The wind blows east,—the wind blows west,—It blows upon the gallows tree:Oh, little babe beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!The judges came,—the children came(Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),They set their black lies on my name:—"A God-accursèd witch who learned"Each night (they said) the Devil's art,Through Salem wood by devils drawn."—I, whose heart beat against his heartFrom dark till dawn!—from dark till dawn!He faced them in his fearless scorn(The sun was on him as he stood):"No purer is her babe unborn;I prove her sinless with my blood."They spared the babe beneath my breast,—They bound his hands,—they set me free,—Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;He died for thee!—he died for me!They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill(I saw the flowers among the grass);The women came,—I hear them still,—They held their babes to see him pass.God curse them!—Nay,—Oh God forgive!He said it while their lips reviled;He kissed my lips,—he whispered: "Live!The father loves thee in the child."Then earth and sky grew black,—I fell—I lay as stone beside their stone.They did their work. They earned their Hell.I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,Shield him upon the gallows tree!O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!Ednah Proctor Clarke.
The wind blows east,—the wind blows west,—It blows upon the gallows tree:Oh, little babe beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!The judges came,—the children came(Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),They set their black lies on my name:—"A God-accursèd witch who learned"Each night (they said) the Devil's art,Through Salem wood by devils drawn."—I, whose heart beat against his heartFrom dark till dawn!—from dark till dawn!He faced them in his fearless scorn(The sun was on him as he stood):"No purer is her babe unborn;I prove her sinless with my blood."They spared the babe beneath my breast,—They bound his hands,—they set me free,—Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;He died for thee!—he died for me!They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill(I saw the flowers among the grass);The women came,—I hear them still,—They held their babes to see him pass.God curse them!—Nay,—Oh God forgive!He said it while their lips reviled;He kissed my lips,—he whispered: "Live!The father loves thee in the child."Then earth and sky grew black,—I fell—I lay as stone beside their stone.They did their work. They earned their Hell.I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,Shield him upon the gallows tree!O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!Ednah Proctor Clarke.
The wind blows east,—the wind blows west,—It blows upon the gallows tree:Oh, little babe beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!
The judges came,—the children came(Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),They set their black lies on my name:—"A God-accursèd witch who learned
"Each night (they said) the Devil's art,Through Salem wood by devils drawn."—I, whose heart beat against his heartFrom dark till dawn!—from dark till dawn!
He faced them in his fearless scorn(The sun was on him as he stood):"No purer is her babe unborn;I prove her sinless with my blood."
They spared the babe beneath my breast,—They bound his hands,—they set me free,—Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;He died for thee!—he died for me!
They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill(I saw the flowers among the grass);The women came,—I hear them still,—They held their babes to see him pass.
God curse them!—Nay,—Oh God forgive!He said it while their lips reviled;He kissed my lips,—he whispered: "Live!The father loves thee in the child."
Then earth and sky grew black,—I fell—I lay as stone beside their stone.They did their work. They earned their Hell.I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.
Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,Shield him upon the gallows tree!O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,He died for thee!—he died for me!
Ednah Proctor Clarke.
The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court, he refused to plead—"stood mute," as the law termed it. The penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear, and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles Corey suffered.
The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court, he refused to plead—"stood mute," as the law termed it. The penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear, and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles Corey suffered.
THE TRIAL
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
[September 7, 1692]
Scene II.—Interior of the Meeting-house.Matherand the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit.Before them a raised platform.Marthain chains.Coreynear her.Mary Walcotin a chair. A crowd of spectators, among themGloyd.Confusion and murmurs during the scene.HATHORNECallMartha Corey.MARTHAI am here.HATHORNECome forward.She ascends the platform.The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, here present, do accuse youOf having on the tenth of June last past,And divers other times before and after,Wickedly used and practised certain artsCalled Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,Of Salem Village: by which wicked artsThe aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, as well as of the StatuteMade and provided in that case. What say you?MARTHABefore I answer, give me leave to pray.HATHORNEWe have not sent for you, nor are we here,To hear you pray, but to examine youIn whatsoever is alleged against youWhy do you hurt this person?MARTHAI do not.I am not guilty of the charge against me.MARYAvoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!Avoid, avoid, Witch!MARTHAI am innocent.I never had to do with any WitchcraftSince I was born. I am a gospel woman.MARYYou are a gospel Witch!MARTHA (clasping her hands)Ah me! ah me!Oh, give me leave to pray!MARY (stretching out her hands)She hurts me now.See, she has pinched my hands!HATHORNEWho made these marksUpon her hands?MARTHAI do not know. I standApart from her. I did not touch her hands.HATHORNEWho hurt her then?MARTHAI know not.HATHORNEDo you thinkShe is bewitched?MARTHAIndeed I do not think so.I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.HATHORNEThen answer me: When certain persons cameTo see you yesterday, how did you knowBeforehand why they came?MARTHAI had had speech;The children said I hurt them, and I thoughtThese people came to question me about it.HATHORNEHow did you know the children had been toldTo note the clothes you wore?MARTHAMy husband told meWhat others said about it.HATHORNEGoodman