 | Moll Pitcher |  |
1. PART I.
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
The old witch laughed outright—
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
That cold and dismal night.
The wind was blowing from the sea
As raw and chill as wind might be—
Driving the waves, as if their master
Towards the black shore, fast and faster,—
Tossing their foam against the rocks
Which scowl along yon island's verge.
And shake their gray and mossy locks
Secure above the warring surge.
The old witch laughed outright—
The name of “Moll Pitcher” is familiar to almost every inhabitant of New England;—and her fame has extended to all parts of the commercial world—in short wherever American seamen have been known. No Pythoness of the olden time—no Druid of ancient Britain, churming over his misleto—no Scald of the North, bending at the shrine of Odin, ever acquired a more diabolical reputation, or was sought after with greater earnestness by a credulous community. She died about twenty years ago. A late writer (Upham, on Witchcraft) this concludes his notice of this singular personage:—“Her name has every where become the generic title of fortune-tellers, and occupies a conspicuous place in the legends and ballads of popular superstition. Her renown has gone abroad to the farthest regions; and her memory will be perpetuated in the annals of credulity and imposture. An air of romance is breathed around the scenes where she practised her mystic art, the interest and charm of which will increase as the lapse of time removes her history back to the dimness of the distant past.”
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
That cold and dismal night.
The wind was blowing from the sea
As raw and chill as wind might be—
Driving the waves, as if their master
Towards the black shore, fast and faster,—
Tossing their foam against the rocks
Which scowl along yon island's verge.
And shake their gray and mossy locks
Secure above the warring surge.
Keen blew the wind, and cold,
The moon shone dim and faintly forth,
Between the gray cloud's parting fold,
As if it sickened of the earth,
So very pale and ghastly lay
Its broken light along the bay,
Silvering the fisher's stealing skiff—
Or whitening o'er the jagged cliff,
Or resting on the homes of men,
As if its awful sheen had been
A white funeral shroud outspread
By some kind spirit o'er the dead;
And, now and then, a wan star burned,
Where'er its cloudy veil was rended—
A moment's light, but seen and ended,
As if some angel from on high
Had fixed on earth his brilliant eye,
And back to Heaven his glances turned!
The moon shone dim and faintly forth,
Between the gray cloud's parting fold,
As if it sickened of the earth,
So very pale and ghastly lay
Its broken light along the bay,
Silvering the fisher's stealing skiff—
Or whitening o'er the jagged cliff,
Or resting on the homes of men,
As if its awful sheen had been
A white funeral shroud outspread
By some kind spirit o'er the dead;
And, now and then, a wan star burned,
6
A moment's light, but seen and ended,
As if some angel from on high
Had fixed on earth his brilliant eye,
And back to Heaven his glances turned!
She stood upon a bare, tall crag,
Which overlooked her ragged cot—
A wasted, gray and meagre hag,
In features evil as her lot.
She had the crooked nose of a witch,
And a crooked back and chin,
And in her gait she had a hitch,
And in her hand she carried a switch,
To aid her work of sin,
A twig of wizard-hazle, which
Had grown beside a haunted ditch,
Where a mother her nameless child had thrown
To the running water and merciless stone.
The residence of “Moll Pitcher” was directly under the shadow of High Rock—a bold eminence hanging over the village of Lynn, Mass.—and commanding a wide prospect of wild and beautiful scenery. On the one hand, the rugged coast stretches away to where the ancient and picturesque village of Marblehead rests on its rocky foundation, like the eyrie of a sea-eagle. On the other, are the beautiful beaches of Nahant and Chelsea—the islands sleeping like green-winged sea-birds in the distant bay of Boston, and the white sails flitting past them.
Which overlooked her ragged cot—
A wasted, gray and meagre hag,
In features evil as her lot.
She had the crooked nose of a witch,
And a crooked back and chin,
And in her gait she had a hitch,
And in her hand she carried a switch,
To aid her work of sin,
A twig of wizard-hazle, which
Had grown beside a haunted ditch,
Where a mother her nameless child had thrown
To the running water and merciless stone.
