 | Witchcraft |  |
7
WITCHCRAFT:
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
- Gideon Bodish,
- Thomas Topsfield,
- Simon Braybrook,
- Deacon Perfect Gidney,
- Justice Fisk,
- Officer Pudeater,
- Jarvis Dane,
- Old Man.
- Ambla Bodish,
- Susanna Peache,
- Goodwife Prawl,
- Condemned Woman.
- Sheriff, Citizens, Child, &c.
CHARACTERS.
Time.—At the Close of the 17th Century.
8
[_]
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
The Reader is supposed to be on the stage, facing the Audience.
EXITS AND ENTRANCES.
R. means Right; L. Left; F. the Flat, or the Scene running across the back of the Stage; D. F. Door in Flat; R. D. Right Door; L. D. Left Door; S. E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper Entrance; C. D. Centre Door.
RELATIVE POSITIONS.
R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R. C. Right of Centre; L. C. Left of Centre. R. R. C. C. L. C. L.
The passages in inverted comas (”) are omitted or retained, at pleasure, in the representation.
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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
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“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,
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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.
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—
30
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?
31
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—
32
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.
33
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.
34
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,—
35
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,
36
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.
37
[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,
38
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.
39
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.
40
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!
41
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.
42
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
43
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
44
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.
45
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,
46
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!”—
47
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.
48
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,
49
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.
50
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
51
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.
END OF ACT SECOND.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
—A Chamber in the House of Ambla.Enter Gideon Bodish.
Gideon.
I'm not a man of fears, but when the giant woods
Shake thicker blackness on me than belongs
To them—when though I close mine ears to any
But familiar sounds, the mischievous night-winds
Talk like women in the air,—when all I see,
Or hear, or feel, hath a mysterious motion in it—
The night sits, ruler, in this gloomy heart—
52
Part of the silent fixedness of things;
He breaks the mighty calm wherein he paused,
Slow-striding down the steepy mountain-side,
Swifter and darker, as he nears us, we regard him,
Flashing and red, wo's living thunder-cloud—
And now, and now, he grimly bends above us,
Dusk murder in the very person of itself—
So creeps this hideous witchcraft on me,
So gains and overmasters spirit and limb:
They called her witch—or was 't a whispering
Of the wind—I think my hearing thickens,
That in these sad distracted times, I know not
What I hear, what not. She tarried, I know,
Later than is her use, last night, an hour,
To drink the fatal shining of the moon.
Here comes my mother! There 's surely something
In her look and walk, of more than this
Mortality; and, yonder approaches
The eager magistrate. Oh may she pass
From questioning untainted, and a mother still.
Enter Ambla Bodish, followed by Justice Fisk and Pudeater, with writing materials, D. F.
Justice F.
Few words will answer the matter, Mistress Bodish; who threatens a chain for Goodman Topsfield's limbs, and Braybrook's?
Ambla.
They run about the country—are these the men—
Spreading reports, and haling aged womanhood
Before the courts?
53
These are serviceable men, what answer make you?
Gideon.
Mother, let silence be your sole rejoinder.
Ambla.
Gideon, speech is yet mine! Write, the chain
Is needed.
Pudeater.
[Aside.]
A fearful woman! She shines as if she were the great church lighted up o' Thanksgiving night.
Justice F.
Well, well—know you, Mistress, that Deacon Gidney hath felt an invisible noose about his neck of late, and, though got clear before it throttled him, know you, there were the red marks as of a finger and thumb near it?
Ambla.
Ha! ha! The air-hangwoman knows not her work;
She boggles, when well she might go on. Is 't that
You do complain of? A word, good Justice!—
If there be familiar spirits, and I
Into their ears could breathe, with power, ne'er would
That noble Deacon seize again poor women,
And drag them to their ruin—I'd teach them
To work more skillfully than thus allow
One hypocritic bigot to escape.
Gideon.
[Aside.]
Oh, fearfully she sells away her soul
And buys in its everlasting ruin.
Pudeater.
[Looking at Gideon.]
Gideon Bodish 's a ghost, that 's clear; he 's pale as a piece of air, as if he was turning into it.
Justice F.
I am told, you threaten me, too, Mistress? Give out that you will pinch my flesh, 'till it cry out with spasms, and my great toe with gout-pains you mean to rack?