Corey,Say, did you tell her?COREYI must speak the truth;I did not tell her. It was some one else.HATHORNEDid you not say your husband told you so?How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.MARTHAbites her lips, and is silent.You bite your lips, but do not answer me!MARYAh, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!HATHORNEYou said your husband told you.MARTHAYes, he told meThe children said I troubled them.HATHORNEThen tell me,Why do you trouble them?MARTHAI have denied it.MARYShe threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.Shows them.HATHORNEAnd there are persons here who know the truthOf what has now been said. What answer make you?MARTHAI make no answer. Give me leave to pray.HATHORNEWhom would you pray to?MARTHATo my God and Father.HATHORNEWho is your God and Father?MARTHAThe Almighty!HATHORNEDoth he you pray to say that he is God?It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.MARYThere is a dark shape whispering in her ear.HATHORNEWhat does it say to you?MARTHAI see no shape.HATHORNEDid you not hear it whisper?MARTHAI heard nothing.MARYWhat torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!Falls into a swoon.HATHORNEYou see this woman cannot stand before you.If you would look for mercy, you must lookIn God's way, by confession of your guilt.Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?MARTHAI do not know. He who appeared of oldIn Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!COREYO Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.HATHORNENo; stand aside, old man.MARY (starting up)Look there! Look there!I see a little bird, a yellow bird,Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!MARTHAI see nothing.HATHORNE'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.MARYNow it has flown away. It sits up thereUpon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.MARTHAGiles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.She leans against the railing.MARYOh, she is crushing me with all her weight!HATHORNEDid you not carry once the Devil's BookTo this young woman?MARTHANever.HATHORNEHave you signed it,Or touched it?MARTHANo; I never saw it.HATHORNEDid you not scourge her with an iron rod?MARTHANo, I did not. If any Evil SpiritHas taken my shape to do these evil deeds,I cannot help it. I am innocent.HATHORNEDid you not say the Magistrates were blind?That you would open their eyes?MARTHA (with a scornful laugh)Yes, I said that;If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!Can the innocent be guilty?HATHORNEDid you notOn one occasion hide your husband's saddleTo hinder him from coming to the Sessions?MARTHAI thought it was a folly in a farmerTo waste his time pursuing such illusions.HATHORNEWhat was the bird that this young woman sawJust now upon your hand?MARTHAI know no bird.HATHORNEHave you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?MARTHANo, never, never!HATHORNEWhat then was the BookYou showed to this young woman, and besought herTo write in it?MARTHAWhere should I have a book?I showed her none, nor have none.MARYThe next SabbathIs the Communion Day, but Martha CoreyWill not be there!MARTHAAh, you are all against me.What can I do or say?HATHORNEYou can confess.MARTHANo, I cannot, for I am innocent.HATHORNEWe have the proof of many witnessesThat you are guilty.MARTHAGive me leave to speak.Will you condemn me on such evidence,—You who have known me for so many years?Will you condemn me in this house of God,Where I so long have worshipped with you all?Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wineSo many times at our Lord's Table with you?Bear witness, you that hear me; you all knowThat I have led a blameless life among you,That never any whisper of suspicionWas breathed against me till this accusation.And shall this count for nothing? Will you takeMy life away from me, because this girl,Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,Accuses me of things I blush to name?HATHORNEWhat! is it not enough? Would you hear more?Giles Corey!COREYI am here.HATHORNECome forward, then.COREYascends the platform.Is it not true, that on a certain nightYou were impeded strangely in your prayers?That something hindered you? and that you leftThis woman here, your wife, kneeling aloneUpon the hearth?COREYYes; I cannot deny it.HATHORNEDid you not say the Devil hindered you?COREYI think I said some words to that effect.HATHORNEIs it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,To you belonging, broke from their enclosureAnd leaped into the river, and were drowned?COREYIt is most true.HATHORNEAnd did you not then sayThat they were overlooked?COREYSo much I said.I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!(Aside.)HATHORNEWho did these things?COREYI do not know who did them.HATHORNEThen I will tell you. It is some one near you;You see her now; this woman, your own wife.COREYI call the heavens to witness, it is false!She never harmed me, never hindered meIn anything but what I should not do.And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,And in God's house here, that I never knew herAs otherwise than patient, brave, and true,Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,A virtuous and industrious and good wife!HATHORNETut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;You are a witness, not an advocate!Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.MARTHAO Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!MARYGo, go and join the Witches at the door.Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late![ExitMartha;Coreyfollowing.COREYThe dream! the dream! the dream!HATHORNEWhat does he say?Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourselfAccused of Witchcraft and of SorceryBy many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?COREYI know my death is foreordained by you,—Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.During the rest of the scene he remains silent.HATHORNEDo you refuse to plead?—'Twere better for youTo make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.—Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty?Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?Where is John Gloyd?GLOYD(coming forward)Here am I.HATHORNETell the Court;Have you not seen the supernatural powerOf this old man? Have you not seen him doStrange feats of strength?GLOYDI've seen him lead the field,On a hot day, in mowing, and againstUs younger men; and I have wrestled with him.He threw me like a feather. I have seen himLift up a barrel with his single hands,Which two strong men could hardly lift together,And, holding it above his head, drink from it.HATHORNEThat is enough; we need not question further.What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?MARYSee there! See there!HATHORNEWhat is it? I see nothing.MARYLook! