, tomahawks, &c., &c., &c." However, when false syntax and obsolete orthography are sanctified in our translation of Holy Writ, merely because of antiquity, these venerable absurdities may pass. Our rooms are ample enough for the cobwebbed heirlooms as yet; but when the new tenants, of the next century, come in, we fear a great deal of the old trumpery will go to make kindlingwood. "Essex in the Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New England. SS. Anno R. R. and Regina Gulielmi & Mariæ Angliæ, &c., Quarto, Annoq: Domini 1602. The Guriors for our Sour Lord and Lady the King and Queen doe present that Sarah Buckley, wife of William Buckley of Salem In the County of Essex, shoemaker In & upon the Eighteenth day of May... In the year aforesaid, and diuers other days and times as well before as after, Certaine detestable Arts called Witchcraft, or Sorceries, Wickedly, Mallitiously and felloniously hath used, practised and Exercised, At and in the Toune of Salem, in the County of Esaforesaid, in, upon & against one Ann Puttman of Salem, aforesaid, single woman, by which said wicked acts ye said An Puttnam ye Day & yeare aforesaid, and diuers other days and times both before and after was sex, At a later period the petitions for the reversal of sentences, for payment of expenses incurred in trials, and for restitution of confiscated property, which were presented to the General Court, showed an aggregate of injury and misery that was appalling. Those who had remained a long time in jail, experienced such sufferings from cold and privation, as we in modern times, since the mission of Miss Dix, have but a faint idea. Numbers of these petitions are on file in the Archives. We select one which strongly impressed us by its unaffected simplicity. The pe titioner at the time of her sentence was in a state of pregnancy, and her execution was therefore deferred. This was prior to the pardon of which she speaks. We should add that reparation the only reparation possible-was made in the year 1710. The attainders were reversed, and compensation made for damages sustained. "To the Honble the Greate and Generall Court of the Province of ye Massachusets Bay, assembled att Boston. "The petition of Abigail, the wife of ffrancis ffaulkner of Andover in ye County of Essex, 'Humbly sheweth: "That whereas in ye yeare 1692 when many were accused and imprisoned att Salem as Witches, and some executed, my selfe was accused by ye afflicted, who pretended to see me by theire spectrall sight, (not with theire bodily eyes,) and that I af flicted them; upon whose accusations, (and theires only,) I was examined, Imprisoned and brought to tryall, these being all that gave in anny Evidence against me upon Oath. Yett y Jewry, (upon only theire Testimony,) brought me in guilty, & the sentence of Death was passed upon me. But it pleased god to put it into ye heart of his Exey Sir Willm Phipps to grant me a repreve and att Length a pardon; the Insufficiency of ye proofe being in s pardon Exprest as the Inducement to ye granting thereof. Soe that Through the greate good ness of God I am yett preserved;—The par don haveing soe farr had its Effect as that I am as yett suffred to live; but this only as a male factor, convict upon record of ye most henious crimes that mankind can be Supposed to be guilty off: which, besides its utter Ruining and Defaming my Repu tation, will certainly Expose my selfe to Iminent Danger by new accusations, which will thereby be ye more redily believed,- We desire not to be misunderstood as Of course the tragedy we have been same "drum ecclesiastic." Perhaps a further advance in the same direction would not be altogether undesirable. As we before remarked, there can be no doubt of the sincerity of the principal actors in this affair. The ministers strove to learn God's will by earnest prayer and fasting. The judges and jurors showed by their subsequent conduct that they had been actuated by the most conscientious desire to do their duty. Chief Justice Stoughton, after the delusion was over, sent a note to the pulpit on Sunday desiring prayers for his pardon, if in any way he had sinned by his course in the trials; and as it was read he stood up in his pew, showing by his quivering lip the strong feeling within. A number of the jurors signed a paper (printed in Mr. Calef's collection), acknowledging their errors, and desiring to be exculpated or It must be remembered, that at this pe riod the belief in witchcraft and other demoniac agencies had been universal. The most eminent judge on the English bench had sentenced many to death for this supposed crime. The philosophy of the day, nearly all the treatises on law, medicine and divinity, recognized the potential interference of the devil in human affairs, and the possibility of working miracles by those in covenant with him. The learned treatise by Webster, to which we have referred, was almost alone in the positions it assumed. Further, we do not hesitate to say, there were phenomena in those days, which were not only beyond explanation by contemporary philosophy, but are not without difficulty even yet. Let materialists sneer as they will, there have always been, in every age, manifestations more or less palpable, which rouse, as by an electric shock, the innermost sensations of our being-sensations which are usually considered as the offspring of a weak and womanish