University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Highway.
Enter Goodwife Prawl (L. 2 E.) meeting Susanna (1 E. R.)
Good. Prawl.
Why now, again, good morrow, Mistress Peache,
You 're stirring early for so young and fair;
Sad news! Old Ambla Bodish, 'las! 'las!
That it should come to this, and she a one
Whose chimney 's smoked in Salem thirty year.

Susanna.
Yes, tidings pitiful, but what more is there?

Good. Prawl.
They say, that Ambla and her boy, were riding
The clouds, all night, last night, above their house.

Susanna.
And drawn by nothing!

Good. Prawl.
At my end of the village, it is noised
That cunning Ambla moved them through the air—
Great mercy on us!—by merely wishing of it:
But down at Walcott's Tap, one has it said
That he beheld her helpers.

Susanna.
Helpers, goodwife?

Good. Prawl.
Ay, helpers,
Of an uncommon kind and bigness;
Two black horses hurrying fleetly,
Up and down the still sky, two hours before
Day-breaking, ('t is even so reported)
And shaking freely from their flaky manes,
A thicker darkness out upon the night.

Susanna.
Now, Goodwife Prawl, upon your honor, tell me,
And as you are a woman, believe you
Gideon Bodish sate within those clouds
Last night, or had a part in that dread show
You speak of?

Good. Prawl.
It may be not—but, of old Ambla,
There can be no doubt.

Susanna.
If she be one, what help?—
And yet I would she could escape.

Good. Prawl.
Take care, my darling, there 's Justice Fisk,
And half a minute nearer, my dear,
Would bring his warrant! 'Rat her, and snake her!
She 's guilty as the old Horn-man himself—
Old Doctor Mather will come down from Boston,
To test her case. He'll get the heart of it,
Dear Doctor Mather: and Deacon Gidney,
He too, has some virtues of the same.

Susanna.
Has Deacon Gidney moved in this?

Good. Prawl.
He 's moving now, as fast as goodly legs
Can carry him!—I met him on his way
To Ambla's house, just now; he looked so sharp,
And smiled so cheerfully, I could have hugged him—
He'll let nothing slip his fingers—let her take care!—
There 's been one hanged at Hadley not two days old;
And presently we'll have a hanging here,
If some folks carry still their necks so straight,
And hold their heads above us villagers.

Susanna.
You think that Gideon may go free?

Good. Prawl.
He may, my darling—though one
Told me, as I came along, that Gideon
As he passed her yesterday, she thought she heard
A great chain clank.

Susanna.
He wears no chain, 't was the clangor, rather,
Of restive cattle, drafting logs; some other sound
She took for that—Is it not so?

Good. Prawl.
Well, well,
[Cross to R.
He is a noble stripling, my sweet child,
And would he do no devil's work for Ambla,
Salem might call him her best son: I
Must be stirring; there 's much yet to be learned!
[Exit Goodwife Prawl, R. H.

Susanna.
Blessing on the old gossip! she is right:
I do believe Ambla more pitiful than this,
Although confusion sweeps us all along:
But Jarvis Dane 's merciless in his suit—
What shall I say, and whither turn? He sees
My heart 's for Gideon. T' is Ambla that bewitches us.
But there was witchery ere this, I fear—
When boy and girl pluck flowers together,
Together wade, white-ankled, in the shining stream,
Walk in the moonlight, softly, side by side,
Back from wood-rambles, mocking, as they pause,
Each other's shadow, all fantastical,
Each, joyous, laughing in the other's eyes,
Oh! had dark Ambla's spells such heart in them!
I fain would think that Gideon Bodish
Loves me—but time will soon the truth disclose!
[Exit Susanna, L. H.

SCENE II.

