 | Witchcraft |  |
9
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—Near Witch Hill.Enter Deacon Gidney, Justice Fisk, and Officer Pudeater, L. E.
Deacon G.
How now with law? Keep you, good man Pudeater,
Moving?
Justice F.
Dull, dull, your reverence; the quills decay,
The benches rot, and Cephas, here, picks flesh
Too fast,—he doth begin to scorn my coats.
I've writ no mittimus, a fortnight now
To-morrow.
Deacon G.
Take care, the village-folk will slip away
To sad disorder, let you the rein so free!
Justice F.
Good Deacon, I behold it clearly:
Is there no hope? Might Cephas make a riot
With such others as he could, to gather
The evil humor to a head that I
Might probe it?
10
Hear you from Hadley?
Justice F.
A private piece of gossipry last night;
Two old witches hung, and three, now, under
Suspicion—rare work, your reverence,
But out o' the jurisdiction.
Deacon G.
Have courage,
Mr. Justice; good shall come of Salem, yet—
And Deacon Perfect Gidney, mark you,
Is your friend.
Justice F.
I thank you, and am beholden;
You see a hope?
Deacon G.
If I am pure, I do—the witchcraft
Has reached Hadley and Lynn; and from the villages
About, a wolf at bay, encompassed in,
Will here, at Salem, tear most bloodily,
The hand that touches it.
Justice F.
I see, I see, sir.
Deacon G.
Where will this judgment sift down its darkness first,
And where shoot in its covenant lightnings first?
Here 's Mistress Benom's house, here old Hubbard's,
Whom the church hath excommunicated;
And there, Ambla Bodish, lone with her son
Gideon; who walks not in the sanctuary
On Sabbath days.
Justice F.
I'm cheerful, not that these poor old wretches
Must be burned, or hanged, or cast in irons,
But, as you say, that good shall come of Salem, yet.
Deacon G.
Oh, Mr. Justice—and even you, sir,
Goodman Pudeater, may join us—let us
[Crosses to C.
11
In Salem, that we his poor servants—
(For what 's an hundred pound a year, and glebe,
And tithe, and parsonage, aye, and besides,
The best domicil of the parish, too)—
That we, meek of spirit, may put him down.
Pudeater.
I thank your reverence, humbly: I give thanks—
May I help?
Deacon G.
He serves your process, doth he not?
Justice F.
Pudeater is a worthy officer.
Deacon G.
You may.
[Crosses to R.
Pudeater.
I have a wife and child, Heaven be praised,
Shall thank you: Goodwife Pudeater
[Crosses to C.
And the lesser Cephas, thank you, Master Deacon.
[Retires up.
Deacon G.
Ah, ha—there 's dust rising upon the road!
Who comes in haste—an hour before his time?
The postman, with further news from Hadley!
His horses' eyeballs shoot ahead with speed,
And glare against the elm-leaves by the road,
His nostrils puff the summer dust away—
Great news, no doubt; exterminations bloody.
Pudeater.
It 's Ostler Tarboll, air, the great rider
Of Hadley.
Deacon G.
First for the news, and then for dinner,
With sauce and the salt blessing of a grace! I see
That Deacon Perfect Gidney's chimney smokes
To the last turn almost the lamb-joint needs.
[Exit Deacon Gidney, R.
Pudeater.
An excellent man, your worship, of good heart.
12
Yes, of good heart for work that 's toward—
Be sure that he, who when a stripling boy,
Did strike a wicked woman of four score,
For kneeling not when his good father called
To prayer, will not delay to sharply deal
With sorcery, now.
Pudeater.
A mittimus a day?
Justice F.
A score.
Pudeater.
Let 's go and see when 't will begin.
Justice F.
Do you go on, Pudeater, and tell them
I am coming.
Pudeater.
[Going]
Sweet man! oh Cephas, Cephas,
You 're a happy father's child!—There'll be a roast
On Lord's day next for this.
Justice F.
Go on, go on.
Pudeater.
Perfect Pudeater, if the Deacon will allow,
Shall be the next boy's name.
Justice F.
Be diligent.