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,Whom fifteen years ago this man did murderBy stamping on his body! In his shroudHe comes here to bear witness to the crime!The crowd shrinks back fromCoreyin horror.HATHORNEGhosts of the dead and voices of the livingBear witness to your guilt, and you must die!It might have been an easier death. Your doomWill be on your own head, and not on ours.Twice more will you be questioned of these things;Twice more have room to plead or to confess.If you are contumacious to the Court,And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,Then by the Statute you will be condemnedTo thepeine forte et dure! To have your bodyPressed by great weights until you shall be dead!And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Scene II.—Interior of the Meeting-house.Matherand the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit.Before them a raised platform.Marthain chains.Coreynear her.Mary Walcotin a chair. A crowd of spectators, among themGloyd.Confusion and murmurs during the scene.HATHORNECallMartha Corey.MARTHAI am here.HATHORNECome forward.She ascends the platform.The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, here present, do accuse youOf having on the tenth of June last past,And divers other times before and after,Wickedly used and practised certain artsCalled Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,Of Salem Village: by which wicked artsThe aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, as well as of the StatuteMade and provided in that case. What say you?MARTHABefore I answer, give me leave to pray.HATHORNEWe have not sent for you, nor are we here,To hear you pray, but to examine youIn whatsoever is alleged against youWhy do you hurt this person?MARTHAI do not.I am not guilty of the charge against me.MARYAvoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!Avoid, avoid, Witch!MARTHAI am innocent.I never had to do with any WitchcraftSince I was born. I am a gospel woman.MARYYou are a gospel Witch!MARTHA (clasping her hands)Ah me! ah me!Oh, give me leave to pray!MARY (stretching out her hands)She hurts me now.See, she has pinched my hands!HATHORNEWho made these marksUpon her hands?MARTHAI do not know. I standApart from her. I did not touch her hands.HATHORNEWho hurt her then?MARTHAI know not.HATHORNEDo you thinkShe is bewitched?MARTHAIndeed I do not think so.I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.HATHORNEThen answer me: When certain persons cameTo see you yesterday, how did you knowBeforehand why they came?MARTHAI had had speech;The children said I hurt them, and I thoughtThese people came to question me about it.HATHORNEHow did you know the children had been toldTo note the clothes you wore?MARTHAMy husband told meWhat others said about it.HATHORNEGoodman Corey,Say, did you tell her?COREYI must speak the truth;I did not tell her. It was some one else.HATHORNEDid you not say your husband told you so?How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.MARTHAbites her lips, and is silent.You bite your lips, but do not answer me!MARYAh, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!HATHORNEYou said your husband told you.MARTHAYes, he told meThe children said I troubled them.HATHORNEThen tell me,Why do you trouble them?MARTHAI have denied it.MARYShe threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.Shows them.HATHORNEAnd there are persons here who know the truthOf what has now been said. What answer make you?MARTHAI make no answer. Give me leave to pray.HATHORNEWhom would you pray to?MARTHATo my God and Father.HATHORNEWho is your God and Father?MARTHAThe Almighty!HATHORNEDoth he you pray to say that he is God?It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.MARYThere is a dark shape whispering in her ear.HATHORNEWhat does it say to you?MARTHAI see no shape.HATHORNEDid you not hear it whisper?MARTHAI heard nothing.MARYWhat torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!Falls into a swoon.HATHORNEYou see this woman cannot stand before you.If you would look for mercy, you must lookIn God's way, by confession of your guilt.Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?MARTHAI do not know. He who appeared of oldIn Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!COREYO Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.HATHORNENo; stand aside, old man.MARY (starting up)Look there! Look there!I see a little bird, a yellow bird,Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!MARTHAI see nothing.HATHORNE'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.MARYNow it has flown away. It sits up thereUpon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.MARTHAGiles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.She leans against the railing.MARYOh, she is crushing me with all her weight!HATHORNEDid you not carry once the Devil's BookTo this young woman?MARTHANever.HATHORNEHave you signed it,Or touched it?MARTHANo; I never saw it.HATHORNEDid you not scourge her with an iron rod?MARTHANo, I did not. If any Evil SpiritHas taken my shape to do these evil deeds,I cannot help it. I am innocent.HATHORNEDid you not say the Magistrates were blind?That you would open their eyes?MARTHA (with a scornful laugh)Yes, I said that;If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!Can the innocent be guilty?HATHORNEDid you notOn one occasion hide your husband's saddleTo hinder him from coming to the Sessions?MARTHAI thought it was a folly in a farmerTo waste his time pursuing such illusions.HATHORNEWhat was the bird that this young woman sawJust now upon your hand?MARTHAI know no bird.HATHORNEHave you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?MARTHANo, never, never!HATHORNEWhat then was the BookYou showed to this young woman, and besought herTo write in it?MARTHAWhere should I have a book?I showed her none, nor have none.MARYThe next SabbathIs the Communion Day, but Martha CoreyWill not be there!MARTHAAh, you are all against me.What can I do or say?HATHORNEYou can confess.MARTHANo, I cannot, for I am innocent.HATHORNEWe have the proof of many witnessesThat you are guilty.MARTHAGive me leave to speak.Will you condemn me on such evidence,—You who have known me for so many years?Will you condemn me in this house of God,Where I so long have worshipped with you all?Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wineSo many times at our Lord's Table with you?Bear witness, you that hear me; you all knowThat I have led a blameless life among you,That never any whisper of suspicionWas breathed against me till this accusation.And shall this count for nothing? Will you takeMy life away from me, because this girl,Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,Accuses me of things I blush to name?HATHORNEWhat! is it not enough? Would you hear more?Giles Corey!COREYI am here.HATHORNECome forward, then.COREYascends the platform.Is it not true, that on a certain nightYou were impeded strangely in your prayers?That something hindered you? and that you leftThis woman here, your wife, kneeling aloneUpon the hearth?COREYYes; I cannot deny it.HATHORNEDid you not say the Devil hindered you?COREYI think I said some words to that effect.HATHORNEIs it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,To you belonging, broke from their enclosureAnd leaped into the river, and were drowned?COREYIt is most true.HATHORNEAnd did you not then sayThat they were overlooked?COREYSo much I said.I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!(Aside.)HATHORNEWho did these things?COREYI do not know who did them.HATHORNEThen I will tell you. It is some one near you;You see her now; this woman, your own wife.COREYI call the heavens to witness, it is false!She never harmed me, never hindered meIn anything but what I should not do.And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,And in God's house here, that I never knew herAs otherwise than patient, brave, and true,Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,A virtuous and industrious and good wife!HATHORNETut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;You are a witness, not an advocate!Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.MARTHAO Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!MARYGo, go and join the Witches at the door.Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late![ExitMartha;Coreyfollowing.COREYThe dream! the dream! the dream!HATHORNEWhat does he say?Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourselfAccused of Witchcraft and of SorceryBy many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?COREYI know my death is foreordained by you,—Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.During the rest of the scene he remains silent.HATHORNEDo you refuse to plead?—'Twere better for youTo make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.—Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty?Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?Where is John Gloyd?GLOYD(coming forward)Here am I.HATHORNETell the Court;Have you not seen the supernatural powerOf this old man? Have you not seen him doStrange feats of strength?GLOYDI've seen him lead the field,On a hot day, in mowing, and againstUs younger men; and I have wrestled with him.He threw me like a feather. I have seen himLift up a barrel with his single hands,Which two strong men could hardly lift together,And, holding it above his head, drink from it.HATHORNEThat is enough; we need not question further.What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?MARYSee there! See there!HATHORNEWhat is it? I see nothing.MARYLook! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,Whom fifteen years ago this man did murderBy stamping on his body! In his shroudHe comes here to bear witness to the crime!The crowd shrinks back fromCoreyin horror.HATHORNEGhosts of the dead and voices of the livingBear witness to your guilt, and you must die!It might have been an easier death. Your doomWill be on your own head, and not on ours.Twice more will you be questioned of these things;Twice more have room to plead or to confess.If you are contumacious to the Court,And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,Then by the Statute you will be condemnedTo thepeine forte et dure! To have your bodyPressed by great weights until you shall be dead!And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Scene II.—Interior of the Meeting-house.Matherand the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit.Before them a raised platform.Marthain chains.Coreynear her.Mary Walcotin a chair. A crowd of spectators, among themGloyd.Confusion and murmurs during the scene.
HATHORNECallMartha Corey.
MARTHAI am here.
HATHORNECome forward.
She ascends the platform.
The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, here present, do accuse youOf having on the tenth of June last past,And divers other times before and after,Wickedly used and practised certain artsCalled Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,Of Salem Village: by which wicked artsThe aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and LadyThe King and Queen, as well as of the StatuteMade and provided in that case. What say you?
MARTHABefore I answer, give me leave to pray.
HATHORNEWe have not sent for you, nor are we here,To hear you pray, but to examine youIn whatsoever is alleged against youWhy do you hurt this person?
MARTHAI do not.I am not guilty of the charge against me.
MARYAvoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!Avoid, avoid, Witch!
MARTHAI am innocent.I never had to do with any WitchcraftSince I was born. I am a gospel woman.
MARYYou are a gospel Witch!
MARTHA (clasping her hands)Ah me! ah me!Oh, give me leave to pray!
MARY (stretching out her hands)She hurts me now.See, she has pinched my hands!
HATHORNEWho made these marksUpon her hands?
MARTHAI do not know. I standApart from her. I did not touch her hands.
HATHORNEWho hurt her then?
MARTHAI know not.
HATHORNEDo you thinkShe is bewitched?
MARTHAIndeed I do not think so.I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.
HATHORNEThen answer me: When certain persons cameTo see you yesterday, how did you knowBeforehand why they came?
MARTHAI had had speech;The children said I hurt them, and I thoughtThese people came to question me about it.
HATHORNEHow did you know the children had been toldTo note the clothes you wore?
MARTHAMy husband told meWhat others said about it.
HATHORNEGoodman Corey,Say, did you tell her?
COREYI must speak the truth;I did not tell her. It was some one else.
HATHORNEDid you not say your husband told you so?How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.
MARTHAbites her lips, and is silent.
You bite your lips, but do not answer me!
MARYAh, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!
HATHORNEYou said your husband told you.
MARTHAYes, he told meThe children said I troubled them.
HATHORNEThen tell me,Why do you trouble them?
MARTHAI have denied it.
MARYShe threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.Shows them.
HATHORNEAnd there are persons here who know the truthOf what has now been said. What answer make you?
MARTHAI make no answer. Give me leave to pray.
HATHORNEWhom would you pray to?
MARTHATo my God and Father.
HATHORNEWho is your God and Father?
MARTHAThe Almighty!
HATHORNEDoth he you pray to say that he is God?It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.
MARYThere is a dark shape whispering in her ear.
HATHORNEWhat does it say to you?
