No More Learning

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.

BELLINGHAM.
O ghastly sight! Like one who has been hanged!
Endicott! Endicott! He makes no answer!

Raises Endicott's head.

He breathes no more! How bright this signet-ring
Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it
Through such long years of trouble, as if Death
Had given him this memento of affection,
And whispered in his ear, "Remember me! "
How placid and how quiet is his face,
Now that the struggle and the strife are ended
Only the acrid spirit of the times
Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace,
Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace!



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GILES COREY Farmer.
JOHN HATHORNE Magistrate.
COTTON MATHER Minister of the Gospel.
JONATHAN WALCOT A youth.
RICHARD GARDNER Sea-Captain.
JOHN GLOYD Corey's hired man.
MARTHA Wife of Giles Corey.
TITUBA An Indian woman.
MARY WALCOT One of the Afflicted.


The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692.

PROLOGUE.

Delusions of the days that once have been,
Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen,
Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts
That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,--
These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here,
Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere,
We draw the outlines of weird figures cast
In shadow on the background of the Past,

Who would believe that in the quiet town
Of Salem, and, amid the woods that crown
The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms
That fold it safe in their paternal arms,--
Who would believe that in those peaceful streets,
Where the great elms shut out the summer heats,
Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast
The benediction of unbroken rest,--
Who would believe such deeds could find a place
As these whose tragic history we retrace?

'T was but a village then; the goodman ploughed
His ample acres under sun or cloud;
The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,
And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun;
The only men of dignity and state
Were then the Minister and the Magistrate,
Who ruled their little realm with iron rod,
Less in the love than in the fear of God;
And who believed devoutly in the Powers
Of Darkness, working in this world of ours,
In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread,
And shrouded apparitions of the dead.

Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame,"
Saith the old chronicle, "the Devil came;
Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts,
To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts!
And 't is no wonder; for, with all his host,
There most he rages where he hateth most,
And is most hated; so on us he brings
All these stupendous and portentous things! "

Something of this our scene to-night will show;
And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe,
Be not too swift in casting the first stone,
Nor think New England bears the guilt alone,
This sudden burst of wickedness and crime
Was but the common madness of the time,
When in all lands, that lie within the sound
Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.


ACT I.


SCENE I. -- The woods near Salem Village. Enter TITUBA, with a
basket of herbs.

TITUBA.
Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood;
And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts;
And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions;
And meadow-saffron and black hellebore,
That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy;
And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye-bright,
That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheumatisms;
I know them, and the places where they hide
In field and meadow; and I know their secrets,
And gather them because they give me power
Over all men and women. Armed with these,
I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave,
Am stronger than the captain with his sword,
Am richer than the merchant with his money,
Am wiser than the scholar with his books,
Mightier than Ministers and Magistrates,
With all the fear and reverence that attend them!
For I can fill their bones with aches and pains,
Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy,
Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts,
Or fall into delirium and convulsions;
I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand;
A touch from me and they are weak with pain,
A look from me, and they consume and die.
The death of cattle and the blight of corn,
The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,--
These are my doings, and they know it not.
Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies
Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!

Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a
riding-whip in his hand.

MATHER.
Methinks that I have come by paths unknown
Into the land and atmosphere of Witches;
For, meditating as I journeyed on,
Lo! I have lost my way! If I remember
Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned
That tells the story of a man who, praying
For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits,
Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face;
I, journeying to circumvent the Witches,
Surely by Witches have been led astray.
I am persuaded there are few affairs
In which the Devil doth not interfere.
We cannot undertake a journey even,
But Satan will be there to meddle with it
By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me
Into this thicket, struck me in the face
With branches of the trees, and so entangled
The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles,
That I must needs dismount, and search on foot
For the lost pathway leading to the village.

Re-enter TITUBA.

What shape is this? What monstrous apparition,
Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way?
Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman--

TITUBA.
I am a woman, but I am not good,
I am a Witch!

MATHER.
Then tell me, Witch and woman,
For you must know the pathways through this wood,
Where lieth Salem Village?

TITUBA.
Reverend sir,
The village is near by. I'm going there
With these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me.

MATHER.
First say, who are you? I am loath to follow
A stranger in this wilderness, for fear
Of being misled, and left in some morass.
Who are you?