[Exit Justice R.
Pudeater.
I surely will—I'll run up and down the town
In all directions, stay out late o' nights,
Keep an eye open upon old women,
And on the wicked moon, which turns their heads,
Pry through key-holes, to overhear their talk—
From all I hear, I'm sure there must be witches
Somewhere in this neighborhood—If I can
But catch one, I shall be made forever.
[Exit Pudeater, L. H.
Enter Topsfield and Braybrook, L. H.
Topsfield.
(R.)
Why, Simon, you stumbled against a stone
13
At the break of day, and your axe lost edge
As though 't had rusted in the dew all night.
Braybrook.
(L.)
I 've seen over in the opening here,
Some twenty flights of crows that went apast
Like clouds, nor cawed a single feather of them all.
Enter an old man, passing from R. to L.
Old Man.
Good morrow, men!
Topsfield.
Good morrow, uncle!—You move past as if
You had your youth just given you.
Old Man.
And so I have—and, new-arrived upon this shore,
I feel it in my blood and in my steps;
Now that the weight of ancient government
Is off my mind, I feel, and should I not?—
As though a chain were taken from the arm,
And I, uplifted from an atmosphere
Where, on the earth I gasped, to stand upright,
And breathe it as Nature outpours to me.
Topsfield.
The air is fresh and free here, and there 's plenty of it.
In every gift our Salem is a lovely place.
Braybrook.
A little raw, Thomas, at north-east,
And makes us pull the cap over the nose.
Old Man.
A long chain of many precious links it needs
To hold this greenness to that waste, beyond
The water here; one day, the ocean may
Go mad and break it.
Braybrook.
When the sky falls we'll catch a plenty larks.
14
Well, well: There 's news from Boston even now,
Of heaving upward in the state. Look out, my men!
[Exit Old Man, E. L.
Topsfield.
A cheerful old man, who feels now for me first,
What we have always felt—we who have grown
Into our prime with this green world, have reached
This felling manhood, since first the first white foot
Was set on 't, for you and I and Gideon Bodish,
On the same day were born, twins not of the womb,
But of the air, the place, the season.
Braybrook.
'T was a Wednesday, in the morning I was born,
The dawn-cock crew, (they say,) just as I came;
You were after me an hour or two, Thomas,
And Gideon, in the middle of the day.
Topsfield.
But as I say,
How little like is Gideon to us
And other children of the soil. He still
Holds fast to his mean narrow home, follows
His mother's steps, obeys her words, and seeks
No wider range, than their small fields.
Braybrook.
We must beguile him more into our sports,
Nor let his excellent boldness dwindle,
Like the dull blaze of summer logs.
Topsfield.
I would go many miles, and often,
To make him cheerfuller: I fear, I know,
There 's something sad and strange beneath that roof—
Depend upon 't—it makes me sad to think so.
15
“He has not wived, no children sit upon his knee;
“His whole soul's tide has set one way, and washes
“Forever that large shore, a mother's love.
“Braybrook.
You 're shrewd, and more
“Than half right; he goes from home but to return,
“How horse-like his steps fly on returning—
“And he is there, but to remain, watchful
“As the great-winged hawk about it.”
“Topsfield.”
See! there is Ambla, now,
[Look.off R. H.
Stands in the door, and looks towards this hill;
Her locks are grey, her daily garments, like
The other village-wives', and yet unlike:
And when, as often, at evening, she walks
This Maple Hill, I think, somehow, that she
And it are suited; a wild strange wood is this—
And she a woman—darkly strange and wild.
Ambla and Gideon, though with us, walk not
Our path—but always move apart and bear
With them, in gesture, greeting look, and voice,
The memory of a life greater than ours;
“Old Ambla changes more from what she was,
“E'en while we look on her, grows stranger!
“With what a smile she used in other days,
“When village children strayed that way, as oft
“I did, to open wide her garden gate—
“Young Salem's first of gardens tending—
“And bring them in: Oh, beautiful and chief
“Was she, in her majestical, fair port,
“Of all women—guide to the lost and sad,
“Helper to all poor neighborhood, kindling
16
“For wayfarers of all creeds, all colors
“And all climes; but now another spirit
“Walks with her apart”—Hark, now!—What 's that—
You heard a rustling?