superstition. Inquiry has been more at fault as these manifestations have multiplied. From Van Helmont to Mesmer, and down to Dr. Westervelt with the Veiled Lady, the subtle, resistless power of the human will has been recognized and wielded; but who has analyzed this agency, or shown the secret by which the "subject" becomes conscious of another's mind within his own, an interior force within force? The daring pretensions of clairvoyance are not so well settled; but allowing the most moderate statement of the matter to be true, could the connoisseur in diablerie furnish any thing from the fables he has gathered more astounding to a reasoning mind? Of the later manifestations, before alluded to, there is not time to write; nor, in truth, while so many things necessary to a fair consideration of the subject are still in dispute, is it desirable to enter into discussion upon its merits. We believe that the phenomena which characterized the abnormal condition of the sibyl, the somwere, nambulist, the mesmeric "subject," and the modern spiritual "medium" all or in part, observed at the commencement of the witchcraft mania; and they were too astounding for the age. Under the circumstances which we have endeavored to portray, the progress of the delusion was natural and inevitable. We may be thankful that its victims were barely a score, and not numbered by thousands, as in Scotland and upon the Continent. in SALT LAKE AND THE NEW SARATOGA. My friend Thompson and I were sitting in our tent door the other evening, looking out upon the rolling prairie. It was a June night-the most immaculate of summer. The atmosphere was rare, the sky high and distant, and, in the absence of the moon, its surface glittered with sharp-pointed stars. The prairie which had shimmered all day in the heat, now stretched away darkly as the sky, and with innumerable fire-flies flashing on it, became another sky, radiant as the heavenly one with stars. I remember I suggested as much to Thompson. He only replied with an "umph"-like an Indian's "ugh," meaning any thing and nothing-and taking his rifle, sauntered off to the nearest branch. When I first met my friend Thompson he was lounging in the Düsseldorf Gallery, with a lady on his arm. I noticed him for his ton-ish cravat tie and most symmetrical boots. I think I heard him use the words "chiaroscuro," "fore-shortning," and the like. I next saw him on the Plains. He was driving three jack mules and riding a fourth. He wore a red flannel shirt and moccasons. I cannot say which costume became him best. I am happy to state that my friend Thompson has seen life, and learned to despise externals. He has polkaed at Newport, swam at Nahant, ridden at tournaments in the Old Dominion, and driven fast horses, and flirted the requisite number of seasons at Saratoga. A young lady, who had said "yes" with rose-buds and glances for a month, most unfortunately said " no" with her lips one fine morning, and Mr. Thompson went West for change of air. Since then he has bought porcupine work of the Blackfeet, had mules frozen to death under him in South Pass, been shot at by the Apaches, and wintered with the Mormons at Great Salt Lake. As he is on the summer side of thirty, I think his chance yet good of being shot by the arrows of the Crows, or struck by the not less mortal darts which flash in the languid air of Saratoga. I have thus particularly spoken of my friend Thompson, that, seeing his experience, no one shall impugn the wisdom of the remark he made somewhat later in the evening. We had been speaking of the Pacific Railroad, of Salt Lake, and of summer travel. "In less than twenty years," he said, "Saratoga will be 'nowhere' as a fash ionable resort, in comparison with Salt Lake." The idea was novel to me, and the remark closed the conversation. I pondered it far into the night, and at last said I aloud to myself, "Is it possible?" Who, who, who-who-o-o!" remarked an owl from a neighboring thicket. Nay, nay, O my owlish judge, notwithstanding your summary contempt, we are pleased to consider the question-if only for the sake of our children. We have with us an unlettered Dane, but yet he has seen and cannot forget Heidelberg, and beautiful Tivoli, and the summer prime of Copenhagen. Often we sit and watch the great shadows running over the flowing grass of the prairie, till they glide into some thick woodland which lies undulating in the horizon, very glorious with the sheen of the sun on its shifting leaves. And as often as we do, and speak of Fatherland, he shakes his head and sighs, "Oh, de summer time, de summer time." And I think he sees broad highways where ancient trees grow and heavy shadows lie, sees vineyards and purple hills, and from them looks down upon woodlands that lie concave to his eye, and seem immortally green, as the hunting grounds the Indian dreams of. The Dane is right; his sigh is natural. So we all say, sing, or sigh, "Oh, the summer time." We long for it. We dream of green woods and sweet fields, and clear brooks. We go where the checkered shade falls upon the green sward, where masses of leaves shimmer in the white light, and the audible stir of the wind among the trees moves us to sentiment, to poetry, perhaps to religion-we are all poets then. We wonder no more at the interland sweetness of Keats, or the tranquil pictures of Bryant. In the season when open field and forest put on the glory of