I thought I heard the hall-door open and shut!

I thought I heard the footsteps of my boy!

Bell. 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 falling aside on his shoulder.)

Bell. O ghastly sight!
Endicott! Endicott!

He breathes no more!

Like one who has been hanged!
He makes no answer!

[Raises ENDICOTT's head.

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!

For ever rest in peace!

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 neighbouring 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?

'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed
His ample acres under sun or cloud;

The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,
And gossipped with her neighbours 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 'tis 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 monkshood, 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.

(Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a riding-w hip 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

What shape is this?

(Re-enter TITUBA.)

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 loth to follow

A stranger in this wilderness, for fear

Of being misled, and left in some morass.

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 armoury 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 embittered,—
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.