—Chamber in Ambla Bodish's house.
Enter Gideon.
Gideon.
Throughout the hunt they looked at me
With strangeness, yet something of the old
Fellowship too. What horrible surmise is this
That swims into my brain and swallows reason?
Knew I in member, joint or corner of the soul
Where lurks this boding, I would pluck it thence,
Though life leaped after. They parted with me
As in fear, not of my arm or malice-stroke,
But as if they 'd sever themselves apart,
From an atmosphere of dreadfulness
I bore about me. My mother!—Never!
[He falls back.
Though all the stars turned black upon the face
Of night—though back the true-orbed sun should roll
In heaven, and every evil voice cry out,
I 'd have these eye-balls seared, or not believe it!
Let the fear sleep, 'till some sufficient hand
Shall wake it.

Enter Ambla, followed by Deacon Gidney.
Deacon G.
(R.)
I should be sorry to know your age was racked
With pain, and vexed with old unquietness.
Sleep you well o' nights?

Ambla.
I am thankful for the rest
I find, and if the other villagers
Take what I lose, I am thankful still.

Deacon G.
You seek your bed
Early, I hope, as doth become your age?

Ambla.
A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation
At the down-falling of the sun, and I
Am lapped in sleep.

Deacon G.
Dream you much now,
My aged friend, we at our age—that is, at yours—
Sometimes forego our dreams.

Ambla.
I have not dreamed a dream,
For three and twenty years, except awake.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
What means this visit,
Of this cold, gloomy and malignant man?
He does not think it worth his while to notice me.

Deacon G.
Was there no vision in your sleep, last night?
You heard of Margaret Purdy's death at Groton?
Her spectre, 'tis given out, passed o'er this house
Of yours, in a white flame, at midnight.

Ambla.
An angel she, to honor so, this low
Unworthy roof.

Deacon G.
You think well, then, of her, do you?
She was no praying woman, I am told,
Had seasons nor times of audible appeal.

Ambla.
There is a silent service, sir, I 've heard
It said, keeps up its worship at the heart,
Although the lips be closed.

Deacon G.
What! prayer irregular and chance-begot!
Sad orthodoxy—I, Deacon Perfect Gidney,
A humble pattern to this lowly parish,
Am used to have a somewhat different way—
I snuff my nightly candle with a prayer—
And with a steady prayer wind up my watch,
And go to prayer at striking of the clock,—
The great one, my learned grandfather's gift,
In the hall,—and kindle with a slow prayer
My morning fire—Surmise seizes on me
Suddenly—Is all right? When do you pray?
What season set?

Gideon.
[Advancing, C.]
Who made you interrogator of this
Aged woman—and of her inmost hours
Disposer?—I tell you, for every evil
Question asked, there shall a hair grow white
Before its day, upon your scoffer's head.

Deacon G.
Who have we here? Young man, there 's devils in you;
You threaten, do you? We'll see, we'll see.
[Looking sternly at Gideon.]
I, Deacon Perfect Gedney, bid thee aroint!
What brimstone whiff is that beats down the chimney?
I am not here, except of choice, and therefore,
May go whene'er I choose—Desire to hold me not!
If you are the devil, or the devil's messenger,
We'll try a bout with you. He 's angry, we know,—
He meant to have the new world for his own,
Nor let the tent-poles of God's holy roof,
Be pitched ever on its green floor.

Gideon.
'T is you who do the devil's work most eagerly;
Why defile you this fresh new world, this air
That blossoms sweetly, unwooed by any
But the blest presence of free men and things
As free—with droppings of your filthy hands?

Deacon G.
I know your father, boy— [Pointing down.

Though he let loose his forty thousand
Fiercest sons, he'll find his match, I reckon.

Gideon.
What snare is this you set about
An aged woman's way?

Deacon G.
Ha! ha! you feel me on your hip, Satan!
Thou devilish woman, and young man no less—
Though overmastered by that aged wickedness,
I see—

Gideon.
You see an aged woman, it is true;
Her walk has, haply, been apart from yours,
But not, I hope, from God's; her lowly voice,
Not often in the sanctuary heard,
Has whispered, perchance, where 't has been hearkened to,
And when she falls, though Israel fall not
With her, some silent place will miss her—
Out of these woods, and from these stillnesses,
A power with her may pass, bearing a light away.

