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A few days after the revels of Merry-Mount had been concluded,
the sovereign of that territory was left in almost solitary
state in his palace. He had depatched the greater number of
his retainers to the inland portion of the country, this being the
season when it was usual with them to meet the Indians, make
their purchases of beaver, and arrange their future contracts;
and there were none left within the precincts of the Mount, save
the head butler and the Canary Bird.

Leaving those two worthies in charge of the palace, Master
Morton, one fine summer's morning, passed over the river and
took his way towards the plantation of Wessaguscus, or rather to
what remained of that unsuccessful establishment at that place.
A few straggling settlers still lingered in the vicinity, living,
however, in the most miserable condition, some of them being
actually servants to the Indians, and performing menial offices
for a livelihood, although by far the greater portion had made their
escape from the unpromising colony; some to Plymouth, some
to Merry-Mount, and some, who could command sufficient
means, to England.

The fate of the plantation at Wessaguscus, (the earliest settlement
in Massachusetts Bay,) was a striking counterpart to that
of New Plymouth, and in fact the history of every settlement
that was made in the territory of the Massachusetts, by any class
of adventurers, except those with whom religion was the ruling
motive, shows that some higher and stronger principle of action

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than the love of gain, was necessary to maintain a colony in so
wild and dreary a solitude.

The vernal period of Massachusetts history bears some resemblance
to the spring-time of her climate. If we regard the
successive efflorescence of civilization along the edge of the
bay, the pale and feeble buds reluctantly expanding their petals
one by one, amid a stormy and cheerless atmosphere, many of
them frozen and destroyed before unfolding, and the healthiest
but faintly quivering upon the black and leafless bough, we shall
find that there seems but one single source of vitality, capable of
protecting and supporting their faint and slow development.

In warmer climes, under more genial influences, and inspired
by golden dreams of terrestrial wealth and glory, there have
been colonies whose beginnings were more brilliant, picturesque,
and captivating to the imagination, but they have not unfolded
to empires. The broad-leaved tree of the tropics derives its
rank luxuriance as much from the stimulating and poisonous
influence which it imbibes from the atmosphere, as from the
fertility of the soil in which it stands. Magnificent are its
foliage, its flowers, its towering shaft, its umbrageous top, but a
blast of the hurricane lays it low. The stalwart oak, whose
roots descend through beds of sterile gravel and through-clefts
of frost-riven granite, derives its nourishment from the pure and
unsunned veins of living water, and from a thousand subtle and
invisible treasures of nature's inmost bosom. The tempests of a
thousand years sweep over it in vain.

Morton had passed a portion of the summer's day loitering
about the neighborhood, hoping to fall in with certain petty
chieftains, of the neighboring tribes, with whom he was in constant
habits of intercourse, and with whom he had some particular
arrangements to conclude. He had been disappointed,
however, and was upon the point of returning to his own
domains, as it was already late in the afternoon, when he

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suddenly heard himself called by name. Turning in some surprise
at the sound, he saw emerging from a kind of cavern, partly
natural and partly artificial, which opened upon the side of a
sloping crag, a strange and almost preternatural figure. The
creature seemed covered with hair from head to foot, but how
much of his hirsute covering was the natural growth of his own
hide, and how much had been borrowed from other animals,
could not, in the general squalor and filth which covered the
whole, be accurately discovered. His head was covered with
matted iron-grey elf locks, which circled and twisted in every
direction, like a nest of rattlesnakes; the nails of his hands and
feet were long and crooked, like vulture's talons; he had a
basket on his arm, and held a long pole in his right hand. The
expression of his features, as far as could be discerned through
the mass of hair and filth with which they were obscured, was
something less human than that of an intelligent ourang-outang.

“Master Morton, Master Morton,” screeched this creature,
suddenly darting out of its cave, and leaping towards the Lord of
Merry-Mount.

“How now, thou filthy Caliban — art thou not starved nor
scalped yet?” answered Morton, who seemed to have seen the
creature before — “What wouldst thou with me, most venerable
carrion? Propound, explain, but prithee stand upon the other
side of me, for the wind, look ye, sits upon this quarter, and
there be certain damp and earthy exhalations, contracted doubtless
by thy subterranean mode of life — pauca verba, pauca
verba, — thou understandest me, I perceive.”

“Master Morton, Master Morton, thou diddest me a kindness
once,” said this human woodchuck.

“Did I so, indeed?” answered the other; “then prithee, do
me another in return.”

“Truly I will, your worship. What shall I do to serve you?
Shall I dig you a basket of clams? Stay but here, your worship,

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and I will be back before you can whistle for me.” And with
this the creature planted his pole in the earth and began leaping
down the side of the hill.