54
You 've earned an hundred acres of the town,
By holding of its offices, and when
You have eaten the hundred, in all
Its beeves and wheaten loaves, and drunken up
Its currant wines, and ciders—
Justice F.
Enough; write down, Master Pudeater, that she admits the charge, in all its fulness and great depth.
Pudeater.
[Aside.]
I would I was in County Street, with little Cephas on my knee! There 's a piece of flesh there 's no mistaking—he weighed fifteen pounds and odd, the day he was born, and keeps on,—this is spectre-land.
Justice F.
And that poor girl, Susanna Peache, what do you with her, that she pines for this, your Gideon—and goes about all day in melancholy plight, dewing the young grass with her foolish tears. Pudeater, what ails you?
Pudeater.
I feel some twinges, sir; uncommon twitchings of the legs, as if I 'd be away.
Justice F.
See, she makes motions in the air—we'll be brief, Master Pudeater—do you stand firm, there! Where was I? You understand, Mistress Bodish, will you answer?
Pudeater.
She 's struck dumb, your worship, with the wonderful great truths you speak.
Justice F.
And now, for the next. Goodwife Prawl complains that you afflict her so at times, she cannot open her jaw, but sits a whole morning, with a mouthful of ready words and is not let to slip a single one. Answer, on your peril, yes, on your peril, Mistress.
Ambla.
You shall be answered plainly—Had I
A power perpetual, as 't is pertinent,
55
Lock-jawed, as long as stone.
[Cross to L. H.
Justice F.
Note you that, Pudeater—write that down.
Pudeater.
I cannot write, sir, she 's put a spell upon me, and I spatter my ink like rain.
Justice F.
Close up your blotted books, sir,
[sternly]
with all dispatch, and we'll put forth ere further befall
us. Pudeater, keep by my side.
Pudeater.
I am here, sir.
[Exeunt Justice Fisk and Pudeater, D. F.
Ambla.
My son, you saw I mocked them to their faces.
Gideon.
Mocked them! I would mine eyes had been sealed up
In the eternal grave, ere I had seen
The mockery. Mother, you know not, oh!
You know not what you do.
Ambla.
Are these my masters, that I to them should
Answer for my soul, in all its silent
Sessions, calm or perplexed?
[Cross to R.
Gideon.
You snare yourself,
In a black toil you cannot break, and change,
Spirit and person, from that you were.
Ambla.
I am not changed, but Gideon, you are changed.
Look in mine eyes, my son, they shine upon you,
The same light, as when they broke, the first day
Of days, for you, a thing too small and frail
For anything but mother's love.
Gideon.
Turn them the other way!
You fright me, when you wear that awful smile
Of magical appeal.
56
Oh, spare me, Gideon, nor drive thy mother
Afar, beyond the reach of reason's power;
Your words are wild, and oh, how cruel!
Forbear, my child—those looks will kill me,
My cup of misery is full—bitter, oh bitter!
[Exit Ambla, L.
Gideon.
Great Powers! Must I then know my mother thus?
She, who hath walked the constellations free
As their inhabitant, who owned the qualities
Of plants and flowers, the blowing of the wind
Before it blew, and guessed the light and knew
Its day and hour of diminution
And of growth, has lost herself in her strange
Knowledge—lost, oh lost I fear, forever!
And yet I hope—though hope be not my friend!
[Exit Gideon, R.
SCENE II.
—Village—Near the house of Goodwife Prawl.Jarvis.
The cloud which I have watched for many hours,
And days, and months, darkens this Salem more and more:
And its chief bolt will fall on the selected head!
The trial-hour of Ambla Bodish hastens on,
She must be doomed, no arm can save her—
The mother's death will with it bring the son's—
And should he live past that dread incident,
Am I then foiled, and still o'ermatched by him?
Not I: Susanna must bear witness 'gainst old Ambla,
57
Thenceforth must she and Gideon ever stand apart—
Wide as two mountains frowning on each other,—
The now-convenient gloom clear up, and this
Deluded girl come back to me and mine.
Enter Goodwife Prawl, L. H.
Jarvis.
This busy Goodwife must prevail with her, to testify. Good morrow, Goodwife Prawl,—why you are quite haggard in your look.
Good. Prawl.
Am I, Master Dane? I well may be, for I am troubled sorely.
Jarvis.
What now has happened—nothing fearful?
Good. Prawl.
Just as you told, sir—she begins to overturn the village—last night a great wind blew, and dashed about the roofs here, frightfully.
