University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

A brief and faithful account of the issue....a few words
more, and the tale of sorrow is done. “The confessing
witches testified,” to give the language of a writer who
was an eye-witness of the “trial that the prisoner had
been at witch-meetings with them, and had seduced and
compelled them to the snares of witchcraft; that he
promised them fine clothes for obeying him; that he
brought poppets to them and thorns to stick into the poppets
for afflicting other people, and that he exhorted
them to bewitch all Salem-Village, but to do it gradually.”

Among the bewitched, all of whom swore that Burroughs
had pursued them for a long while under one
shape or another, were three who swore that of him
which they swore of no other individual against whom
they appeared. Their story was that he had the power
of becoming invisible, that he had appeared to them under
a variety of shapes in a single day, that he would appear
and disappear while they were talking together—
actually vanish away while their eyes were upon him, so
that sometimes they could hear his voice in the air, in
the earth, or in the sea, long and long after he himself
had gone out of their sight. They were evidently afraid
of him, for they turned pale when he stood up, and covered
their faces when he looked at them, and stopped
their ears when he spoke to them. And when the judges
and the elders of the land saw this, they were satisfied of
his evil power, and grew mute with terror.

One of the three chief accusers, a girl, testified that in
her agony, a little black man appeared to her, saying
that his name was George Burroughs, and bid her set
her name to a book which he had with him, bragging at
the time that he was a conjuror high above the ordinary
rank of witches. Another swore that in her agony, he
persuaded her to go to a sacrament, where they saw him
blowing a trumpet and summoning other witches therewith
from the four corners of the earth. And a third
swore, on recovering from a sort of trance before the
people, that he had just carried her away into the top of
a high mountain, where he showed her mighty and glorious
kingdoms which he offered to give her, if she would
write in the book. But she refused.

Nor did they stop here. They charged him with
practices too terrible for language to describe. And
what were the rulers to say? Here was much to strengthen
a part of the charge. His abrupt appearance at the
trial of Sarah Good, his behaviour, his look of premature
age—that look whereof the people never spoke but with
a whisper, as if they were afraid of being overheard—
that extraordinary voice—that swarthy complexion—
that bold haughty carriage—that wonderful power of
words—what were they to believe? Where had he gathered
so much wisdom? Where had he been to acquire
that—whatever it was, with which he was able to overawe
and outbrave and subdue everything and everybody?
All hearts were in fear—all tongues mute before him.
Death—even death he was not afraid of. He mocked
at death—he threw himself as it were, in the very chariotway
of the king of Terrors; and what cared he for the
law?

His behavior to the boy, his critical reproduction of
the knife-blade, whereby their faith in a tried accuser
was actually shaken, his bright fierce look when the people

gave way at his approach....his undaunted smile
when the great black horse appeared looking in over the
heads of the people, who crowded together and hurried
away with a more than mortal fear....and his remarkable
words when the judge demanded to know by what authority
he was abroad....all these were facts and circumstances
within the knowledge of the court. By the authority
of the Strong Man, said he; who was that
Strong Man? By authority of one who hath endowed
me with great power; who was that ONE?

Yet more. It was proved by a great number of respectable
and worthy witnesses, who appeared to pity
the prisoner, that he, though a small man, had lifted a
gun of seven feet barrel with one hand behind the lock
and held it forth, at arm's length; nay, that with only
his fore-finger in the barrel he did so, and that in the
same party appeared a savage whom nobody knew, that
did the same.

This being proved, the court consulted together, and
for so much gave judgment before they proceeded any
further in the trial, that “George Burroughs had been
aided and assisted then and there by the Black Man,
who was near in a bodily shape.”

And it being proved that he “made nothing” of other
facts, requiring a bodily strength such they had never
seen nor heard of, it was adjudged further by the same
court, after a serious consultation, that “George Burroughs
had a devil.”

And after this, it being proved that one day when he
lived at Casco, he and his wife and his brother-in-law,
John Ruck, went after strawberries together to a place
about three miles off, on the way to Sacarappa—“Burroughs
on foot and they on horseback, Burroughs left
them and stepped aside into the bushes; whereupon
they halted and hallowed for him, but he not making

them any reply, they went homeward with a quick pace,
not expecting to see him for a considerable time; but
when they had got near, whom should they see but
Burroughs himself with a basket of strawberries newly
gathered, waiting for his wife, whom he child for what
she had been saying to her brother on the road; which
when they marvelled at, he told them he knew their very
thoughts; and Ruck saying that was more than the
devil himself could know, he answered with heat, saying
Brother and wife, my God makes known your
thoughts to me: all this being proved to the court, they
consulted together as before and gave judgment that
“Burroughs had stepped aside only that by the assistance
of the Black Man he might put on his invisibility
and in that fascinating mist, gratify his own jealous humor
to hear what they said of him.”

