A Tethered Chrysalis (Gilded Butterfly

Chronicles Book 1) Micca Michaels

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Title: A Tethered Chrysalis

Series: The Gilded Butterfly Chronicles

Copyright © 2022 Micca Michaels

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, scanning, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Micca Michael asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Micca Michael has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in
this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Cover design by Jodie-Plowman of Jodielocks Designs

Formatted by Belle Ames Designs

Edited by Belle Ames Designs

This book is intended for readers 18+

Title: A Tethered Chrysalis

Series: The Gilded Butterfly Chronicles

Copyright © 2022 Micca Michaels

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, scanning, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Micca Michael asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Micca Michael has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in
this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Cover design by Jodie-Plowman of Jodielocks Designs

Formatted by Belle Ames Designs

Edited by Belle Ames Designs

This book is intended for readers 18+

Contents

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
40. Chapter Forty
41. Chapter Forty-One
42. Chapter Forty-Two
43. Chapter Forty-Three
44. Chapter Forty-Four
About Author

Acknowledgments

Also By Micca Michaels

About Author

Acknowledgments

Also By Micca Michaels

The fact that this is a bright, sunshiny day with the birds chirping, seriously pisses me off. Drives with
my dad are normally a fun time for us. Especially since we’re not with Mom or Bianca. But today is
far from a fun day. I don’t want to do today, but I have no choice.
My anxiety level is so high my leg is bouncing, I’m picking at my nails and I’m biting my lip. When I
was younger, I thought once someone was convicted of a crime they had to serve their sentence and
that was it. Boy was I fucking wrong. It’s been ten years and here I am being forced to open old
wounds to deal with this shit again.
The instant I feel a hand slide onto mine, I jump and scream. I know that Dad and I are the only ones
in the car, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. “Lyn, you’ve got to calm down. He can’t hurt you
anymore. He won’t even get to look at you. Plus, he won’t get another parole hearing for at least ten
more years after this. I know this is hard, but you’ve got to breathe.”
“None of that makes this any easier. I started having nightmares again, and it’s been years since I’ve
had to deal with them. That’s just one of the reasons Travis and I broke up. He was tired of getting a
busted lip because he’d forget to duck. I’m sure a normal person would feel bad for it. I guess that’s
why I don’t. I’m not normal anymore.” The look my dad gives me when he glances over lets me know
I’m in for a lecture later.
Pulling up outside the courthouse, I release a low and drawn-out groan. “Well, this is it, and the
sooner I get in there, the sooner this nightmare of a day will be over.” We both slide out of my dad’s
 cherry red Ford F250. Beautiful truck, in my opinion, I think, before realizing that I was thinking of
whatever I could to distract myself from what I was about to do. I need to just get this over with.
Dad walks around the front of his truck to join me as I stand there looking at the steps of the
courthouse as if they’re going to start moving or something. I feel my dad place his arm around my
shoulders and I can’t help leaning into him.
The only positive thing about this bullshit is getting to see how handsome my dad is when he cleans
up. Don’t get me wrong, he’s in a pair of jeans. But they’re his best pair. He’s wearing a button-down
blue jean shirt with a tie. He’s also not wearing his traditional baseball cap. So everyone gets to see
his dark chocolate hair.
That’s just one of the things I take after my dad with. My hair is also dark chocolate. The other
obvious trait is his heterochromia iridum, one brown eye and one blue eye. A tug on my shoulders
breaks me from my inner thoughts.
Walking up the courthouse steps, we’re joined by my long-time attorney, Mr. Kyle. Technically, he
could handle this and read my statement, but I’ll be damned if that man ever thinks he’s beaten me.
thHaving him beside me, along with my dad, makes me feel even stronger. He knows everything that
ishappened to me and made that son-of-a-bitch’s ass pay for it.
Walking in through the door a police officer was holding open, my attorney leads us straight to where
n Iwe need to be. Mr. Kyle makes sure I sit in a certain chair, while he and my dad act as a human wall,
ndjust in case Max is led in through the side entrance.
ldAt the original trial, Mr. Kyle placed his suit jacket over my head to shield my entire upper body from
anyone that may try to photograph me. I’ll never forget the way everyone was protective of me and
esmade sure I was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as possible anyway.
ou“Alright, Brooklyn, I know you can do this. He can’t win against the truth. If at any time you feel you
enneed to step away, simply say it out loud and I’ll make it happen. It’s also already arranged that I can
speak for you in case you’re unable.” Mr. Kyle has always seen to my needs and him being able to
vemake me feel safe is amazing.
a“I’ve got this, and thank you for covering me from prying eyes. How long do you think it’ll be before
t’sthey call us in and will he be able to see me when I go in?” I hope not, but I can’t control that.
w“They’ll call us in about ten minutes before the officers bring him in. He won’t be able to see you.
He’ll be on one side of a partition wall, and you’ll be on the other. He will not be permitted to speak
heto you for any reason.” I feel the relief flood my body.
’s
 ofAfter another fifteen minutes, a court officer calls us into the room. Mr. Kyle walks into the room
before me and Dad’s right behind me. I’m very relieved to see the partition wall as we walk in. Mr.
heKyle directs me to sit towards the front, with my dad at my side. Mr. Kyle takes the seat directly in
myfront of me. Once he has his stuff situated, he turns to look at me, gives me a slight nod, and spins
back around.
nsWithin a few minutes, the parole board members walk into the room and take their seats in the front of
wnthe room at a long table. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin in a few minutes. We’re waiting on the
eetransport bus to arrive. Miss. Lacey, if, at any time, you begin to feel uncomfortable, please let us
know and we can halt any discussion until you’ve exited the room.”
erLooking right at him, I nod my head to acknowledge him and what he’s said. We didn’t have to wait
rslong till another door opens. I could hear, not see, what sounds like a group of men walking in and the
wonderful sounds of rattling chains.
heAs soon as the room becomes quiet, my nerves kick in. I start to bounce my leg again, but my dad’s
me.sudden reaction made me stop. He quickly presses his hand onto my knee, giving it a reassuring pat,
hatthen a squeeze. Once I stop and take a deep breath, I am able to sit still.
The parole board members take the time to introduce themselves and read a full retelling of what he,
rewhat Max, had done to me. I swear the only female on the parole board looks as though she was
ll,either going to throw up and or faint. Then, it was my turn to speak and unload on him through the
parole board.
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After another fifteen minutes, a court officer calls us into the room. Mr. Kyle walks into the room
before me and Dad’s right behind me. I’m very relieved to see the partition wall as we walk in. Mr.
Kyle directs me to sit towards the front, with my dad at my side. Mr. Kyle takes the seat directly in
front of me. Once he has his stuff situated, he turns to look at me, gives me a slight nod, and spins
back around.
Within a few minutes, the parole board members walk into the room and take their seats in the front of
the room at a long table. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin in a few minutes. We’re waiting on the
transport bus to arrive. Miss. Lacey, if, at any time, you begin to feel uncomfortable, please let us
know and we can halt any discussion until you’ve exited the room.”
Looking right at him, I nod my head to acknowledge him and what he’s said. We didn’t have to wait
long till another door opens. I could hear, not see, what sounds like a group of men walking in and the
wonderful sounds of rattling chains.
As soon as the room becomes quiet, my nerves kick in. I start to bounce my leg again, but my dad’s
sudden reaction made me stop. He quickly presses his hand onto my knee, giving it a reassuring pat,
then a squeeze. Once I stop and take a deep breath, I am able to sit still.
The parole board members take the time to introduce themselves and read a full retelling of what he,
what Max, had done to me. I swear the only female on the parole board looks as though she was
either going to throw up and or faint. Then, it was my turn to speak and unload on him through the
parole board.
Having to watch my baby girl relive that horrific night is fucking cruel. They know he doesn’t need to
be let out on the streets. I don’t know why they even granted him the permission to even apply for
parole. The entire legal system makes no sense.
I’m so extremely proud of her for standing up for herself. There was no talking her out of coming here
and letting Mr. Kyle handle this. She won’t let anyone even slightly feel like they can control her or
intimidate her. She’ll get through this, and I’ll bet anything she’ll be stronger for it.
I know she’s been wanting to leave town, and I know her stubborn ass has stayed for me. I also know
her life is predictable here. Nothing and no one to challenge her to work on the demons she still
carries around with her. After this is over, I think it’s time for a father/daughter talk on the drive
home. She’s always talked about being a nanny and possibly traveling. She went to school for it and
hasn’t done anything with it.
Hearing Lyn’s voice snaps me out of my inner thoughts. Focus Brooks, damn it.