Jarvis.
From what quarter came this tempest?
Good Prawl.
From one only—from the house of Ambla Bodish—and we thought we heard her voice above it all.
Jarvis.
These are terrible doings, Goodwife!
Good Prawl.
They are—and trouble my poor wits amazingly.
Jarvis.
This Ambla Bodish must be stricken down— or we shall be all undone!
Good. Prawl.
It 's coming fast to that, Master Jarvis.
Jarvis.
Susanna Peache, poor haunted creature as she is, must testify against her. Her case more damns this wicked worker than all others, can she be brought to speak the truth forth plainly.
Good. Prawl.
She often comes to talk her griefs with me.
58
There is a road to lead her from them.
Good. Prawl.
If that were so!
Jarvis.
It shall be so—for take this Ambla from the world, and Gideon's thoughts will flow back from that which has them now in full, towards Susanna: he will love and seek her then, as now he cruelly avoids her.
Good. Prawl.
Kind Master Dane—you are a wonderful good Christian—I will do your bidding—she shall be saved —we shall all see some comfort yet, though we are now sorely shaken.
Jarvis.
[Aside.]
Meanwhile, I'll visit Gideon, and learn,
What spirit he bears amid these troubles—
Be urgent, Goodwife, for all our lives depend on you.
[Exit Jarvis.
Good. Prawl.
I'll not spare words—nor tears neither, if they be needed.
[Looks off.]
Upon his very word—Susanna comes—
Poor girl! she hangs her head, her careless locks
Flow in the wind—palely and sad she walks—
As making for the graveyard, every step.
Enter Susanna, R. H.
Good. Prawl.
Cheer up, my child.
Susanna.
Mother, how can I bear a cheerful look,
When all the hope, the happiness, the joy
Of all my life, is blighting day by day—
The spell I thought—I will not say I hoped—
Had passed, its power comes back upon me
With new strength.
59
You cannot be cheerful—and perhaps you
Should not; how doth this trouble vex you now?
Susanna.
Sometimes it almost drives me mad—
The love I bear,—and have from girlish years
Borne toward Gideon—steals upon me, that I
Think the bliss I'm lapped in is too sweet for life.
This morning, near the break of day, (when Ambla
First begins to move in power,) I had a dream,
Wherein young Gideon walked, clad brightly,
And from his eyes shed down such tearful light,
And with his dewy fingers scattered flowers,
So clear and beautiful, I thought an angel
Had possessed my brain, and from his azure tower
Descended, there to live, and in its chambers
Keep alive a music nearer Heaven,
Than aught that warbling earth in bird or brook,
Or cunning winds can make.
Good. Prawl.
Oh, dreadfully you 're still possessed—and on
To dreadful ends by the invisible hand
Are borne—but yet you may be saved.
Susanna.
[Eagerly.]
How, Goodwife, how?
Good. Prawl.
Bear witness, as your many lamentable
Crosses and afflictions do allow you—'gainst—
Susanna.
Whom?
Good. Prawl.
The one chief troubler of our village:
Ambla Bodish, to be sure:
Susanna.
Gideon's mother? Oh, take this cup away
From me, I cannot drink it.
60
It is the only way—when she
Is dead, your Gideon's love will flow to you.
Susanna.
You think it would?
Good. Prawl.
Sure as the stream stopped 'gainst a rock runs in
Toward the green bank upon the other side.
Susanna.
'T is hard for me to witness 'gainst his mother!
But she it is that has afflicted me,
And made me mad, and lone and desolate,
'Mid others. I am not mistress of myself—
And it is she who robs me of his love!
I will bear witness.
Good. Prawl.
Right, right, my child—and good
Shall come of it! Come walk with me down this way
To the Deacon's.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
—A Landscape and House.Enter Gideon Bodish.
Gideon.
Why spake I harshly to the fair Susanna!
Ah, little knows she what power it tasks,
To quell within this troubled heart, the love
I bear to her!—to silence every tone
This tongue would pour in music to her ear,—
How often I walk beneath her window,
And look up,—how often linger, afar,
Gazing till sight grows dim while passes she,
And hover on her path as though her steps
Embellished more than Nature's cunning hand
The very ground she treads on! But all by stealth,
61
Trouble would learn to take a surer aim
And deadlier strike the fortress of my peace!
Susanna! look not thou so beautiful
In fatal fairness—I will not seek you more.