summer, brick and mortar become hateful to us. The dust and din of the city are not to be endured; if we had been Romans, we should have retired before the dog star to our villas on the "Yellow Tiber," or pushed off to Brundusium, or to the Apennine hills. As it is, we go to Lake George, to the White Mountains, to the Falls of St. Anthony, or lose our identity, and become No. 49 or 400-and-something at some one of our thousand fash ionable resorts. As for myself, I go beyond the Mississippi. I am confessedly partial to the unadulterated air of the prairies, rather than to the thrice-used atmosphere of a watering-place. On a windy night, I prefer the flapping of tent canvas to the chattering of window-shutters. It is a matter of fancy, merely. If we yielded to the call of summer done, and followed first impulses, I presume we would each seek out some charming spot in the country, some place unprofaned by the clamor of porters and gongs. But our tastes are too refined for that. We don't like the country raw. Small portions of it, dished up into gardens, promenades and "grounds," we can relish. We love the country-seen from the windows of our hotel. Walks in the country are so delightful, if well gravelled. There is such abandon and simplicity about country life, in a splendidly lighted ball-room. So we take the city with us. Besides this, we are eminently gregarious. We pour from our city hives in swarms. We hive for the season where the queen-bee of the season directs. We geek the retirement and solitude of country life, and conclude, justly, with Byron, that we can never be so thoroughly alone as in a crowd. What other influences and motives jam us together in this or that fashionable resort, fatigue us with ceremony, increase the specific gravity of our hearts and lighten that of our purses, my dear Mrs. Johnes and her three dear unmarried daughters must answer, I can not. But for one reason or another, we all frequent watering-places, and we always will, in this world. It has become a fixed social habit with us-more than that, a necessity, a principle. In the name of the American people, I would say to the Reformer; Sir, ask us to abandon our principles of '98, and our Fourth of July; to relinquish our Eagle and our Sea-Serpent, our Cuba and our China, and we will listen with some degree of patience; but don't touch our watering-places, don't attempt to chain the summer overflowings of our cities; you will only prove yourself a greater ninny than Xerxes. On this plea or that we will swell the fashionable exodus. If we are invalids, we ought to go. If we are young and single, we must go. If we are advanced down the vale of life to where the lengthened shadows fall, we desire to go. We love to see again the old haunts that were like heaven to our young hearts, when love, beauty and hope, tinted life. Like shadows we creep along the screened walks under the glorious old trees, while shadows of the lovely and brave of other days keep us company, growing sad, and, I trust, better and gentler hearted amid the old memories. Stooping at the same spring where a timid glance or a rustling of silk, was wont to make the hand un steady that offered the morning glass; peeping furtively in the open door adown that hall of illusions, where the "dearest girl" we loved and lost, queened it so modestly twenty years ago. My respectable old snob with the buff waistcoat and overgrown seals, you will go for no such reasons. I know you. You will go, as you always have gone, to sit in the porch, to cool your corpulency with iced sherry and "smashers," and leer and comment upon fair, frail forms, whose young loveliness should shame you into virtuous thought, even if your gray hairs will not. But you will go, nevertheless. We shall all go. We make a business of our summer recreation. We pursue it with feverish heat. We start on our yearly hunt for pleasure, we ride hard after it through the heat of the summer solstice, locomotives are scarcely swift enough for our impatience. We fly from the sea-shore to the mountains, from waterfalls to springs. Our ears are hardly habituated to the roar of breakers at Cape May, than we crave the cool spray at the Falls of Montmorenci. It is a way we have. We cannot sit quietly in the woodland's edge, where the undulating prairie flows for leagues away, letting the eye dream along the level ridge, where elegant deer draw up their fleet limbs and proud heads in relief against the blue sky, or in the green valleys, where graceful spotted fawns are playing, and let the landscape sink like a dream of beauty into our souls, to be a "joy for ever!" We must pursue the trembling game with horse and hound, we must butcher the splendid stag, and put a leaden bullet through the fawn's faultless head, and dim for ever the lustre of its girl-like eyes. So we rush to the chase. We do the whole Union in one season, and return to our homes fagged and confused. There are dim remembrances, floating in our brains, of moonlight and gaslight; of heavenly nights and headachy mornings, of bewitching eyes, and lips never parted wide enough to utter the Saxon "No;" of something about "eternal love and constancy," which we may have read, but hope we haven't spoken; and in our hands a crushed rose-bud. This is all. These are our summer trophies. No doubt they will furnish agreeable topics for review when we are old, and the green grass of churchyards is growing over our set." It is a com mendable mode and end of life. It will read well in our biographies. 