Deacon G.
Blasphemer! She 's not angel or spirit
Anointed, that you dare bespeak her thus!
I have command here, and should know her rank.

Gideon.
Unholy man, the Holiest that sits
Above, gives her a place and you! and while,
With cherubim she rides the heavenly air,
You, beast-like, plough the earth with the nose.

Deacon G.
'T is very good, young man, exceedingly—
You boldly hold at nought all parish powers,
And bear this woman in their face.

Ambla.
I bear myself, and at the accounting,
Will answer for myself.

Gideon.
And answer you for yours!
Dark or bright, I think the All-merciful
May take her, rightly by the hand, while you
Left-smitten, reeling, He sends down the abyss.

[Cross R. H.
Deacon G.
Oh, Heaven uphold
Us, a weak, humble Deacon in thine house,
The evil doer smite and bend the haughty
Neck of every unbelieving Thomas!
The traps are yet to be upsprung in strength,
The toils begin to close about you.
[Exit Deacon Gidney, D. F.

Gideon.
He means us harm, mother, but what I know not.

Ambla.
I care not, my son.

Enter Susanna.
Susanna.
Good morrow, Mother Bodish.

Gideon.
Why call you my mother, Mother Bodish?
Mistress or aunt or goodwife, are the names
Alone, she 's borne in Salem thirty years!
Christen your babes anew, Susanna,
And let the aged live in old respects.

[Crosses to L.
Susanna.
Your tongue is cruel-edged, to-day;
I had a kindness in my thought, Gideon.

Gideon.
[Crosses to L.]
Then show it in your speech, nor Gideon me.

Susanna.
Be soothed—be soothed!—

Ambla.
By what road came you hither, Susanna?

Susanna.
Along the chief highway.

Ambla.
Who met you—any?

Susanna.
Against the orchard, Goodwife Prawl accosted me,
And there were many other village-women
Moving on toward the Deacon's house:
The Deacon too passed me, just now, angrily.

Ambla.
He did!

Susanna.
He did—
But Gideon, be not angry you, with me;
Why loses your voice the music of the spring-time
Long ago, why grow cold your eyes upon me?
Where is the little hand of childish help
You used to give me once, dear Gideon?
Where the soft word and sweetly blissful look
Of pleased encouragement when gathered we
Together, such wandering flowers as these
I bring you, from the sun-bank by the brook?

Gideon.
I want them not, Susanna.

Susanna.
Though you'll not take them from my hand,
They shall remain, and, in some gentler hour,
Remind you of her that gathered them;
[Goes to the table to deposite them.
Who oft with you has harvested the fields
Of all their beauty, and from the hills and plains,
Together, gleaned with you such toys as these—
No—no—not like to these; I pray you, what 's this,
A rude unsightly shape of hideous clay—
What do you, Gideon, with such foolish things?

[Ambla, who has been ruminating, suddenly breaks out into violent speech and gesture.]
Ambla.
Is this the handy-work you have been taught,
To scorn past time and dally with forbiddenness?
Put back that image, child, or I'll do that—
Who reverences not the Past, Hereafter
Shall not reverence, nor hold to have had
A present time.

[Crosses to L.
Susanna.
[In alarm.]
What have I done? Unspeak your words,
I do entreat, spare me that curse, which might
Undo me, to the doomsday! I kneel and beg—

Gideon.
Get up, you silly girl, and go your ways—
My mother was a devil when you came,
And now she is a god; good mother,
We will withdraw farther within our house—
And let her nurse her fancies, by herself!

[Exeunt Gideon and Ambla, 1 L. R.
Susanna.
A double anguish my morning steps have wrought,
Of more and less. Nothing he has to give
And she too much. What mighty wo 's at hand!
What ruin rushes on this ancient house!
I am bewildered and affrighted—relief
I'll seek in the free air, still blue and bright
With Heaven's own light, out of the circle
Of dark Ambla 's look and arm of power.
[Exit Susanna, D. F.