Braybrook.
I did—over this way
Crossing to R.
Topsfield.
A streaked panther?—It is—I see him now
Again.—Cast down your axe, and seize your gun.
Come, call Gideon Bodish and take the track.
Braybrook.
Remember, we throw them by this hazel bush.
Topsfield.
Quick! Quick! The town awards a goodly prize,
To him who takes the panther.—And this,
Our Salem, we must shield from every harm.
[Exeunt Topsfield and Braybrook, R.
SCENE II.
—Ambla's Cottage. Practicable door and window in F. Table C. 2 Rustic chairs, gun on ledge under window—images on table.Ambla discovered.—Enter Gideon.
Ambla.
What! Gideon!—returned so soon, and sad!
Gideon.
Oh, mother!—the fields are, somehow, very dark
To-day, and I came back, because I had not heart
To wander far away from you.
Ambla.
Come hither to my heart, my son.
Gideon.
Mother,
Why is 't I cannot live, except with you?—
When last I went forth with the hunters to the woods,
17
I slept not, nor thought of sleep—before me
You stood, and in your eyes I lived, as though
They looked upon me,—morning took you from me;
I thought I would have died, finding you not.
Ambla.
Be calm, my son, nor love me too much.
Gideon.
Too much!—The Universe can hold it not!
When from your hand I go, I die a death
At every step; you seem to hold the roof-tree
With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them;
Nor could I through the noon-day harvest toil,
Knew I your lap would not in peace receive
My weary head when night draws on.
Ambla.
But now, no harvest asks you to be weary—
The golden sheaves stand silent in the field—
This is an idle day with us, Gideon,
Between the cutting and the garnering of the grain,
And here is something new for you to look on—
Images of the old time which I found
Deep in the dusky mould of Maple Hill.
Gideon.
(Regarding them)
Clay images of men,
Or more than men?
Ambla.
All that, my son:
And as old time cannot chatter their names,
We'll in this idle hour new-name them;
Salem is worthy of such gods and has them.
Gideon.
What, graven images of men and neighbors,
Hard by, here in the fields?—Hurrah, mother!
Ambla.
Why, to be sure, son.
Gideon.
Who 's this? This one of mighty port
And dignity?
18
That 's surely the Deacon;
A study gentleman of solemn gait,
Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch
Is full and hungry ever, his step demure
And confident as though he trod, always,
On holy pavements, or pavements made so
By his walking of them.
Gideon.
And who is this?
Ambla.
The Justice, to be sure;
For don't you see he knits his brow at nothing.
Gideon.
Here 's one with his ears cropped, his eyes bored out,
And half a nose?
Ambla.
Little Pudeater, who runs
With Justice Fisk, the little foolish moon
To that great planet. Although I sport with them,
These somehow have a power to waken
Darkling thoughts, and are the images
To summon forth, linked as they are with hours
Of solitary pangs, that which should sleep!
(Muttering to herself.)
Another at this hour should sit with us—
The father of this boy—slain by these hands
Although there is no blood upon them—back,
Pale corpse, and mangled limbs, back to the grave!
Rise not, and walk not thus, before my sight—
Oh, I have brought these darts upon myself.
(Pause.)
Gideon.
Mother, you answered a question I did not ask,
As though another were here beside ourselves.
19
I'm old you know, my son, and shaken by the past,
Talk at times, it seems, I know not to whom.
Gideon.
Your hands do waver as I never saw them yet,
(With a changed look.)
Mother, I would not have these dismal things
Within the house. Who knows but wicked thoughts
May think you worship them? and rumor, once born,
Has children and great children beyond account.
Ambla.
Fie, fie, Gideon, they 're better useful:
Whene'er I have hard thoughts of Justice, Deacon,
Or the poor Pudeater, I'll think them of these
Little counterfeits, and they shall pass away.
Topsfield.
[Calling without.]
Gideon! in there, Gideon,—come forth the house!
