University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in Ambla's Cottage.
Ambla and Gideon discovered.—Gideon in an attitude of affectionate attention, kneeling at the side of Ambla.
Ambla.
It was this stony, stubborn, mountain-towering pride,
That kept me dumb to you—though I beheld
Your pale young face, and saw your troubled steps,
It would not let me speak and tell you all;
But best it is that you should know it, now—
Re-word it as I will it shakes my soul.—
Your father, Gideon, was a haughty man,
Severe, yet fond! He thought that I had sinned
Against his love with that gay paramour,
Who was no more—than birds are to the tree
They hover o'er—to me who lived in mine
Own thoughts above suspicion's climbing.
Alas!

Gideon.
Did my father ne'er reproach you,
With his doubts?

Ambla.
Not in a breath; but in his stern,
Calm, silent way, he called his enemy
(As he would have him,) to the fatal test—
They fought—a word from me had saved his life!—
I lived with cold disdain, counselled with her,
In all my acts: the morning when they were
To meet, and met, shone like a bride new dressed—
But never more such morning came to me—
He fell!

Gideon.
My father?

Ambla.
[Agitated.]
He did. Oh, blackest hour,
That bred a thousand and a thousand like you!

Gideon.
Be calm, dear mother—you smote him not.

Ambla.
I did: it was
My silence winged, with gliding and sure death,
The aim that never, never had been made—
If I had willed and wished to stay it.
Oft, oft do I recall that dreadful time,
In all its minutes of tremendous wo;
I see, as then, your father move—a towered man,
Strong in the life of youth entrenched within
His manly form—towards the bloody field;
I watch the hours, I count the mournful clock—
Now, now the blow is struck; and now I see him,
As wide the yellow sun streams ghastly down,
Come back, a mangled corpse, and not a man!
Frenzy and wildness seize upon my brain,
And the gaunt shape of him I sacrificed
To my most wicked pride, before me stands—
Even now, dressed in the sanguine colors
Of that dreadful hour! Shield, shield me, Gideon,
From the awful form.

Gideon.
'T is but the vision of your troubled mind!
Still and subdue this sea-like grief, dear mother!
You have rendered long and ample quittance,
For your slight act of inconsiderate pride;
'T is this which shakes your steps, darkens your looks,
By day, makes solitary walks and the mooned night
Your friend—I thought, and, trembling, feared 'twas thus—
(And yet I smile, to think 't is this, and not
The other) for I, alone, have heard you,
When you knew it not, mutter often
In sleep, and even waking, drop words by chance,
That showed a soul disturbed with such remorse.

Ambla.
So caused and so allowed by me, your father's death,
My son, has been an ever-living dagger
To my heart, shining with dreadful light,
Flashing the past anew, and quick withdrawn
And quick returned, to pierce me only deeper:
The world we lived in lost its spell for me—
I daily moved, a loathed and lonesome thing;
In silence and in throngs, in all assemblages
Of peace, or prayer, or strife, was left to stand
Apart, feeding upon my pangs, and drinking
Memory's bitterest seas to the bottom!

Gideon.
Pass, pass, dear mother, pass that hour.

Ambla.
I fled the city where we then were dwelling,
Glad to abjure its hateful stones forever,
And sped alone with you, my only hope
And stay, in hand, smiling upon my way,
To this lone wilderness (lone then it was,
A greenness unspotted with a human home),
Familiar with the woods and open fields,
And sky and stars, and spirits, if such there be,
That walk them all.

“Gideon.
Uncompanied were you in this wild place,
“This lonesome, mournful, penitential wilderness?

“Ambla.
By none, save you, who prattled only then,
“And had not risen to boyish speech: you 're all
“That came with me into this world of woods,
“Are all in all to me, and ever have been.—
“In my mind's wildering pangs I often sought,
“Yet innocently, communion with the thoughts
“And fancies of the unseen world, have willed
“Or dreamed, or known beings, that others saw not.

“Gideon.
I fear you, mother, yet I love—
“These things may be, and yet they may not.

“Ambla.
Be they or not, what Deacon formal
“Or earthy Magistrate, shall stay or speed them?