[Looking off.]
Her lover, Jarvis, comes from toward her home!
Pray God! he hath succeeded in his suit!
Enter Jarvis Dane, R. M.
The love I cherish for this fair-eyed girl
Shall not prove another chain to bind me—
Hence! from my heart least thou undo me!
I will yield all I can, to him who seeks
Her hand, in safety. Welcome, Jarvis!
Jarvis.
Welcome is for the welcome—
You mock me with the smile you put on, saying,
Welcome, welcomeless.
Gideon.
If ever the sight
Of woods to hunters' eyes, of quiet bays
To sea-tossed men, had pleasure in it,
You are most welcome! Your coming tells me
She is changed. Jarvis, you have her heart,
Come, say it swiftly.
Jarvis.
More mockery, for you it seems may do,
For your appointed hour, with man or woman,
What you will. Why do you linger near her home?
Gideon.
[To himself.]
Oh, agony!
I love her not, nor seek to have her love.
Jarvis.
Then give it unto me.
Gideon.
I do, as freely
62
Jarvis.
You do? I thought so.
Master Gideon!—you give and take, diminish
And increase, beyond our mortal means.
Gideon.
I will not give it, for I cannot.
Jarvis.
You can, and in a trice, make hate
Or love, flow up or down, backwards or on,
As you see fit.
Gideon.
I have not, seek not, ask not,
Nor desire, nor will possess her love; she
Gives it against my wish—you know she does.
Jarvis.
There is a power
Within this house that overawes you both,
And governs your spirits to its cursed ends.
Gideon.
I fear there is. Hush Jarvis!
[Ambla's voice is indistinctly heard.
Hear you not sounds of agonizing prayer,
Supplications desperate and full of sighs?
It is an hour when wrestlings seize her.
Jarvis.
More bedevilment.
Gideon.
No, Jarvis, no—not that!
Have pity (you who 're witness to it) on
A poor woman's hour of meditative pain,
Upon her pangs that have not more than mortal
Origin!
Jarvis.
Gideon, I hear the sounds you hear,
They are incantations and requests
Of further power, to snare the innocent soul
Of a fair girl!—Speak not!—All denial 's vain!—
You palter with me, and possess me,
Of a fable, as though I were a wondering boy.
63
[Aside.]
Oh, just and righteous heaven! shall I forbear,
When I could smite down this misinterpreter,
And beat into the air the wicked spirit
That from his lips pollutes it! But, should
My bright blade cleave him in its first flash
(As by my holy hand it would,) there 's more
Of this accursed and most o'erwhelming craft
Of witchery, fixed on our house—no, no,
I am not born to strike but to endure;
It is a fable as you say, a false creation.
Jarvis.
You do confess it?
Gideon.
How dare you, sir, upbraid me thus?
Misread my words, and with malignant looks,
Talk me and mine, backward to perdition?
What though she loved me once, and loves me, now,
Who may have loved her, and would still, if that I choose,
Who gave you right to beard me, and to fling
Into my face, your desperate suspicions!
Me, sir, who have my youth yet, my youth's arm
Unwasted. Stand to your guard!
Jarvis.
Stand you to yours!—Nor pause till death decides.
You are my wronger, in each feature bear
Some scornful memory this true steel should thence
Obliterate—and leave me once more free!
I have not reaped the woods for nothing,
Nor climbed the steepy slope, and dashed the bear,
Alone, his gloomy fierceness there engaging—
When you have lingered calmly at the foot,
64
Or idle flowers—to now stand back!
Gideon.
Visions indeed! The vision of the weapon
Of an injured man, athwart your sight—
Should blast your eyeballs, more than death!
[They fight—Gideon prevails.
I spare your life—although your black blood should
Be spilled, to the last drop! The flashing
Of your eyes against your sword, and this
Unnatural upbraiding, betrays
A guilty purpose in your mind. I think,
'T is you who set this hunt a-foot, who keep
The dogs of Salem on the scent—your life
Is spared—hold sacred, for this sake, the lives
Of others!
Jarvis.
Gideon, you still prevail, but, by the holiness
Of Salem, if still your dark beguilings
Leave it so, I'll yet count back into your hand—
Yes, one by one, these injuries—the hour 's
Not far away!
Gideon.
When comes that hour, brave Jarvis,—
By God's good help, you'll find me, then I trust,
No less a man than now!