Gideon.
[At the window.]
What want you?—Come in—Ah, Thomas,
Simon—there are seats within!—I'll come to the door.
Topsfield.
[Without.]
Do you, and bring your gun; a panther 's
On the path,—quickly—we can see him yet,
Come on and overtake us.
Gideon.
My musket! Under the ledge! Ah, here it is.
[Returns and takes his Mother's hand.]
[Voices again.]
Ambla.
[Gives Gideon his hat.]
They shout for you again, Gideon,
Hasten, or you will lose their track.
Gideon.
I linger, strangely, when I should make speed.
Dear mother, I fear, I know not what,
But are the sundown flashes in the West,
20
With you.
Topsfield.
[Without.]
Gideon—Gideon!
Gideon.
I come—I come.
[Exit Gideon, D. F.
Ambla.
Joy! while I live to have his young love poured
Around me thus! Joy! to behold his looks
Inclined on mine alone!—Joy! thus to have
His heart for mine, for mine! But when I die,
When I am gone, as now I strangely feel,
I soon shall be—the hour of shadow nears me—
Oh, on what bank shall all the violets
And the clustering tendrils of his life repose?
Where rest his head? Where bloom his eager hopes?—
They must go out in blight and darkness,
Without hope of light.—Oh, aching heart!
Should I disclose the secret of my grief
To Gideon, forever would I lose
His filial love—Peace! Peace!—Away! away!—
Dark omens of the future, join the dread
Phantoms of the fearful past, and let me rest.
[Closed in.]
“SCENE III.
—A Wood.“Enter Topsfield, Braybrook and Gideon.
“Topsfield.
You do not recollect it, Simon?—
“Why 't is an old story of the neighborhood;
“And more, too—There was a great panther shot,
“Upon this very track we 're now pursuing,
“On the memorable dark day, when the sun's light
21
“I 've seen old Captain Rankin often point it out,
“Before he fell a cripple.
“Braybrook.
A goodly panther sure, was that,—
“I 've measured its skin in the Town Hall,
“It 's twice as long as I, and double
“In its girth.—Gideon, you do not hear us.
“Gideon.
Look there— [Pointing to a cloud.]
“See yonder blackness in the sky,
“On which mine eye, as by some fascination,
“Now is fixed, and has been, far back in the hunt—
“I 've marked it creeping up, since first we started:
“It grows fastest towards Salem; oh let
“The panther free, and back to Salem.
“Topsfield.
You choose the strangest pausing places!
“For this dry ridge of sand we halt on, was made
“And left here by the wonderful high tide
“Of Lord's day 'Twenty-Three; one Mother Obinson,
“A witch, was drowned here, crossing
“To conference, with other of her tribe
“That gathered at Darion.
“Gideon.
I will go back!
“For see, it makes toward a lone woman's house,
“On which 't will burst in thunder, I fear.
“Topsfield.
The cloud is emptiness, Gideon; you lose
“Your old judgment—there 's not a drop of rain
“In all that blackness.
“Enter Postman, L. H., E. cross to R.
“Gideon.
[Anxiously.]
What news, sir? Are you from Groton?
22
From Hadley.
“Gideon.
Ah!
“Is he that dreamed of his own murderer struck?
“And is the striker taken for a witch?
“Postman.
She was hung this morning in the open fields.
[Exit Postman, R. H.
“Gideon.
What dreadful times are these we've stumbled on!—
“There must be some mistake in this he tells;
“What woman, of a woman's usual heart,
“Could thus desire to make unhappy all
“Who live within her breath, within the glances
“Of her eye—and, face to face, pass nights
“With sooty fiends, devising devilishness!—
“No, no—I'll not believe it—let 's hurry on,
“The panther will escape while we are talking.
“[Exeunt L. H. E.
“SCENE IV.
—The Highway.“Enter Gideon, Topsfield and Braybrook, L. H.
“Topsfield.
The panther has escaped us, for the first time
“Of many years.
“Braybrook.
I'm glad he did, our guns could ne'er
“Have reached him, and when he went, Thomas,
“He dived into the earth, as in a great trap.
