You have come safe, whom I esteem to be
The scourge of God, sent to chastise his people.
This very heresy, perchance, may serve

The purposes of God to some good end.
I leave it ; but do not neglect

With you

The holy tactics of the civil sword.

Endicott. And what more can be done?
Norton.

Fear not.

The hand that cut

The Red Cross from the colours of the king
Can cut the red heart from this heresy.
All blasphemies immediate
And heresies turbulent must be suppressed
By civil power.

Endicott. But in what way suppressed?
Norton. The Book of Deuteronomy declares
'That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy wife,
Ay, or the friend which is as thine own soul,
Enticee the secretly, and say to thee,

Let us serve other gods, then shall thine eye
Not pity him, but thou shalt surely kill him,
And thine own hand shall be the first upon him
To slay him.

Endicott. Four already have been slain;
And others banished upon pain of death.

But they come back again to meet their doom,
Bringing the linen for their winding-sheets.
We must not go too far. In truth, I shrink

From shedding of more blood. The people murmur
At our severity.

Norton.

Then let them murmur!

Truth is relentless; justice never wavers;

The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy;

The noble order of the Magistracy

Cometh immediately from God, and yet

This noble order of the Magistracy

Is by these Heretics despised and outraged.

Endicott. To-night they sleep in prison. If they die,

They cannot say that we have caused their death.

We do but guard the passage, with the sword

Pointed towards them; if they dash upon it,

Their blood will be on their own heads, not ours.

Norton. Enough. I ask no more. My predecessor

Coped only with the milder heresies

Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists.

He was not born to wrestle with these fiends.
Chrysostom in his pulpit; Augustine

In disputation; Timothy in his house!

The lantern of St. Botolph's ceased to burn

When from the portals of that church he came
To be a burning and a shining light
Here in the wilderness. And, as he lay
On his death-bed, he saw me in a vision
Ride on a snow-white horse into this town.
His vision was prophetic; thus I came,
A terror to the impenitent, and Death
On the pale horse of the Apocalypse
To all the accursed race of Heretics!

[Exeunt

SCENE II. A street. On one side, NICHOLAS UPSALL's house; on the other, ROBERT MERRY'S, with a flock of pigeons on the roof. UPSALL seated in the porch of his house.

Upsall. O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair,

How welcome to the weary and the old !

Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares!
Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
Ah, why will man by his austerities

Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light,
And make of thee a dungeon of despair!

Robert Merry (entering and looking round him).
All silent as a graveyard! No one stirring;
No footfall in the street, no sound of voices !
By righteous punishment and perseverance,
And perseverance in that punishment,
At last I've brought this contumacious town
To strict observance of the Sabbath day.
Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons yonder,
Are now the only Sabbath-breakers left.
I cannot put them down. As if to taunt me,
They gather every Sabbath afternoon

In noisy congregation on my roof,

Billing and cooing. Whir! take that, ye Quakers.

(Throws a stone at the pigeons. Sees UPSALL.) Ah! Master Nicholas !

Upsall.

Dear neighbour Robert.

Merry.

Good afternoon,

Master Nicholas,

You have to day withdrawn yourself from meeting.
Upsall. Yea, I have chosen rather to worship God

Sitting in silence here at my own door.

Merry. Worship the Devil! You this day have broken Three of our strictest laws. First, by abstaining

From public worship. Secondly, by walking

Profanely on the Sabbath.

Upsall.

Not one step.

I have been sitting still here, seeing the pigeons
Feed in the street and fly about the roofs.

Merry. You have been in the street with other intent
Than going to and from the Meeting-house.

And, thirdly, you are harbouring Quakers here.

I am amazed!

Upsall.

Men sometimes, it is said,

Nice angels!

Entertain angels unawares.

Merry.

Angels in broad-brimmed hats and russet cloaks,
The colour of the Devil's nutting-bag! They came
Into the Meeting-house this afternoon

More in the shape of devils than of angels.

The women screamed and fainted; and the boys

Made such an uproar in the gallery

I could not keep them quiet.

Upsall.

Neighbour Robert,

Your persecution is of no avail.

Merry. 'Tis prosecution, as the governor says,

Not persecution.

Upsall.

Well, your prosecution;

The reason is,

Your hangings do no good.

Merry.

We do not hang enough. But, mark my words,

We'll scour them; yea, I warrant ye, we'll scour them!
And now go in and entertain your angels,

And don't be seen here in the street again

Till after sundown!--There they are again!

