University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Bridget Pope was of a thoughtful serious turn—the
little Abby the veriest romp that ever breathed. Bridget
was the elder, by about a year and a half, but she
looked five years older than Abby, and was in every
way a remarkable child. Her beauty was like her stature,
and both were above her age; and her aptitude for
learning was the talk of all that knew her. She was a
favorite every where and with every body—she had such
a sweet way with her, and was so unlike the other children
of her age—so that when she appeared to merit
reproof, as who will not in the heyday of innocent
youth, it was quite impossible to reprove her, except
with a mild voice, or a kind look, or a very affectionate
word or two. She would keep away from her slate and
book for whole days together, and sit for half an hour at
a time without moving her eyes off the page, or turning
away her head from the little window of their school-house
(a log-hut plastered with blue clay in stripes and
patches, and lighted with horn, oiled-paper and isinglass)
which commanded a view of Naumkeag, or Salem
village, with a part of the original woods of North
America—huge trees that were found there on the first
arrival of the white man, crowded together and covered
with moss and dropping to pieces of old age; a meeting-house
with a short wooden spire, and the figure of death
on the top for a weather-cock, a multitude of cottages
that appeared to be lost in the landscape, and a broad
beautiful approach from the sea.

Speak softly to Bridget Pope at such a time, or look
at her with a look of love, and her quiet eyes would fill,
and her childish heart would run over—it would be impossible
to say why. But if you spoke sharply to her,
when her head was at the little window, and her thoughts
were away, nobody knew where, the poor little thing
would grow pale and serious, and look at you with such
a look of sorrow—and then go away and do what she
was bid with a gravity that would go your heart. And
it would require a whole day after such a rebuke to restore
the dye of her sweet lips, or to persuade her that
you were not half so angry as you might have appeared.
At every sound of your voice, at every step that came
near, she would catch her breath, and start and look up,
as if she expected something dreadful to happen.

But as for Abigail Paris, the pretty little blue-eyed
cousin of Bridget Pope, there was no dealing with her
in that way. If you shook your finger at her, she would
laugh in your face; and if you did it with a grave air,
ten to one but she made you laugh too. If you scolded
her, she would scold you in return but always in such a
way that you could not possibly be angry with her; she
would mimic your step with her little naked feet, or the
toss of your head, or the very curb of your mouth perhaps,
while you were trying to terrify her. The little
wretch!—everybody was tired to death of her in half an
hour, and yet everybody was glad to see her again.
Such was Abigail Paris, before Bridget Pope came to
live in the house with her, but in the course of about half
a year after that, she was so altered that her very playfellows
twitted her with being “afeard o' Bridgee Pope.”
She began to be tidy in her dress, to comb her bright
hair, to speak low, to keep her shoes on her feet, and
her stockings from about her heels, and before a twelvemonth

was over, she left off wading in the snow, and
grew very fond of her book.

They were always together now, creeping about under
the old beach-trees, or hunting for hazle nuts, or
searching for sun-baked apples in the short thick grass,
or feeding the fish in the smooth clear sea—Bridget
poring over a story that she had picked up, nobody
knows where, and Abigail, whatever the story might be,
and although the water might stand in her eyes at the
time, always ready for a roll in the wet grass, a dip in
the salt wave, or a slide from the very top of the haymow.
They rambled about in the great woods together
on tip-toe, holding their breath and saying their prayers
at every step; they lay down together and slept together
on the very track of the wolf, or the she-bear; and if
they heard a noise afar off, a howl or a war-whoop,
they crept in among the flowers of the solitary spot and
were safe, or hid themselves in the shadow of trees that
were spread out over the whole sky, or of shrubbery that
appeared to cover the whole earth—

Where the scarlet barberry glittered among the sharp
green leaves like threaded bunches of coral, —where at
every step the more brilliant ivory-plums or clustered
bunch-berries rattled among the withered herbage and
rolled about their feet like a handful of beads,—where
they delighted to go even while they were afraid to speak
above a whisper, and kept fast hold of each other's
hands, every step of the way. Such was their love,
such their companionship, such their behaviour while
oppressed with fear. They were never apart for a day,
till the time of our story; they were together all day and
all night, going to sleep together and waking up together,
feeding out of the same cup, and sleeping in the same
bed, year after year.