[Cross. to R.
“Topsfield.
No, no—he vanished through the sassafras,
“But whither, I cannot tell. Gideon!
“Awake!—The air is supernatural
“You breathe to-day.
23
Are these the same cedar woods
“We passed before?
“Topsfield.
The very same, what now?
“Gideon.
There seems a tinge of darkness crept among
“These leaves since this way we sped, an hour
“Or two ago: are they not blacker?
“Topsfield.
Lighter, for has not the sun had strength since then!
“Where 's your old keen eyesight, Gideon,
“That used to spy, and note them, the young lizards
“Far off through the summer grass. They 're lighter.
“Gideon.
Then there 's calamity at hand that colors everything.
“In the stream which ran here once, you said
“One Mother Obinson was drowned: a witch
“You called her.
“Topsfield.
Such was she held.
“Gideon.
Believe you, Thomas, witches have ever walked
“This earth of ours? In powers that vex the air
“With fear, assemblying at the dead night,
“On hills and woody slaunts?
“Topsfield.
The sages of the neighborhood, the elders
“And the men of worth, have always so accounted,
“And I am often moved by what I see
“Abroad, to like belief.
“Gideon.
All acts have one side to the light,
“And one away: next the sun we should stand
“Whene'er we judge, for light and truth are twine.
“Oh, there have been doings dark as night
“And close as death, murders and deadliest crimes
24
“Acts to outface the bloody wolf, and scare
“The ravenous lion with his unappeasable mane!
“Night's ear hath many counsels of the dark;
“She hears the whispers of the self-reproached
“And blacker grows.
“Topsfield.
And this is witchcraft?
“Gideon.
Tormented by the secret spirit of their crime,
“Poor aged women fly to woods and wildernesses
“To be free of the oppressive eye of man,
“Speak strangely to themselves, and in the racking
“Of the guilty pang, cry out 'gainst who is nearest,
“They know not what!—And this is all their craft
“Of witchery. A deadly arrow in the blood
“In Nature's depth, and not beyond it.
“Believe it not, believe it not! Clear, crystal and unstained,
“The gracious Power upholds this round of earth;
“New found and beautiful, no foul nor ugly thing
“Hath power, I'm sure, in this new land—goblin
“Nor witch.
[Cross to R.
“Topsfield.
The business hath a guilty front,
“Howe'er you turn it.
“Gideon.
It has, it has.—
“How slow you step, we'll not be home by midnight,
“And this cap of flowers I 've gathered, will fade
“To dust, if we 're no fresher in our walk.
“Braybrook.
I am a-weary and must rest,
“This mighty match-lock sweats me, though it be
“A great gun.
“Topsfield.
[Looking strangely at Gideon.]
Tarry here, Simon—Gideon,
25
“And we may overtake you.
[Cross to C.
“Gideon.
A minute's start,
“And I'll be home an hour before you.
[Exit Gid. R. H.
“Topsfield.
You are in fear, Simon—
“Your eyes have been as big as pigeon's eggs,
“Or great green plums, for half the morning hunt—
“Why shake you yet?
“Braybrook.
Why, Gideon Bodish, you see,
“Is not out of sight.
“Topsfield.
I'm something in a maze
“Myself. He hankered more for wood-flowers
“Than hunted panthers.
“Braybrook.
How greedily, he snapped
“Each strange one!
“Topsfield.
Gideon was always curious,
“In field and wood, and often asked of all of us,
“The names they went by with the Indians:
“You recollect old Tituba, the shrivelled squaw,
“Who wigwam'd gloomily, by the wood's edge,
“Some summers past? Often, in coming from the fields,
“I 've seen their white and dusky face as one,
“In close discourse.
“Braybrook.
Thomas, you 're pale,
“As though you walked away with Gideon.
“Topsfield.
I am with him, as much now, as with you:
“For still I think how, ever in his speech
“There lived and moved, as in the river-stream
“The fish, darkly and yet swift-gliding,
“Old Ambla's form.
“Braybrook.
He meant her, in what he said?
26
I fear he did.
“Braybrook.