Jarvis.
The hour will come—be sure of that!
[Exeunt Gideon and Jarvis, R. and L.
END OF ACT THIRD.
65
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
—Interior of the Village-Inn.Enter Deacon Gidney, Just. Fisk and Pudeater, L. H.
Justice F.
What ails you, Cephas Pudeater, that you
Make that murmuring noise, and look amazed!
Deacon G.
He wishes to give his testimony—
And in this little pause, while greater hopes
Are making to a head—Pudeater, you may tell
What you have wished to say to us; we'll not
Arrest you now.
Pudeater.
'T is that that vexes me. She will not
Let me speak. Often this way have I been
Troubled in the fields, sometimes upon the road,
And stood dumb-foundered by the hour.
Justice F.
Is this the shape of your affliction?
Pudeater.
No, sir—it has no shape, but every sort
Of form, puts on to devil me.
Deacon G.
How was 't
With your oxen, Master Pudeater?
Pudeater.
[Crosses to C.]
That was the worst of all, your reverence;
Two noble cattle as ever trod a hoof
(You recollect them, Master Justice,—the brindles
That I bought of William Hoisington, beyond the bridge?)
I heard that Mistress Bodish had hard-threatened me,
And moved them to a meadow, farthest
From her house; no sooner there, than a great fly
In overpowering swarms, came on them,
66
To Salisbury beach, where cattle used to gain
Their flesh; no sooner there, than up they ran
Unto the mouth of Merr'mack river,
Dashed into the water toward Plum Island—
And, swimming out to sea, have ne'er returned!
Deacon G.
And stopped your trouble there?
Pudeater.
That was its starting-point, your reverence;
For quickly after this, going one night
To barn, I suddenly was taken from the ground,
And thrown blank 'gainst a wearisome stone wall,
And after that again wondrously uphoisted,
And cast down a bank at the end o' the house;
And after still, merely passing her house,
This Ambla Bodish's, a horse,—I borrowed
Him at Walcutt's, since my oxen's strange
Navigation—with a small load of grain,
Striving to draw, his gear flew all in pieces,
The cart fell swiftly clattering down, and I
Poor Cephas Pudeater, hastening then
To lift a bag of corn—two bushels say,
In hest, could not upraise it with all my strength.
I was not drunk, your reverence, I'm sure
I was not drunk!
Justice F.
And what at Maple Hill?
Pudeater.
Oh, ask me not of that—one night
As I was passing, just in sport, I thrashed
The bushes with my staff, (I carry it
For safety in these troubled times, where'er I go)—
And out there sprung, I could not tell them
In the dark, great creatures of some sort,
67
In fear I fled the spot—and as I ran,
Old Ambla Bodish, light-like, crossed my path,
Without the use of limbs—for in the air she
Seemed to glide, as though she were a crow!
A charm I had of cunning Goodwife Prawl,
'Gainst witchery in every shape, saved me
From harm—or Cephas Pudeater would not,
The Lord preserve us, now be standing here.
I was not drunk, your reverence; I'm sure
I was not drunk.
Deacon G.
Wear you still the charm?
Pudeater.
I do, your reverence—these two horse shoes—
But I do fear their potency is gone.
[Crosses to R.
As sure as wax is wax I was not drunk!
Deacon G.
[Pauses.]
What say you now, good Master Justice?
Justice F.
I think the cup is full.
[Rises.
Deacon G.
[Rises.]
I think it overflows:—
This will not bear a longer tarrying,
This afternoon should fix her. Have you
The warrant writ?
Justice F.
'T has been writ a week; but as in her,
We strike at the great head of this bewilderment,
Our weapons must be sharp and sure.
Deacon G.
We 're armed on every side, with witnesses,
Of all degrees; with testimony various
As the devil's shifts—slips she one rope,
There'll be a dozen to catch her. I 've had
A hand in that, you know, and I work sure—
68
Justice F.
Pudeater, come hither.
[Takes Pud. aside.
Enter Topsfield, L. H.
Topsfield.
[Looking back.]
Come, Simon, linger not,
The time is urgent, and the hour draws on.
Enter Braybrook, L. H.
Deacon G.
Are you prepared to set forth to the Falls?
'T is there our closing confirmation lies.
Topsfield.
We are, and come to have direction
From your worships.
Deacon G.