Who's coming up the winding path,
Worn faintly in the mossy rock?—
Enveloped in its ample cloak
The form a woman's semblance hath.
Why laughs the witch to see her come
So stealthily towards her home?
Knows she that dim shape thus afar,
When scarce one shorn and shadowed star,
With its faint line of wizard light
Crosses the shadow of the night?
Long laughed the witch—and then she spoke,
And echo answered from the rock,
As if some wild and evil elf
Within its caverns dared to mock
Her strange communion with herself.
“And so,” she cried, “she's come at last,—
The oak will kneel before the blast,
And wherefore should the sapling frail
Bend its light form against the gale?
The heart is strong—but passion stronger
And love than human pride is longer—
And ill may woman's weakness scorn
What manhood's strength hath hardly borne!
I know her tread—'tis haughty yet,
As if she could not all forget
Her early scorn of me and mine.
Ay, let her come!—the early spell,
Which binds her heart so sweetly well,
Shall serpent-like around it twine!
I know the charm—I know the word,
Which, powerless as the snake-charmed bird.
Shall bind her with its fearful tone—
Her cherished thoughts shall all be heard,
Her secret hopes shall all be known.”
Worn faintly in the mossy rock?—
Enveloped in its ample cloak
The form a woman's semblance hath.
Why laughs the witch to see her come
So stealthily towards her home?
Knows she that dim shape thus afar,
When scarce one shorn and shadowed star,
With its faint line of wizard light
Crosses the shadow of the night?
Long laughed the witch—and then she spoke,
And echo answered from the rock,
As if some wild and evil elf
Within its caverns dared to mock
Her strange communion with herself.
“And so,” she cried, “she's come at last,—
The oak will kneel before the blast,
And wherefore should the sapling frail
Bend its light form against the gale?
The heart is strong—but passion stronger
And love than human pride is longer—
7
What manhood's strength hath hardly borne!
I know her tread—'tis haughty yet,
As if she could not all forget
Her early scorn of me and mine.
Ay, let her come!—the early spell,
Which binds her heart so sweetly well,
Shall serpent-like around it twine!
I know the charm—I know the word,
Which, powerless as the snake-charmed bird.
Shall bind her with its fearful tone—
Her cherished thoughts shall all be heard,
Her secret hopes shall all be known.”
Again she laughed as down the crag
She swung her meagre skeleton—
No fears for thee, thou hateful hag—
The Devil keeps his own!
“Walk in, walk in my pretty maid—
This night is fitting for my trade!”
“Ha, mother Moll—'tis well—I've come,
Like other fools to know my doom.”
She swung her meagre skeleton—
No fears for thee, thou hateful hag—
The Devil keeps his own!
“Walk in, walk in my pretty maid—
This night is fitting for my trade!”
“Ha, mother Moll—'tis well—I've come,
Like other fools to know my doom.”
The twain passed in—a low dark room
With here and there a crazy chair,
A broken glass—a dusty loom—
A spinning-wheel—a birchen broom,
The witch's courier of the air—
As potent as that steed of wings
On which the Meccan prophet rode
Above the wreck of meaner things
Unto the Houri's bright abode.
A low dull fire by flashes shone
Across the gray and cold hearth-stone
Flinging at times a trembling glare
On the low roof and timbers bare.
With here and there a crazy chair,
A broken glass—a dusty loom—
A spinning-wheel—a birchen broom,
The witch's courier of the air—
As potent as that steed of wings
On which the Meccan prophet rode
Above the wreck of meaner things
Unto the Houri's bright abode.
A low dull fire by flashes shone
Across the gray and cold hearth-stone
Flinging at times a trembling glare
On the low roof and timbers bare.
How has New England's romance fled,
Even as a vision of the morning!
Its rites foregone—its guardians dead—
Its altar-fires extinguished—
Its priestesses, bereft of dread,
Waking the veriest urchin's scorning!
No more along the shadowy glen,
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men,—
No more the unquiet church-yard dead,
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed,
Startling the traveller, late and lone;
As, on some night of cloudy weather,
They commune silently together,
Each sitting on his own head-stone!
