ton Town.

We lumbered up through the straggling village in one of those clumsy
coaches that had late become the terror of foot-passengers in London
crowds. My aunt pointed with a pride that was colonial to the fine
light which the towns-people had erected on Beacon Hill; and told me
pretty legends of Rattlesnake Hill that fired the desire to explore
those inland dangers. I noticed that the rubble-faced houses showed
lanterns in iron clamps above most of the doorways. My kinsman's house
stood on the verge of the wilds-rough stone below, timbered plaster
above, with a circle of bay windows midway, like an umbrella. High
windows were safer in case of attack from savages, Aunt Ruth explained;
and I mentally set to scaling rope ladders in and out of those windows.

We drew up before the front garden and entered by a turnstile with
flying arms. Many a ride have little Rebecca Stocking, of the
court-house, and Ben Gillam, the captain's son, and Jack Battle, the
sailor lad, had, perched on that turnstile, while I ran pushing and
jumping on, as the arms flew creaking round.

The home-coming was not auspicious. Yet I thought no resentment
against my uncle. I realized too well how the bloody revenge of the
royalists was turning the hearts of England to stone. One morning I
recall, when my poor father lay a-bed of the gout and there came a roar
through London streets as of a burst ocean dike. Before Tibbie could
say no, I had snatched up a cap and was off.

God spare me another such sight! In all my wild wanderings have I
never seen savages do worse.

Through the streets of London before the shoutings of a rabble rout was
whipped an old, white-haired man. In front of him rumbled a cart; in
the cart, the axeman, laving wet hands; at the axeman's feet, the head
of a regicide--all to intimidate that old, white-haired man, fearlessly
erect, singing a psalm. When they reached the shambles, know you what
they did? Go read the old court records and learn what that sentence
meant when a man's body was cast into fire before his living eyes! All
the while, watching from a window were the princes and their shameless
ones.

Ah, yes! God wot, I understood Eli Kirke's bitterness!

But the beginning was not auspicious, and my best intentions presaged
worse. For instance, one morning my uncle was sounding my
convictions--he was ever sounding other people's convictions--"touching
the divine right of kings." Thinking to giv