No More Learning

MERRY (pointing).
And there is your own son,
Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition.

ENDICOTT.
Arrest him. Do not spare him.

MERRY (aside).
His own child!
There is some special providence takes care
That none shall be too happy in this world!
His own first-born.

ENDICOTT.
O Absalom, my son!

[Exeunt; the Governor with his halberdiers ascending the steps of
his house.


SCENE III. -- The Governor's private room. Papers upon the
table.

ENDICOTT and BELLINGHAM

ENDICOTT.
There is a ship from England has come in,
Bringing despatches and much news from home,
His majesty was at the Abbey crowned;
And when the coronation was complete
There passed a mighty tempest o'er the city,
Portentous with great thunderings and lightnings.

BELLINGHAM.
After his father's, if I well remember,
There was an earthquake, that foreboded evil.

ENDICOTT.
Ten of the Regicides have been put to death!
The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw
Have been dragged from their graves, and publicly
Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn.

BELLINGHAM.
Horrible!

ENDICOTT.
Thus the old tyranny revives again.
Its arm is long enough to reach us here,
As you will see. For, more insulting still
Than flaunting in our faces dead men's shrouds,
Here is the King's Mandamus, taking from us,
From this day forth, all power to punish Quakers.

BELLINGHAM.
That takes from us all power; we are but puppets,
And can no longer execute our laws.

ENDICOTT.
His Majesty begins with pleasant words,
"Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well;"
Then with a ruthless hand he strips from me
All that which makes me what I am; as if
From some old general in the field, grown gray
In service, scarred with many wounds,
Just at the hour of victory, he should strip
His badge of office and his well-gained honors,
And thrust him back into the ranks again.

Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is
reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room.

Here, read it for yourself; you see his words
Are pleasant words--considerate--not reproachful--
Nothing could be more gentle--or more royal;
But then the meaning underneath the words,
Mark that. He says all people known as Quakers
Among us, now condemned to suffer death
Or any corporal punishment whatever,
Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious
To the like condemnation, shall be sent
Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there
In such wise as shall be agreeable
Unto the English law and their demerits.
Is it not so?

BELLINGHAM (returning the paper).
Ay, so the paper says.

ENDICOTT.
It means we shall no longer rule the Province;
It means farewell to law and liberty,
Authority, respect for Magistrates,
The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth.
If all the knaves upon this continent
Can make appeal to England, and so thwart
The ends of truth and justice by delay,
Our power is gone forever. We are nothing
But ciphers, valueless save when we follow
Some unit; and our unit is the King!
'T is he that gives us value.

BELLINGHAM.
I confess
Such seems to be the meaning of this paper,
But being the King's Mandamus, signed and sealed,
We must obey, or we are in rebellion.

ENDICOTT.
I tell you, Richard Bellingham,--I tell you,
That this is the beginning of a struggle
Of which no mortal can foresee the end.
I shall not live to fight the battle for you,
I am a man disgraced in every way;
This order takes from me my self-respect
And the respect of others. 'T is my doom,
Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed!
Take it, and see that it is executed
So far as this, that all be set at large;
But see that none of them be sent to England
To bear false witness, and to spread reports
That might be prejudicial to ourselves.
[Exit BELLINGHAM.

There's a dull pain keeps knocking at my heart,
Dolefully saying, "Set thy house in order,
For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live!
For me the shadow on the dial-plate
Goeth not back, but on into the dark!
[Exit.


SCENE IV. -- The street. A crowd, reading a placard on the door
of the Meeting-house. NICHOLAS UPSALL among them. Enter John
Norton.

NORTON.
What is this gathering here?

UPSALL.
One William Brand,
An old man like ourselves, and weak in body,
Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison,
The people are excited, and they threaten
To tear the prison down.

NORTON.
What has been done?

UPSALL.
He has been put in irons, with his neck
And heels tied close together, and so left
From five in the morning until nine at night.

NORTON.
What more was done?

UPSALL.
He has been kept five days
In prison without food, and cruelly beaten,
So that his limbs were cold, his senses stopped.

NORTON.
What more?

UPSALL.
And is this not enough?

NORTON.
Now hear me.
This William Brand of yours has tried to beat
Our Gospel Ordinances black and blue;
And, if he has been beaten in like manner,
It is but justice, and I will appear
In his behalf that did so. I suppose
That he refused to work.

UPSALL.
He was too weak.
How could an old man work, when he was starving?

NORTON.
And what is this placard?

UPSALL.
The Magistrates,
To appease the people and prevent a tumult,
Have put up these placards throughout the town,
Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with
Impartially and sternly by the Court.

NORTON (tearing down the placard).
Down with this weak and cowardly concession,
This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin!
I fling it in his face! I trample it
Under my feet! It is his cunning craft,
The masterpiece of his diplomacy,
To cry and plead for boundless toleration.
But toleration is the first-born child
Of all abominations and deceits.
There is no room in Christ's triumphant army
For tolerationists. And if an Angel
Preach any other gospel unto you
Than that ye have received, God's malediction
Descend upon him! Let him be accursed!
[Exit.