“Yes, sir, I’d prefer you all to just ask me questions. I believe I will do better that way.”
There ya go, strong and steady voice. He can’t hurt you.
I have to close my hands into fists to stop myself from crashing through the fake barrier wall and
snapping his little fucking neck as I listen to her answer questions. I hope someone in prison has made
him their little bitch.
“Miss. Lacey, can you tell us how old you were when Mr. Lucien attacked you and how long you had
to spend in the hospital after said attack?
 “I was fifteen years old, and Mr. Lucien was nineteen at this point. Because of the beating from Mr.
Lucien, I was in the hospital for two weeks and then bed rest at home for another couple of weeks.” I
can tell she’s taking a moment to center herself.
“Miss. Lacey, how has this attack affected your life?”
“I just don’t like going back there. I deal with nightmares, normally a couple of times a week, but
knowing that today was coming, they’ve only gotten worse.”
“One more question, Miss. Lacey. Do you feel it appropriate at this time for Mr. Lucien to be granted
parole?
“Sir, there will never be a time that I feel Mr. Lucien deserves parole. He destroyed the person I was
and still affects my behaviors. I jump and scare easily and because of what he did to me, I am unable
to have a meaningful relationship.”
“Miss. Lacey, we’d like to thank you for your courage in coming here today and speaking of this
awful moment in your life. We have no further questions for you, so if you’d like to leave, that would
tobe fine.”
orShe didn’t hesitate. Lyn was up and out of the Parole Board meeting room so fast, I almost had to jog
to catch up with her. Walking outside the courthouse, I can see the flood of relief wash through her
rebody. Her shoulders relax and her smile returns. “What do you say we grab some ice cream cones for
orthe trip to my house so you can pick up your truck and go home?”
“Dad, that worked when I was a kid. If you think one little scoop is going to pacify me now, you’re
wsadly mistaken. I want three scoops in a waffle cone.” Chuckling at her, I wrap my arm around her
illshoulders as we walk down the courthouse steps and to my truck.
veAs we’re about to slide into my truck, her cell phone rings. She answers it, placing her phone to
ndspeak so I can hear. “Brooklyn, it’s Mr. Kyle. A short recess was called. I’ll be in touch to let you
know what their decision is.” When she hangs up the phone, she looks at me and I give her a wink.
Sliding into the truck, clicking our seatbelts, I pull out of the parking lot and head straight for the ice
cream parlor a few blocks from here.
We get our ice cream cones and head straight to my house. Glancing at her while she’s enjoying her
ndice cream, I can tell something’s on her mind, and I want to know what that wrinkled crease in her
deforehead is for.
“Lyn, if you keep eating that ice cream as fast as you are and thinking as hard as you are, that wrinkle
adcrease in the center of your forehead is going to stay there.” Oh damn, the look she shot me was damn
near scary.
Mr.“Dad, what a thing to say. You seem to be wolfing down yours too. I happen to be thinking about
” Isomething and it’s not the first time, but I’m closer to making a decision. Actually, I think I have made
a decision. So, I’m going to tell you what it is and I want to know your thoughts.” It was as if she
forced those words out of her own mouth in a damn hurry.
utThis just went from a teasing chat to get her to talk, to not being so sure I want to hear what she has to
say. After she takes a few more licks and bites of her ice cream, I finally answer. “Alright, I’ll tell
edyou what I think. Go ahead, let’s hear it.” Since I’m driving, I can only look ahead, eat my ice cream,
pray I don’t get brain-freeze and focus on the road in front of me.
as“So, I’ve been thinking about leaving town for almost a year now. You and I both know everyone has
lebeen talking since I caught Travis fucking Bianca and broke up with him. I’m tired of all of it. Hell,
I’m tired of the town. I’m trapped, and it’s time for me to leave and live. I’ve been thinking about how
hisI got all that education and I’m not using it. You know I’ve always wanted to be a nanny. I’ve been
ldlooking online to see what nanny positions are available. I emailed my resume with my application to
three different families. There, that’s it. Tell me what you think?” Well, holy shit balls batman.
ogI’m beyond excited and overjoyed, but I school my expression, glance at her and do as she asked. I
ertell her what I think. “I think it’s an awesome idea. I know how much you really love kids and all that
orgoes with being a nanny. But how are you going to find a position worthy of you and your education?
How are you supposed to meet the possible families?”
reI didn’t have to actually see her roll her eyes at me. A parent can hear that kind of thing. She always
erdoes this sarcastic little sigh when she rolls her eyes. “Internet, Dad. How else do you think I’d find
anything? As far as I know, there’s not a 1-800-nanny hotline.”
toI’m going to let that go because I really want her to do this. “Well, like I said, I think it’s an awesome
ouidea. You have my support a hundred and ten percent. Make sure you give me a call if you need any
nk.help packing.”
ceThis time, I saw the look she gave me. “Thanks, Dad. I need to start doing what’s best for me and not
worry about everyone else. Do you need a napkin? I know I do.”
er“Well, I’ll be damned.” Glancing over at her while I’m waiting for the light to change, she looks at me
erand I simply raise an eyebrow. “Yep, I said that, and I’ll say it again if I need to. It’s about damn time
you put yourself first and stop worrying about everyone else. It makes me a happy dad.”
leBrooklyn hands me a wad of napkins, one being a wet nap so I can clean up. I think my steering wheel
mnis stickier than I am. It’s worth it, though, to see my girl smile.
 utLyn’s cell phone ringing interrupts my rant of excitement. As I wait to continue, the expression on her
deface nearly made me pull my truck over, but I listen instead. “Are you serious? Oh, my gods, is he
healright? Well, what did they do to Max?”
Now I’m really curious as to what the hell happened after we left. Continuing to drive and hearing
toonly one side of the conversation is killing me and I’m not normally a nosey body. The second she
ellends that call, I’m going to pounce for information.
m,“Oh, my god, yeah, I’ll tell him. I appreciate the call. Alright, we’ll talk to you later.” As she hung up
the phone, I didn’t even get a chance to pounce before she started speaking. “Dad, you are not going to
asbelieve this shit. Give me a sec, I need to wet my throat.” Giving her the side eye for making me wait,
ll,I refocus on the road.
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Lyn’s cell phone ringing interrupts my rant of excitement. As I wait to continue, the expression on her
face nearly made me pull my truck over, but I listen instead. “Are you serious? Oh, my gods, is he
alright? Well, what did they do to Max?”
Now I’m really curious as to what the hell happened after we left. Continuing to drive and hearing
only one side of the conversation is killing me and I’m not normally a nosey body. The second she
ends that call, I’m going to pounce for information.
“Oh, my god, yeah, I’ll tell him. I appreciate the call. Alright, we’ll talk to you later.” As she hung up
the phone, I didn’t even get a chance to pounce before she started speaking. “Dad, you are not going to
believe this shit. Give me a sec, I need to wet my throat.” Giving her the side eye for making me wait,
I refocus on the road.
I take a long, steady drink before pulling the water bottle away from my mouth. Part of what I have to
say is good. I’m damn near giddy. The other, I’m not sure yet. We’re not that far from my parent’s
house, shit.
“So, apparently right after we left the room, Max went for one of the officer’s gun. I mean stood up
and lunged. He didn’t get it, but he was able to grab one of the parole board members. You know, the
guy that was asking me all the questions? Well, he let the other members leave the room, but not his
lawyer, Mr. Kyle, the policemen, or that one board member.”
My dad’s eyes might be on the road, but they’re wide with shock. “Apparently, one of the officers
managed to shoot Max with his taser. When Max went down, they piled onto him to hogtie him. He
was fighting them, finally managing to get a gun, Max got a shot off before one of the other officers
shot him.”
“Did it kill him?” I almost wish I could say yes, but I can’t. Taking a deep breath, I look at my dad
and finish telling him what Mr. Kyle said.
“No, he’s been rushed to the hospital and into emergency surgery. They aren’t sure if he’s going to
make it or not. Mr. Kyle said that he only reacted after his parole was denied and that now, he faces
new charges and won’t even be eligible for parole for at least fifty years and that’s being lenient.”
I never thought I’d ever wish for someone’s death, but I do this time. I hope he dies on the operating
table and his soul sinks to the bowels of hell. “Do you know where he was shot?”
 I just shrug my shoulders. “Mr. Kyle said Max was shot in the upper chest and he’d let us know if he
dies or makes it.”
When Dad pulls into his driveway, I give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him I’ll call him later. We
both slide out of his truck and the walk over to mine only took seconds. My dad told me a few days
ago he’d be cleaning his guns, so I asked him if he would take care of mine and check the spring.
Knowing that he would see me this morning, he put it in my glove box. So, when I slide into my truck,
I reach into the glove box and naturally slip my gun into my hip holster and buckle my seatbelt.
Honking my horn to say bye to Dad and I can finally drive home.
I’ve made it my mission to make my life completely and utterly predictable. I don’t respond kindly to
surprises. Everyone in this shit show of a town knows this. How do they know? Well, after knocking
out two members of the football team in high school, the guy at the gas station, two now ex-boyfriends
and a nurse, people have learned, no surprising Lyn.
Driving home, the same way I do every day, I see the same people doing the same things, day in and

