d the strip of land bordering the river, and extending back a mile in all places, that comprised the Medford of those days, making the thirty-one years ye olde meeting-house was used.
A. D. 1693, William and Mary had been for five years the reigning sovereigns and the town meetings were called in their majesties names.
The witchcraft delusion at Salem had just run its length and subsided without thrusting its baleful presence and influence into Medford.
Beyond the sea in old England, John Bunyan, the immortal dreamer, and Richard Baxter, the voluminous writer, had but just passed away.
The Pilgrim's Progress of the one, and Saint's Rest of the other were beginning to reach these shores.
John Dryden, the poet and translator of Virgil, and John Locke, the mental philosopher of that age, were just completing their life work, while the great architect, Sir Christopher Wren, was in his prime.
But four years had passed since Sir Edmund Andros had been sent home to England, and o