UPSALL.
Now, go thy ways, John Norton, go thy ways,
Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee!
But even now there cometh out of England,
Like an o'ertaking and accusing conscience,
An outraged man, to call thee to account
For the unrighteous murder of his son!
[Exit.


SCENE V. -- The Wilderness. Enter EDITH.

EDITH.
How beautiful are these autumnal woods!
The wilderness doth blossom like the rose,
And change into a garden of the Lord!
How silent everywhere! Alone and lost
Here in the forest, there comes over me
An inward awfulness. I recall the words
Of the Apostle Paul: "In journeyings often,
Often in perils in the wilderness,
In weariness, in painfulness, in watchings,
In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness;"
And I forget my weariness and pain,
My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst.
The Lord hath said that He will seek his flock
In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell
Securely in the wilderness, and sleep
Safe in the woods! Whichever way I turn,
I come back with my face towards the town.
Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it.
O cruel town! I know what waits me there,
And yet I must go back; for ever louder
I hear the inward calling of the Spirit,
And must obey the voice. O woods that wear
Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained,
From you I learn a lesson of submission,
And am obedient even unto death,
If God so wills it. [Exit.

JOHN ENDICOTT (within).
Edith! Edith! Edith!

He enters.

It is in vain! I call, she answers not;
I follow, but I find no trace of her!
Blood! blood! The leaves above me and around me
Are red with blood! The pathways of the forest,
The clouds that canopy the setting sun
And even the little river in the meadows
Are stained with it! Where'er I look, I see it!
Away, thou horrible vision! Leave me! leave me!
Alas! you winding stream, that gropes its way
Through mist and shadow, doubling on itself,
At length will find, by the unerring law
Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man,
Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling
Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways
Subject to law? and when thou seemest to wander
The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing
Nearer and nearer to it, till at length
Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest?
[Exit.


ACT V.

SCENE I. -- Daybreak. Street in front of UPSALL's house. A light
in the window. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
O silent, sombre, and deserted streets,
To me ye 're peopled with a sad procession,
And echo only to the voice of sorrow!
O houses full of peacefulness and sleep,
Far better were it to awake no more
Than wake to look upon such scenes again!
There is a light in Master Upsall's window.
The good man is already risen, for sleep
Deserts the couches of the old.

Knocks at UPSALL's door.

UPSALL (at the window).
Who's there?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Am I so changed you do not know my voice?

UPSALL.
I know you. Have you heard what things have happened?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
I have heard nothing.

UPSALL.
Stay; I will come down.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me!
I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient
To know the worst. Oh, I am very weary
With waiting and with watching and pursuing!

Enter UPSALL.

UPSALL.
Thank God, you have come back! I've much to tell you.
Where have you been?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
You know that I was seized,
Fined, and released again. You know that Edith,
After her scourging in three towns, was banished
Into the wilderness, into the land
That is not sown; and there I followed her,
But found her not. Where is she?

UPSALL.
She is here.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Oh, do not speak that word, for it means death!

UPSALL.
No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber.
Listen to me. When news of Leddra's death
Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly
Got access to the presence of the King,
Told him there was a vein of innocent blood
Opened in his dominions here, which threatened
To overrun them all. The King replied.
"But I will stop that vein! " and he forthwith
Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates,
That they proceed no further in this business.
So all are pardoned, and all set at large.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Thank God! This is a victory for truth!
Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up
In prison wall, nor put to death on scaffolds!

UPSALL.
Come in; the morning air blows sharp and cold
Through the damp streets.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
It is the dawn of day
That chases the old darkness from our sky,
And tills the land with liberty and light.
[Exeunt.


SCENE II. -- The parlor of the Three Mariners. Enter KEMPTHORN.

KEMPTHORN.
A dull life this,--a dull life anyway!
Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard,
Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing
From nor'-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber,
Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond!
I said to Ralph, says I, "What's to be done? "
Says he: "Just slip your hawser in the night;
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon. "
But that won't do; because, you see, the owners
Somehow or other are mixed up with it.
Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole
Thinks as important as the Rule of Three.

Reads.

"Make no comparisons; make no long meals. "
Those are good rules and golden for a landlord
To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed!
"Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths. "
I drink to the King's, whatever he may say
And, as to ill opinions, that depends.
Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion,
And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion;
And both of these opinions I'll maintain
As long as there's a shot left in the locker.

Enter EDWARD BUTTER, with an ear-trumpet.

BUTTER.
Good morning, Captain Kempthorn.

KEMPTHORN.
Sir, to you.
You've the advantage of me. I don't know you.
What may I call your name?

BUTTER.
That's not your name?

KEMPTHORN.
Yes, that's my name. What's yours?

BUTTER.
My name is Butter.
I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.

KEMPTHORN.
Will you be seated?

BUTTER.
What say? Who's conceited?

KEMPTHORN.

Will you sit down?

BUTTER.
Oh, thank you.

KEMPTHORN.
Spread yourself
Upon this chair, sweet Butter.