66 To return. We not only steam in hot haste from this to that old and fashionable recognized haunt, but we demand new ones continually. Each season some We new spring, a more romantic waterfall, a clean beach, or the sea-shore, becomes a candidate for the summer's dissipation, and the summer's romance. The insatiable thirst for novelty goads us on. already pack our trunks for the Upper Lakes, and the head-waters of the Mississippi. Even this is not enough, there is yet something beyond. Not that old Congress Spring is forgotten or uncared for, by any means. It has held its brave position since Leatherstocking brushed aside the leaves, and quaffed its sparkling bubbles, and it will hold it. Fans and hearts will be broken at its shrine. Fresh-hearted girls will learn to doubt the truth of vow and promise, and men will learn to doubt the truth of ditto, to an indefinite extent. More splendid equipages will dart along the streets, gayest apparel will flaunt the showy walks. Beauty, and luxury, and fashion will rule it. Joy and envy, vanity and light-heartedness, will push on the throng to the time of evening instruments, which discourse more deliciously than the full-throated singing of thrushes in an old wood at sunset. The old revel must go on-"let the music knock it." Indeed, we have a thousand associations about the gay and sad place, and we shall love it as long as there is a bubble in the dear old spring. But, alas, it is near at hand, the hunt is getting tame, we want wider range. Ah, I see how it is, we are longing already for Salt Lake. The practical reader, who snuffed great saline manufactories and immense profits in the title of our article, thinks we have wandered widely from the text. But we beg him to remember that Salt Lake is as yet difficult of access, and he will pardon the fondness which lingers a little in the beaten roads of the Atlantic shore, before we strike a tangent for the Mormon Temple. Great rivers lie in our way, and deserts; and, as somebody says, the "first families-Bruin and red Ishmael," still dispute our path. The Pacific Railway is not yet laid. We, who are accustomed to the roughness of camps, and can endure the sweltering heat of the plains, and the chill of rocky ledges, can manage the matter with mules and moccasons; but my delicately-slippered ladies above Bleecker must wait for the cushioned car. The rails are yet to be laid, and I count the influence of those same ladies who are waiting for the cushioned car, and that "love of a new watering-place," as among the most potential to effect the great work. When they know (as I am determined they shall) what new arena is awaiting them, will they ever cease teasing for the road to take them to it? Will my friend Mrs. Johnes and the three Misses Johnes, ever give over importuning old Johnes, the capitalist, until he bestirs himself and invests his money as he ought to? Will not their smiles, and tears, and poutings, be more potent than the speeches of Col. Benton, the explorations of his son-in-law, the reports of Lieut. Maury, or the Memphis Convention? I think so. Degraded woman has lost her "rights" since the days of tournaments, but we all remember that her "persuasive lips" were more powerful than the eloquence of Sheridan or Pitt, in the Westminster elections. The Pacific Railroad is, as every body knows, a foregone conclusion. No one west of the Alleghanies will have a moment's quiet, and few east of them will enjoy a whole night's sleep until it shall be completed. We are just now only differing as to its eastern terminus. Every body, as usual, wishes it to run through his own door-yard and be contiguous to his wood pile. Every "sovereign" has his pet line. With all modesty, I confess to a partiality for a certain route, and I am not alone in my notion of its practicability. I would have the line run through the middle States, have it follow the plainly desig nated way of the Great Divide from which the streams all make northward to the Great Lakes, or southward to the Ohio river; thence due westward to St. Joseph, up the south bank of the North Ford of the Platte to Fort Laramie, and so through South Pass to Salt Lake, letting those who wish steam it northward to Astoria and Puget's Sound. I am aware of plenty of other proposed routes, but I trust we shall all meet this side the Sierra Nevada I think this route the best because it is the most direct; because the section this side the Missouri, at least, is the easiest of construction; and, lastly, because it lands us all safely at Salt Lake, where I should else have found it very difficult to conduct our watering-place devotees; and I am the more encouraged to think it will triumph, because I am certain of their active co-operation. To avoid all misconception of my motives by the shrewd, it may be necessary to state that I own no city lots among the Mormons, that I never expect to establish pre-emption rights in Nebraska, and that my entire real estate consists, I am sorry to say, in certain castles and islands which any body may see at sunset, "Steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans, and trailing streams That gleam where the dusky valleys lie." The country is not generally considered arable, except by poets. The valley in which Great Salt Lake |