But just when the preacher was ready to believe that
his Father above had not altogether deserted him—for
he was ready to cry out with joy whenever he looked
upon these dear children; they were so good and so
beautiful, and they loved each other so entirely; just
when there appeared to be no evil in his path, no shadow
in his way to the grave, a most alarming change
took place in their behavior to each other. He tried to
find out the cause, but they avoided all inquiry. He
talked with them together, he talked with them apart,
he tried every means in his power to know the truth,
but all to no purpose. They were afraid of each other,
and that was all that either would say. Both
were full of mischief and appeared to be possessed with
a new temper. They were noisy and spiteful toward
each other, and toward every body else. They were
continually hiding away from each other in holes and
corners, and if they were pursued and plucked forth to
the light, they were always found occupied with mischief
above their age. Instead of playing together as they
were wont, or sitting together in peace, they would
creep away under the tables and chairs and beds, and
behave as if they were hunted by something which nobody
else could see; and they would lie there by the hour,
snapping and snarling at each other, and at everybody
that passed near. They had no longer the look of
health, or of childhood, or of innocence. They were
meagre and pale, and their eyes were fiery, and their
fingers were skinny and sharp, and they delighted in
devilish tricks and in outcries yet more devilish. They
would play by themselves in the dead of the night, and
shriek with a preternatural voice, and wake everybody
with strange laughter—a sort of smothered giggle, which

would appear to issue from the garret, or from the top
of the house, while they were asleep, or pretending to
be dead asleep in the great room below. They would
break out all over in a fine sweat like the dew on a rose
bush, and fall down as if they were struck to the heart
with a knife, while they were on the way to meeting or
school, or when the elders of the church were talking to
them and every eye was fixed on their faces with pity
or terror. They would grow pale as death in a moment,
and seem to hear voices in the wind, and shake as with
an ague while standing before a great fire, and look
about on every side with such a piteous look for children,
whenever it thundered or lightened, or whenever the sea
roared, that the eyes of all who saw them would fill
with tears. They would creep away backwards from
each other on their hands and feet, or hide their faces
in the lap of the female Indian Tituba, and if the preacher
spoke to them, they would fall into a stupor, and
awake with fearful cries and appear instantly covered
all over with marks and spots like those which are left
by pinching or bruising the flesh. They would be struck
dumb while repeating the Lord's prayer, and all their
features would be distorted with a savage and hateful
expression.

The heads of the church were now called together,
and a day of general fasting, humiliation and prayer
was appointed, and after that, the best medical men of
the whole country were consulted, the pious and the
gifted, the interpreters of dreams, the soothsayers, and
the prophets of the Lord, every man of power, and every
woman of power,—but no relief was had, no cure, no
hope of cure.

Matthew Paris now began to be afraid of his own
child. She was no longer the hope of his heart, the joy
of his old age, the live miniature of his buried wife. She

was an evil thing—she was what he had no courage to
think of, as he covered his old face and tore his white
hair with a grief that would not be rebuked nor appeased.
A new fear fell upon him, and his knees smote together,
and the hair of his flesh rose, and he saw a spirit, and
the spirit said to him look! And he looked, and lo! the
truth appeared to him; for he saw neighbour after
neighbour flying from his path, and all the heads of the
church keeping aloof and whispering together in a low
voice. Then knew he that Bridget Pope and Abigail
Paris were bewitched.

A week passed over, a whole week, and every day and
every hour they grew worse and worse, and the solitude
in which he lived, more dreadful to him; but just when
there appeared to be no hope left, no chance for escape,
just when he and the few that were still courageous
enough to speak with him, were beginning to despair,
and to wish for the speedy death of the little sufferers,
dear as they had been but a few weeks before to everybody
that knew them, a discovery was made which threw
the whole country into a new paroxysm of terror. The
savages who had been for a great while in the habit of
going to the house of the preacher to eat and sleep “without
money and without price,” were now seen to keep
aloof and to be more than usually grave; and yet when
they were told of the children's behaviour, they showed
no sort of surprise, but shook their heads with a smile,
and went their way, very much as if they were prepared
for it.

When the preacher heard this, he called up the two
Indians before him, and spoke to Tituba and prayed to
know why her people who for years had been in the habit
of lying before his hearth, and eating at his table, and
coming in and going out of his habitation at all hours of

the day and night, were no longer seen to approach his
door.

“Tituppa no say—Tituppa no know,” she replied.