“Gideon.
Oh, mother, put not your body in peril
“Of their chains, although your spirit walk the stars,
“Pure as their light, when first it shone.

“Ambla.
Were but mine eye purged clear of all dimness
“Got of the earth—think you, I could not see,
“Each hour, spirits of blest and perfect men,
“Walk up and down this green before our door,
“Beneath yon woody trees, or entering at times,
“This low sad shed of ours, to talk with me,
“As did the angels in the olden time?

“Gideon.
I 've sometimes, mother,
“Thought a fire shone in your eyes that burned up
“Space and all its clogging motes, and looked
“Whither they would. They 're milder now!

“Ambla.
Spirits possess the earth, 'till men, cities
“And habitations of gross clay, uprear thereon:
“They haunt this uncontaminated scene
“More than old regions with their towers,
“And smoky streets, and angry piles of war.
“From the old time these things have been, and shall
“They be no more? Spirits affect, or may,
“This beautiful fair land, dewy, and new,
“And suitable, in dark or bright, to their blest ways.
Hark! Gideon, hear you no trumpet sounding?

Gideon.
[In amaze.]
I hear nothing.

Ambla.
The air is musical not far from this,
No mortal playing!
Unstop your ears and be of faith! Behold,
In ecstasy and not in pain, it vanishes
Toward the wood, where the soft-dropping cloud
Kisses the leaves. We'll forth and follow it.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
I see that time and grief have swerved her mind;
Her age and troubles need my arm, and she
Shall have it, defence against the world, and all
The world, in its worst wickedness can bring!
I fear it, mother.

Ambla.
Fear it!—you do not hear it yet.
It takes its way each afternoon toward
The Hill; and I pursue it. Come, Gideon!

[Ambla apparelled to go forth, encounters at the door, Pudeater, the Officer, L. H.
Pudeater.
Ha! ha! I have you in the very nick,
Just as your wings are spread to fly, Mistress.

[Seizes Ambla.
Gideon.
What mean you, Sirrah Pudeater?

Pudeater.
I mean she is arrested, under warrant
Of the worshipful Justice Fisk.

Gideon.
What, for a—

Pudeater.
The same: I take her
As a common witch.

Gideon.
Shall I smite down
This idiot to the ground, or will you go?

Pudeater.
Strike not me, Master Gideon, I'm not
To be struck, the warrant says.

Ambla.
I go, Gideon!
But tarry you, nor step within the snare.
Tarry thou here, Gideon! observe a strict
And temperate way within these humble walls,
And kindly think of all thine old mother's
Foregone life, as of a dream.

Gideon.
Could all the firmament of stars
Remain on one side Heaven, refusing
To force their way, into the other dark,
I might; wither you go, I go.
Let the same bolt pierce both our hearts!

Ambla.
My son, the aspect you turn on me now—
Less strange and ominous,—makes this following
A pleasure. [To Pud.]
Lead forth, we wait on you!

Gideon.
[Aside.]
A pleasure that, cloud-like, wraps a thunder's pang
Within. The following of a cold hearse is sad,
Or a friend's footsteps flying o'er the sea,
Ne'er to return, or him who wanders in his mind;
Lost in the wilderness: sadder than all,
A mother held to earth by sacred bonds
Of love, or snatched into a realm forbidden;
When wicked men possess the judgment seat,
Which shall prevail, who knows?—alas! alas!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—The Meeting-House.
Justice Fisk, presiding—Deacon Gidney, Susanna Peache—Jarvis Dane—Topsfield—Good. Prawl, &c., discovered.
Deacon G.
[To Witnesses.]
When enters Ambla Bodish, turn you
A steadfast gaze on her, in which be shot
Your whole soul's strength, as against one who dooms
Your souls to the red fire.

Witnesses.
We fear to look on her.

Deacon G.
Fear you not. I shall stand by you,
And with constant silent prayer, and loud
Rebuke, make good your footing to resist.

Witnesses.
She draws near now; we feel her,
And begin to quake.

Deacon G.
Freshen your spirits, and be bold to speak
All things.

Justice F.
Bring forward Ambla Bodish.

