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, and violently, and in madness; but
nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the
loathsome disease, and "death by rottenness," of the fierce and cruel
governor.

On the evening of the autumn day, that had witnessed the martyrdom of
two men of the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from
the metropolis to the neighboring 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
gray 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 low, straw-thatched houses were scattered at
considerable intervals along the road, and the country having been
settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still bore
no small proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind wandered
among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the
pine-trees, and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it was
the instrument. The road had penetrated the mass of woods 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