today out. Putting my truck in park and undoing my seat belt, I just sit here for a minute. I hate memory
t’sflashbacks. Mainly because they’re never of good things.
I look through the glass of my windshield, the rays of the sun striking against the glass, reminding me

upof that day. Travis’s bike in the driveway tells me he’s already home. Looking into the front window
heof the house from my truck, I could tell the TV isn’t on. It was odd, but I figured Travis was in the
hisshower. Curiosity hasn’t been my thing in a long time, hence not liking surprises, but I wanted to
know why he was home before me.

rsI slide out of my truck, closing the door, and walking onto my front porch. I stand there listening
Heand still not hearing anything made me suspicious, because you can hear the shower running from
rsthe porch and it’s not.
Walking into my house, I knew. I didn’t want to know, but I didn’t really have a choice. I can feel it

adin my gut, down to my very soul, that something’s very wrong. I’ve always had feelings about
things, ignoring them nearly lost me everything once. I won’t make that mistake again.

toQuietly, I walk over to the kitchen table and set my things down, keeping my phone in one hand
esand clenching my other hand into a fist. Something tells me my phone’s about to come in handy.
Allowing that gut feeling to rule my actions, I turn on my phone’s camera feature, so I’ll be able to

ngtake pictures or shoot video if needed.

I thought I was ready for anything. Boy, oh boy, I couldn’t have been more wrong, especially with
what I heard next. Slowly and quietly, I walk over to our bedroom. With every step I take, the noise
heseems to grow louder and louder. Opening the door to our shared bedroom and peeking in, my
heart begins stuttering with each breath.
WeAfter taking a few deep breaths to focus myself, I take a series of photos and a short video, I have
ysto blink away a few tears. They’re not tears of heartbreak, they’re tears of pure rage, hatred and
ng.anger. Pulling the door till it’s a little more than halfway closed, I step back, trying to prepare
k,myself. Not that it’s really possible at this point. I’ve known something was wrong for a while, but I
lt.either didn’t want to accept the truth, or I was content to keep the status quo.
Walking back to the kitchen, I carefully lay my phone down. Then, as if a switch was flipped, my
totemper explodes into a ball of uncontrollable fury. Just getting home from my dad’s has its
ngadvantages. It might be a bit extreme, and perhaps slightly overkill, but I feel it’s definitely
dswarranted. I quietly draw my gun from my hip holster.
Once again, I walk over to our shared room, pausing to take a deep breath before I lay my hand on
ndthe door. Without warning, I slam the bedroom door open so hard I know that fucking doorknob
rywent through the wall. Fuck it, it’s fixable. Locking eyes with Travis, my boyfriend, I scream. “Oh,
my fucking God! Are you serious right now?! I should kill you both! Y’all need to get the hell out of
memy house and fucking run!” Watching Travis jump up, tossing my baby sister’s ass off his cock and
owto the floor, is great, but not near enough. “Oh, hell no, don’t even think of grabbing your clothes.
heYou need to fucking run!”
toScurrying their naked asses past me, they aren’t moving quick enough for me. By now, I’m shaking
with anger and rage, but I won’t let that overrule my common sense. I will stay in control. I’m not
ngfeeling this wild mix of emotions because he cheated or who he cheated with. It’s the surprise of it
mall. I must be more fucked up than I thought.
Exiting the bedroom, I walk straight towards the front door. They left the damn thing wide open for
itme. How fucking thoughtful, morons. Stepping out of the house to make sure they’re gone, I’m
utactually floored yet again. What the...
“Oh, fuck no! I said run, don’t either of you touch that truck. It’s in my name, you worthless son of
nda bitch.” Maybe shooting the tires out will get my point across. When I fire four times, aiming for
dy.my passenger side tires, they finally believe I’m serious. Maybe it was a bit excessive, but
towhatever.
When I glance at my bitch of a baby sister, I see piss flowing down her leg, I completely lose it. I’m
thlaughing so hard, I nearly pissed my own pants. Travis grabs my attention by punching my truck,
se
myasshole. “Goddamnit, Brooklyn! You almost fucking shot me. Knock off your dramatic bullshit and
put the gun away before I have you arrested.”
veDid he? No. Tell me he didn’t. He can’t be that stupid. Son of a bitch, he is that stupid. What the
ndhell was I... Nope, self-evaluate later.
re“I didn’t shoot at ‘you’. I shot at ‘my’ truck tires and one ricocheted. Besides, Travis, not only did
t Iyou punch my truck, you have to be forgetting what state we’re in. Dumbass, I could have shot you
both for having sex in our bed! I suggest you run and run fast. Oh, and little sister, enjoy my
myleftovers. Just let me know how I taste when he kisses you.”
tsBianca, my now former bitch of a baby sister, whirls around to face me and I’m so primed and
lypumped for this, I almost giggle. Some people cry when they’re about to lose their shit and some
giggle. I’m a giggler. Granted, it’s a sadistic sounding giggle, but a giggle, nonetheless.
on“You’re such a bitch, Brooklyn. If you took care of him the way you should, he wouldn’t have
obneeded to come to me. I can please him where you obviously can’t.” She is actually huffing and
h,growling while she is speaking.
ofOh, that little bitch. I realize murder is against the law, but I can fantasize. The idea of karma
ndcoming for your ass, little girl, pleases me intensely and I’m going to help it gain some momentum.
es.“Bianca, you do realize he only went to you because he knew he’d get laid. When you’re the town’s
revolving door, everyone knows they’ll eventually get a spin. So don’t flatter yourself. He’s about
ngas useful as the now flat tires on my truck.”
otSince I have better things to do, I start to slowly raise my gun. I’m not going to shoot them. They
itaren’t worth two bullets. But I don’t see anything wrong with putting the fear of God in them. Wow,
I didn’t know they could run that fast. Watching them go is awesome and all, but I have shit to lock
orhis ass out of.
mTravis will feel the full extent of my wrath soon enough. Making a list real quick and getting all
this going before he can do anything. The video I took, and the pictures, need to be sent to my
ofattorney. Have to cover my ass in case one of them accuses me of slander or something.
orI can’t help bursting into laughter when I walk back into the house and into the room that Travis
utsure as hell won’t be entering again. Travis’s wallet and Bianca’s purse are on my dresser. Oh dear,
looks like her phone is in there too. I wonder what kind of fun I can have with that. I mean, we
mknow all the same people, and she’s supposed to be dating that guy, Maverick.
k,I decide to call all of my next decisions: self-therapy. Such as throwing everything of his out of my
bedroom window. After completing that part of my therapy, it’s Miller time!
ndGrabbing a cold Miller out of the fridge, my phone and my sister’s phone, I plop my ass down in
my favorite chair. Therapy is very important, and they say in times of distress you should reach out
heto friends and family. Social media is the fastest way I can think of accomplishing that. So,
opening my beer, taking a nice, healthy swig, I begin making posts on all of Travis’s and Bianca’s
idsocial media accounts. Knowing his password is coming in handy. I mean, I’m being considerate
ouand tagging them. I also decide to write them a short and sweet note of approval on my social
mymedia accounts, as well as posting the pictures and video. I may have tagged everyone we know. I
mean, everyone should celebrate their being together, right?
ndNow that I’ve announced their new relationship to the masses, it’s time to ruin them both in every
meway possible. For the most part, I think revenge is best served cold, but in this case, there’s no
letting this fire go out. So, I call the bank and tell a longtime family friend what just happened
veand, well, Travis may find it very hard to get access to any money. Those damn computer errors.
ndMy attorney, who wasn’t my attorney but a friend until this phone call, was interested in
everything I had to say and asked for all the pictures and the video to be sent to him right away. I
mawon’t take a chance with anyone saying we’re common law married. I’ll be nipping that in the ass
m. real quick. Well, more like my attorney will.
n’sThe best part was calling dear ole Mom and Dad. Mom is apparently too embarrassed and pissed
utoff to give me any type of support. My mom and I have never really been close, anyway. As soon as
I tell my dad, well, he may shoot Travis since I missed. I can’t blame him. I mean, a dick did just
eypartially destroy this family. See, I can forgive a lot of shit. You can lie to me and if you tell me the
w,truth, and make amends for it, all is forgiven, but not forgotten. I’m no fool, after all. Everyone,
ckwell, most everyone, deserves a second chance. It’s when you devastate my world, step on my
emotions, break up my family and interrupt my life that I can’t forgive you for and that’s when I
allwill plan, plot and seek out your demise.
myWell, my list is almost complete. The last thing I need to do is get a hold of Maverick. I hate to ruin
his day but, if mine is ruined then why not share the gloom and doom of the day? They do say
ismisery loves company. Deciding to use Bianca’s phone just adds insult to injury. Maverick does
ar,pay for it, after all. I don’t lie and he’ll know it once he sees the blowup on the net. He can deny it
weall he wants, but he won’t be able to for long. That’s why social media comes in so handy right
now.
myClicking on Maverick’s number in her phone, it starts ringing. I’m sadistically giddy when he
answers the phone, I almost feel bad for him, almost. “Hey, baby, why are you calling me at work?
inI thought we were going to get together later?”
ut“Maverick, it’s Brooklyn. Bianca left her phone and purse here at my house. I found it on my
o,dresser after I chased her and Travis out of my bed and house. I have pictures and a video of them
a’stogether. As of now, so does my attorney and all of social media. I felt I should call you and give
teyou and heads up that your baby, my baby sister, is fucking my boyfriend. Well, now ex-boyfriend.”
al“Brooklyn, this is not funny. Your sister said you were jealous of her, but this is going too far. What
. Ithe fuck is your end game here? Are you trying to get me to break up with Bianca? It’s not going to
work.” Oh my god, this guy is something else.
ry“No, Maverick, I’m not jealous of that two-timing, two faced bitch of a now ex-sister. You know
noshe’s the town’s revolving door, so why act all shocked? You don’t have to take my word for it. Look
edat her social media account. Go ahead, take a look. I’ll wait.” I can hear him typing on his phone,
boy oh boy is he in for a nasty surprise. I want to feel bad for him, but I just can’t. I can hear him
intake a sharp intake of breath, and I already know what’s coming. Here we go, mental breakdown in
. Ithree, two, one...
ss“Are you motherfucking kidding me!? That bitch! I can’t believe she would do this to me. Brooklyn,
where the fuck are they? Don’t protect your sister. Tell me where they are.” As if I would protect
edeither one of them. I burst out in a fit of laughter so quick I actually snort.
as“Well, Maverick. The last time I saw them, they were running down the street butt ass naked. They
sthonestly thought I would let them take their clothes. Apparently, Travis also thought I’d let him
hetake my truck, as if. I shot the tires out, though. Sad to say, one of the bullets ricocheted off one of
e,the hubcaps, barely missing his leg. So, to answer your question, I don’t fucking know where they
myare and don’t fucking care. Bye-bye now.” I am such a bitch.
ISnapping out of the flashback, I swear I feel as pissed off as I did that day. Fuck Travis, fuck Bianca.
That bullshit ended a long time ago, and I’m moving on and out of this godforsaken town.
inI’ve also had enough of this house. Don’t get me wrong, the house is adorable and is still in damn
aygood shape. Especially for being almost two hundred years old. It’s registered as one of the smaller
esplantation homes. That puts it under the Historical Society’s purview. Which makes it damn near
itimpossible to do any type of remodeling on the outside. It has a red brick base till about three feet up
htand then it’s yellow. I mean really yellow. Yuck.
Getting out of my truck and shaking my head to clear the nasty memories, I walk onto my porch and
heinto the house. Walking into the kitchen, I toss my stuff on the kitchen table, and grab a Miller out of
k?
 my fridge. Deciding to work in the living room, I grab my laptop off the table and plop my ass on the
mycouch to look for job offerings.
mA nanny for a military family, a traveling family or something like that sounds amazing. As long as it
vegets me away from here. I can live and travel with them. I’d get to see places and take care of kids. If
” I got a job like that, I could sell everything except my car and my personal things. My car is my baby,
atso she comes with me. The nanny lives with the family, so I wouldn’t really need anything, except my
topersonal stuff and car. I’ll always need her.
I’ll schedule some interviews. I’ll put the truck and other things I don’t need up for sale on Craigslist.
owSimplify my personal life and then disappear. I’ll tell Dad where I am, but the rest of them can kiss
okmy ass. Some may say I’m acting rashly, but I don’t think so. I consider it taking control of my life.
e,Working with my dad saves me a lot of drama giving my two-week notice. I’ll miss my dad a lot, but
mnot this town and no one else in it. I don’t have a relationship with my sister since I caught her getting
infucked by Travis.
My mom and I can’t stand to be near one another, and most people do everything in their power to
n,keep us from being in the same place at the same time. We’ve never gotten along. Dad said from the
ctmoment they brought me home from the hospital, I’ve only wanted him. Well, nothing has changed
there, and there is no way in hell I see it changing anytime soon. Content with my decision to move, I
eysettle in to look for jobs.
m
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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Under dispute
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
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eBook.