The roofless house, decayed, deserted,
Its living tenants all departed,
No longer rings with midnight revel
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;
No hellish flame sends out its flashes
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes!—
The witch-grass round the hazle spring,
May sharply to the night air sing,
But there no more shall withered hags
Refresh at ease, their broomstick nags;
Or taste those hazle-shadowed waters
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters;
No more their mimic tones be heard—
The mew of cat—the chirp of bird,
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter
Of the fell demon following after!
Even as a vision of the morning!
Its rites foregone—its guardians dead—
Its altar-fires extinguished—
8
Waking the veriest urchin's scorning!
No more along the shadowy glen,
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men,—
No more the unquiet church-yard dead,
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed,
Startling the traveller, late and lone;
As, on some night of cloudy weather,
They commune silently together,
Each sitting on his own head-stone!
The roofless house, decayed, deserted,
Its living tenants all departed,
No longer rings with midnight revel
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;
No hellish flame sends out its flashes
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes!—
The witch-grass round the hazle spring,
May sharply to the night air sing,
But there no more shall withered hags
Refresh at ease, their broomstick nags;
Or taste those hazle-shadowed waters
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters;
No more their mimic tones be heard—
The mew of cat—the chirp of bird,
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter
Of the fell demon following after!
The cautious good man nails no more
A horse shoe on his outer door,
Lest some unseemly hag should fit
To his own mouth her bridle bit—
The good wife's churn no more refuses
Its wonted culinary uses,
Until with heated needle burned
The witch has to her place returned!
Our witches are no longer old
And wrinkled beldames, Satan sold,
But young and gay and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features—
Their sorcery—the light which dances
Where the raised lid unveils its glances;
Or the low breathed and gentle tone
Faintly responding unto ours,
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan
Above its nightly closing flowers!
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore,
Along the charmed Ausonian shore!
Even she, our own weired heroine,
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn—
Despite her fortune telling sin,
Sleeps calmly where the living laid her;
And the wide realm of sorcery,
Left, by its latest mistress, free,
Hath found no gray and skilled invader:
So perished Albion's “glammarye,”
With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping,
His charmed torch beside his knee
That even the dead himself might see
The magic scroll within his keeping.
And hence our modern Yankee sees
Nor omens, spells nor mysteries;
And nought above, below, around,
Of life or death, of sight or sound,
Whate'er its nature, form or look,
Excites his terror or surprise—
All seeming to his knowing eyes
Familiar as his “catechize,”
Or, “Webster's Spelling Book.”
A horse shoe on his outer door,
Lest some unseemly hag should fit
To his own mouth her bridle bit—
The good wife's churn no more refuses
Its wonted culinary uses,
Until with heated needle burned
The witch has to her place returned!
Our witches are no longer old
And wrinkled beldames, Satan sold,
But young and gay and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features—
Their sorcery—the light which dances
Where the raised lid unveils its glances;
9
Faintly responding unto ours,
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan
Above its nightly closing flowers!
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore,
Along the charmed Ausonian shore!
Even she, our own weired heroine,
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn—
Despite her fortune telling sin,
Sleeps calmly where the living laid her;
And the wide realm of sorcery,
Left, by its latest mistress, free,
Hath found no gray and skilled invader:
So perished Albion's “glammarye,”
With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping,
His charmed torch beside his knee
That even the dead himself might see
The magic scroll within his keeping.
And hence our modern Yankee sees
Nor omens, spells nor mysteries;
And nought above, below, around,
Of life or death, of sight or sound,
Whate'er its nature, form or look,
Excites his terror or surprise—
All seeming to his knowing eyes
Familiar as his “catechize,”
Or, “Webster's Spelling Book.”
But to our tale.—In contrast strange,
Within the fire-light's fading range
The stranger stands in maiden pride,
By that mysterious woman's side.
