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Twice Told Tales

The Gentle Boy
In the course of the year 1656 several of the people called Quakers—led, as they
professed, by the inward movement of the spirit—made their appearance in New
England. Their reputation as holders of mystic and pernicious principles having spread
before them, the Puritans early endeavored to banish and to prevent the further intrusion
of the rising sect. But the measures by which it was intended to purge the land of heresy,
though more than sufficiently vigorous, were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers,
esteeming persecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage
unknown to the Puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross by providing for the
peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness. Though it was the singular
fact that every nation of the earth rejected the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace
toward all men, the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes the
most eligible, was the province of Massachusetts Bay.
The fines, imprisonments and stripes liberally distributed by our pious forefathers, the
popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual
persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the Quakers as peace, honor and
reward would have been for the worldly-minded. Every European vessel brought new
cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to share; and
when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from affording them passage, they
made long and circuitous journeys through the Indian country, and appeared in the
province as if conveyed by a supernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened almost to
madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the rules of
decency as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm and
staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. The command of the
Spirit, inaudible except to the soul and not to be controverted on grounds of human
wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions which, abstractedly
considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the rod. These extravagances,
and the persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued to
increase, till in the year 1659 the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two
members of the Quaker sect with the crown of martyrdom.
An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, but a large
share of the awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at the head of the
government. He was a man of narrow mind and imperfect education, and his
uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions;
he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the
enthusiasts, and his whole conduct in respect to them was marked by brutal cruelty. The
Quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less deep because they were inactive,
remembered this man and his associates in after-times. The historian of the sect affirms
that by the wrath of Heaven a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the "bloody
town" of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it were,
among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments
that overtook them in old age or at the parting-hour. He tells us that they died suddenly
 
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