Title: Under dispute

Author: Agnes Repplier

Release date: September 2, 2023 [eBook #71550]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1924

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER

DISPUTE ***
 UNDER DISPUTE
BY
AGNES REPPLIER, Litt.D.
AUTHOR OF “POINTS OF FRICTION,” “COMPROMISES,”
“COUNTER-CURRENTS,” ETC.
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1924
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY AGNES REPPLIER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
 Note
Five of the twelve essays in this volume, “To Counsel the
Doubtful,” “The Happiness of Writing an Autobiography,” “The
Divineness of Discontent,” “Strayed Sympathies,” and “The
Battlefield of Education,” are reprinted through the courtesy of The
Atlantic Monthly; four of them, “The Masterful Puritan,” “Are
Americans a Timid People?” “Allies,” and “The American Laughs,”
through the courtesy of The Yale Review; “The Preacher at Large,”
through the courtesy of The Century Magazine; “They Had Their
Day,” through the courtesy of Harper’s Magazine; “The Idolatrous
Dog,” through the courtesy of The Forum.
 Contents
The Masterful Puritan 1
To Counsel the Doubtful 31
Are Americans a Timid People? 58
The Happiness of Writing an Autobiography 88
Strayed Sympathies 119
The Divineness of Discontent 148
Allies 178
They Had Their Day 203
The Preacher at Large 233
The Battlefield of Education 258
The American Laughs 286
The Idolatrous Dog 312
 UNDER DISPUTE