The cloak hath fallen from her shoulder
Revealing such a form as steals
Away the heart of the beholder
As, all unconsciously it kneels
Before the beauty which had shone
Ere this upon its dreams alone,
If you have seen a summer star,
Liquidly soft and faintly far,
Beaming a smiling glance on earth
As if it watched the flowret's birth,
Then have you seen a light less fair
Than that young maiden's glances were.
Dark fell her tresses—you have seen
A rent cloud tossing in the air,
And, showing the pure sky between
Its floating fragments here and there—
Then may you fancy faintly, how
The falling tress—the ring-like curl
Disclosed or shadowed o'er the brow
And neck of that fair girl.
Her cheek was delicately thin,
And through its pure, transparent white
The rose-hue wandered out and in,
As you have seen th' inconstant light
Flush o'er the Northern sky of night—
Her playful lip was gently full,
Soft curving to the graceful chin,
And colored like the fruit which glows
Upon the sunned pomegranite boughs;—
And oh, her soft, low voice might lull
The spirit to a dream of bliss,
As if the voices sweet and bland
Which murmur in the seraph land
Were warbling in a world like this!
Within the fire-light's fading range
The stranger stands in maiden pride,
By that mysterious woman's side.
The cloak hath fallen from her shoulder
Revealing such a form as steals
Away the heart of the beholder
As, all unconsciously it kneels
Before the beauty which had shone
Ere this upon its dreams alone,
If you have seen a summer star,
Liquidly soft and faintly far,
Beaming a smiling glance on earth
10
Then have you seen a light less fair
Than that young maiden's glances were.
Dark fell her tresses—you have seen
A rent cloud tossing in the air,
And, showing the pure sky between
Its floating fragments here and there—
Then may you fancy faintly, how
The falling tress—the ring-like curl
Disclosed or shadowed o'er the brow
And neck of that fair girl.
Her cheek was delicately thin,
And through its pure, transparent white
The rose-hue wandered out and in,
As you have seen th' inconstant light
Flush o'er the Northern sky of night—
Her playful lip was gently full,
Soft curving to the graceful chin,
And colored like the fruit which glows
Upon the sunned pomegranite boughs;—
And oh, her soft, low voice might lull
The spirit to a dream of bliss,
As if the voices sweet and bland
Which murmur in the seraph land
Were warbling in a world like this!
Out spoke the witch—“I know full well,
Why thou has sought my humble cot—
Come sit thee down—the tale I tell
May not be soon forgot.”
She threw her pale blue cloak aside,
And stirred the whitening embers up,
And long and curiously she eyed
The figures of her mystic cup—
And low she muttered, while the light
Gave to her lips a ghastlier white,
And her sunk eye's unearthly glaring
Seemed like the taper's latest flaring:
“Dark hair—eyes black—a goodly form—
A maiden weeping—wild dark sea—
A tall ship tossing in the storm—
A black wreck floating—where is he?
Give me the hand—how soft and warm
And fair its tapering fingers seem—
And who that sees it now would dream
That winter's snow would seem less chill
Ere long than these soft fingers will?
A lovely palm!—how delicate
Its veined and wandering lines are drawn!
Yet each are prophets of thy fate—
Ha—this is sure a fearful one!
That sudden cross—that blank beneath—
What may these evil signs betoken?
Passion and sorrow, fear and death—
A human spirit crushed and broken!
Oh, thine hath been a pleasant dream,
But darker shall its waking seem!”
Why thou has sought my humble cot—
Come sit thee down—the tale I tell
May not be soon forgot.”
She threw her pale blue cloak aside,
And stirred the whitening embers up,
And long and curiously she eyed
The figures of her mystic cup—
The whole apparatus of divination made use of by “Moll Pitcher” consisted of a cup into which tea was poured, and afterwards emptied from it. By the peculiarities of the shape or the position of the small particles of tea left in the bottom of the cup, she pretended to decide upon the destiny of her visitors.
And low she muttered, while the light
Gave to her lips a ghastlier white,
And her sunk eye's unearthly glaring
Seemed like the taper's latest flaring:
“Dark hair—eyes black—a goodly form—
A maiden weeping—wild dark sea—
A tall ship tossing in the storm—
11
Give me the hand—how soft and warm
And fair its tapering fingers seem—
And who that sees it now would dream
That winter's snow would seem less chill
Ere long than these soft fingers will?