SCENE III.

—Landscape and House. Old Man, Pudeater, Citizens.
Pudeater.

As I qualify to you, I was sorely troubled by this Black Cat: wheresoever I went it crossed me up and down, was on the road now, now gliding through the orchard—and being in much fear, at length, was forced to keep a light burning, nights, and a sword by me as I lay in bed, least it should come upon me unawares—and snatch me, a poor officer of this place, to utter darkness.

Old Man.
[Ironically.]

Could you make out who it was by the features?

Pudeater.

I'm pretty sure I could, and suspicioned strongly a certain widow-woman.

Topsfield.

Not Ambla Bodish?

Pudeater.

No, another—a journeywoman of the Fiend's; and you shall know how I trapped her; this morning, as I walked abroad, bearing my gun for sport or business as might happen—this hideous creature I espied again, and muttered to myself, “Curse that Black Cat— what means she by sitting on the prison window there?” At that she scuttled down and scudded from me—by a bare chance, in these slow times, I had a silver sixpence in my pocket, which, in Deacon Perfect Gidney's name, I popped into the gun—knowing my lead would go for nothing—and gave it, with the trigger, to the ugly fugitive. She limped away, I tracked her boldly by the blood-stains, (my spirit was up, my men!) and into yonder house—

Topsfield.

Mercy Short's?

Pudeater.

Ay—Mercy Short's.

Old Man.

She has lain sick a month, with sore delirium.

Pudeater.

Her troubles and deliriums, as you call them, will soon find an end—for hither comes his worship, Justice Fisk, to take her, now under condemnation, to be pressed to death.

Enter Justice Fisk, with Jarvis Dane and Goodwife Prawl.
Jarvis.

I doubt it not—she has been seen, this Mercy Short, conferring in her sickness, with Ambla Bodial close at her bed-side.

Justice F.

Pudeater, bring forth this wretched person.

[Exit Pudeater
Old Man.
Stay, men! Remember,
This is but a poor delirious woman,
As you know she is!

[Woman brought out by Pudeater and Citizen.
Crowd.

To prison with her, and the place of torture!

Old Man.
Back with her, rather, ye inhuman creatures;
To her own house and couch of sickness lead her,
Gently, as mournful suffering gives her right;
Around her there in sympathy assembling,
Let all the goodness of the place show what it is—
Justice! and ye most excellent citizens!—
By soothing with the kindly hand, and helping
With the firm voice of true consoling prayer,
And duty lawful—calm her poor estate!

Justice F.

We cannot stay to hear this stuff—stand from our path—I have not time to tarry here upon this little paltry case: there 's more important business coming!

Old Man.
Though single, I will stop your way,
To this outrageous cruelty!

Blacksmith.

On with her—the Justice is right.

Old Man.
Me you may overbear—there 's One above
You cannot overbear!

Carpenter.

'Way with her to death.

Blacksmith.
To death with her—she'll not confess.

Exeunt Just. F., Pudeater, Mercy Short, Topsfield Old Man, Citizens, leaving Jarvis Dane and Good wife Prawl.
Jarvis.

'T is Ambla Bodish does all this mischief, Goodwife.

Good. Prawl.

I begin to be afeard of her—and go long journeys round the distant corners to escape her walks.

Jarvis.

She means to level Salem with the ground.

Good. Prawl.

Meeting-house and all?

Jarvis.

Meeting-house and all—and that the first (after good Deacon Gidney's house); she has arranged this, I know from a sure source: there were stones cast from the top—if you go that way you may see them—last Tuesday night by her and her familiar un-masoners.

Good Prawl.

Horrible! and will they not spare such little huts as that I live in?

Jarvis.

Not one—their hurricane will sweep the very sheds.

Good Prawl.

When will they begin, Master Jarvis?

Jarvis.

That we shall know soon. Go you home, and tell your neighbors this, and bid them keep a shrewd eye on Ambla Bodish and her son Gideon.