There is a thunder-blighted child, made idiot
In a storm, at Newberry Falls—you are to learn
Whether any fresh pains have racked it
In the last ten hours. Mark well the faces
Of the people who report it to you.
Justice F.
If Justice Bly, of Norridgewook
Come out, as you pass, as no doubt he will—
Asking how we get on, tell him we 've twenty
In the jail; and if he can come to Salem
On Friday next, he'll see a goodly hanging:
We'll be ready, Deacon, by that time?
Deacon G.
No doubt, we shall.
Pudeater.
Your worship,
Might he ask the Judge to bring with him,
Good Marshal Williams, his own officer,
To see how we dispose our work? I shall
Be well enough to help, by then.
Deacon G.
But to the matter more in hand.
69
Here 's a list of some suspected,
Whom you may look for by the way.
Deacon G.
Bring you but word the child is dead—we know
Who launched the bolt—and all is sealed!
[Topsfield and Braybrook are going, L.
Halt there!—what, would you dare to venture forth,
Without a benediction—and be snatched away
To utter darkness, ere you know it! You,
Thomas Topsfield, and Simon Braybrook, you—
Upon an errand of the Lord are sent! Go forth
Neither to smite, nor slay, nor judge unjustly,
But to seize and hale before this Court,
Maligners of the sacred name, and doers
Of the works of darkness. Be wary—
Look to your stirrups at the Cross-Roads;
My blessing with you, my masters, and now
Ride forth courageously. Remember,
Master Topsfield, the news you bring will fix
Beyond appeal, the fate of Ambla Bodish!
[Exeunt Topsfield and Braybrook, L. H., Deacon G., Justice F. and Pudeater, R. H.
SCENE II.
—A Garden.Susanna and Gideon discovered.
Gideon.
Oh, pardon each ungentle word, I e'er
Have spoken, and listen to me now!
Susanna.
Gideon—you are not free to speak,
But underneath a tyranny you live,
Which rules the very glances of your eyes.
70
I am not free to speak!—I am and will—
You are the crown of all things beautiful,
Susanna! when glow your cheeks, the sun-set
Flashes in them! the lovely heaven is
In your eyes! and in your sweet motions live
The glad boundings of the springy deer!
Susanna.
You are constrained by power you cannot stem
To speak thus now. You love me not!
Gideon.
No, no, Susanna, 't is the free utterance
Of a heart too long o'ercharged. Truly
The love I bear for you—and long have borne—
But kept concealed within the darkness
Of my heart,—is more than mortal. It hath
Conditions of increase, yea, speedier
Than the free bird's wing—more large than all
The great wood's summer growth, and deeper
Than the infinite sea! I know not how it grew;
Whether as trees do in their nature;
By miracle of swift surprise it came,
As doth the wild cloud, now seen not, now filling
All sight, blinding, bewildering and possessing
All the universe—full of delightful
Agitations, with magic in them.
Susanna.
Oh, there it is! Forego this violent joy!
Gideon.
I would not give its balmy pains, Susanna,
For calmest health, its pangs delicious,
Troubles full of joy, wakenings electrical
At dead of night.
Susanna.
An evening shower makes morning brighter!
You look more cheerful than I ever knew you,
71
And ruddier far!
Gideon.
I must not look so—more.
Susanna.
You must, and shall, and ever will.
Gideon.
[Aside.]
The fatal spell still clouds her faculty!
She must dismiss this love which is a weight
To drag my mother down. Susanna,
Knew you what I have known, had heard what I
Have heard, to shake pure Nature from her seat,
And cast her powers into a fearful ecstacy,
You would not wish to join your tender fortunes
With mine.
Susanna.
You know not that, Gideon!
Gideon.
It must be so. By all the love I bear
And plead to you—turn, elsewhere, turn your love!
Oh! to some other give thy gentle heart!
Susanna.
Never!—wouldst thou have me, Gideon,
In this hour of bliss, ere it is a minute old,
Banish so sweet a dream?
Gideon.
Leave me, Susanna! for, each moment
That thou tarriest here, the despotism
Grows—go hence, forever!
Susanna.
No more these garden paths to walk
In happy hope? I cannot, Gideon.
Gideon.
Leave me, rash girl! why will you linger?
Look not upon me—turn your face away.
Susanna.
Gideon, thy heart is troubled and I
Will cling to thee.—Shall woman fly, now for the first
Since Eve that elder garden walked, from him
She loves—when sorrow frets his brow?