[Ambla is brought in, followed by Gideon and a crowd of Citizens.]
Deacon G.
Mistress Bodish, keep thou thine eyes upon
The Justice fixed.

Justice F.
Who is the first tormented?

Deacon G.
Susanna Peache, answer how has it gone
With you? Fear not to speak.

Susanna.
Oh, sadly, sadly.
For hours, for days, for weeks, I have not been
Myself! She, the sole sovereignty of all
My powers has kept, nor let me think, nor feel,
Other than with a pulse unnatural;
This Jarvis Dane, an excellent young citizen,
I loved; but in a night, or in a glance,
As with a rudder's touch, she turned my whole
Soul's bulk out of its stream.

Deacon G.
Whither? For this
Will show the art.

Susanna.
Whatever thought I of:
A fancy of a wood had I, or of a hall,
Or of a street, there always at its end,
The self-same image stood and smiled on me!
Dreamed I of drowning, this, with its prompt hand
Outstretched, held me from sinking, if flying,
This bore me up into the air, and when,
As oft I was, rapt to a shining place,
Full of an ample light, but yet no sun,
Nor moon, nor lamp—he still appeared again,
Fair as the bright red blossom of the maple-tree,
First of the Spring.

Jarvis.
The truth of Scripture-writ!

Justice F.
And who was he, so constant, in all seasons
Of your thought?

Susanna.
Gideon!—None other, mine own dear Gideon!

Justice F.
Say, Mistress Bodish, why falls she away,
As into a dream-locked sleep, whene'er you
Look on her?

Ambla.
You ask, what wisdom more than yours
Might falter in the answering: I look on her,
She sleeps. She sleeps and I look on her?
Make more of it, if you can.

Deacon G.
Brave Thomas, what have you to tell?
You have eye-witnessed much.

“Topsfield.
I have seen much, good Deacon Gidney,
“But whether, with the eye, or with the mind—
“I cannot always tell. I know that Salem trembleth,
“To her base, with a strange palsy taken,
“I know that Ambla Bodish moves mysteriously,
“And that in the shadow of her way, her
“Gideon lives, as doth a star, amid
“A wild star's trailing.

“Justice F.
Know you of aught that passed,
“A few nights gone, on Maple Hill? Have you
“Been witness to a witch-meeting?

Topsfield.
All that I have seen, or thought that I had seen,
I dare not tell; of bloody, strange, and damnable,
For nature would not go with me.

Gideon.
Speak forth—nor palter ruin on our heads!
I charge you, in an old boyhood's friendship,
Speak, in the name of woods we 've wandered through,
In the name of flowers we have gathered,
In the name of blameless streams we 've drunk from,
And in the name which once we both believed in,
Speak forth your secret'st thought!

Topsfield.
It is the very woods,
And flowers, and streams, you call on, that accuse you,
Gideon, for in an uproar indescribable,
They seemed to move, the night that Ambla Bodish
Walked, and we looked on—as though they were
Her servile messengers,—a flap of wings
About, voices uninterpretable
In the air, and tremblings of the earth.

Deacon G.
Many confederates,
You do suppose, Goodman Topsfield?

Topsfield.
I could not see them, nor could I count them,
They made a great noise, as of a cataract,
And prattled in a sort of speech, of baptism
At Newberry Falls.

Deacon G.
And now, what news from Newberry Falls?
That, most of all, we 'd know—for that will teach us
How far extends her supernatural power,
And, by its fatal hue, decide her doom.

Topsfield.
Of that will Simon Braybrook bring report.
While hither I sped to give this testimony,
He tarried to learn the end: for 'twixt death
And life the young child lay.

Deacon G.
Meanwhile, what of these heathen images,
And swart counterfeits dug in the dark pit—
You see them, Master Topsfield?

Topsfield.
I see them,
And they dazzle me. They 're subtle spirits,
And not clay, as you suppose. You, good Deacon,
And worship Fisk, are tortured, severely,
When you know it not, in these, and made to writhe,
In deep-kindled fires, when you do sleep,
To mortal seeming.

Justice F.
This dark woman's work?

Deacon G.
How is it, Mistress Bodish, now speak the truth,
That these are vital, strangely? That thus
These doings come about?