MARTHAI see no shape.
HATHORNEDid you not hear it whisper?
MARTHAI heard nothing.
MARYWhat torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!Falls into a swoon.
HATHORNEYou see this woman cannot stand before you.If you would look for mercy, you must lookIn God's way, by confession of your guilt.Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?
MARTHAI do not know. He who appeared of oldIn Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!
COREYO Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.
HATHORNENo; stand aside, old man.
MARY (starting up)Look there! Look there!I see a little bird, a yellow bird,Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!
MARTHAI see nothing.
HATHORNE'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.
MARYNow it has flown away. It sits up thereUpon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.
MARTHAGiles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.She leans against the railing.
MARYOh, she is crushing me with all her weight!
HATHORNEDid you not carry once the Devil's BookTo this young woman?
MARTHANever.
HATHORNEHave you signed it,Or touched it?
MARTHANo; I never saw it.
HATHORNEDid you not scourge her with an iron rod?
MARTHANo, I did not. If any Evil SpiritHas taken my shape to do these evil deeds,I cannot help it. I am innocent.
HATHORNEDid you not say the Magistrates were blind?That you would open their eyes?
MARTHA (with a scornful laugh)Yes, I said that;If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!Can the innocent be guilty?
HATHORNEDid you notOn one occasion hide your husband's saddleTo hinder him from coming to the Sessions?
MARTHAI thought it was a folly in a farmerTo waste his time pursuing such illusions.
HATHORNEWhat was the bird that this young woman sawJust now upon your hand?
MARTHAI know no bird.
HATHORNEHave you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?
MARTHANo, never, never!
HATHORNEWhat then was the BookYou showed to this young woman, and besought herTo write in it?
MARTHAWhere should I have a book?I showed her none, nor have none.
MARYThe next SabbathIs the Communion Day, but Martha CoreyWill not be there!
MARTHAAh, you are all against me.What can I do or say?
HATHORNEYou can confess.
MARTHANo, I cannot, for I am innocent.
HATHORNEWe have the proof of many witnessesThat you are guilty.
MARTHAGive me leave to speak.Will you condemn me on such evidence,—You who have known me for so many years?Will you condemn me in this house of God,Where I so long have worshipped with you all?Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wineSo many times at our Lord's Table with you?Bear witness, you that hear me; you all knowThat I have led a blameless life among you,That never any whisper of suspicionWas breathed against me till this accusation.And shall this count for nothing? Will you takeMy life away from me, because this girl,Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,Accuses me of things I blush to name?
HATHORNEWhat! is it not enough? Would you hear more?Giles Corey!
COREYI am here.
HATHORNECome forward, then.
COREYascends the platform.
Is it not true, that on a certain nightYou were impeded strangely in your prayers?That something hindered you? and that you leftThis woman here, your wife, kneeling aloneUpon the hearth?
COREYYes; I cannot deny it.
HATHORNEDid you not say the Devil hindered you?
COREYI think I said some words to that effect.
HATHORNEIs it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,To you belonging, broke from their enclosureAnd leaped into the river, and were drowned?
COREYIt is most true.
HATHORNEAnd did you not then sayThat they were overlooked?
COREYSo much I said.I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!(Aside.)
HATHORNEWho did these things?
COREYI do not know who did them.
HATHORNEThen I will tell you. It is some one near you;You see her now; this woman, your own wife.
COREYI call the heavens to witness, it is false!She never harmed me, never hindered meIn anything but what I should not do.And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,And in God's house here, that I never knew herAs otherwise than patient, brave, and true,Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,A virtuous and industrious and good wife!
HATHORNETut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;You are a witness, not an advocate!Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.
MARTHAO Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!
MARYGo, go and join the Witches at the door.Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late!
[ExitMartha;Coreyfollowing.
COREYThe dream! the dream! the dream!
HATHORNEWhat does he say?Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourselfAccused of Witchcraft and of SorceryBy many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?
COREYI know my death is foreordained by you,—Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.
During the rest of the scene he remains silent.
HATHORNEDo you refuse to plead?—'Twere better for youTo make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.—Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty?Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?Where is John Gloyd?
GLOYD(coming forward)Here am I.
HATHORNETell the Court;Have you not seen the supernatural powerOf this old man? Have you not seen him doStrange feats of strength?
GLOYDI've seen him lead the field,On a hot day, in mowing, and againstUs younger men; and I have wrestled with him.He threw me like a feather. I have seen himLift up a barrel with his single hands,Which two strong men could hardly lift together,And, holding it above his head, drink from it.
HATHORNEThat is enough; we need not question further.What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?
MARYSee there! See there!
HATHORNEWhat is it? I see nothing.
MARYLook! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,Whom fifteen years ago this man did murderBy stamping on his body! In his shroudHe comes here to bear witness to the crime!
The crowd shrinks back fromCoreyin horror.
HATHORNEGhosts of the dead and voices of the livingBear witness to your guilt, and you must die!It might have been an easier death. Your doomWill be on your own head, and not on ours.Twice more will you be questioned of these things;Twice more have room to plead or to confess.If you are contumacious to the Court,And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,Then by the Statute you will be condemnedTo thepeine forte et dure! To have your bodyPressed by great weights until you shall be dead!And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
GILES COREY
[September 19, 1692]
Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,A stubborn wretch was he;And fitt was he to hang on highUpon the Locust-tree.So when before the magistratesFor triall he did come,He would no true confession make,But was compleatlie dumbe."Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,"What hast thou heare to pleadeTo these that now accuse thy souleOf crimes and horrid deed?"Giles Corey, he said not a worde,No single worde spoke he."Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,"We'll press it out of thee."They got them then a heavy beam,They laid it on his breast;They loaded it with heavy stones,And hard upon him prest."More weight!" now said this wretched man;"More weight!" again he cried;And he did no confession make,But wickedly he dyed.
Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,A stubborn wretch was he;And fitt was he to hang on highUpon the Locust-tree.So when before the magistratesFor triall he did come,He would no true confession make,But was compleatlie dumbe."Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,"What hast thou heare to pleadeTo these that now accuse thy souleOf crimes and horrid deed?"Giles Corey, he said not a worde,No single worde spoke he."Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,"We'll press it out of thee."They got them then a heavy beam,They laid it on his breast;They loaded it with heavy stones,And hard upon him prest."More weight!" now said this wretched man;"More weight!" again he cried;And he did no confession make,But wickedly he dyed.
Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,A stubborn wretch was he;And fitt was he to hang on highUpon the Locust-tree.
So when before the magistratesFor triall he did come,He would no true confession make,But was compleatlie dumbe.
"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,"What hast thou heare to pleadeTo these that now accuse thy souleOf crimes and horrid deed?"
Giles Corey, he said not a worde,No single worde spoke he."Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,"We'll press it out of thee."
They got them then a heavy beam,They laid it on his breast;They loaded it with heavy stones,And hard upon him prest.
"More weight!" now said this wretched man;"More weight!" again he cried;And he did no confession make,But wickedly he dyed.
One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."
One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."
MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY
[October, 1692]
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awokeThe silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,—and why?Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him nowA weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,"For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail."The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, bewareOf touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not sayShe was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,—a swaggerer, it is true,—Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too."And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wideHer scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;How dared they take away the life they could not give again?"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer."They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,The vagrant's child—but four years old!—who says that baby couldTo Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind."Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I pleadThan those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.—"Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall."Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no wordSpake either judge or minister, while with profound amazeEach fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast."Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;"Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,Until across the ferry came a messenger with newsThat the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped downAlong the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passedThe nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grievedThat he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we knowHow our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blowHas well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restoreTo lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!Lucy Larcom.
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awokeThe silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,—and why?Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him nowA weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,"For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail."The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, bewareOf touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not sayShe was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,—a swaggerer, it is true,—Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too."And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wideHer scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;How dared they take away the life they could not give again?"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer."They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,The vagrant's child—but four years old!—who says that baby couldTo Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind."Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I pleadThan those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.—"Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall."Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no wordSpake either judge or minister, while with profound amazeEach fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast."Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;"Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,Until across the ferry came a messenger with newsThat the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped downAlong the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passedThe nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grievedThat he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we knowHow our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blowHas well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restoreTo lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!Lucy Larcom.
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.
No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awokeThe silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,—and why?Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.
His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him nowA weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.
She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,"For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail.
"The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, bewareOf touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!
"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?
"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not sayShe was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,—a swaggerer, it is true,—Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too.
"And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wideHer scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;How dared they take away the life they could not give again?
"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer.
"They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,The vagrant's child—but four years old!—who says that baby couldTo Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind.
"Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!
"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I pleadThan those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?
"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.
The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.
It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.
And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.—"Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.
The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:
"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall.
"Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no wordSpake either judge or minister, while with profound amazeEach fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.
But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.
The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast."Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;"Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"
Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,Until across the ferry came a messenger with newsThat the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.
The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped downAlong the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passedThe nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.
Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.
The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grievedThat he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.
Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we knowHow our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blowHas well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restoreTo lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.
As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"
Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.
The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!
Lucy Larcom.
THE STRUGGLE FOR THE CONTINENT
While England was colonizing the Atlantic seaboard, France was firmly establishing herself to the north along the St. Lawrence. It was inevitable that war should follow; and as early as 1613 the English had destroyed the French settlements in Nova Scotia. The country had scarcely rallied from the blow, when it was torn asunder by the contest between Charles la Tour and the Chevalier D'Aulnay—a contest which, after twelve years, resulted in victory for the latter.
While England was colonizing the Atlantic seaboard, France was firmly establishing herself to the north along the St. Lawrence. It was inevitable that war should follow; and as early as 1613 the English had destroyed the French settlements in Nova Scotia. The country had scarcely rallied from the blow, when it was torn asunder by the contest between Charles la Tour and the Chevalier D'Aulnay—a contest which, after twelve years, resulted in victory for the latter.