72
By these dark times our nature all is changed!
Oh, would that bitter words were needed not!
If e'er again this threshold thou dost cross—
If e'er again thy face is towards me turned—
If e'er in love thou thinkest more of me—
(I'd spare thee this, did not another life
Dearer than life demand the holy sacrifice)—
May heaviest curses light upon thy brow—
Thy young blood grow cold and chill thee
In the summer's prime.—Depart, Susanna!
Susanna.
And must I then leave thee, Gideon?
Gideon.
Depart, I say, in peace,—while there is any peace
Betwixt us. Delay not, lest I curse thee now!
Susanna.
The heaviest hour of all my life has come.
[Exit Susanna, L. H.
Gideon.
The very blackness I would rend, doubles
Its folds: is there no hope, in man nor heaven,
That I must stand, dry of its blissful help,
As if no rain of mercy ever fell!
Enter Topsfield, R. H.
Gideon.
Is it then so?
Topsfield.
It is: and I, this very minute, am speeding
Forth, to the Great Falls near Atkins' well,
To seek the last testimony.
Gideon.
You, Thomas?
Topsfield.
Aye, Gideon—and should I bring report
As all believe I will, it seals the doom
Of one I need not name to you.
73
Then, Thomas, to your old playfellow hand,
It is assigned to strike the fatal blow?
Topsfield.
Gideon—I fear it is! But if I strike
Or seem to strike, harshly, 'gainst you—it is
For Salem's sake.
“Gideon.
Let me implore you, go not on this quest!
“'T has happened, Thomas, lately that you and I
“Have walked but little, as we used, our old
“Familiar ways. Shall we no more be friends?
“Oh, let us be friends once more again,
“And lead our lives out in a joyful amity!
“Thomas, you know you have often asked me
“To come forth more into the fields with you.
“The sun is fair to-day.
“Topsfield.
I see the cloud you thought you saw,
“When we were out upon the panther hunt.
“Gideon.
You will not say the fields have lost their fairness;
“That you desire to sit by the hearth, while trees
“Grow greenly in the air, the young deer skip,
“And streams run clear as light with leaping sport?
“Topsfield.
The hunt is over, Gideon,
“And the fresh following of the field is over;
“All sport hath lost its sportfulness, and trouble
“Moves the waters everyway.
“Gideon.
Oh, Thomas, say not so;
“Now knew you of a stalk of glossy deer,
“A mile, or two, or three, beyond the bridge,
“Could your soul sleep and not take after?
“Topsfield.
My road lies that way, but in another quest.
“Gideon.
What say you to a great-antlered elk,
74
“Of the hemlock wood—to speckled swimmers
“In still-water stream. Shall we not bear each
“Other company?
“Topsfield.
The horned beast we hunt,
“Takes not the woods, but keeps the open way,
“And makes his prey of all of us.
“Gideon.
Can we be friends, no more?
“Topsfield.
Would that we might, but who shall move the bar
“That falls between us, as an iron line?
Gideon.
Now let the heavens in pieces break,
And night come up to claim the universe,
For her's in fee! The sun has lost his use;
We know not what we see. The earth hath foothold
For the unsubstantial dark alone,
And sea and shore divide us, all in vain,
From nothingness! Thomas, oh let me take
Your hand once more, and know reality
Of flesh and blood.
Topsfield.
[Avoiding Gideon.]
I would
That this had never been! Gideon, bear up
Against what comes, with all the strength, and all
The truth, and all the sturdy manliness,
You 've drawn from this clear air, this honest earth,
These upright woods about us! Fare you well—
I must hasten—or all is lost!
[Exit Topsfield, L. E.
Gideon.
He, too, has passed the way of all—the shadow
Of a friend, evanishing where all is shadow—
The beauty of this world is gone forever!—
75
Whose sanctity and shadowy awe
Grew on me every hour, and every hour
Gave gentle shelter to my climbing love,
Is falling to the earth, and all its glory
Seeks the common dust!—My mother—oh, my mother!
I hear the murmur of a sea-like sigh—
Who is it yonder creeping through the leaves
So stealthily? Perturbed singing too;
It rises now, and now it dies away,
And looses itself even as could we ourselves—
My mother! my mother! I see she's there!
I see the dark woods shake, from this—Heaven!
Be it the breath of thy good wind, and not
An evil spirit stirring them!
