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Updated: June 5, 2025
This was the natural ending for many, the heart of Anne Hutchinson's doctrine being really a belief in the "Inward Light," a doctrine which seems to have outraged every Puritan susceptibility for fully a hundred years, and until the reaction began, which has made individual judgment the only creed common to the people of New England.
Such visions of glory as obscured Larime Hutchinson's sensible view of the practical world are, perhaps, common enough in adolescence, and, as a general rule, work no serious harm. There were, however, two fatal defects of character in this case.
"We are not allowed to select jurors. The law takes away our right to assemble in town meeting, except by permission, and then we can only elect selectmen to look after town affairs," said Tom. "The people have shown they are not fit to govern themselves," said Mr. Shrimpton. "They allow the mob to run riot. It was a mob that smashed Chief Justice Hutchinson's windows.
"Well," Hutchinson was just a little grudging even at this comparatively lenient moment, "I believe the chap'll get on myself. He's got pluck and he's sharp. I never saw him make a poor mouth yet." "Neither did I," answered Ann. A door leading into Tembarom's hall bedroom opened on to Hutchinson's. They both heard some one inside the room knock at it.
Tembarom was going to hand in his page, and while he was naturally a trifle nervous, his nervousness would have been a hopeful and not unpleasant thing but that the Transatlantic sailed in two days, and in the Hutchinson's rooms Little Ann was packing her small trunk and her father's bigger one, which held more models and drawings than clothing.
In Liberty Tree might be a vignette, representing the chair in a very shattered, battered, and forlorn condition, after it had been ejected from Hutchinson's house. This would serve to impress the reader with the woful vicissitudes of sublunary things. . . . Did you ever behold such a vile scribble as I write since I became a farmer? My chirography always was abominable, but now it is outrageous.
The three- and four-year-old holluschickie romped down from Hutchinson's Hill crying: "Out of the way, youngsters! The sea is deep and you don't know all that's in it yet. Wait till you've rounded the Horn. Hi, you yearling, where did you get that white coat?" "I didn't get it," said Kotick. "It grew."
We can smile at these: but we cannot smile at the account of unhappy Mary Dyer's malformed offspring; or of Mrs. Hutchinson's domestic misfortune of similar character, in the story of which the physician, Dr. John Clark of Rhode Island, alone appears to advantage; or as we read the Rev. Samuel Willard's fifteen alarming pages about an unfortunate young woman suffering with hysteria.
"0 Little Ann!" he broke out under his breath, lest the sound of his voice might check Hutchinson's steady snoring. "0 Little Ann!" Ann leaned back, sitting upon her small heels, and looked up at him. "You're all upset, and it's not to be wondered at, Mr. Temple Barholm," she said. "Upset! You're going away to-morrow morning! And, for the Lord's sake, don't call me that!" he protested.
Manuscripts, containing secrets of our country's history, which are now lost forever, were scattered to the winds. The old ancestral portraits, whose fixed countenances looked down on the wild scene, were rent from the walls. The mob triumphed in their downfall and destruction, as if these pictures of Hutchinson's forefathers had committed the same offences as their descendant.
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