Good. Prawl.

With many thanks to you, kind Master Dane, I will.

Jarvis.

I'll see you soon again, and let you know how the work goes on.

[Exit Good. Prawl.
The old fool slides, fish-like, into this net:—
I have some other work for her to do, betimes—
I would not care should she too, get her feet
Tangled—for she is one of many village simpletons,
Who, by their free praises of the beauty
Of young Gideon Bodish's strange life,
His single, simple-hearted love for his old mother,
(And that shall be my instrument to conquer him)
His walking of a path apart, more beautiful,
They think, than we poor common herding youth—
Has helped to draw Susanna's love from me;
And she is glad as any deer to take the summer brook,
In this high flood of all confusion, boldly
To let be seen above the stream her head—
And show, and speak, and make most manifest
The love she has kept secret many days;
I fear, for many years—from the rash force
With which it breaks forth now. But I will so
Mix up these elements, that each, the mother
And the son, and this upbraiding girl
Shall drain the bitter cup!

Re-enter Topsfield and Old Man.
Old Man.
It is not so!

Topsfield.
It is—I say she has confessed.

Jarvis.
She has? I'm glad to know it; it must have been
A great relief to her.

Old Man.
In her last dreadful agony—
The eye-balls starting from her brow, and every limb
Convulsed—she spoke in dreams and mingled
Many things confusedly.

Topsfield.
'T was plain enough to me, sir.

Jarvis.
How was it, Thomas?

Topsfield.
In her last hour, as this old man says,
When every one thought her last breath was going,
The worthy Justice, hastening to her side,
Called unto her in a loud voice, “Confess!”
Then staring wildly round her—she did acknowledge,
Before the breaking of the day, this morning,
She had been, at her chamber, visited
By the likeness of a little Indian child,
Which came to the window and conversed with her,
Appointing for her, this same Mercy Short,
To-night to be at Maple-Hill, to meet
Seven others in a witch-meeting.

Jarvis.
And who were these seven?

Topsfield.
She would not name but one, and said the others,
With herself, would not be seen.

Jarvis.
Who was the one she named—tell me, quickly,
Thomas.

Topsfield.
'T was Ambla Bodish.

Old Man.
You know that name was given to her to speak.

Jarvis.
Interrupt him not—let him tell on. What
Further passed?

Topsfield.
And then the child-like darkness, rattling the casement,
And striving, as it seemed to seize her on her bed,—
She heard the clanking of a chain, as though
He was kept back from that extremity,
And had no more of time or space allowed him,—
Cried out “Despair!” “Despair!” and left her.

Old Man.
And this, the raving of a dying woman,
Frenzied in mind and tortured in the body,
You would employ to work another murder—
Oh men, if men ye are—what would you do?
For the love of this fair earth we stand on,
I will upraise my voice. 'T is now as pure
As childhood's self—oh, would you keep it so!
That when another day in this new region's life
Comes on, when this young land goes free, as yet
It will, and walks this smiling wilderness,
Alone, and all apart from every other
Sovereignty, I would there might be then,
No stain on her fair robe. But you and such as you,
Will soil its beauty to the latest ages!
[Exit Old Man.

Jarvis.
That man 's no friend to Salem!—but Thomas,
You are Salem's friend and will not fail to keep so:
This witches' meeting must be watched, and Ambla
Be proven at its head!

Topsfield.
Gideon I love—but Salem more.

Jarvis.
That I know: and Gideon's mother and her dark
Confederates would by some o'erdevilish power,
Confuse and ruin it.

Topsfield.
That is their task?

Jarvis.
Delay you too long, they will compact
With powers that subtly walk in darkness,
So as to prove soon too strong for Salem
And her human strength.

Topsfield.
I go—I go.

Jarvis.
Your spirit is slower, Thomas Topsfield,
Than your urgent queet demands.