The Masterful Puritan

When William Chillingworth, preaching at Oxford in the first year of
England’s Civil War, defined the Cavaliers as publicans and sinners,
and the Puritans as Scribes and Pharisees, he expressed the
reasonable irritation of a scholar who had no taste or aptitude for
polemics, yet who had been blown about all his life by every wind of
doctrine. Those were uneasy years for men who loved moderation in
everything, and who found it in nothing. It is not from such that we
can hope for insight into emotions from which they were exempt, and
purposes to which they held no clue.
In our day it is generously conceded that the Puritans made
admirable ancestors. We pay them this handsome compliment in
after-dinner speeches at all commemorative meetings. Just what
they would have thought of their descendants is an unprofitable
speculation. Three hundred years divide us from those stern
enthusiasts who, coveting lofty things, found no price too high to pay
for them. “It is not with us as with men whom small matters can
discourage, or small discontentments cause to wish themselves at
home again,” wrote William Brewster, when one half of the
Mayflower Pilgrims had died in the first terrible year, and no gleam of
hope shone on the survivors. To perish of hunger and cold is not
what we should now call a “small discontentment.” To most of us it
would seem a good and sufficient reason for abandoning any
enterprise whatsoever. Perhaps if we would fix our attention upon a
single detail—the fact that for four years the Plymouth colonists did
not own a cow—we should better understand what life was like in
that harsh wilderness, where children who could not get along
without milk had but one other alternative—to die.
 Men as strong as were the Puritan pioneers ask for no apologies
at our hands. Their conduct was shaped by principles and
convictions which would be insupportable to us, but which are none
the less worthy of regard. Matthew Arnold summed up our modern
disparagement of their standards when he pictured Virgil and
Shakespeare crossing on the Mayflower, and finding the Pilgrim
fathers “intolerable company.” I am not sure that this would have
been the case. Neither Virgil nor Shakespeare could have survived
Plymouth. That much is plain. But three months on the Mayflower
might not have been so “intolerable” as Mr. Arnold fancied. The
Roman and the Elizabethan were strong-stomached observers of
humanity. They knew a man when they saw one, and they measured
his qualities largely.
Even if we make haste to admit that two great humanizers of
society, art and letters, played but a sorry part in the Puritan
colonies, we know they were less missed than if these colonies had
been worldly ventures, established solely in the interest of agriculture
or of trade. Sir Andrew Macphail tersely reminds us that the colonists
possessed ideals of their own, “which so far transcended the things
of this world that art and literature were not worth bothering about in
comparison with them.” Men who believe that, through some
exceptional grace or good fortune, they have found God, feel little
need of culture. If they believe that they share God with all races, all
nations, and all ages, culture comes in the wake of religion. But the
Puritan’s God was a somewhat exclusive possession. “Christ died
for a select company that was known to Him, by name, from
eternity,” wrote the Reverend Samuel Willard, pastor of the South
Church, Boston, and author of that famous theological folio, “A
Compleat Body of Divinity.” “The bulk of mankind is reserved for
burning,” said Jonathan Edwards genially; and his Northampton
congregation took his word for it. That these gentlemen knew no
more about Hell and its inmates than did Dante is a circumstance
which does not seem to have occurred to any one. A preacher has
some advantages over a poet.
If the Puritans never succeeded in welding together Church and
State, which was the desire of their hearts, they had human nature to
thank for their failure. There is nothing so abhorrent—or so perilous
—to the soul of man as to be ruled in temporal things by clerical
authority. Yet inasmuch as the colony of Massachusetts Bay had for
its purpose the establishment of a state in which all citizens should
be of the same faith, and church membership should be essential to
freemen, it was inevitable that the preacher and the elder should for
a time dominate public counsels. “Are you, sir, the person who
serves here?” asked a stranger of a minister whom he met in the
streets of Rowley. “I am, sir, the person who rules here,” was the
swift and apt response.
Men whose position was thus firmly established resented the
unauthorized intrusion of malcontents. Being reformers themselves,
they naturally did not want to be reformed. Alone among New
England colonists, the Pilgrims of Plymouth, who were Separatists or
Independents, mistrusted the blending of civil and religious functions,
and this mistrust had deepened during the sojourn of their leaders in
Holland. Moreover, unlike their Boston neighbours, the Pilgrims were
plain, simple people; “not acquainted,” wrote Governor Bradford,
“with trades nor traffique, but used to a countrie life, and the
innocente trade of husbandry.” They even tried the experiment of
farming their land on a communal system, and, as a result, came
perilously close to starvation. Only when each man cultivated his
own lot, that is, when individualism supplanted socialism, did they
wring from the reluctant soil food enough to keep them alive.
To the courage and intelligence of the Pilgrim and Puritan leaders,
Governor Bradford and Governor Winthrop, the settlers owed their
safety and survival. The instinct of self-government was strong in
these men, their measures were practical measures, their wisdom
the wisdom of the world. If Bradford had not made friends with the
great sachem, Massasoit, and clinched the friendship by sending
Edward Winslow to doctor him with “a confection of many
comfortable conserves” when he was ill, the Plymouth colonists
would have lost the trade with the Indians which tided them over the
first crucial years. If Winthrop had not by force of argument and
persuasion obtained the lifting of duties from goods sent to England,
and induced the British creditors to grant favourable terms, the
Boston colony would have been bankrupt. The keen desire of both
Plymouth and Boston to pay their debts is pleasant to record, and
contrasts curiously with the reluctance of wealthy States to accept
the Constitution in 1789, lest it should involve a similar course of
integrity.
It is hardly worth while to censure communities which were
establishing, or seeking to establish, “a strong religious state”
because they were intolerant. Tolerance is not, and never has been,
compatible with strong religious states. The Puritans of New England
did not endeavour to force their convictions upon unwilling
Christendom. They asked only to be left in peaceful possession of a
singularly unprolific corner of the earth, which they were civilizing
after a formula of their own. Settlers to whom this formula was
antipathetic were asked to go elsewhere. If they did not go, they
were sent, and sometimes whipped into the bargain—which was
harsh, but not unreasonable.
Moreover, the “persecution” of Quakers and Antinomians was not
primarily religious. Few persecutions recorded in history have been.
For most of them theology has merely afforded a pious excuse.
Whatever motives may have underlain the persistent persecution of
the Jews, hostility to their ancient creed has had little or nothing to
do with it. To us it seems well-nigh incredible that Puritan Boston
should have vexed its soul because Anne Hutchinson maintained
that those who were in the covenant of grace were freed from the
covenant of works—which sounds like a cinch. But when we
remember that she preached against the preachers, affirming on her
own authority that they had not the “seal of the Spirit”; and that she
“gave vent to revelations,” prophesying evil for the harassed and
anxious colonists, we can understand their eagerness to be rid of
her. She was an able and intelligent woman, and her opponents
were not always able and intelligent men. When the turmoil which
followed in her wake destroyed the peace of the community,
Governor Winthrop banished her from Boston. “It was,” says John
Fiske, “an odious act of persecution.”
A vast deal of sympathy has been lavished upon the Puritan
settlers because of the rigours of their religion, the austerity of their
lives, their lack of intellectual stimulus, the comprehensive absence
of anything like amusement. It has been even said that their sexual
infirmities were due to the dearth of pastimes; a point of view which
is in entire accord with modern sentiment, even if it falls short of the
facts. Impartial historians might be disposed to think that the vices of
the Puritans are apparent to us because they were so industriously
dragged to light. When all moral offences are civil offences, and
when every man is under the close scrutiny of his neighbours, the
“find” in sin is bound to be heavy. Captain Kemble, a Boston citizen
of some weight and fortune, sat two hours in the stocks on a wintry
afternoon, 1656, doing penance for “lewd and unseemly behaviour”;
which behaviour consisted in kissing his wife “publiquely” at his own
front door on the Lord’s day. The fact that he had just returned from
a long voyage, and was moved to the deed by some excess of
emotion, failed to win him pardon. Neighbours were not lightly