Well prisoner at the bar, said the chief judge, after the
witnesses for the crown had finished their testimony—
what have you to say for yourself?

Nothing.

Have you no witnesses?

Not one.

And why not?

Of what use could they be?

You needn't be so stiff though; a lowlier carriage in
your awful situation might be more becoming. You
are at liberty to cross-examine the witness, if you are
so disposed—

I am not so disposed.

And you may address the jury now, it being your
own case.

I have nothing to say....it being my own case.

Ah! sighed the judge, looking about him with a portentous
gravity—You see the end of your tether now....
you see now that He whom you serve is not to be trusted.

It is but the other day you were clad with power
as with a garment. You were able to make a speech
whereby, but for the mercy of God—

I was not on trial for my life when I made that
speech. I have something else to think of now....Let
me die in peace.

Ah, sighed the chief judge, and all his brethren
shook their heads with a look of pity and sorrow.

But as if this were not enough—as if they were afraid
he might escape after all (for it had begun to grow very
dark over-head) though the meshes of death were about
him on every side like a net of iron; as if the very
judges were screwed up to the expectation of a terrible
issue, and prepared to deal with a creature of tremendous
power, whom it would be lawful to destroy any
how, no matter how, they introduced another troop of
witnesses, who swore that they had frequently heard the
two wives of the prisoner say that their house which
stood in a very cheerful path of the town was haunted
by evil spirits; and after they had finished their testimoney
Judith Hubbard swore that the two wives of the
prisoner had appeared to her, since their death, and
charged him with murder....

Repeat the story that you told brother Winthrop and
me, said Judge Sewall.

Whereupon she stood forth and repeated the story she
had sworn to before the committal of Burroughs—repeated
it in the very presence of God, and of his angels
—repeated it while it thundered and lightened in her
face, and the big sweat rolled off the forehead of a man,
for whose love, but a few years before, she would have
laid down her life—

That man was George Burroughs. He appeared as
if his heart were broken by her speech, though about his
mouth was a patient proud smile—for near him were

Mary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer, with their eyes
fixed upon him and waiting to be called up in their turn
to abide the trial of death; but so waiting before their
judges and their accusers that, women though they were,
he felt supported by their presence, trebly fortified by
their brave bearing—Elizabeth pale—very pale, and
watching his look as if she had no hope on earth but in
him, no fear but for him—Rachel standing up as it were
with a new stature—up, with her forehead flashing to
the sky and her coarse red hair shining and shivering
about her huge head with a frightful fixed gleam—her
cap off, her cloak thrown aside and her distorted shape, for
the first time, in full view of the awe-struck multitude.
Every eye was upon her—every thought—her youthful
and exceedingly fair sister, the pride of the neighborhood
was overlooked now, and so was the prisoner at
the bar, and so were the judges and the jury, and the
witnesses and the paraphernalia of death. It was Rachel
Dyer—the red-haired witch—the freckled witch—
the hump-backed witch they saw now—but they saw not
her ugliness, they saw not that she was either unshapely
or unfair. They saw only that she was brave. They
saw that although she was a woman upon the very
threshold of eternity, she was not afraid of the aspect of
death.

And the story that Judith Hubbard repeated under
such circumstances and at such a time was—that the
two wives of the prisoner at the bar, who were buried
years and years before, with a show of unutterable sorrow,
had appeared to her, face to face, and charged him
with having been the true cause of their death; partly
promising if he denied the charge, to reappear in full
court. Nor should I wonder if they did, whispered the
chief judge throwing a hurried look toward the graves

which lay in full view of the judgment seat, as if he almost
expected to see the earth open.

The multitude who saw the look of the judge, and
who were so eager but a few minutes before to get nigh
the prisoner, though it were only to hear him breathe,
now recoiled from the bar, and left a free path-way from
the graveyard up to the witness-box, and a visible quick
shudder ran throughout the assembly as they saw the
judges consult together, and prepare to address the immoveable
man, who stood up—whatever were the true
cause, whether he felt assured of that protection which
the good pray for night and day, or of that which the
evil and the mighty among the evil have prepared for,
when they enter into a league of death—up—as if he
knew well that they had no power to harm either him or
his.

What say you to that? said major Saltonstall. You
have heard the story of Judith Hubbard. What say
you to a charge like that, Sir?

Ay, ay—no evasion will serve you now, added the
Lieutenant Governor.

Evasion!