Topsfield.
It well may be—for I begin to doubt
That I have pressed too fast—Gideon Bodish
Was my earliest friend; I loved him, as I love
The dawning of the day, when lies the harvest
Freshly to our scythes!

Jarvis.
But now you know him,
Hideous as the wild sooty fiend he serves—

Topsfield.
I do not know him that!
Though Gideon's mother may be touched—
And in God's fear I do believe she is—
Gideon is free, and shall be, if the power
To hold him so, lives in mine arm or eye,
Or all the faculty I have.

Jarvis.
Why linger, now—when know you Ambla's guilt,
As clearly doth appear by what you say
This woman hath confessed?

Topsfield.
Another time, I might
Have heard another way: the fearful cries
She raised, confused us all.

Jarvis.
Topsfield, you fail in duty, by delay—
Do you not see this dreadful witchcraft grows,
By night and day, in calm and storm, still swells
In power—and will descend o'erwhelmingly
On Salem?

Topsfield.
Aye, there it is:
'T is that which doth disturb and grieve me most!
Can I behold this Salem that I love,
Whose smoke I 've fondly watched from boyhood up,
Ascending the blue sky; whose happy paths,
And strength of growing roofs 'mid the green woods,
Mine eye has lived on, from the fields afar,
In all my toil—

Jarvis.
Laid flat upon the earth by one fell blast!

Topsfield.
Fair Salem—can I see thee in thy youth,
Confused and lost; by some o'erdevilish power,
Mis-matched thy daughters with thy sons,
Young maidens to the altar leading halt
Decrepitude, and grey-beard women luring boys
To vicious love; untimely births; thy streams
Of lovely waters dried—thy golden fields
To ashy darkness changed!

Jarvis.
Speed, Thomas Topsfield, or the ruin
You foresee is on us—none to save!

Topsfield.
I must—I see I must.

Jarvis.
You go not forth alone?

Topsfield.
No, Simon Braybrook joins me.

Jarvis.
On, Thomas, with a foot of lightning speed,
An eye of fire,—watch and encompass,
In your single self, this Hill of Sorcery,
And help to save the Salem that you love,
From everlasting overthrow.

Topsfield.
I'll cast all doubts away—'t is well I should.
Unswerving as heaven's fire shot 'gainst the guilty earth,
I sweep upon the track of this bad woman.
[Exit Topsfield.

Jarvis.
Aye—go, and like a hireling, strike your blow!—
The likeness of a little Indian child,
To the casement of the dead woman coming,
Cried out commandingly “Despair! Despair!”—
A swarthier spirit and a mightier
Stands by my side: and is my counsellor—
He recollects the past, the future hungers for,
And, smiling, sees the uproar swelling on—
With consternation for thy stormy help,
Revenge, thy thunderbolts shall fall in showers!
[Exit Jarvis.

SCENE IV.

—A Highway.
Enter Topsfield and Braybrook.
Braybrook.
Shall we see many, Thomas? I begin
To be afeard.

Topsfield.
Stick you to my skirts, and keep a good heart;
There'll be but one: The sister witches keep
Invisible, and she alone, does the high work.

Braybrook.
You are sure of that, Thomas?

Topsfield.
We know it: there 's Mercy Short has been,
Now for a fortnight, with eight cruel spectres
Troubled! Seven with their faces covered—
The eighth she knew, old Ambla Bodish.

Braybrook.
Ho! who 's he that comes this way?

Topsfield.
Gideon Bodish, if we live:—we'll ask him with us.

Braybrook.
Gideon will not be afeard!

Topsfield.
We'll try him; if this be Goodwife Bodish,
Gideon will not along. Ho—Gideon, Gideon!
He hears, but walks as one that would not hear.

Braybrook.
Gideon, hither! He 's not a wall of stone.

Topsfield.
He moves along, but circles yet about the hill,
On which he keeps his aspect fixed from far—
What draws him? Some fatal thing, I fear.

Enter Gideon Bodish, S E. R.
Gideon.
You called me?