You see it 's coming night,
“And when the wolf begins to howl, over
“In the wilderness, a house is better than a tree.
“Topsfield.
Look you again—do you see Gideon
“Any longer that way?
“Braybrook.
[Cross to R.]
He 's out of sight and out of company.
“Topsfield.
Then we'll go on.
[Exeunt, R. H.
SCENE V.
—Bank on L. A Landscape.Jarvis Dane (L.) and Susanna (R.)
Jarvis.
I know not how it is, Susanna;
Of all the things of beauty that beset
This place, on foot or wing, you are the hardest
To ensnare.
Susanna.
Jarvis, you 're a fool:
That you know well.
Jarvis.
Come, comfort me and make me
Less like one, by smiling on me.
Susanna.
My mind is elsewhere—see you not,
There has a chillness crept into the air
Since forth we walked? The bilberries wear
A blue cold look, and the breezy murmur
Of the brookside flags has trouble in it.
There 's Gideon Bodish, look Jarvis,
[R. H.
With hunting flushed, or pale—panther, or wolf,
[Crosses to L. H.
Or hawk, or deer, I 'd give an ear to know.
27
And mark if Gideon be not the chief
Of the returned.
Jarvis.
You talk too much of Gideon Bodish,
Mistress Peache; aye, too much—I know his height,
For I have seen him stand under
The knotted maple-tree, each knot a foot;
His girth, by better measure than your arm,
When we have spanned for heft and strength.
Susanna.
And of his color, Jarvis, what of that?
Jarvis.
Pale apple on a ground of air: and growing,
Thanks to heaven, paler every day.
[Aside.
Susanna.
His gait and motion of his arms?
Jarvis.
Oh, Gideon is the angel of our wilderness—
And though he walks it without wings—these are
Graceful, of course, as the elm-branches
Waving! There—his description 's done in full,
And done forever: and for his mother, Ambla—
Susanna.
Speak no ill of her, I beg; hush now, least
She hear you—a fearful woman is she,
With no cause to fear her.
Jarvis.
You are a child, Susanna, that see a moon
In the clear sky, at all times of the day,
A round plump moon. Come by my side, and think,
Of what I told you last Ember-day.
Susanna.
You did not speak with me on Ember-day,
At all: for I was sick a-bed.
Jarvis.
You rogue, you know—Pray recollect the tap
You dealt my brown face with your white hand!—
Susanna.
Nothing I know of that—it would have been
A sharper stroke if any.
28
What, when we leaned
Out at the window, as to reach the passion-flower,
And whispered privily?—Did I not tell you, then,
That you were Salem's fairest daughter,
That in the field and in the house, by stream
And wood and sea-side lonely, I thought of you—
Circling your gentle heart with this same arm,
Did I not say, as now I say, and ever,
Ever shall, I love you!
Susanna.
You 've dreamed a dream.
Jarvis.
Then might I never wake!
Susanna.
Stay where you are,
Until the night comes on, a good deep cold one
Promises, and you may have your wish—would
That you might. My thoughts wander from this,
And I will follow them.
[Exit Susanna, R. H.
Jarvis.
Cruel and heartless! what mischief can it be
Which breeds changed thoughts in her, that to be loved
And beautiful should never change!
Her liking is a plague, that kills and keeps alive;
She meets me smiling, and begins discourse,
Joyous and free, but ere a little hour has passed,
As in her mind, upon the thought she utters,
There comes another thought, e'en while she speaks,
Takes all the youthful life from out her voice,
And puts a singular fear in it:—I see
The hand that rules her ways—'t is Gideon Bodish
Crosses me, as he has ever crossed me!
As boy 'gainst boy, he proudly baffled me
In childish sports—a man, in the field's games
Or toils, past me he sweeps, with flashing looks
29
I were ever his servant shadow
To lag behind. Beware, thou eager youth!
For this shall be thy fate—the crafty taking
Of this false and fickle girl's green love, shall be
Thy late, but deep and certain overthrow—
Look to thyself—thy doom is now begun!
[Exit L. H.
END OF ACT FIRST.
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