in another land the religious freedom which was denied them at home. In 1620 the Mayflower, with 101 souls on board, set sail from Plymouth, and landed (Dec. 23) on the coast of Massachusetts.

The new settlers had to endure many privations and sufferings, which terribly thinned their numbers during the winter. Every other day a grave had to be dug in the frozen ground. By the time spring came there were only fifty survivors, and these sadly enfeebled and dejected. Meanwhile they persevered in building their little town, to which they gave the name of New Plymouth.

3

In the autumn of 1621 a new band of pilgrims arrived, but as the ship brought no provisions, they were all reduced to half rations during the next six months. They fought bravely with their hardships, and as time advanced the little colony struck its roots gradually deeper into the soil of the New World, and began to grow and flourish. The summer of 1630 brought to Massachusetts a fleet of thirteen vessels, having on board nearly 1,500 Puritan settlers.

Strange that men who had come so far, and who had dared and endured so much for the sake of worshipping God without hindrance, should have shown such rancour1 as they did to some new settlers, called by themselves" Friends," though commonly known as

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Quakers," that had crossed the sea in the expectation of enjoying religious freedom. Yet the Puritan pilgrims who had expatriated themselves to escape from religious tyranny would tolerate no difference of religion within the borders of their province

Fines, imprisonments, and stripes were tried in vain upon the Quakers. They refused to be converted, and rejoiced in being the objects of hatred and persecution.

The dungeons were never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. In 1659 the government of Massachusetts Bay put to death two members of the Quaker sect that had been banished into the wilderness and dared to return. It is to this martyrdom that the following story relates.

N the evening of the autumn day that had wit

persuasion (see last Lesson), a Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis1 to the neighbouring country town in which he resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which had now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a grey frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him and his home. The autumn wind wandered among the branches of the trees that skirted the

road, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine trees, and moaning as if it lamented the desolation it caused.

The road had penetrated the mass of wood that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than that of the wind. It was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir tree, in the centre of a cleared, but unenclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could not but remember that this was the very spot which had been accursed a few hours before by the execution of the two Quakers, whose bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they suffered. He struggled, therefore, against the superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen.

"The voice is most likely mortal; nor have I cause to tremble if it be otherwise," thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight. "Methinks it is like. the wailing of a child-some infant, it may be, which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon the place of death. For the ease of mine own conscience, I must search the matter out."

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. Though now so desolate, its soil was trampled and pressed down by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the sad spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness. The traveller at length reached the fir tree, beneath which a scaffold had been erected.

Under this unhappy tree, which in after-times was

believed to drop poison with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. A slender and slight-clad little boy was leaning his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, whilst wailing bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child's shoulder, and addressed him compassionately.

"You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep. But dry your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in her arms to-night."

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, brighteyed countenance, certainly not more than six years old; but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavoured to reassure him.

"Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows, on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. Take heart, child, and tell me what is your name, and where is your home."

“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet, though faltering voice; "they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here."

"The poor child is stricken in his intellect," thought he; but verily his words are fearful in a place like this." He then spoke soothingly, intending to humour the boy's fantasy.*

"Your home will scarcely be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill provided with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and bed, and if you will go with me you shall share them."

"I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry and shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging," replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him, even so young. "My father was of the people whom all men hate. They have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home."

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim's hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he possessed a compassionate heart, which not even religious prejudices could harden into

stone.

"God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect," said he to himself. He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. "Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot?

They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence," said the boy; " and I stood afar off, watching the crowd until all had gone. Then I came hither, and as I knew my father was sleeping here, I lay down to be near him."

1 The metropolis, the mother-city; in this case, Boston, Massachusetts. (Gr. meter, mother; polis, a city.)

2 The age, the period at which he lived.

3 Reassure, to give one confidence.

4 Fantasy, same as fancy.

5 Prejudices, unfavourable opinions formed without good reasons. A "prejudice" is due to a hasty judgment. (Lat. pra, before; judex, a judge.)