ST. JOHN
[April, 1647]
"To the winds give our banner!Bear homeward again!"Cried the Lord of Acadia,CriedCharles of Estienne!From the prow of his shallopHe gazed, as the sunFrom its bed in the ocean,Streamed up the St. John.O'er the blue western watersThat shallop had passed,Where the mists of PenobscotClung damp on her mast.St. Saviour had lookedOn the heretic sail,As the songs of the HuguenotRose on the gale.The pale, ghostly fathersRemembered her well,And had cursed her while passing,With taper and bell;But the men of Monhegan,Of Papists abhorred,Had welcomed and feastedThe heretic Lord.They had loaded his shallopWith dun-fish and ball,With stores for his larder,And steel for his wall.Pemaquid, from her bastionsAnd turrets of stone,Had welcomed his comingWith banner and gun.And the prayers of the eldersHad followed his way,As homeward he glided,Down Pentecost Bay.Oh, well sped La Tour!For, in peril and pain,His lady kept watch,For his coming again.O'er the Isle of the PheasantThe morning sun shone,On the plane-trees which shadedThe shores of St. John."Now, why from yon battlementsSpeaks not my love!Why waves there no bannerMy fortress above?"Dark and wild, from his deckSt. Estienne gazed about,On fire-wasted dwellings,And silent redoubt;From the low, shattered wallsWhich the flame had o'errun,There floated no banner,There thundered no gun!But beneath the low archOf its doorway there stoodA pale priest of Rome,In his cloak and his hood.With the bound of a lion,La Tour sprang to land,On the throat of the PapistHe fastened his hand."Speak, son of the WomanOf scarlet and sin!What wolf has been prowlingMy castle within?"From the grasp of the soldierThe Jesuit broke,Half in scorn, half in sorrow,He smiled as he spoke:"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,Has ravaged thy hall,But thy red-handed rival,With fire, steel, and ball!On an errand of mercyI hitherward came,While the walls of thy castleYet spouted with flame."Pentagoet's dark vesselsWere moored in the bay,Grim sea-lions, roaringAloud for their prey.""But what of my lady?"Cried Charles of Estienne."On the shot-crumbled turretThy lady was seen:"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,Her hand grasped thy pennon,While her dark tresses swayedIn the hot breath of cannon!But woe to the heretic,Evermore woe!When the son of the churchAnd the cross is his foe!"In the track of the shell,In the path of the ball,Pentagoet swept overThe breach of the wall!Steel to steel, gun to gun,One moment,—and thenAlone stood the victor,Alone with his men!"Of its sturdy defenders,Thy lady aloneSaw the cross-blazoned bannerFloat over St. John.""Let the dastard look to it!"Cried fiery Estienne,"Were D'Aulnay King Louis,I'd free her again!""Alas for thy lady!No service from theeIs needed by herWhom the Lord hath set free;Nine days, in stern silence,Her thraldom she bore,But the tenth morning came,And Death opened her door!"As if suddenly smittenLa Tour staggered back;His hand grasped his sword-hilt,His forehead grew black.He sprang on the deckOf his shallop again."We cruise now for vengeance!Give away!" cried Estienne."Massachusetts shall hearOf the Huguenot's wrong,And from island and creeksideHer fishers shall throng!Pentagoet shall rueWhat his Papists have done,When his palisades echoThe Puritan's gun!"Oh, the loveliest of heavensHung tenderly o'er him,There were waves in the sunshine,And green isles before him;But a pale hand was beckoningThe Huguenot on;And in blackness and ashesBehind was St. John!John Greenleaf Whittier.
"To the winds give our banner!Bear homeward again!"Cried the Lord of Acadia,CriedCharles of Estienne!From the prow of his shallopHe gazed, as the sunFrom its bed in the ocean,Streamed up the St. John.O'er the blue western watersThat shallop had passed,Where the mists of PenobscotClung damp on her mast.St. Saviour had lookedOn the heretic sail,As the songs of the HuguenotRose on the gale.The pale, ghostly fathersRemembered her well,And had cursed her while passing,With taper and bell;But the men of Monhegan,Of Papists abhorred,Had welcomed and feastedThe heretic Lord.They had loaded his shallopWith dun-fish and ball,With stores for his larder,And steel for his wall.Pemaquid, from her bastionsAnd turrets of stone,Had welcomed his comingWith banner and gun.And the prayers of the eldersHad followed his way,As homeward he glided,Down Pentecost Bay.Oh, well sped La Tour!For, in peril and pain,His lady kept watch,For his coming again.O'er the Isle of the PheasantThe morning sun shone,On the plane-trees which shadedThe shores of St. John."Now, why from yon battlementsSpeaks not my love!Why waves there no bannerMy fortress above?"Dark and wild, from his deckSt. Estienne gazed about,On fire-wasted dwellings,And silent redoubt;From the low, shattered wallsWhich the flame had o'errun,There floated no banner,There thundered no gun!But beneath the low archOf its doorway there stoodA pale priest of Rome,In his cloak and his hood.With the bound of a lion,La Tour sprang to land,On the throat of the PapistHe fastened his hand."Speak, son of the WomanOf scarlet and sin!What wolf has been prowlingMy castle within?"From the grasp of the soldierThe Jesuit broke,Half in scorn, half in sorrow,He smiled as he spoke:"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,Has ravaged thy hall,But thy red-handed rival,With fire, steel, and ball!On an errand of mercyI hitherward came,While the walls of thy castleYet spouted with flame."Pentagoet's dark vesselsWere moored in the bay,Grim sea-lions, roaringAloud for their prey.""But what of my lady?"Cried Charles of Estienne."On the shot-crumbled turretThy lady was seen:"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,Her hand grasped thy pennon,While her dark tresses swayedIn the hot breath of cannon!But woe to the heretic,Evermore woe!When the son of the churchAnd the cross is his foe!"In the track of the shell,In the path of the ball,Pentagoet swept overThe breach of the wall!Steel to steel, gun to gun,One moment,—and thenAlone stood the victor,Alone with his men!"Of its sturdy defenders,Thy lady aloneSaw the cross-blazoned bannerFloat over St. John.""Let the dastard look to it!"Cried fiery Estienne,"Were D'Aulnay King Louis,I'd free her again!""Alas for thy lady!No service from theeIs needed by herWhom the Lord hath set free;Nine days, in stern silence,Her thraldom she bore,But the tenth morning came,And Death opened her door!"As if suddenly smittenLa Tour staggered back;His hand grasped his sword-hilt,His forehead grew black.He sprang on the deckOf his shallop again."We cruise now for vengeance!Give away!" cried Estienne."Massachusetts shall hearOf the Huguenot's wrong,And from island and creeksideHer fishers shall throng!Pentagoet shall rueWhat his Papists have done,When his palisades echoThe Puritan's gun!"Oh, the loveliest of heavensHung tenderly o'er him,There were waves in the sunshine,And green isles before him;But a pale hand was beckoningThe Huguenot on;And in blackness and ashesBehind was St. John!John Greenleaf Whittier.