Ambla.
The lightning of the soul, whose kindling force,
Out of the clay, created these as forms
To worship and to wonder at, in the dusk age
That 's past and passing; that makes yon girl
To peak and pine for this young son of mine
Cannot be vialled here, nor caught as are
The glittering spider's threads, by idle hands!

[The Witnesses crowd around Ambla.
Gideon.
Stand off! stand off! do you not see that something
Holy, lives in her looks and prompts her when she speaks?
And as for these— [Seizing the Images.]
Accursed! I dash you into pieces—
Thus defying you, and your dark devilish power,
With all your torments, engines, images!

Deacon G.
Be still, thou Gideon, you put a seal
Upon her doom! Lead forth the child, and see,
How innocency, white as snow, is changed
To soot by sorcery.

[A little Child is led forward.
Topsfield.
We cannot stand before him, our knees do knock,
Our eye-balls inward turn, when we regard him.

Deacon G.
See, in what torment this, a five years' boy,
Can cast these creatures: who gives him power
To do this?

Good. Prawl and Witnesses.
Ambla Bodish!
She gives him power to vex us endlessly.

Gideon.
You 're false as hags of hell! He has no power,
Save that his pure and guileless look, can shake
Your guilty frames, though twenty fold in bulk.

Ambla.
If what these creatures say and feel be true—
Oh! rear that mighty infant gently up;
There 's virtue in his heart beyond us all—
Inherent force of soul, that man gives not,
Nor can he take; which flows abroad, is felt
Where he is not, and lives throughout the world,
Th' immediate sunshine of our mortal sphere—
A power next unto God's.

[The Child is sent off L. H.
Deacon G.
Oh, blasphemy
Of a black dye! Come, Goodwife Prawl, boldly
Declare in the face of Heaven, in this
His holy house, was it this prisoner
That so oft appeared to you?

Good. Prawl.
If I know anything,
This right hand from this left one, your worship,
It was her shape that whipped me, as I told you,
With rods of iron, that I should make confession
To her, as my chief.

Deacon G.
And did you?

Good. Prawl.
She beat me to it,—
Look, look, they walk along the aisle!

Justice F.
What now? What see you?

Good. Prawl.
They 're toward her, and will be at her throat,
Each moment, two spectres of two murdered men;
They point to Ambla Bodish, and cry
For vengeance. She is their murderer!

Enter Braybrook, L. H.
Braybrook.
The thunder-stricken child, at Newberry Falls,
Is dead!

Deacon G.
Seize her, and drag her to her doom!
It is enough. The dead speak out against her:
Will the Court appoint the hour that she be hanged?

Justice F.
Instantly: there is no motive for delay.
Know all men here—forthwith be Ambla Bodish,
Led from this, to execution, as a common witch.

Carpenter.
Aye, hang her, hang her; to the gallows
With the witch.

Blacksmith.

'Way with her. She hath stopped the pulse of Salem, and made all trades and occupations, idleness.

All.
Aye, hang her! hang her!

Gideon.
Hold back awhile, ye sons of Salem,
And listen to me now! No more as a wronged son,
But as a man—with like desires and feelings
With yourselves, whose pulse is natural,
Who sleeps, who wakes, who walks as free as you;
Whose heart beats on or stops, whose arm 's uplifted,
Like yours, in joy, in grief, in hate 'gainst wrong—
I ask you, here and now—will you permit
This judgment to o'erwhelm an ancient head—
The whitest, noblest, the most reverend head
Of Salem? Ye cannot be so lost, so drifted
Far away from what you were and should be;
Call back that doom—repeal the bigot's voice,
And stand up here, full-statured, men of Salem!

Jarvis.
We will not set aside the doom decreed—
The law has spoken and she must die—death
To Ambla Bodish, the accursed witch!

All.
Death to the witch.