flouted in a virtuous community.
That there were souls unfit to bear the weight of Puritanism, and
unable to escape from it, is a tragic truth. People have been born out
of time and out of place since the Garden of Eden ceased to be a
human habitation. When Judge Sewall read to his household a
sermon on the text, “Ye shall seek me and shall not find me,” the
household doubtless protected itself by inattention, that refuge from
admonition which is Nature’s kindliest gift. But there was one
listener, a terrified child of ten, who had no such bulwark, and who
brooded over her unforgiven sins until her heart was bursting. Then
suddenly, when the rest of the family had forgotten all about the
sermon, she broke into “an amazing cry,” sobbing out her agonized
dread of Hell. And the pitiful part of the tale is that neither father nor
mother could comfort her, having themselves no assurance of her
safety. “I answered her Fears as well as I could,” wrote Judge Sewall
in his diary, “and prayed with many Tears on either part. Hope God
heard us.”
The incident was not altogether uncommon. A woman of Boston,
driven to desperation by the uncertainty of salvation, settled the point
for herself by drowning her baby in a well, thus ensuring damnation,
and freeing her mind of doubts. Methodism, though gentler than
Calvinism, accomplished similar results. In Wesley’s journal there is
an account of William Taverner, a boy of fourteen, who was a fellow
passenger on the voyage to Georgia; and who, between heavy
weather and continuous exhortation, went mad with fear, and saw an
indescribable horror at the foot of his bed, “which looked at him all
the time unless he was saying his prayers.”
Our sympathy for a suffering minority need not, however, blind us
to the fact that the vast majority of men hold on to a creed because it
suits them, and because their souls are strengthened by its
ministrations. “It is sweet to believe even in Hell,” says that
archmocker, Anatole France; and to no article of faith have believers
clung more tenaciously. Frederick Locker tells us the engaging story
of a dignitary of the Greek Church who ventured, in the early years
of faith, to question this popular tenet; whereupon “his congregation,
justly incensed, tore their bishop to pieces.”
No Puritan divine stood in danger of suffering this particular form
of martyrdom. The religion preached in New England was a cruel
religion, from which the figure of Christ, living mercifully with men,
was eliminated. John Evelyn noted down in his diary that he heard
the Puritan magistrates of London “speak spiteful things of our Lord’s
Nativity.” William Brewster was proud to record that in Plymouth “no
man rested” on the first Christmas day. As with Bethlehem, so with
Calvary. Governor Endicott slashed with his sword the red cross of
Saint George from the banner of England. The emblem of
Christianity was anathema to these Christians, as was the Mother
who bore Christ, and who saw Him die. The children whom He
blessed became to Jonathan Edwards “young vipers, and infinitely
more hateful than vipers.” The sweetness of religion, which had
solaced a suffering world, was wiped out. “The Puritans,” wrote
Henry Adams pithily, “abandoned the New Testament and the Virgin
in order to go back to the beginning, and renew the quarrel with
Eve.”
It took strong men to live and thrive under such a ministration,
wrestling with a sullen earth for subsistence, and with an angry
Heaven for salvation. Braced to endurance by the long frozen
winters, plainly fed and plainly clad, in peril, like Saint Paul, of sea
and wilderness, narrow of vision but steadfast to principles, they
fronted life resolutely, honouring and illustrating the supreme worth
of freedom.
That they had compensations, other than religious, is apparent to
all but the most superficial observer. The languid indifference to our
neighbour’s moral and spiritual welfare, which we dignify by the
name of tolerance, has curtailed our interest in life. There must have
been something invigorating in the iron determination that
neighbours should walk a straight path, that they should be watched
at every step, and punished for every fall. The Puritan who said, “I
will not. Thou shalt not!” enjoyed his authority to the uttermost. The
prohibitionist who repeats his words to-day is probably the only man
who is having a thoroughly good time in our fretful land and century.
It is hard, I know, to reconcile “I will not. Thou shalt not!” with
freedom. But the early settlers of New England were controlled by
the weight of popular opinion. A strong majority forced a wavering
minority along the road of rectitude. Standards were then as clearly
defined as were boundaries, and the uncompromising individualism
of the day permitted no juggling with responsibility.
It is not possible to read the second chapter of “The Scarlet
Letter,” and fail to perceive one animating principle of the Puritan’s
life. The townspeople who watch Hester Prynne stand in the pillory
are moved by no common emotions. They savour the spectacle, as
church-goers of an earlier age savoured the spectacle of a penitent
in sackcloth at the portal; but they have also a sense of personal
participation in the dragging of frailty to light. Hawthorne endeavours
to make this clear, when, in answer to Roger Chillingworth’s
questions, a bystander congratulates him upon the timeliness of his
arrival on the scene. “It must gladden your heart, after your troubles
and sojourn in the wilderness, to find yourself at length in a land
where iniquity is searched out, and punished in the sight of rulers
and people.” An unfortunate speech to make to the husband of the
culprit (Hawthorne is seldom so ironic), but a cordial admission of
content.
There was a picturesque quality about the laws of New England,
and a nicety of administration, which made them a source of genuine
pleasure to all who were not being judged. A lie, like an oath, was an
offense to be punished; but all lies were not equally punishable. Alice
Morse Earle quotes three penalties, imposed for three falsehoods,
which show how much pains a magistrate took to discriminate.
George Crispe’s wife who “told a lie, not a pernicious lie, but
unadvisedly,” was simply admonished. Will Randall who told a “plain
lie” was fined ten shillings. Ralph Smith who “lied about seeing a
whale,” was fined twenty shillings and excommunicated—which must
have rejoiced his suffering neighbours’ souls.
The rank of a gentleman, being a recognized attribute in those
days, was liable to be forfeited for a disgraceful deed. In 1631,
Josias Plastowe of Boston was fined five pounds for stealing corn
from the Indians; and it was likewise ordered by the Court that he
should be called in the future plain Josias, and not Mr. Plastowe as
formerly. Here was a chance for the community to take a hand in
punishing a somewhat contemptible malefactor. It would have been
more or less than human if it had not enjoyed the privilege.
By far the neatest instance of making the punishment fit the crime
is recorded in Governor Bradford’s “Diary of Occurrences.” The
carpenter employed to construct the stocks for the Plymouth
colonists thought fit to charge an excessive rate for the job;
whereupon he was speedily clapped into his own instrument, “being
the first to suffer this penalty.” And we profess to pity the Puritans for
the hardness and dulness of their lives! Why, if we could but see a
single profiteer sitting in the stocks, one man out of the thousands
who impudently oppress the public punished in this admirable and
satisfactory manner, we should be willing to listen to sermons two
hours long for the rest of our earthly days.
And the Puritans relished their sermons, which were masterful like
themselves. Dogma and denunciation were dear to their souls, and
they could bear an intolerable deal of both. An hour-glass stood on
the preacher’s desk, and youthful eyes strayed wistfully to the
slender thread of sand. But if the discourse continued after the last
grain had run out, a tithingman who sat by the desk turned the glass,
and the congregation settled down for a fresh hearing. A three-hour
sermon was a possibility in those iron days, while an eloquent
parson, like Samuel Torrey of Weymouth, could and did pray for two
hours at a stretch. The Reverend John Cotton, grandfather of the
redoubtable Cotton Mather, and the only minister in Boston who was
acknowledged by Anne Hutchinson to possess the mysterious “seal
of the Spirit,” had a reprehensible habit of preaching for two hours on
Sunday in the meeting-house (his family and servants of course
attending), and at night, after supper, repeating this sermon to the
sleepy household who had heard it in the morning.
For a hundred and fifty years the New England churches were
unheated, and every effort to erect stoves was vigorously opposed.
This at least could not have been a reaction against Popery,
inasmuch as the churches of Catholic Christendom were at that time
equally cold. That the descendants of men who tore the noble old
organs out of English cathedrals, and sold them for scrap metal,
should have been chary of accepting even a “pitch-pipe” to start their
unmelodious singing was natural enough; but stoves played no part
in the service. The congregations must have been either impervious
to discomfort, or very much afraid of fires. The South Church of
Boston was first heated in the winter of 1783. There was much
criticism of such indulgence, and the “Evening Post,” January 25th,
burst into denunciatory verse:

“Extinct the sacred fires of love,

Our zeal grown cold and dead;
In the house of God we fix a stove
To warm us in their stead.”

Three blots on the Puritans’ escutcheon (they were men, not

seraphs) have been dealt with waveringly by historians. Witchcraft,
slavery and Indian warfare gloom darkly against a shining
background of righteousness. Much has been made of the fleeting
phase, and little of the more permanent conditions—which proves
the historic value of the picturesque. That Salem should to-day sell
witch spoons and trinkets, trafficking upon memories she might be
reasonably supposed to regret, is a triumph of commercialism. The
brief and dire obsession of witchcraft was in strict accord with times
and circumstances. It bred fear, horror, and a tense excitement
which lifted from Massachusetts all reproach of dulness. The walls
between the known and the unknown world were battered savagely,
and the men and women who thronged from house to house to see
the “Afflicted Children” writhe in convulsions had a fearful
appreciation of the spectacle. That terrible child, Ann Putnam, who at
twelve years of age was instrumental in bringing to the scaffold some
of the most respected citizens of Salem, is a unique figure in history.
The apprehensive interest she inspired in her townspeople may be
readily conceived. It brought her to ignominy in the end.
The Plymouth colonists kept on good terms with their Indian
neighbours for half a century. The Bay colonists had more
aggressive neighbours, and dealt with them accordingly. It was an
unequal combat. The malignancy of the red men lacked
concentration and thoroughness. They were only savages, and
accustomed to episodic warfare. The white men knew the value of
finality. When Massachusetts planned with Connecticut to
exterminate the Pequots, less than a dozen men escaped
extermination. It was a very complete killing, and no settler slept less
soundly for having had a hand in it. Mr. Fiske says that the measures
employed in King Philip’s War “did not lack harshness,” which is a
euphemism. The flinging of the child Astyanax over the walls of Troy
was less barbarous than the selling of King Philip’s little son into
slavery. Hundreds of adult captives were sent at the same time to
Barbados. It would have been more merciful, though less profitable,
to have butchered them at home.
The New England settlers were not indifferent to the Indians’
souls. They forbade them, when they could, to hunt or fish on the
Lord’s day. John Eliot, Jonathan Edwards, and other famous divines
preached to them earnestly, and gave them a fair chance of
salvation. But, like all savages, they had a trick of melting into the
forest just when their conversion seemed at hand. Cotton Mather, in
his “Magnalia,” speculates ruthlessly upon their condition and
prospects. “We know not,” he writes, “when or how these Indians
first became inhabitants of this mighty continent; yet we may guess
that probably the Devil decoyed these miserable savages hither, in
hopes that the Gospel of the Lord would never come to destroy or
disturb his absolute Empire over them.”
Naturally, no one felt well disposed towards a race which was
under the dominion of Satan. Just as the Celt and the Latin have
small compunction in ill-treating animals, because they have no
souls, so the Puritan had small compunction in ill-treating heathens,
because their souls were lost.
Slavery struck no deep roots in New England soil, perhaps
because the nobler half of the New England conscience never
condoned it, perhaps because circumstances were unfavourable to
its development. The negroes died of the climate, the Indians of
bondage. But traders, in whom conscience was not uppermost,
trafficked in slaves as in any other class of merchandise, and stoutly
refused to abandon a profitable line of business. Moreover, the deep
discordance between slavery as an institution and Puritanism as an
institution made such slave-holding more than ordinarily odious.
Agnes Edwards, in an engaging little volume on Cape Cod, quotes a
clause from the will of John Bacon of Barnstable, who bequeathed to
his wife for her lifetime the “use and improvement” of a slave-
woman, Dinah. “If, at the death of my wife, Dinah be still living, I
desire my executors to sell her, and to use and improve the money
for which she is sold in the purchase of Bibles, and distribute them
equally among my said wife’s and my grandchildren.”
There are fashions in goodness and badness as in all things else;
but the selling of a worn-out woman for Bibles goes a step beyond
Mrs. Stowe’s most vivid imaginings.
These are heavy indictments to bring against the stern forbears
whom we are wont to praise and patronize. But Pilgrim and Puritan
can bear the weight of their misdeeds as well as the glory of their
achievements. Of their good old English birthright, “truth, pitie,
freedom and hardiness,” they cherished all but pitie. No price was
too high for them to pay for the dignity of their manhood, or for the
supreme privilege of dwelling on their own soil. They scorned the line
of least resistance. Their religion was never a cloak for avarice, and
labour was not with them another name for idleness and greed. Eight
hours a day they held to be long enough for an artisan to work; but
the principle of giving little and getting much, which rules our
industrial world to-day, they deemed unworthy of freemen. No
swollen fortunes corrupted their communities; no base envy of
wealth turned them into prowling wolves. If they slew hostile Indians
without compunction, they permitted none to rob those who were
friendly and weak. If they endeavoured to exclude immigrants of
alien creeds, they would have thought shame to bar them out
because they were harder workers or better farmers than
themselves. On the whole, a comparison between their methods and
our own leaves us little room for self-congratulation.
From that great mother country which sends her roving sons over
land and sea, the settlers of New England brought undimmed the
sacred fire of liberty. If they were not akin to Shakespeare, they
shared the inspiration of Milton. “No nobler heroism than theirs,”
says Carlyle, “ever transacted itself on this earth.” Their laws were
made for the strong, and commanded respect and obedience. In
Plymouth, few public employments carried any salary; but no man
might refuse office when it was tendered to him. The Pilgrim, like the
Roman, was expected to serve the state, not batten on it. What
wonder that a few drops of his blood carries with it even now some
measure of devotion and restraint. These were men who understood
that life is neither a pleasure nor a calamity. “It is a grave affair with
which we are charged, and which we must conduct and terminate
with honour.”
 “To Counsel the Doubtful”
In the “Colony Records” of Plymouth it is set down that a certain
John Williams lived unhappily with his wife—a circumstance which
was as conceivable in that austere community as in less godly
towns. But the Puritan magistrate who, in the year 1666, undertook
to settle this connubial quarrel, had no respect for that compelling
word, “incompatibility.” The afflicted couple were admonished “to
apply themselves to such waies as might make for the recovery of
peace and love betwixt them. And for that end, the Court requested
Isacke Bucke to bee officious therein.”
It is the delight and despair of readers, especially of readers
inclined to the intimacies of history, that they are so often told the
beginnings of things, and left to conjecture the end. How did Isacke
Bucke set about his difficult and delicate commission, and how did
the contentious pair relish his officiousness? The Puritans were
tolerably accustomed to proffering advice. It was part of their social
code, as well as a civil and religious duty. They had a happy belief in
the efficacy of expostulation. In 1635 it was proposed that the
magistrates of Boston should “in tenderness and love admonish one
another.” And many lively words must have come of it.
Roman Catholics, who studied their catechism when they were
children, will always remember that the first of the “Spiritual Works of
Mercy” is “To counsel the doubtful.” Taken in conjunction with the
thirteen other works, it presents a compendium of holiness. Taken by
itself, apart from less popular rulings, such as “To forgive offences,”
and “To bear wrongs patiently,” it is apt to be a trifle overbearing.
Catholic theology has defined the difference between a precept and
a counsel—when the Church speaks. A precept is binding, and
obedience to it is an obligation. A counsel is suggestive, and
obedience to it is a matter of volition. The same distinction holds
good in civil and social life. A law must be obeyed; but it is in no
despite of our counsellors, moral or political, that we reserve the right
of choice.
Three hundred years ago, Robert Burton, who was reflective
rather than mandatory, commented upon the reluctance of heretics
to be converted from their errors. It seemed to him—a learned and
detached onlooker—that one man’s word, however well spoken, had
no effect upon another man’s views; and he marvelled
unconcernedly that this should be the case. The tolerance or the
indifference of our day has disinclined most of us to meddle with our
neighbour’s beliefs. We are concerned about his tastes, his work, his
politics, because at these points his life touches ours; but we have a
decent regard for his spiritual freedom, and for the secret
responsibility it entails.
There are, indeed, devout Christian communities which expend
their time, money and energy in extinguishing in the breasts of other
Christians the faith which has sufficed and supported them. The
methods of these propagandists are more genial than were those of
the Inquisition; but their temerity is no less, and their animating
principle is the same. They proffer their competing set of dogmas
with absolute assurance, forgetting that man does not live by
fractions of theology, but by the correspondence of his nature to
spiritual influences moulded through the centuries to meet his needs.
To counsel the doubtful is a Christian duty; but to create the doubts
we counsel is nowhere recommended. It savours too closely of
omniscience.
The counsels offered by age to youth are less expansive, and less
untrammelled than are the counsels offered by youth to age.
Experience dulls the courageous and imaginative didacticism that is
so heartening, because so sanguine, in the young. We have been
told, both in England and in the United States, that youth is now
somewhat displeased with age, as having made a mess of the world
it was trying to run; and that the shrill defiance which meets criticism
indicates this justifiable resentment. It is not an easy matter to run a
world at the best of times, and Germany’s unfortunate ambition to
control the running has put the job beyond man’s power of
immediate adjustment. The social lapses that have been so loudly
lamented by British and American censors are the least serious
symptoms of the general disintegration—the crumbling away of a
cornice when the foundations are insecure.
It is interesting, however, to note the opposing methods employed