TITUBA.
I am Tituba the Witch,
Wife of John Indian.

MATHER.
You are Tituba?
I know you then. You have renounced the Devil,
And have become a penitent confessor,
The Lord be praised! Go on, I'll follow you.
Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands
Tethered among the trees, not far from here.

TITUBA.
Let me get up behind you, reverend sir.

MATHER.
The Lord forbid! What would the people think,
If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather
Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him?
The Lord forbid!

TITUBA.
I do not need a horse!
I can ride through the air upon a stick,
Above the tree-tops and above the houses,
And no one see me, no one overtake me.
[Exeunt.


SCENE II. -- A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in the
corner.
Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE.
You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here
Beneath my humble roof.

MATHER.
I thank your Worship.

HATHORNE.
Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued
With your long ride through unfrequented woods.

They sit down.

MATHER.
You know the purport of my visit here,--
To be advised by you, and counsel with you,
And with the Reverend Clergy of the village,
Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you;
And see with mine own eyes the wonders told
Of spectres and the shadows of the dead,
That come back from their graves to speak with men.

HATHORNE.
Some men there are, I have known such, who think
That the two worlds--the seen and the unseen,
The world of matter and the world of spirit--
Are like the hemispheres upon our maps,
And touch each other only at a point.
But these two worlds are not divided thus,
Save for the purposes of common speech,
They form one globe, in which the parted seas
All flow together and are intermingled,
While the great continents remain distinct.

MATHER.
I doubt it not. The spiritual world
Lies all about us, and its avenues
Are open to the unseen feet of phantoms
That come and go, and we perceive them not,
Save by their influence, or when at times
A most mysterious Providence permits them
To manifest themselves to mortal eyes.

HATHORNE.
You, who are always welcome here among us,
Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom,
Your learning in these things to be our guide.
The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us,
And ravages the land with all his hosts.

MATHER.
The Unclean Spirit said, "My name is Legion! "
Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction!
But when our fervent, well-directed prayers,
Which are the great artillery of Heaven,
Are brought into the field, I see them scattered
And driven like autumn leaves before the wind.

HATHORNE.
You as a Minister of God, can meet them
With spiritual weapons: but, alas!
I, as a Magistrate, must combat them
With weapons from the armory of the flesh.

MATHER.
These wonders of the world invisible,--
These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,--
The multiplied and manifold afflictions
With which the aged and the dying saints
Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered,--
Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaim
The Second Coming of our Lord on earth.
The evening wolves will be much more abroad,
When we are near the evening of the world.

HATHORNE.
When you shall see, as I have hourly seen,
The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us,
See children tortured by invisible spirits,
And wasted and consumed by powers unseen,
You will confess the half has not been told you.

MATHER.
It must be so. The death-pangs of the Devil
Will make him more a Devil than before;
And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heated
Seven times more hot before its putting out.

HATHORNE.
Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you
For counsel and for guidance in this matter.
What further shall we do?

MATHER.
Remember this,
That as a sparrow falls not to the ground
Without the will of God, so not a Devil
Can come down from the air without his leave.
We must inquire.

HATHORNE.
Dear sir, we have inquired;
Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through,
And then resifted it.

MATHER.
If God permits
These Evil Spirits from the unseen regions
To visit us with surprising informations,
We must inquire what cause there is for this,
But not receive the testimony borne
By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt
In the accused.

HATHORNE.
Upon such evidence
We do not rest our case. The ways are many
In which the guilty do betray themselves.

MATHER.
Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness,
That on one side no innocent blood be shed
By too excessive zeal, and on the other
No shelter given to any work of darkness.

HATHORNE.
For one, I do not fear excess of zeal.
What do we gain by parleying with the Devil?
You reason, but you hesitate to act!
Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in such cases
The only safety is in acting promptly.
'T is not the part of wisdom to delay
In things where not to do is still to do
A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from.
You are a man of books and meditation,
But I am one who acts.

MATHER.
God give us wisdom
In the directing of this thorny business,
And guide us, lest New England should become
Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor
In the opinion of the world abroad!

The clock strikes.

I never hear the striking of a clock
Without a warning and an admonition
That time is on the wing, and we must quicken
Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward,
As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!