Topsfield.
We did. There 's work a foot, and you
Must stead us in it.

Gideon.
Must is a lion that turns back
To tear its driver, you know, no less than hunt
What goes before.

Topsfield.
You will, 't is service honorable;
A witch-session sits to-night, at Maple Hill,
And who can mainly help, as you, to watch
And to confound it?

Gideon.
Alas, I have no faculty of eye
Or ear, to apprehend what lies beyond
Our common walk: do you go on or stay,
Simon and you, as your bold natures prompt.

Braybrook.
We two, you understand, are quite a match
For any devil's dam that broods on hills
Or plains, or rocks, but three is better, Gideon,
For that 's a number holy.

Topsfield.
There will be honor in this work; we 're sure
To fix one witch at least, and she, the chief.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
To go or stay, in both lies coiled a fear;
I know my mother at this calm hour walks
The hill, and meditates, in silent thought,
In hope to soothe her melancholy age:
Go I with them, or haste to warn my mother
Of their coming—I am her familiar,
They will say, and she is bound with that which
Would have freed her; and if I linger, they
Will hold me guilty, in secret purpose, deep
And undisclosed, and so suspect her more.

Braybrook.
[Aside to Topsfield.]
He is greatly troubled! There 's much in this,
I dare be sworn.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
Shall I
Be made a binder of my mother's limbs,
A prover of the darkness of her life,
If it be dark, and one of three fierce hounds
To hunt her? I will not go.

Topsfield.
Consider,
Gideon, your duty as a townsman.

Gideon.
I have considered, I will not go.

Topsfield.
You are too greatly moved—The son of her,
The oldest habitant, should stand by Salem
In her hour of need.

Gideon.
[Cross to L.]
Let Salem be
Her own deliverer! I will not go,
No step, nor inch, nor hair's breadth of the way.

Topsfield.
Would you not see one taken in the very act,
The chief of the hill council?

Gideon.
Why do you vex me further?
Though I could see an hundred witches
'Gainst the white moon flying, I would not move,
You see I would not! You see me, marble, and stone,
And mountainous, in the repose of staying.
Go on or stay, or walk or fly, I'm rooted here,
And when I bend, 't will be toward an opposite!
Why do you dally with the devil's horns,
When you may seize them, as you proudly say,
By stretching forth your own brave arms?

Topsfield.
Alas, this hour is fatal, Gideon,
And drags a black hereafter.

[Cross to R.
[Exeunt Topsfield and Braybrook, R. H.
Gideon.
Is this a mist of tears that fills mine eyes,
Or is it the night-fog of the swamp rising
Beneath the hill? Darkly, from where I stand,
I see my mother moving! oh, could I shout
Or run towards her, and not make more the snare,
Heaven! to thee I 'd give perpetual thanks—
But see, they steal upon her, and 'mid the shadowy woods,
And the dark cloud, and the down-flooding light
Of the pale sky, she changes before me.
God—oh, God! This torture is in the brain,
And shakes its powers to a dark wilderness,
Full of the night, and agony, and storm!
Oh! I am rocked as is the cedar-tree
Haled to and fro, by mad and merciless winds!
It may not be at rest—it may not move—
But lives a lonely and a troubled thing
With sadness in its top. Oh, let me fall
In death rather than live uncertain!
Can this be true, these men would have to be?
Am I within the shadow of a power,
Which shoots up its blinding mists from hell—
What fires burn underneath my trembling feet,
What furnaces are in this desert, all
A-glow, to forge engines to fight down souls
And batter dear life's best peace to ruins?
On every side beset by doubts and fears—
If these men wrong her, and they are hunters
For the sport's sake, if they pursue her,
Panther-like, for the wild-roaming beauty
Of her ways, I'll turn and rend them—that they
Shall know the game they keenely hunt, retorts
As eagles do, invaded in their high homes.
With every gift of man a holy God
Has given to me, I'll rise upon them,
And defend a righteous woman's ways!
[Exit Gideon, R. H.