Moll Pitcher

As printed in Samuel Adams Drake (1884)

Told by unattributed — the collector names no informant · collected by Samuel Adams Drake · 1884 · Boston and eastern Massachusetts

IN passing from the boundaries of Saugus into those of Lynn, a word or two acquaints us with the origin of both places. Thomas Dudley, Deputy-Governor of " the Massachusetts," writing in 1630 to the " Lady Bryget, Countesse of Lincoln," says of the Colonists who, like himself, emigrated in that year from England, " We began to consult of the place of our sitting down, for Salem, where we landed, pleased us not." Various causes having led to their dispersion along the coast from Cape Ann to Nantasket, one of the scattered bands settled "upon the river of Saugus," as he writes ; another founded Boston. The Indian name Saugus, which still belongs to the river and to a fragment of the ancient territory, Avas superseded in 1637 by that of Lynn, or the King's Lynn, from Lynn Regis, on the River Ouse, in England. Lynn is therefore one of the oldest towns in Massachusetts. It is beautifully situated on the shore of Massachusetts Bay, ten miles north of Boston and five south of Salem. Swampscot is a ril) taken from her side ; so is Nahant, and so is Lynnfield ; yet, like the fabled monster, she seems to grow the faster from siiccessive mutilations. If one may credit the legend, Veale, the pirate recluse of Dungeon Rock, was among the first to follow the trade of a "cordwainer" here; but it may be questioned whether he is NEW-ENGLAND LEGENDS. really looked upon as one of the founders of the craft. Be that as it may, it is certain that one of the earliest settlers, Francis Ingalls by name, established the first tannery in all the colony, and he may therefore be considered the originator of that branch of industry, in the steady pursuit of which Lynn has grown to be both rich and famous. When shoemaking was a trade, I suppose that nearly every man in Lynn was a shoe- .1 y.| maker ; but now, when no one pei'son makes a whole boot or a whole shoe, the trade, as a trade, has degenerated. Two of the noblest men that America has produced have graduated from the shoemaker's bench. The poet Whittier once followed this humble calling, until he found his higher vocation ; and the philanthro- pist, William Lloyd Garrison, once worked at the bench here in Lynn. This ancient handicraft is therefore by no means with- out some very honorable traditions. But Lynn is likely to be celebrated throughout all time as hav- ing been the residence of the most successful fortune-teller of her tlay and generation, — we niiglit also say of whom we have any iiccount in mystical lore, ancient or modern. While she lived she was without a rival in her peculiar art, and the prophetic words that she let fall were capable of being transmuted into gold. She it is that one of our native poets has in mind when he is singing — too soon, we think, — a requiem over the last witch of his native land. How has New England's romance fled, Even as a vision of the morning ! Its rites foredone, — its guardians dead, — Its priestesses, bereft of dread, Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! Gone like the Indian wizard's yell And fire-dance round the magic rock, Forgotten like the Diuid's spell At moon rise by his holy oak! No more along the shadowy glen Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; No more the unquiet cliurchyard dead Glimpse upward from their turt'y bed. Startling the traveller, late and lone ; As, on some night of starless weather. They silently commune together, Each sitting on his own headstone ! The roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed. No longer rings with midnight revel Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; No pale blue flame sends out its flashes Through creviced roof and shattered sashes ! — The witch-grass round the hazel spring May sharply to the night-air sing, But there no more shall withered hags Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters As beverage meet for Satan's daughters ; No more their mimic tones be heard, — The mew of cat, — the chirp of bii'd, — 140 NEW-ENGLAND LEGENDS. Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter Of the fell demon following after! Even she, our own weird heroine, Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, Sleeps calmly where the living laid her ; And the wide realm of sorcery, Left by its latest mistress free, Hath found no gray and skilled invader. It was once said of Napoleon that he left a family, but no successor. Moll Pitcher left none in her wonderful gift of fore- telling the future by practising palmistry, or by simply gazing into the bottom of a teacup. She was therefore no Sidrophel. Yet even the most incredulous were compelled to admit her pre- dictions to be wholly unaccountable ; while those who came to laugh went away vanquished, if not fully convinced. What is singular is that her reputation has rather increased than dimin- ished with time. We have no account of her dupes, nor is there any " Exposure " extant. It follows that the spot where for so many years Moll Pitcher so successfully practised her art is the one to which the stranger first asks to be directed. Should he happen to stray a little way out of the more crowded part of the city, his attention would at once be arrested by a remarkable' cliff of dull red porphyry rising high above the house-tops, that has apparently detached itself from the broken hill-range which skirts the coast, and has elbowed its way into the plain, thrusting the houses aside out of its path, until it almost divides the city in twain. High Rock, as it is called, is to Lynn what the Citadel is to Quebec, — you look down, and see at a glance all the out-door life of the place ; you look up, and see the blue arch of the sky springing from the rim of the ocean. The following poetical description of the ravishing view of sea and shore unrolled from the summit of High Eock naturally takes precedence of our own : — MOLL PITCHEK. 141

Samuel Adams Drake, A Book of New England Legends and Folk Lore in Prose and Poetry (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1884)