You are afraid, I see—

Afraid of what? Man—man—it is you and your fellows
that are afraid. Ye are men of a terrible faith—I
am not.

You have only to say yes or no, said Judge Sewall.

What mockery! Ye that have buried them that were
precious to you—very precious—

You are not obliged to answer that question, whispered
the lawyer, who had been at his elbow during the
trial of Martha Cory—nor any other—unless you like—

Ah—and are you of them that believe the story? Are
you afraid of their keeping their promise?—you that
have a—

What say you to the charge? I ask again!

How dare you!—ye that are husbands—you that are
a widower like me, how dare you put such a question as
that to a bereaved man, before the Everlasting God?

What say you to the charge? We ask you for the
third time.

Father of love! cried Burroughs, and he tottered
away and snatched at the bare wall, and shook as if he
were in the agony of death, and all that saw him were
aghast with fear. Men—men—what would ye have me
say?—what would ye have me do?

Whatever the Lord prompteth, said a low voice near
him.

Hark—hark—who was that? said a judge. I thought
I heard somebody speak.

It was I—I, Rachel Dyer! answered the courageous
woman. It was I. Ye are all in array there
against a fellow-creature's life. Ye have beset him on
every side by the snares of the law....Ye are pressing
him to death—

Silence!—

No judge, no! I marvel that ye dare to rebuke me in
such a cause, when ye know that ere long I shall be
heard by the Son of Man, coming in clouds with great
glory to judge the quick and the dead—

Peace....peace, woman of mischief—look to yourself.

Beware Peter! and thou too Elias! Ye know not
how nigh we may all be to the great Bar—looking up
to the sky, which was now so preternaturally dark with
the heavy clouds of an approaching thunder-storm, that
torches were ordered. Lo! the pavillion of the Judge
of Judges! How know ye that these things are not
the sign of his hot and sore displeasure?

Mark that, brother; mark that, said a judge. They

must know that help is nigh, or they could never brave
it thus.

Whatever they may know brother, and whatever their
help may be, our duty is plain.

Very true brother....ah....how now!

He was interrupted by the entrance of a haggard old
man of a majestic stature, who made his way up to the
witness-box, and stood there, as if waiting for the judge
to speak.

Ah, Matthew Paris.....thou art come, hey? said Rachel.
Where is Bridget Pope?

At the point of death.

And thy daughter, Abigail Paris?

Dead.

George....George....we have indeed little to hope
now.....Where is Robert Eveleth?

Here....here I be, cried the boy, starting up at the
sound of her voice, and hurrying forward with a feeble
step.

Go up there to that box. Robert Eveleth, and say to
the judges, my poor sick boy, what thee said to me of
Judith Hubbard and of Mary Walcott, and of their
wicked conspiracy to prevail with Bridget Pope and
Abby Paris, to make oath.....

How now....how now....stop there! cried the chief-judge.
What is the meaning of this?

Tell what thee heard them say, Robert—

Heard who say? asked the judge.....who....who?

Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris.

Bridget Pope and Abigail Parris—why what have we
to do with Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris?

I pray thee judge....the maiden Bridget Pope is no
more; the child of that aged man there is at the point
of death. If the boy Robert Eveleth speak true, they
told him before the charge was made—

They—who?

Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris told him—

No matter what they told him....that is but hearsay—

Well, and if it be hear say?—

We cannot receive it; we take no notice of what may
occur in this way—

How!—If we can prove that the witnesses have conspired
together to make this charge, is it contrary to
law for you to receive our proof? asked Burroughs.

Pho, pho—you mistake the matter—

No judge no....will thee hear the father himself?—
said Rachel.

Not in the way that you desire....there would be no
end to this, if we did—

What are we to do then judge? We have it in our
power to prove that Judith Hubbard and Mary Walcott
proposed to the two children, Bridget Pope and Abigail
Paris, to swear away the life—

Pho, pho, pho—pho, pho, pho—a very stale trick
that. One of the witnesses dead, the other you are told
at the point of death—

It is no trick judge; but if....if....supposing it to be
true, that Judith Hubbard and her colleague did this,
how should we prove it?

How should you prove it? Why, by producing the
persons to whom, or before whom, the proposal you
speak of was made.

But if they are at the point of death, judge?

In that case there would be no help for you—

Such is the humanity of the law.

No help for us! Not if we could prove that they
who are dead, or at the point of death, acknowledged
what we say to a dear father?—can this be the law?

Stop—stop—thou noble-hearted, brave woman! cried

Burroughs. They do not speak true. They are
afraid of thee Rachel Dyer. Matthew Paris—

Here am I, Lord!—

Why, Matthew—look at me....Do you not—know
me?

No—no—who are you?