[Exit UPSALL. MERRY throws another stone at the pigeons, and then goes into his house.

SCENE III. A room in UPSALL's house. Night. EDITH, WHARTON, and other Quakers seated at a table.

Several books on the table.

UPSALL seated near them.

Wharton. William and Marmaduke, our martyred brothers, Sleep in untimely graves, if aught untimely

Can find place in the providence of God,

Where nothing comes too early or too late.

I saw their noble death. They to the scaffold

Walked hand in hand. Two hundred armed men

And many horsemen guarded them, for fear

Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts were stirred.
Edith. O holy martyrs!

Wharton.

When they tried to speak,

Their voices by the roll of drums were drowned.

When they were dead they still looked fresh and fair,
The terror of death was not upon their faces.
Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek woman,
Has passed through martyrdom to her reward;
Exclaiming, as they led her to her death,

"These many days I've been in Paradise."

And, when she died, Priest Wilson threw the hangman
His handkerchief, to cover the pale face

He dared not look upon.

As persecuted,

Edith.
Yet not forsaken; as unknown, yet known;
As dying, and behold we are alive;
As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing alway;
As having nothing, yet possessing all!
Wharton. And Ledra, too, is dead. But from his prison,
The day before his death, he sent these words
Unto the little flock of Christ: "Whatever
May come upon the followers of the Light,
Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness,
Or perils in the city or the sea,

Or persecution, or even death itself,

77

I am persuaded that God's armour of Light,

As it is loved and lived in, will preserve you.

Yea, death itself; through which you will find entrance

Into the pleasant pastures of the fold,

Where you shall feed for ever as the herds

That roam at large in the low valleys of Achor.

And as the flowing of the ocean fills

Each creek and branch thereof, and then retires,
Leaving behind a sweet and wholesome savour;
So doth the virtue and the life of God
Flow evermore into the hearts of those
Whom he hath made partakers of his nature;
And, when it but withdraws itself a little,
Leaves a sweet savour after it, that many
Can say they are made clean by every word
That he hath spoken to them in their silence."
Edith (rising and breaking into a kind of chant).
Truly we do but grope here in the dark,
Near the partition-wall of Life and Death,
At every moment dreading or desiring
To lay our hands upon the unseen door!
Let us, then, labour for an inward stillness,-
An inward stillness and an inward healing;
That perfect silence where the lips and heart
Are still, and we no longer entertain
Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions,
But God alone speaks in us, and we wait
In singleness of heart, that we may know
His will, and in the silence of our spirits,
That we may do his will, and do that only!

(A long pause, interrupted by the sound of a drum approaching; then shouts in the street, and a loud knocking at the door.)

Will no one answer?

Marshal. Within there! Open the door!
Merry.
Marshal. In the King's name! Within there!
Merry.

Open the door!

Upsall (from the window). It is not barred.

Nothing prevents you.

The poor man's door is ever on the latch,

He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out thieves;

He fears no enemies, and has no friends

Importunate enough to turn the key upon them!

Come in.

(Enter JOHN ENDICOTT, the MARSHAL, MERRY, and a crowd. Seeing the Quakers silent and unmoved, they pause, awe-struck.

ENDICOTT opposite EDITH.)

Marshal. In the King's name do I arrest you all!

Away with them to prison. Master Upsall,
You are again discovered harbouring here
These ranters and disturbers of the peace.
You know the law.

Upsall.

I know it, and am ready

To suffer yet again its penalties.

JOHN

Edith (to JOHN ENDICOTT). Why dost thou persecute me,
Saul of Tarsus ?

ACT. II.

SCENE I. JOHN ENDICOTT's room. Early morning.

John Endicott. "Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of
Tarsus ?"

All night these words were ringing in mine ears!

A sorrowful, sweet face; a look that pierced me
With meek reproach; a voice of resignation
That had a life of suffering in its tone;
And that was all! And yet I could not sleep,
Or, when I slept, I dreamed that awful dream!
I stood beneath the elm-tree on the Common

On which the Quakers have been hanged, and heard
A voice, not hers, that cried amid the darkness,
"This is Aceldama, the field of blood!

I will have mercy, and not sacrifice!"

(Opens the window, and looks out.)
The sun is up already; and my heart
Sickens and sinks within me when I think
How many tragedies will be enacted
Before his setting. As the earth rolls round,
It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel,
Upon whose whirling spokes we are bound fast,
And must go with it! Ah, how bright the sun
Strikes on the sea, and on the masts of vessels