A lovely palm!—how delicate
Its veined and wandering lines are drawn!
Yet each are prophets of thy fate—
Ha—this is sure a fearful one!
That sudden cross—that blank beneath—
What may these evil signs betoken?
Passion and sorrow, fear and death—
A human spirit crushed and broken!
Oh, thine hath been a pleasant dream,
But darker shall its waking seem!”
Something between a sigh and groan
Burst from the list'ner's panting heart—
How was her cherished secret known
To that dark woman's art?
She strove to smile—and one might mark
A sudden dimple trembling, where
A moment after cold despair
Rested beneath her tresses dark,
As if the hue of death were there.
A human smile!—how beautiful
Sometimes its blissful presence seems,
Sweet as the gentle airs which lull
To sleep the holy flowers of Gul
Which blossoms in the Persian's dreams—
A lovely light whene'er it beams
On beauty's brow—on beauty's eye
And not one token lingers nigh
On lip, or eye, or cheek unbidden
To tell of anguish vainly hidden!
But oh there is a smile which steals
Sometimes upon the brow of care
And like the North's cold light reveals
But gathering darkness there.
You've seen the lightning flash at night
Play briefly o'er its cloudy pile—
The moonshine trembling on the height
Where winter glistens cold and white,
And like that flash, and like that light,
Is sorrow's vain and heartless smile.
Burst from the list'ner's panting heart—
How was her cherished secret known
To that dark woman's art?
She strove to smile—and one might mark
A sudden dimple trembling, where
A moment after cold despair
Rested beneath her tresses dark,
As if the hue of death were there.
A human smile!—how beautiful
Sometimes its blissful presence seems,
Sweet as the gentle airs which lull
To sleep the holy flowers of Gul
Which blossoms in the Persian's dreams—
A lovely light whene'er it beams
On beauty's brow—on beauty's eye
And not one token lingers nigh
On lip, or eye, or cheek unbidden
To tell of anguish vainly hidden!
But oh there is a smile which steals
Sometimes upon the brow of care
And like the North's cold light reveals
But gathering darkness there.
You've seen the lightning flash at night
12
The moonshine trembling on the height
Where winter glistens cold and white,
And like that flash, and like that light,
Is sorrow's vain and heartless smile.
Like a cold hand upon her heart
The dark words of the sorceress lay,
Something to scare her spirit's rest
Forevermore away.
Each word had seemed so strangely true,
Calling her inmost thoughts in view,
And pointing to the form which came
Before her in her dreary sleep,
Whose answered love—whose very name,
Though naught of breathing life was near,
She scarce had given the winds to keep,
Or murmured in a sister's ear.
The dark words of the sorceress lay,
Something to scare her spirit's rest
Forevermore away.
Each word had seemed so strangely true,
Calling her inmost thoughts in view,
And pointing to the form which came
Before her in her dreary sleep,
Whose answered love—whose very name,
Though naught of breathing life was near,
She scarce had given the winds to keep,
Or murmured in a sister's ear.
Her secret love!—oh, she had kept
Its fire within her heart unseen,
And tears, in silent musing wept,
Its sacrifice had been.
In public gaze—in loneliness—
In fashion's gay and wild excess—
In every change of scene or lot
Its cherished name was uttered not,
For early had she learned to keep
Her gift of love enshrined and deep—
Pure as the vestal's altar-stone
Known and familiar but to one—
A harp whose chords might only move
In answer to its idol love,
Like Memnon's music heard alone
When sunlight on its statue shone!
Its fire within her heart unseen,
And tears, in silent musing wept,
Its sacrifice had been.
In public gaze—in loneliness—
In fashion's gay and wild excess—
In every change of scene or lot
Its cherished name was uttered not,
For early had she learned to keep
Her gift of love enshrined and deep—
Pure as the vestal's altar-stone
Known and familiar but to one—
A harp whose chords might only move
In answer to its idol love,
Like Memnon's music heard alone
When sunlight on its statue shone!
