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This Romance was written some years ago, and was afterwards
thrown aside, as on the whole not likely to interest the general reader.
The subject was first suggested to me by a friend (far more capable
of doing justice to it than myself), who had however entirely abandoned
the ground. As, upon second thoughts, however, the epoch still seems
to me to possess certain attractions, I submit, with great diffidence, the
following pages to the public.

The crepuscular period which immediately preceded the rise of the
Massachusetts Colony, possesses more of the elements of romance than
any subsequent epoch. After the arrival of Winthrop with the charter,
the history of the province is as clear as day-light; but during the few previous
years there are several characters flitting like phantoms through the
chronicles of the time, about whose life and personal adventures, either
at home or in the wilderness, but little is known. They differ entirely
from the group of personages who succeeded them. Their appearance
is in striking, wilful contrast to the general aspect of the place and the
age. For the purposes of history, perhaps it is of no great consequence
that the strict account of their lives has not been written, but the singularity
of their appearance gives them a certain romantic interest. It

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was the brief presence of these pale and misty apparitions, vanishing
in the cold, clear dawn of Massachusetts history, which first attracted
me to the epoch. The charm of the subject lay in a wild improbability,
which seemed to surround it, but which disappeared upon an
examination of contemporary record.

The gentle reader is assured, and the ferocious critic is warned, that
the personages and scenes, which may appear to be out of keeping, are
strictly true in their coloring and spirit. An elephant hunt, for example,
would hardly be more unexpected in Massachusetts than a hawking
scene; a Hetman of Cossacks as likely a personage to meet with as a
Knight of the Sepulchre — and yet both the character and the adventure
are literal verities.

As the classics are growing unfashionable, Morton may perhaps appear
more of a pedant than he would have done two centuries ago.
The reader may very probably object to his quotations from Horace.
If so, the quarrel must be not with me, but with Morton, who is hardly
able to write a page of his autobiography without a classical allusion or
extract.

With regard to another point, it can hardly be necessary to disclaim
any improper motive in describing the scenes in which the Liturgy
and Church of England are degraded by their profane supporters. The
spirit of the scenes is historical, and it is to the accidental presence
and the mad follies of such ribalds, who affected to belong to the English
church only to show their ill-will to the Puritans, that much of the
subsequent hostility manifested by the fathers of Massachusetts to the
honored church, for which, upon leaving England, they expressly proclaimed
their affection, may perhaps be traeed.

So far as I know, the epoch has not been illustrated by writers of
fiction, with a single exception. I am aware, that in one of the volumes
of Mr. Hawthorne's “Tales,” is a story called the “Maypole of

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Merry-Mount.” Although familiar with most of those masterpieces of exquisite
delineation and subtle fancy, I was so fortunate as never to have
read that particular story before writing these volumes, and I took care
not to read it afterwards, feeling sure, if I did so, that my own pictures
would be still more unsatisfactory to me. With this exception, the
ground has not I believe been occupied.

Every man will of course decide for himself where the line between
history and romance should be drawn. As I have concluded not to use
my materials for an article in the Massachusetts Historical Collections,
I do not hold myself at present strictly accountable for all my authorities,
in all particulars.

As for my sources, beyond those accessible to every reader, I do not
care at present to indicate them. How certain portions of Sir Christopher
Gardiner's correspondence were discovered in the cellar of an old
house at Squantum — how certain documents, relating to the Gorges
family, were found wrapped about the Third Volume of Winthrop's
Journal, when it was discovered in the steeple of the Old South — how
some workmen, in digging for the foundation of a new house in Blaxton's
six-acre lot, recently discovered an iron box, which to their disappointment
was found to contain not doubloons, but documents relating to
the private affairs of one William Blaxton, clerk of Shawmut — how
these remarkable papers were all which escaped the destruction which
befell his house and library, and all his effects, in Philip's war — how
they at last came into my possession; — all this, and much more “of
worthy memory,” I might have stated, as the excellent Grumio has it,
which, however, must for certain reasons “perish in oblivion, and the
curious public return uninstructed to its grave.”

Another word — for like the bellows-mender of Athens, an author
sometimes likes to explain his roaring. The timorous reader may fear,
from the epoch, to find this an Indian story. The fear would be natural,

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for it must be admitted that in fiction there is “no more dangerous
wild-fowl” than your Indian, not even “your lion.” But it is not an
Indian story. The savages are left in the back-ground, although it
would have been difficult and impolite to turn them altogether out of
their country at that early period.

I will only observe, in conclusion, that if the epoch sometimes seems
dreary, and the story dull, the dulness is intentional, and must be imputed
entirely to the didactic nature of the subject. As somebody says
in the Spectator, “Whenever I am dull, the reader may be sure I have
a design in it.”

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