Gideon.
Then, take ye on your heads what comes,
And if your children should repent this hour,
And mournfully remember Salem—be with you
The crime, and the black memory linger
Near your graves, forever! Look on your deed,
What have ye done? Thou sepulchre of all belief
[To Dea. G.]
And truth, stares not this lie you have enacted,
Stark and o'erwhelming as a dead man's face,
Against your path! What have ye proven to drive
This penalty against a venerable breast?
Some solitary walks, sacred as night,
Familiar love for hills, and woods and stars,
A way through life, out of your beaten path—
But ever in the road to the pure truth
And goodness of a heart, troubled too much
In conscience, for a deed that would have been
A feather's weight upon your brutish souls.
Ye are the most accursed deceivers,
Most pitiful, deluded men, this clime
Or century hath hatched: Ye have enfogged,
Darkened, and led astray my childish love,
Made this aged mother seem a horror and a hag,
To one who, drop by drop, would once have died—and will—
To save or serve her: blasted this blest place,
And made its men and women beasts of prey.

Justice F.
[Passionately.]
Sheriff, seize Gideon Bodish—
And bear him to prison, for this outrageous
Insolence and scorn of law.

Gideon.
Let him dare it!—
Where desperation nerves the arm, and justice
Grasps the sword, numbers avail not!

Ambla.
Oppose them not, my son, these bitter persecutors,
Remember the just Heaven they mock, and yet
Aspire to.—Though but a simple aged woman
Worn with grief, and frail with many cares,
Above you all I lift myself, and from this height
Of holy truth whereon I stand, far down
Upon your wretched heads, I look with scorn,—
My spirit is not quelled, nor should it be
By millions of such servile enemies.

Gideon.
With one fell stroke they should be swept from earth!

Ambla.
Be patient, in this time of trial, Gideon;
You know your mother's heart, how she is racked,
And what it is that pangs her—
Though evil tongues asperse, and though her grave
Be held, an impious ante-chamber,
That leads to darkness endless, come you
And lie by my side, when you are called away!
My son! my son! my old heart hath lived through
Many flaws, but this alone goes near it—
That I must part at last from you!
Courage, my child—we two shall walk together,
Yet, hereafter!

Gideon.
[Amazed.]
Who is it seizes me? By either arm,
Lifts me on high, and dashes me about,
I cannot catch the earth, nor can I breathe
The air! What chains are these before me?
Are you a dead woman whose face I look in?
[To Amb.
And who are these?

Ambla.
You know your mother, Gideon?

Gideon.
I do, I do—Oh blissful death!
When draws your last hour near, mine flies with it,
Upon an equal wing.

Justice F.
Officers, lead forth your prisoner.

[The officers advance to seize Ambla.
Gideon.
Stand back, nor dare to lay a hand
Upon her sacred form—a curse for time,
And for eternity, body and soul,
Wither the touch, that first affronts her.

[Gideon is forced up the stage, Officers guard Ambla off, L. H.]

SCENE III.

—Village.
Enter Jarvis Dane and Susanna, R. H.
Susanna.
Aye, Jarvis Dane, I thus and now dismiss you—
He is my shield, my pillow, and my home.

Jarvis.
He hates you, scorns you, scoffs you.

Susanna.
Would that I had not spoken what I have;
I loved his mother once, but she hath snared me,—
If in your heart a single drop there be
Of charity, or in your hand a motion
Of remorse, pray kill me! I 'd rather die,
Than live bereft of him.

Jarvis.
Oh, wretched girl—there 's more in this than I
Had thought! Come, come, Susanna.

Susanna.
[Aside.]
Perhaps he will be moved another day,
When he shall hear of it, he will recall
With many tears and lone lamentings, one,
Who, hand in hand, once blithely walked with him
The early fields, whose eye pursued his steps
Departing to the swarthy harvest toil,
As morning doth the bounding deer's glad way,
Welcomed in smiles his dear approach, as sun-down
Home-returning birds to rest and downy peace—
Whose dewy youth was fond and beautiful,
With his beneath the same untroubled sky;—
Gideon, dear Gideon, I know a way
To draw a tear from thee,—oh, blissful thought,—
He'll weep, he'll weep, I know he cannot help
But weep, when he shall hear it told.
[Exit Susanna, L. H.