Like the mimosa shrinking from
The blight of some familiar finger—
Like flowers which but in secret bloom,
Where age the sheltering shadows linger.
And which, beneath the hot noon ray
Would fold their leaves and fade away—
The flowers of Love, in secret cherished,
In loneliness and silence nourished,
Shrink backward from the searching eye,
Until the stem whereon they flourished,
Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,
Although themselves may never die.
Of woe—of deep and nameless grief,
That wild and evil hag had spoken—
Of agony which mocks relief—
Of human spirits broken.
And in her mutterings vague and dim
How strangely had she pictured HIM!
The dark eye and the darker hair—
The manly form and features fair—
A weeping girl—a wild dark sea—
A storm—a wreck—and “WHERE IS HE?”
Ay, where WAS he!—long months before,
His boat was rocking on the shore
His ship was tossing in the bay:
And she was folded to his heart—
Her fair cheek on her lover's lay,
While Love forgot the veil of art;
And softly blushed through falling tears,
The natural glow of virgin shame,
That feelings held apart for years,
And cherished hopes she scarce might name
To her own pillow's loneliness,
Had burned upon her answering kiss.
And thrilled upon her lip of flame!
And she had found herself alone,
Beneath the twilight cold and gray.
When heavily pealed the signal gun
And the proud vessel swept away;—
Watching her lover's broad sail fade,
Like a white wing in upper air,
And leaving neither track nor shade
On the blue waste of waters there!
The blight of some familiar finger—
Like flowers which but in secret bloom,
Where age the sheltering shadows linger.
And which, beneath the hot noon ray
Would fold their leaves and fade away—
13
In loneliness and silence nourished,
Shrink backward from the searching eye,
Until the stem whereon they flourished,
Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,
Although themselves may never die.
Of woe—of deep and nameless grief,
That wild and evil hag had spoken—
Of agony which mocks relief—
Of human spirits broken.
And in her mutterings vague and dim
How strangely had she pictured HIM!
The dark eye and the darker hair—
The manly form and features fair—
A weeping girl—a wild dark sea—
A storm—a wreck—and “WHERE IS HE?”
Ay, where WAS he!—long months before,
His boat was rocking on the shore
His ship was tossing in the bay:
And she was folded to his heart—
Her fair cheek on her lover's lay,
While Love forgot the veil of art;
And softly blushed through falling tears,
The natural glow of virgin shame,
That feelings held apart for years,
And cherished hopes she scarce might name
To her own pillow's loneliness,
Had burned upon her answering kiss.
And thrilled upon her lip of flame!
And she had found herself alone,
Beneath the twilight cold and gray.
When heavily pealed the signal gun
And the proud vessel swept away;—
Watching her lover's broad sail fade,
Like a white wing in upper air,
And leaving neither track nor shade
On the blue waste of waters there!
Smile not that on the maiden's heart,
The sybil's dark and cunning art
Had power to picture future ill,
And tinge the present darker still.
Life's sunniest hours are not without
The shadow of some lingering doubt—
Amidst its brightest joys will steal
Spectres of evil yet to feel;
Its warmest love is blent with fears,
Its confidence—a trembling one—
Its smile—the harbinger of tears—
Its hope—the change of April's sun!
A weary lot,—in mercy given,
To fit the chastened soul for Heaven,
Prompting with change and weariness,
Its yearning for that better sky,
Which, as the shadows close on this,
Grows brighter to the longing eye.
The sybil's dark and cunning art
Had power to picture future ill,
14
Life's sunniest hours are not without
The shadow of some lingering doubt—
Amidst its brightest joys will steal
Spectres of evil yet to feel;
Its warmest love is blent with fears,
Its confidence—a trembling one—
Its smile—the harbinger of tears—
Its hope—the change of April's sun!
A weary lot,—in mercy given,
To fit the chastened soul for Heaven,
Prompting with change and weariness,
Its yearning for that better sky,
Which, as the shadows close on this,
Grows brighter to the longing eye.
| Moll Pitcher | |