But as she replied, the preacher saw her make a sign
to Peter Wawpee, her Sagamore, who began to show
his teeth as if he knew something more than he chose to
tell; but before the preacher could rebuke him as he deserved,
or pursue the inquiry with Tituba, his daughter
screamed out and fell upon her face and lay for a long
while as if she were death-struck.

The preacher now bethought him of a new course, and
after watching Tituba and Wawpee for several nights,
became satisfied from what he saw, that she was a woman
of diabolical power. A part of what he saw, he
was afraid even to speak of; but he declared on oath before
the judges, that he had seen sights, and heard noises
that took away his bodily strength, his hearing and his
breath for a time; that for nearly five weeks no one of her
tribe, nor of Wawpee's tribe had slept upon his hearth, or
eaten of his bread, or lifted the latch of his door either
by night or by day; that notwithstanding this, the very
night before, as he went by the grave-yard where his
poor wife lay, he heard the whispering of a multitude;
that having no fear in such a place, he made a search;
and that after a long while he found his help Tituba concealed
in the bushes, that he said nothing but went his
way, satisfied in his own soul however that the voices he
heard were the voices of her tribe; and that after the
moon rose he saw her employed with a great black
Shadow on the rock of death, where as every body knew,
sacrifices had been offered up in other days by another
people to the god of the Pagan—the deity of the savage
—employed in a way that made him shiver with fright
where he stood; for between her and the huge black
shadow there lay what he knew to be the dead body of

his own dear child stretched out under the awful trees—
her image rather, for she was at home and abed and
asleep at the time. He would have spoken to it if he
could—for he saw what he believed to be the shape of
his wife; he would have screamed for help if he could,
but he could not get his breath, and that was the last he
knew; for when he came to himself he was lying in his
own bed, and Tituba was sitting by his side with a cup
of broth in her hand which he took care to throw away
the moment her back was turned; for she was a creature
of extraordinary art, and would have persuaded him
that he had never been out of his bed for the whole day.

The judges immediately issued a warrant for Tituba
and Wawpee, both of whom were hurried off to jail, and
after a few days of proper inquiry, by torture, she was
put upon trial for witchcraft. Being sorely pressed by
the word of the preacher and by the testimony of Bridget
Pope and Abigail Paris, who with two more afflicted
children (for the mischief had spread now in every quarter)
charged her and Sarah Good with appearing to
them at all hours, and in all places, by day and by night,
when they were awake and when they were asleep, and
with tormenting their flesh, Tituba pleaded guilty and
confessed before the judges and the people that the poor
children spoke true, that she was indeed a witch, and
that, with several of her sister witches of great power—
among whom was mother Good, a miserable woman who
lived a great way off, nobody knew where—and passed
the greater part of her time by the sea-side, nobody
knew how, she had been persuaded by the black man to
pursue and worry and vex them. But the words were
hardly out of her mouth before she herself was taken
with a fit, which lasted so long that the judges believed
her to be dead. She was lifted up and carried out into
the air; but though she recovered her speech and her

strength in a little time, she was altered in her looks
from that day to the day of her death.

But as to mother Good, when they brought her up for
trial, she would neither confess to the charge nor pray
the court for mercy; but she stood up and mocked
the jury and the people, and reproved the judges for
hearkening to a body of accusers who were collected
from all parts of the country, were of all ages, and swore
to facts, which if they ever occurred at all, had occurred
years and years before—facts which it would have been
impossible for her to contradict, even though they had
all been, as a large part of them obviously were, the
growth of mistake or of superstitious dread. Her behavior
was full of courage during the trial; and after
the trial was over, and up to the last hour and last
breath of her life, it was the same.

You are a liar! said she to a man who called her
a witch to her teeth, and would have persuaded her to
confess and live. You are a liar, as God is my judge,
Mike! I am no more a witch than you are a wizard,
and you know it Mike, though you be so glib at prayer;
and if you take away my life, I tell you now that you
and yours, and the people here, and the judges and the
elders who are now thirsting for my blood shall rue the
work of this day, forever and ever, in sackcloth and ashes;
and I tell you further as Elizabeth Hutchinson told
you, Ah ha!.... how do you like the sound of that
name, Judges? You begin to be afraid I see; you are
all quiet enough now!.... But I say to you nevertheless,
and I say to you here, even here, with my last
breath, as Mary Dyer said to you with her last breath,
and as poor Elizabeth Hutchinson said to you with
hers, if you take away my life, the wrath of God shall
pursue you!—you and yours!—forever and ever! Ye