BUTTER (sitting down).
A fine morning.

KEMPTHORN.
Nothing's the matter with it that I know of.
I have seen better, and I have seen worse.
The wind's nor'west. That's fair for them that sail.

BUTTER.
You need not speak so loud; I understand you.
You sail to-day.

KEMPTHORN.
No, I don't sail to-day.
So, be it fair or foul, it matters not.
Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here.

BUTTER.
No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke.

KEMPTHORN.
Then, will you drink? There's good ale at this inn.

BUTTER.
No, thank you. It's against the law to drink.

KEMPTHORN.
Well, almost everything's against the law
In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing,
You're sure to fetch up soon on something else.

BUTTER.
And so you sail to-day for dear Old England.
I am not one of those who think a sup
Of this New England air is better worth
Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale.

KEMPTHORN.
Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air.
But, as I said, I do not sail to-day.

BUTTER.
Ah yes; you sail today.

KEMPTHORN.
I'm under bonds
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes;
And one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged.

BUTTER.
No, all are pardoned,
All are set free by order of the Court;
But some of them would fain return to England.
You must not take them. Upon that condition
Your bond is cancelled.

KEMPTHORN.
Ah, the wind has shifted!
I pray you, do you speak officially?

BUTTER.
I always speak officially. To prove it,
Here is the bond.

Rising and giving a paper.

KEMPTHORN.
And here's my hand upon it,
And look you, when I say I'll do a thing
The thing is done. Am I now free to go?

BUTTER.
What say?

KEMPTHORN.
I say, confound the tedious man
With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?

BUTTER.
You're free to go, by order of the Court.
Your servant, sir.
[Exit.

KEMPTHORN (shouting from the window).
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo!
If ever a man was happy to leave Boston,
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow!

Re-enter BUTTER.

BUTTER.
Pray, did you call?

KEMPTHORN.
Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow.

BUTTER.
That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter.
You need not speak so loud.

KEMPTHORN (shaking hands).
Good-by! Good-by!

BUTTER.
Your servant, sir.

KEMPTHORN.
And yours a thousand times!
[Exeunt.


SCENE III. -- GOVERNOR ENDICOTT'S private room. An open window.

ENDICOTT seated in an arm-chair. BELLINGHAM standing near.

ENDICOTT.
O lost, O loved! wilt thou return no more?
O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost!
How many men are dragged into their graves
By their rebellious children! I now feel
The agony of a father's breaking heart
In David's cry, "O Absalom, my son! "

BELLINGHAM.
Can you not turn your thoughts a little while
To public matters? There are papers here
That need attention.

ENDICOTT.
Trouble me no more!
My business now is with another world,
Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly fear
That in my righteous zeal I have been led
To doing many things which, left undone,
My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it,
Or has some person told me, that John Norton
Is dead?

BELLINGHAM.
You have not dreamed it. He is dead,
And gone to his reward. It was no dream.

ENDICOTT.
Then it was very sudden; for I saw him
Standing where you now stand, not long ago.

BELLINGHAM.
By his own fireside, in the afternoon,
A faintness and a giddiness came o'er him;
And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried,
"The hand of God is on me! " and fell dead.

ENDICOTT.
And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it,
That Humphrey Atherton is dead?

BELLINGHAM.
Alas!
He too is gone, and by a death as sudden.
Returning home one evening, at the place
Where usually the Quakers have been scourged,
His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground,
So that his brains were dashed about the street.

ENDICOTT.
I am not superstitions, Bellingham,
And yet I tremble lest it may have been
A judgment on him.

BELLINGHAM.
So the people think.
They say his horse saw standing in the way
The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened.
And furthermore, brave Richard Davenport,
The captain of the Castle, in the storm
Has been struck dead by lightning.

ENDICOTT.
Speak no more.
For as I listen to your voice it seems
As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices,
And the dead bodies lay about the streets
Of the disconsolate city! Bellingham,
I did not put those wretched men to death.
I did but guard the passage with the sword
Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it!
Yet now I would that I had taken no part
In all that bloody work.

BELLINGHAM.
The guilt of it
Be on their heads, not ours.

ENDICOTT.
Are all set free?

BELLINGHAM.
All are at large.

ENDICOTT.
And none have been sent back
To England to malign us with the King?

BELLINGHAM.
The ship that brought them sails this very hour,
But carries no one back.

A distant cannon.

ENDICOTT.
What is that gun?

BELLINGHAM.
Her parting signal. Through the window there,
Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs,
Dropping below the Castle, outward bound.

ENDICOTT.
O white, white, white! Would that my soul had wings
As spotless as those shining sails to fly with!
Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark!
I thought I heard the hall door open and shut!
I thought I beard the footsteps of my boy!

BELLINGHAM.
It was the wind. There's no one in the passage.

ENDICOTT.
O Absalom, my son! I feel the world
Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking!
Death knocks! I go to meet him! Welcome, Death!

Rises, and sinks back dead; his head failing aside upon his
shoulder.