"To the winds give our banner!Bear homeward again!"Cried the Lord of Acadia,CriedCharles of Estienne!From the prow of his shallopHe gazed, as the sunFrom its bed in the ocean,Streamed up the St. John.
O'er the blue western watersThat shallop had passed,Where the mists of PenobscotClung damp on her mast.St. Saviour had lookedOn the heretic sail,As the songs of the HuguenotRose on the gale.
The pale, ghostly fathersRemembered her well,And had cursed her while passing,With taper and bell;But the men of Monhegan,Of Papists abhorred,Had welcomed and feastedThe heretic Lord.
They had loaded his shallopWith dun-fish and ball,With stores for his larder,And steel for his wall.Pemaquid, from her bastionsAnd turrets of stone,Had welcomed his comingWith banner and gun.
And the prayers of the eldersHad followed his way,As homeward he glided,Down Pentecost Bay.Oh, well sped La Tour!For, in peril and pain,His lady kept watch,For his coming again.
O'er the Isle of the PheasantThe morning sun shone,On the plane-trees which shadedThe shores of St. John."Now, why from yon battlementsSpeaks not my love!Why waves there no bannerMy fortress above?"
Dark and wild, from his deckSt. Estienne gazed about,On fire-wasted dwellings,And silent redoubt;From the low, shattered wallsWhich the flame had o'errun,There floated no banner,There thundered no gun!
But beneath the low archOf its doorway there stoodA pale priest of Rome,In his cloak and his hood.With the bound of a lion,La Tour sprang to land,On the throat of the PapistHe fastened his hand.
"Speak, son of the WomanOf scarlet and sin!What wolf has been prowlingMy castle within?"From the grasp of the soldierThe Jesuit broke,Half in scorn, half in sorrow,He smiled as he spoke:
"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,Has ravaged thy hall,But thy red-handed rival,With fire, steel, and ball!On an errand of mercyI hitherward came,While the walls of thy castleYet spouted with flame.
"Pentagoet's dark vesselsWere moored in the bay,Grim sea-lions, roaringAloud for their prey.""But what of my lady?"Cried Charles of Estienne."On the shot-crumbled turretThy lady was seen:
"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,Her hand grasped thy pennon,While her dark tresses swayedIn the hot breath of cannon!But woe to the heretic,Evermore woe!When the son of the churchAnd the cross is his foe!
"In the track of the shell,In the path of the ball,Pentagoet swept overThe breach of the wall!Steel to steel, gun to gun,One moment,—and thenAlone stood the victor,Alone with his men!
"Of its sturdy defenders,Thy lady aloneSaw the cross-blazoned bannerFloat over St. John.""Let the dastard look to it!"Cried fiery Estienne,"Were D'Aulnay King Louis,I'd free her again!"
"Alas for thy lady!No service from theeIs needed by herWhom the Lord hath set free;Nine days, in stern silence,Her thraldom she bore,But the tenth morning came,And Death opened her door!"
As if suddenly smittenLa Tour staggered back;His hand grasped his sword-hilt,His forehead grew black.He sprang on the deckOf his shallop again."We cruise now for vengeance!Give away!" cried Estienne.
"Massachusetts shall hearOf the Huguenot's wrong,And from island and creeksideHer fishers shall throng!Pentagoet shall rueWhat his Papists have done,When his palisades echoThe Puritan's gun!"
Oh, the loveliest of heavensHung tenderly o'er him,There were waves in the sunshine,And green isles before him;But a pale hand was beckoningThe Huguenot on;And in blackness and ashesBehind was St. John!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The rivalry between the colonists for the fur trade grew steadily more bitter, and in 1690 (King William's War) Canada undertook the conquest of New York and destroyed a number of frontier towns. The English made some reprisals; Sir William Phips capturing Acadia and Major Peter Schuyler leading a raid into the country south of Montreal, where he defeated a considerable body of French and Indians under Valrennes, in a spirited fight at La Prairie.
The rivalry between the colonists for the fur trade grew steadily more bitter, and in 1690 (King William's War) Canada undertook the conquest of New York and destroyed a number of frontier towns. The English made some reprisals; Sir William Phips capturing Acadia and Major Peter Schuyler leading a raid into the country south of Montreal, where he defeated a considerable body of French and Indians under Valrennes, in a spirited fight at La Prairie.
THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE
[1691]