Jarvis.
How wild and strange her look;—I fear this spell,—
Or what we all have chosen to call a spell—
Will work her ruin; her mind begins to waver,
And her eyes glowed fierce with horrid wanderings!
Poor Susanna! though thou hast cast me off,
And scorned me, as the false Gideon thee,
I will not leave thee in thine hour of need;
No, I will follow thee, and save thee from thyself.
[Exit Jarvis, L. H.

SCENE IV.

—The place of Execution: Ambla Bodish with Officers and Deacon Gidney, Justice Fisk, Topsfield, Braybrook, Pudeater, a part of the Populace, Goodwife Prawl, &c. Ambla standing in the centre, under a tree,—against which a ladder leans—with the Justice and Deacon; when the scene changes, the characters slowly fall into position.
Deacon G.
[To the Crowd.]
Stand back—and let the law, duly adjudged,
Seize hold upon this infamous woman!—
Make room, there!—nor crowd on us—your
Magistrates would deal justice becomingly.
[Voices without.]
We cannot hold him.

Deacon G.
What uproar 's that?

Enter Blacksmith.
Blacksmith.
'T is Gideon Bodish struggles with the officers—
As though he had the strength of fifty men.

Enter violently, Gideon Bodish, followed by Officers, Crowd, &c.
Gideon.
Away! away! Ye cannot keep me back,
Though all the unchained fiends should second you!
With her I'll die—fixed by her side, immovably.
[Going to his Mother.]
Fear not, mother, they shall not part us;
I'll be a rock 'gainst which this angry surf
Of men, shall dash and fall to nothingness.

Ambla.
My son, enrage them not—
Draw not their wrath on thee: here let it fall,
My aged head is ready for the blow—
Oh, stay it not, for fear it crush thee too;
My child, I feel the icy hand of death
Is on my heart;—I soon shall be beyond
Their cruel power.

Deacon G.
Do you obstruct the law? Officers, go on
To instant execution; if he bar you,
Cut him down.

Gideon.
Aye, cut me down and her; tear us in pieces—
Trample beneath your feet with demon power,
And rack us as you will, in baffled hate—
She shall not die the felon's tainted death!
Strike! strike us both, as rooted here we stand—
Spectres have scared you—ye are spectres! seem
Men, and are not men—more cruel are ye,
In your rage, than witch-wielded whips of iron,
In your souless faces, more hideous far
Than clay-images, swarthy and magical,
And aisles of apparitioned murderers!—
See you,—a mother, here, most pure, most holy,
And here, a son, whose heart heaves its red bank,
Against your coming—advance upon us!
Here 's merely age and youth, against you all—
A verdict of our own we make, a death
To die, above your blind and bigot law!

Deacon G.
Kill him, if he dare resist: mad youth!
Hold off, or the black doom shall smite your head
With hers!

Gideon.
E'en in this hour of dreadest wo, I laugh at you!—
We are prepared to fall—but not as you
Would have us: She shall not die a witch's
Death, no hangman's infamous hand shall fret
Away her holy life: She is no witch,
But my dear mother still, to whom is due
All this arm's strength.

Blacksmith.
Down with Gideon Bodish!—Down with him!

Enter Jarvis Dane, R. U. E.
Jarvis.
Aye, down with him! He has earned it well—
The wronged Susanna 's dead, within this hour,
By her own frenzied hand, on Maple Hill—
He was the damned cause of her sad fate—
I looked upon her pale young corpse; I swore
I 'd have revenge—and thus I seek it!

Carpenter.
Spare him no longer, down with him!

[The Populace, with Jarvis Dane, rush upon Gideon, who, defending himself and Ambla, is overpowered, and falls, pierced by the sword of Jarvis Dane; with a cry of alarm Ambla sinks on her knees by the side of Gideon.]
Ambla.
Oh, God! they 've slain my boy, my hope, my all,
The darling of my age!

[Throws herself on the body.
Deacon G.
Lift you the woman from her dead son; let
The law hold on its course.

[They raise Ambla; her head falls on her breast.
Topsfield.
The work is done—she is beyond the law.

Gideon.
[Reviving.]
Mother—where art thou, mother?
Oh, Heaven! she 's dead—raise me and let, once more,
My fading lips press hers, once more, once more—

[He dies.