“Stop, stop,” cried Morton, “I have no occasion for clams
at this present juncture, and truly the favor I meant to ask of
you, was simply that thou shouldst frothwith return again into
the womb of thy mother earth. Burrow back again, thou most
venerable mole, for truly thou makest the daylight hideous.
Come back with the owls and the bats, and the toads, and the
other noisome things which love the twilight — but the sunlight,
believe me, was never made for thee. But stay, I did but jest,”
added Morton, as the creature, hanging its head and weeping
bitterly, began slowly to retreat towards his cave — “stay here,
then, and air the inmost chambers of thy mind, by opening them
to the breeze and sunlight of improving society. After all, 't is
not good to be so solitary. Take thy clam basket and follow
me. Thou shalt go with me to Merry-Mount, and shalt dwell in
my tent, poor miserable devil that thou art. Come along, I
say.”

“I say, Master Morton, thou diddest me a kindness once,”
said the Caliban, turning again towards his companion, and
squatting down at the door of his cave.

“So thou diddest me the honor to observe before,” answered
Morton, “and truly I do even propose to do thee another. I
tell thee to follow me to my palace, and forsake thy heathenish
haunt and grovelling habits. `Come live with me, and be my
love,' as the worthy Kit Marlowe expresses himself to a more
fascinating object, let me hope than thou art —”

“I cannot away to Merry-Mount,” answered the other. “I
would go willingly, but I cannot away.”

“And why can you not, most hirsute of human creatures?”
answered Morton. “Come with me, I say, and that at once, for
by the Lord it is growing dark and mirky, and the air looks full
of smothered thunder.”

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“Yes, yes, Master Morton, thunder enough, lightning enough,”
answered the monster; “I have not lived under ground so
long for nothing. I can smell the brimstone when it is boiling.
There is thunder brewing up yonder, and plenty of it,
and the wind will blow a little perhaps to-night; any body knows
that.”

“By Jupiter,” said Morton, “here is a subterranean philosopher!
But what hath all this to do with my invitation to thee.
I did bid thee to our palace at Merry-Mount, thunder or no
thunder.”

“I told thee I could not away,” answered the other.

“And why not, pretty one,” replied Morton.

“Truly, because I have sold myself to the great god Abamoko,
and he hath ordered me to stay here to serve his red
children. If I should go away from my cave, who would find
ground-nuts for the sachems, who would dig clams for them,
who find quails' eggs for the squaws? Sometimes I feel as if I
should like to go away. The cave is very cold in winter, and
the snow hides the ground-nuts. But the red creatures are very
kind. They give me my cap full of parched corn every week
when I work for them. I thank thee kindly, Master Morton,
but I cannot away to Merry-Mount. I have sold myself to the
great god Abamoko.”

“Now here is an ingenious fellow,” said Morton to himself,
who found that the poor crack-brained man of the woods was
out of the reach of his arguments. “Now here is a profound
philosopher, who has gone farther than ever Christian went before,
for he has even turned his back upon our old and respectable
Sathanas, and sold himself, soul and body, to an Indian's
devil — and a devilish hard bargain he has made of it too. A
cap full of parched corn hebdomadally! — proh pudor! is that
the rate paid for humanity by this pitiful devil? Commend me
to honest Mephistopheles after all, and the devil take such

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sneaking skin-flints as the god Abamoko. But I say, thou subterranean
philosopher, what favor did I ever do thee, for which
thou expressest so much gratitude, albeit somewhat uncouthly?”

“Thou didst once rescue me,” answered the Caliban, “when
three red-skins would have destroyed and scalped me. I had
pilfered but I was starving. Thou didst save my life, and
moreover thou didst give me, besides, a horn of rosa solis.”

“I do remember me,” exclaimed Morton, “and by Jupiter
Diespiter, here is gratitude enow to redeem a city. Here is a
poor outcast, burrowing in the ground and feeding on pignuts,
who remembereth with gratitude one single horn of liquor, for
as to the preservation of thy life, seeing what use thou makest
thereof, that can hardly be reckoned a kindness. By heavens,
such virtue shall be rewarded. Look upon this, sylvan monster!”
And with this Morton held up a hunting flask, of
ample dimension, which he carried suspended at his side.

An unearthly grin spread itself over the physiognomy of the
wild man of the woods, as he leaped nimbly forward, and eagerly
clutched the treasure which was offered to him.

“Aha!” said he, as he greedily applied it to his lips, “aha?
this is a greater spirit than Abamoko. I wish I served your
spirit, Master Morton, but Abamoko is powerful, and his red
children are very kind. Alas, I cannot go with thee to Merry-Mount!”

“Stay where thou art then, in God's name,” replied the other,
“since thy thraldom is so irresistible; and now farewell, for
truly I like not over-well the threatening aspect of yonder
clouds, and I have a trifling march before me.”