[Ambla Crosses from L. to R.
Ambla.
My child against me! The sharpest dagger yet.
Can life hold out when universal nature
Casts it off, and leaves its widowed singleness,
To keep a wilderness of thought? A wolf
Left out to hunt alone on the wide waste,
Would tear himself and die! Ah, I thought
Just then, a face put close 'gainst mine laughed hollowly!
That face again—and now, it is the chief
Of many, that fill the air and mock at me.
Black-browed suggestions cave yourselves again!
A step,—'t is Gideon's! I'll talk with him,
A little while, and wear a face of stone,
Lest he go mad—troubled too much.
76
[Coming forward.]
Drive off these spectres, dear mother,
And behold your son! He lives and they are not.
Ambla.
I see you, but not as of old.
Gideon.
Oh, be yourself, that I may be the same.
Ambla.
No, touch me not, 'till this has passed away.
Your hand must be unfilial ever, while
Bear your eyes that look—I am sorely tried,
My son, yet hope to live; tried in my mind—
And not in that without.
Gideon.
Fight with the Tempter, mother, and come off
Victor and pure!
Ambla.
Interrupt me not!—'t is there—behold:
If flies and I must follow!
Gideon.
What marvel now is this?
Ambla.
Sometimes it wanders the wood, sometimes
The free-flowered air: come softly on!
Gideon.
She seems so raised in spirit,
As if the unbarred heaven might open
And snatch her, even visibly, away.
Ambla.
It pauses by the murmuring tree, it stops
Now fast by the sweet brook, but not to drink!
It shapes its way—Gideon—oh, heaven, be merciful!
Toward our house, toward my sad roof, and see
It enters in!
[They enter the house of Ambla Bodish.
SCENE III.
—An upper Chamber—a Table.Enter Ambla followed by Gideon.
Ambla.
I see it, there it is—look, look, tread lightly,
Or you will wrongfully affright it!
77
Welcome! but wherefore new and thus?
You cannot speak? What binds you to silence?
If I may speak, lift up your hand!—I may.
Gideon.
All-Gracious! What passes now, that thus
My mother shakes, and yet keeps fast her look,
Sealed to an empty chair! She moves her lips;
As I have seen her move them, with nothing
Holding long discourse: that might be age
And faculties beyond control: this is not age.
Ambla.
Be silent, Gideon— [Sternly.]
it is
Myself that speaketh with my other self!
Can Nature grant a higher act? Hush, son—
'T is troubled if you speak.
Gideon.
Blest Heaven! uphold her!
Ambla.
[To the Apparition.]
You are not sad? nor angry? nor hopeless?
You blow the Great Book's leaves apart, I see;
[The leaves of the Bible on the table fly open.
And point me to it: mine eyes are dimmed
By years, may he, this youth—our son? He may.
Gideon!
[Gideon approaches fearfully.
Mark where the spirit points
And read. [Commandingly.]
Gideon.
I see no pointing, no spirit, mother.
Ambla.
See you not his finger airy? Bend down—
You see it now.
[She points.
Gideon.
[Reads.]
‘Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die’!
Uphold me, or I fall—ha! ha!
[He is convulsed.
[Awakening.]
'T is true, and I the son of one accursed—
78
You 've done so well, stands master at your side,
And thus he claims you—a lost, doomed woman!
Ambla.
No, no, Gideon, it is a better spirit—
Hear me, my son!
Gideon.
Your son no longer, nor you my mother—
The thunderbolt has fallen. Heaven deserts you!—
I'm smitten to earth—Thomas, your quest
Was right and lawful! The spell that tangled you,
Susanna, was forged in dark and dreadful fires!
Horror! The whirlwind, whose cloudy breath
I 've felt so long, wraps her about at last,
And sweeps her from my sight.
Ambla.
Gideon! my son—my son!
Gideon.
Behold the damning evidence of guilt—
See, see it flaming on the offended sky,
And written in the air—“A witch!” Oh God!
“A witch!” “A witch!”
[At the word “witch” Ambla shrieks wildly, and falls on her knees at the side of Gideon.]
END OF ACT FOURTH.
79
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—
80
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
81
(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,
82
“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
83
“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.
84
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.
85
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
86
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.
87
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.
88
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,
89
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,
90
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!
91
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—
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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—
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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,
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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.
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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.
96
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—
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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!
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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.
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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.
THE END.
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