by carping age to correct the excesses of youth. When a Western
State disapproves of the behaviour of its young people, it turns to the
courts for relief. It asks and obtains laws regulating the length of a
skirt, or the momentum of a dance. When a New England State
disapproves of the behaviour of its young people, it writes articles, or
circulates and signs a remonstrance. Sometimes it confides its
grievance to a Federation of Women’s Clubs, hoping that the
augustness of this assembly will overawe the spirit of revolt. I may
add that when Canada (Province of Quebec) disapproves of the
behaviour of its young people, it appeals to the Church, which acts
with commendable promptness and semi-occasional success.
All these torrents of disapproval have steeped society in an ebb-
tide of rejected counsels. It would seem that none of us are
conducting ourselves as properly as we should, and that few of us
are satisfactory to our neighbours. In the rapid shifting of
responsibility, we find ourselves accused when we thought we were
accusers. We say that a girl’s dress fails to cover a proper
percentage of her body, and are told that it is the consequence of our
inability to preserve peace. We pay a predatory grocer the price he
asks for his goods, and are told that it is our fault he asks it. If we
plead that hunger-striking—the only alternative—is incompatible with
common sense and hard work, we are offered a varied assortment of
substitutes for food. There is nothing in which personal tastes are
more pronounced or less persuasive than in the devices of economy.
Sooner or later they resolve themselves into the query of the famous
and frugal Frenchman: “Why should I pay twelve francs for an
umbrella when I can buy a bock for six sous?”
The most hopeful symptom of our times (so fraught with
sullenness and peril) is the violent hostility developed some years
ago between rival schools of verse. There have always been
individual critics as sensitive to contrary points of view as are the
men who organize raids on Carnegie Hall whenever they disagree
with a speaker. Swinburne was a notable example of this tyranny of
opinion. It was not enough for him to love Dickens and to hate Byron,
thus neatly balancing his loss and gain. He was impelled by the
terms of his nature ardently to proclaim his love and his hate, and
intemperately to denounce those who loved and hated otherwise.
That so keen and caustic a commentator as Mr. Chesterton should
have been annoyed because he could not turn back the tide of
popular enthusiasm which surged and broke at Rudyard Kipling’s
feet was natural enough. He assured the British public that
“Recessional” was the work of a “solemn cad”; and the British public
—quite as if he had not spoken—took the poem to its heart, wept
over it, prayed over it, and dilated generally with emotions which it is
good for a public to feel. The looker-on was reminded a little of
Horace Walpole fretfully explaining to Paris that a Salisbury Court
printer could not possibly know anything about the habits of the
English aristocracy; and of Paris replying to this ultimatum by
reading “Clarissa Harlowe” with all its might and main, and shedding
torrents of tears over the printer’s matchless heroine.
The asperity of a solitary critic is, however, far less impelling than
the asperity of a whole school of writers and of their opponents. Just
when the ways of the world seemed darkest, and its nations most
distraught, the literati effected a welcome diversion by quarreling
over rules of prosody. The lovers of rhyme were not content to read
rhyme and to write it; the lovers of polyphonic prose were not content
to read polyphonic prose and to write it; but both factions found their
true joy in vivaciously criticizing and counselling their antagonists.
Miss Amy Lowell was right when she said, with her customary insight
and decision, that the beliefs and protests and hates of poets all go
to prove the deathless vigour of the art. Unenlightened outsiders
took up the quarrel with pleasure, finding relief in a dispute that
threatened death and disaster to no one.
Few contentions are so innocent of ill-doing. The neighbours
whom we counsel most assiduously are the nations of the world and
their governments, which might well be doubtful, seeing that they
stumble at every step; but which perhaps stand more in need of
smooth roads than of direction. It is true that M. Stéphane Lauzanne,
editor of “Le Matin,” assured us in the autumn of 1920 that France
did not seek American gold, or ships, or guns, or soldiers—“only
counsels.” This sounded quite in our line, until the Frenchman, with
that fatal tendency to the concrete which is typical of the Gallic mind,
proceeded to explain his meaning: “We ask of the country of Edison
and of the Wrights that it will present us with a system for a league of
nations that will work. If there were nothing needed but eloquence,
the statesmen of old Europe would have been sufficient.”
Why did not M. Lauzanne ask for the moon while he was about it?
What does he suppose we Americans have been striving for since
1789 but systems that will work? Henry Adams, commenting upon
the disastrous failure of Grant’s administration, says just this thing.
“The world” (the American world) “cared little for decency. What it
wanted, it did not know. Probably a system that would work, and
men who could work it. But it found neither.”
And still the search goes on. A system of taxation that will work. A
system of wage-adjustment that will work. A system of prohibition
that will work. A system of public education that will work. These are
the bright phantoms we pursue; and now a Paris editor casually
adds a system for a working league of nations. “If France is in the
right, let America give us her moral support. If France is in the
wrong, let America show us the road to follow.”
To presume agreement where none exists is the most dangerous
form of self-deception. When newspapers and orators tell us that to
the United States has come “the moral leadership of the world,” we
must understand them to imply that foreign nations, with whom we
have little in common, are of our way of thinking—provided always
that they know what we think, and that we know ourselves. For the
wide divergence of national aspirations, they make scant allowance;
for misunderstanding and ill-will, they make no allowance at all.
Before the election of 1920, the spokesmen of both political parties
assured us with equal fervour that our country was destined to be
the bulwark of the world’s peace. Their prescriptions for peace
differed radically in detail; but all agreed that ours was to be the
administering hand, and all implied the readiness of Europe (and, if
need be, Asia and Africa) to accept our restoratives. “Want America
to teach Turkey,” was the headline of a leading newspaper, which, in
October, 1920, deplored the general unteachableness of the Turk.
Perhaps the careless crudeness of headlines deceives a large
class of hurried readers who rely too implicitly upon them. When the
Conference at Versailles was plodding through its task, a New York
paper announced in large type: “Italy dissatisfied with territory
assigned her by Colonel House.” It had a mirth-provoking sound; but,
after all, the absurdity was in no way attributable to Colonel House;
and, in the matter of dissatisfaction, not even a headline could go
beyond the facts. What has ever impelled the “Tribuna” and the
“Avanti” to express amicable agreement, save their mutual
determination to repudiate the intervention of the United States?
When Mr. Wilson risked speaking directly to the Italian people, he
paved the way for misunderstanding. To a government, words are
words. It deals with them itself, and it makes allowance for the
difficulty of translating them into action. But a proletariat is apt, not
merely to attach significance to words, but to read an intensive
meaning into them. We have not done badly by Italy. We spent a
great deal of money upon her cold and hungry children. She is
sending us shiploads of immigrants. Her resentment at our counsel
has seemed to us unwise and ungrateful, seeing that we must
naturally know what is best for her. We cannot accept ill-will with the
unconcern of Great Britain, which has been used to it, and has
survived it, for centuries. We feel that we deserve well of the world,
because we are immaculately free from coveting what we do not
want or need.
And yet one wonders now and then whether, if there had been four
years of glorious and desolating war on this Western continent, and
the United States had emerged triumphant, but spent, broken and
bankrupt, we should be so sure of our mission to regenerate. Would
we then be so high-handed with England, so critical of France? No
people in the world resent strictures more than we do. No people in
the world are less keen for admonishment. The sixty-six members of
the Yale Faculty who in 1920 sent a remonstrance to Congress,
protesting against any interference in the domestic policies of Great
Britain, based their protest upon our unalterable determination to
preserve our own independence unviolated, and to manage our own
affairs. They felt, and said, that we should be scrupulous to observe
the propriety we exacted of others.
The ingenious device of appointing an American committee, which
in its turn appointed an American commission to sit as a court of
appeal, and receive evidence touching the relations of Great Britain
and Ireland, was the most original and comprehensive measure for
counselling the doubtful that this country has ever seen. The
informality of the scheme made it a pure delight. Governors of
Wyoming and North Dakota, mayors of Milwaukee and Anaconda,
clergymen and college professors, ladies and gentlemen of
unimpeachable respectability and unascertainable information, all
responded to the “Nation’s” call, and placed their diplomacy at its
disposal.
Pains were taken by Mr. Villard to convince the public that the
object of the committee was to avert “the greatest calamity which
could befall the civilized world”—a war between Great Britain and the
United States, than which nothing seemed less likely. Its members
disclaimed anything like “improper interference in the concerns of
another nation.” They evidently did not consider that summoning
Ireland and England to appear as plaintiff and defendant before a
self-constituted tribunal three thousand miles away was in the nature
of an interference. “I meddle with no man’s conscience,” said
Cromwell broad-mindedly, when he closed the Catholic churches,
and forbade the celebration of Mass.
The humour of selecting a group of men and women in one corner
of the world, and delegating to them the unofficial task of settling
public affairs in another, was lost upon Americans, who, having been
repeatedly told that they were to “show the way,” conceived
themselves to be showing it. When Great Britain and Ireland settled
their own affairs without asking our advice or summoning our aid,
there were hyphenated citizens in New York and elsewhere who
deeply resented such independent action, and who have shown ever
since a bitter unfriendliness to their own kith and kin. Even Mr.
Cosgrave’s burst of Gaelic eloquence before the League of Nations,