“Alas, alas, thou art going indeed,” said the wild man, “and
truly I fear much lest mischance should befall thee. I have
smelt the thunder all day long as I lay in my cave, and I saw
fearful sights in the air last night. But 'tis not the worst, 'tis
not the worst! There is a more fearful mischance threatening

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thee, Master Morton, alas, alas! to thee who have been so good
to me.” And here the creature began to weep bitterly.

“Why, thinkest thou I am afraid of the thunder and rain,
most delicate of wood spirits?” said Morton, laughing.

“Alas, alas!” blubbered the other, “'t is not the rain, nor
the wind, nor the thunder, though they will all be fearful. 'T is
the dreadful Captain Standish, the mighty man of Plymouth,
that I —”

“Captain Standish!” exclaimed Morton, “what of the heroic
shrimp, what of the most puissant pigmy? speak.”

“Alas, alas,” replied the other, “I pray thee jest not at that
mighty man of wrath.”

“Diddest thou never hear,” continued he, in a low and
mysterious tone, “diddest thou never hear of the fearful plague
which swept through this wilderness, now many years ago, I
know not how many, neither was I here then. Alas, alas! I was
then in my own happy home, and had not sold myself to the
terrible Abamoko,” continued the creature, with the tears
running afresh along his grimy cheeks.

“Did I never hear of it,” cried Morton, “why thou most
uninstructed pagan, did I not see it? Was not I, Thomas
Morton, Prince of Passanogessit, travelling through these rugged
wildernesses at the very time when that same distemper ceased?
Did I not, who knew that the Indians were ceremonious and
careful in the offering of burial rites to their dead, did not I,
when wandering through the places where they had dwelt, and
whence they had all vanished, see them all lying in heaps like
autumn leaves, old and young, sachems, warriors, squaws, and
papooses, all rotting together unburied in the wilderness, with
the wolves, and the kites, and the carrion crows feasting upon
their carcases? Did I not believe that I had got to Golgotha
instead of to the Massachusetts, and what then wilt thou tell me

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of this plague, and what the plague hath this plague to do with
Captain Shrimp?”

“Knowest thou not then, Master, that the plague still exists?”
continued the other in the same hoarse and boding tone.

“Quite the contrary, my rustic friend,” answered Morton,
“I know that it hath surceased well nigh these ten years.”

“The plague exists, Master,” said the other, still in the same
hoarse and earnest accents. “It hath gone to sleep, but it
exists still, it hath foded its wings, but it is alive, and it will
soon fly over the land again; so beware of the mighty man of
Plymouth, Master!”

“It hath gone to sleep, hath it?” answered Morton.

“Aye, truly, Master, the great God Abamoko himself hath
told me so, often and often, as he visited me by night in my
cave.”

“So the God Abamoko visits thee nocturnally,” answered
Morton. “Excuse me, but his highness seemeth somewhat
addicted to low company.”

“Alas, alas!” answered the monster, “he comes by night,
and fastens the fetters upon my legs; they are red-hot iron,
and they burn me to the bone; he screws them tight, and my
flesh smokes, and my blood boils, and my brains fry.”

“What detestable and unfeeling cookery,” answered Morton;
“now may Satan himself consume such a boiling, frying,
scorching devil as Abamoko. Why in the name of Beelzebub
don't you fly away in the day-time?”

“Because he makes me swear every night to serve him and
his red children faithfully. Because he hath burned and branded
me for his own; because the fetters are always there in the day-time,
although invisible and looser than in the darkness.”

“And where in the foul fiend's name broodeth this plague
that terrifies you thus?” replied Morton. “Where doth it roost?
Mayhap it were as well to find its nest at once, and crack all its
eggs before it hath time to hatch them.”

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“Ah,” continued the outcast, in the same solemn tone, “jest
not, I pray thee, with such fearful matters. Knowest thou not
then in very truth, that the hero of Plymouth keepeth the plague
in a barrel, safely stowed in the cellarage of his own house,
and that if he list, he can let it loose to fly over the whole
country?”

“Whew!” exclaimed Morton, “so the murder is out. So
Captain Shrimp is the devil's head butler, is he, and hath the
care of his choicest casks? And how, I pray thee, hast thou
made this notable discovery of the treasures of the Plymouth
cellar?”

“I tell thee, Master,” continued the other, “that the red
children of Abamoko all know whence came the fearful pestilence
many years ago, and they know 'tis the Englishman's
devil and the scourge of red men. Abamoko himself hath told
them where it is confined, and who keepeth the keys of its
prison. This is why they all fear the Englishmen so much, and
the hero of Plymouth most of all.”