are wise men that I see, and mighty in faith, and ye
should be able with such faith to make the deep boil like
a pot, as they swore to you I did, to remove mountains,
yea to shake the whole earth by a word—mighty in faith
or how could you have swallowed the story of that
knife-blade, or the story of the sheet? Very wise are
you, and holy and fixed in your faith, or how could you
have borne with the speech of that bold man, who appeared
to you in court, and stood face to face before
you, when you believed him to be afar off, or lying at
the bottom of the sea, and would not suffer you to take
away the life even of such a poor unhappy old creature
as I am, without reproving you as if he had authority
from the Judge of judges and the King of kings to stay
you in your faith!

Poor soul but I do pity thee! whispered a man
who stood near with a coiled rope in one hand and a
drawn sword in the other. It was the high-sheriff.

Her eyes filled and her voice faltered for the first
time, when she heard this, and she put forth her hand
with a smile, and assisted him in preparing the rope,
saying as the cart stopped under the large beam, Poor
soul indeed!—You are too soft-hearted for your office,
and of the two, you are more to be pitied than the poor
old woman you are a-going to choke.

Mighty in faith she continued, as the high-sheriff
drew forth a watch and held it up for her to see that she
had but a few moments to live. I address myself to
you, ye Judges of Israel! and to you ye teachers of
truth! Believe ye that a mortal woman of my age, with
a rope about her neck, hath power to prophesy? If ye
do, give ear to my speech and remember my words. For
death, ye shall have death! For blood, ye shall have
blood—blood on the earth! blood in the sky! blood in

the waters! Ye shall drink blood and breathe blood,
you and yours, for the work of this day!

Woman, woman! we pray thee to forbear! cried
a voice from afar off.

I shall not forbear, Cotton Mather—it is your voice
that I hear. But for you and such as you, miserable
men that ye are, we should now be happy and at peace
one with another. I shall not forbear—why should I?
What have I done that I may not speak to the few that
love me before we are parted by death?

Be prepared woman—if you will die, for the clock
is about to strike said another voice.

Be prepared, sayest thou? William Phips, for I
know the sound of thy voice too, thou hard-hearted miserable
man! Be prepared, sayest thou? Behold—
stretching forth her arms to the sky, and lifting herself
up and speaking so that she was heard of the people on
the house-tops afar off, Lo! I am ready! Be ye also
ready, for now!—now!—even while I speak to you, he
is preparing to reward both my accusers and my judges
—.

He!—who!

Who, brother Joseph? said somebody in the
crowd.

Why the Father of lies to be sure! what a question
for you to ask, after having been of the jury!

Thou scoffer!—

Paul! Paul, beware!—

Hark—what's that! Lord have mercy upon us!

The Lord have mercy upon us! cried the people,
giving way on every side, without knowing why, and
looking toward the high-sea, and holding their breath.

Pho, pho, said the scoffer, a grey-haired man
who stood leaning over his crutch with eyes full of pity

and sorrow, pho, pho, the noise that you hear is only the
noise of the tide.

Nay, nay, Elder Smith, nay, nay, said an associate of
the speaker. If it is only the noise of the tide, why have
we not heard it before? and why do we not hear it now?
just now, when the witch is about to be—

True... true.... it may not be the Evil one, after all.

The Evil one, Joe Libby! No, no! it is God himself,
our Father above! cried the witch, with a loud
voice, waving her arms upward, and fixing her eye upon
a group of two or three individuals who stood aloof, decorated
with the badges of authority. Our Father above,
I say! The Governor of governors, and the Judge of
judges!... The cart began to move here... He will reward
you for the work of this day! He will refresh you
with blood for it! and you too Jerry Pope, and you too
Micajah Noyes, and you too Job Smith, and you....
and you.... and you....

Yea of a truth! cried a woman who stood apart from
the people with her hands locked and her eyes fixed upon
the chief-judge. It was Rachel Dyer, the grandchild
of Mary Dyer. Yea of a truth! for the Lord will
not hold him guiltless that spilleth his brother's blood, or
taketh his sister's life by the law—and her speech was
followed by a shriek from every hill-top and every house-top,
and from every tree and every rock within sight of
the place, and the cart moved away, and the body of the
poor old creature swung to and fro in the convulsions of
death.