“Truly a most admirable device,” answered Morton. “Ah,
valiant Miles, ah, truculent Shrimp, thou hast, indeed, a trick
or two worth knowing. Bless thy witty brains, I could almost
worship thee. And thou wert in London but lately, and in the
very midst of the plague, too, and escapedst unharmed. 'Twas
the very vintage season for thee, no doubt, and there didst thou
fill thy hogshead for wilderness consumption. The pestilence
in a puncheon, forsooth! No wonder these deluded savages fear
thee as the roaring lion!”

“Hush, hush,” exclaimed his companion, who seemed quite
shocked at the irreverent manner in which his astounding piece
of intelligence was received; “hush, hush, hearest thou not
yonder distant thunder? I tell thee it is ill jesting upon these
awful matters. Ah! — what a peal was that! Abamoko is full
of wrath;” and with these words the lunatic coiled himself into

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a heap upon the ground, moaning dismally, while his teeth
chattered with fear.

In effect, the weather had began to assume a somewhat threatening
aspect. The day, which had been one of intense heat,
was already drawing to its close, but there was no freshness, no
evening coolness in the atmosphere. The sun had sunk beneath
a long, dense mass of leaden clouds which lay motionless along
the horizon, but the whole upper surface of the heavens still
glowed like burnished brass. Not the faintest breath of wind
was perceptible, and the gigantic oaks and chestnuts, which
grew around the spot, stood with their massive foliage darkly
painted upon the brazen sky, the outline of almost every leaf so
sharply defined, and every branch so fixed and motionless, that
the very forest seemed enchanted. The silence was oppressive,
not a twig rustled, not a bird sent forth a solitary note, not an
insect murmured. Nature seemed so spell-bound and breathless,
that it was a relief to Morton's ear, when the distant and muttered
thunder, which was hardly audible, and which, however,
seemed so sensibly to affect his companion, at last interrupted
the boding silence.

There were certainly some symptoms of an approaching
storm, although it seemed probable that it would be long before
it broke forth. Although it was past sunset, and although the
western edge of the horizon was dark and gloomy, yet there
seemed a singular and inexplicable radiance in the sky. Long
bars of brilliant light seemed to be projected upwards from some
source far away from the quarter where the sun had sunk; and
as evening advanced, instead of the shadowy and refreshing
twilight, the brightness of the sky seemed with every instant to
increase. While the portion of the west, which would naturally
have been tinged with the last glowing colors of the departed
day, retained the same dull and sombre hue, there was spread
over the rest of the sky a thin rack of flame-colored vapor,

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which seemed to radiate an intense degree of heat and light.
Wild and ragged clouds of a dull green hue, were driving with
fearful velocity across this blazing surface, indicating that while
the deceitful and brooding calm still lingered below, there was
already a fierce commotion in the upper atmosphere.

Morton stood looking at these various and portentous appearances,
with the eye of a man whom long experience in the
wilderness had taught to read the book of nature with great
accuracy.

“There is no mistaking such ugly signs as these,” said he,
rather to himself than to his companion. “It needs no misbegotten
gnome, coming from the bowels of the earth, to tell me
that there will be a devilish pother of the elements before I can
get back to Merry-Mount. Now, although the weather be June,
and the distance home but ten miles, yet I would rather empty a
tankard in the poorest hedge ale-house between London and
Staines, than run all night through these slippery thickets, with
nothing to light me on my path but the lightning, which is a
mighty zig-zag and uncomfortable kind of link bearer.”

“I tell thee, Master,” croaked out the lunatic, as he lay
coiled and shuddering in a heap, “profane not thus the name of
the mighty and fearful hero of Plymouth. Deride not, neither,
the terrible Abamoko. He rushes even now over our heads,
astride the thunder.”

“Faith, then,” answered Morton, “I wish he would even
take me up on his pillion behind him. As for the heroic Captain
Standish, whose name, it seems, is not to be profaned, I beg thee,
in case that he, as well as Abamoko, should pay a visit to thine
humble abode, to present to him my warmest congratulations
and regards. Tell Captain Standish, moreover, that should
his leisure allow, it would gratify me deeply to receive him
at my poor palace at Merry-Mount, the rather that I have

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heard some casual intimations of an intended visit on his part,
and —”

“Your presence here will save Captain Standish that trouble,”
suddenly exclaimed a stern voice at his side. Morton turned
hastily round, and to his infinite amazement, beheld Miles Standish,
standing close to him with his drawn sword in his hand.
At the same instant he felt himself suddenly seized from behind
by several powerful arms, and before he had time for a single
struggle, he beheld himself a prisoner. At that very moment
there was a louder and more prolonged peal of thunder, at
which the lunatic uttering a sudden and sharp cry of horror,
started to his feet, looked fearfully round, and then vanished
into the bowels of the earth.