Will you swear?
WHARTON. Nay, I will not.
You made a great disturbance
And uproar yesterday in the Meeting-house,
Having your hat on.
I made no disturbance;
For peacefully I stood, like other people.
I spake no words; moved against none my hand;
But by the hair they haled me out, and dashed
Their hooks into my face.
You, Edward Wharton,
On pain of death, depart this Jurisdiction
Within ten days. Such is your sentence. Go.
WHARTON. John Endicott, it had been well for thee If this day's doings thou hadst left undone But, banish me as far as thou hast power, Beyond the guard and presence of my God Thou canst not banish me.
Depart the Court;
We have no time to listen to your babble.
Who's next? [Exit WHARTON.
This woman, for the same offence.
EDITH comes forward.
ENDICOTT. What is your name?
'T is to the world unknown,
But written in the Book of Life.
Take heed
It be not written in the Book of Death!
What is it?
Edith Christison.
The daughter
Of Wenlock Christison?
I am his daughter.
ENDICOTT. Your father hath given us trouble many times. A bold man and a violent, who sets At naught the authority of our Church and State, And is in banishment on pain of death. Where are you living?
In the Lord.
Make answer
Without evasion. Where?
My outward being
Is in Barbadoes.
Then why come you here?
EDITH. I come upon an errand of the Lord.
ENDICOTT. 'Tis not the business of the Lord you're doing; It is the Devil's. Will you take the oath? Give her the Book.
MERRY offers the Book.
You offer me this Book
To swear on; and it saith, "Swear not at all,
Neither by heaven, because it is God's Throne,
Nor by the earth, because it is his footstool!"
I dare not swear.
You dare not? Yet you Quakers
Deny this book of Holy Writ, the Bible,
To be the Word of God.
Christ is the Word,
The everlasting oath of God. I dare not.
ENDICOTT. You own yourself a Quaker,—do you not?
EDITH. I own that in derision and reproach I am so called.
Then you deny the Scripture
To be the rule of life.
Yea, I believe
The Inner Light, and not the Written Word,
To be the rule of life.
And you deny
That the Lord's Day is holy.
Every day
Is the Lords Day. It runs through all our lives,
As through the pages of the Holy Bible,
"Thus saith the Lord."
You are accused of making
An horrible disturbance, and affrighting
The people in the Meeting-house on Sunday.
What answer make you?
I do not deny
That I was present in your Steeple-house
On the First Day; but I made no disturbance.
ENDICOTT. Why came you there?
Because the Lord commanded.
His word was in my heart, a burning fire
Shut up within me and consuming me,
And I was very weary with forbearing;
I could not stay.
'T was not the Lord that sent you;
As an incarnate devil did you come!
EDITH. On the First Day, when, seated in my chamber, I heard the bells toll, calling you together, The sound struck at my life, as once at his, The holy man, our Founder, when he heard The far-off bells toll in the Vale of Beavor. It sounded like a market bell to call The folk together, that the Priest might set His wares to sale. And the Lord said within me, "Thou must go cry aloud against that Idol, And all the worshippers thereof." I went Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and I stood And listened at the threshold; and I heard The praying and the singing and the preaching, Which were but outward forms, and without power. Then rose a cry within me, and my heart Was filled with admonitions and reproofs. Remembering how the Prophets and Apostles Denounced the covetous hirelings and diviners, I entered in, and spake the words the Lord Commanded me to speak. I could no less.
ENDICOTT. Are you a Prophetess?
Is it not written,
"Upon my handmaidens will I pour out
My spirit, and they shall prophesy"?
Enough;
For out of your own mouth are you condemned!
Need we hear further?
We are satisfied.
ENDICOTT. It is sufficient. Edith Christison, The sentence of the Court is, that you be Scourged in three towns, with forty stripes save one, Then banished upon pain of death!
Your sentence
Is truly no more terrible to me
Than had you blown a feather into the the air,
And, as it fell upon me, you had said,
Take heed it hurt thee not! God's will he done!
WENLOCK CHRISTISON (unseen in the crowd). Woe to the city of blood! The stone shall cry Out of the wall; the beam from out the timber Shall answer it! Woe unto him that buildeth A town with blood, and stablisheth a city By his iniquity!
Who is it makes
Such outcry here?
I, Wenlock Christison!
ENDICOTT. Banished on pain of death, why come you here?
CHRISTISON. I come to warn you that you shed no more The blood of innocent men! It cries aloud For vengeance to the Lord!
Your life is forfeit
Unto the law; and you shall surely die,
And shall not live.
Like unto Eleazer,
Maintaining the excellence of ancient years
And the honor of his gray head, I stand before you;
Like him disdaining all hypocrisy,
Lest, through desire to live a little longer,
I get a stain to my old age and name!
ENDICOTT. Being in banishment, on pain of death, You come now in among us in rebellion.
CHRISTISON. I come not in among you in rebellion, But in obedience to the Lord of heaven. Not in contempt to any Magistrate, But only in the love I bear your souls, As ye shall know hereafter, when all men Give an account of deeds done in the body! God's righteous judgments ye cannot escape.
ONE OF THE JUDGES. Those who have gone before you said the same, And yet no judgment of the Lord hath fallen Upon us.
He but waiteth till the measure
Of your iniquities shall be filled up,
And ye have run your race. Then will his wrath
Descend upon you to the uttermost!
For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, it hangs
Over thy head already. It shall come
Suddenly, as a thief doth in the night,
And in the hour when least thou thinkest of it!
ENDICOTT. We have a law, and by that law you die.
CHRISTISON. I, a free man of England and freeborn, Appeal unto the laws of mine own nation!
ENDICOTT. There's no appeal to England from this Court! What! do you think our statutes are but paper? Are but dead leaves that rustle in the wind? Or litter to be trampled under foot? What say ye, Judges of the Court,—what say ye? Shall this man suffer death? Speak your opinions.
ONE OF THE JUDGES. I am a mortal man, and die I must, And that erelong; and I must then appear Before the awful judgment-seat of Christ, To give account of deeds done in the body. My greatest glory on that day will be, That I have given my vote against this man.
CHRISTISON. If, Thomas Danforth, thou hast nothing more To glory in upon that dreadful day Than blood of innocent people, then thy glory Will be turned into shame! The Lord hath said it!
ANOTHER JUDGE. I cannot give consent, while other men Who have been banished upon pain of death Are now in their own houses here among us.
ENDICOTT. Ye that will not consent, make record of it. I thank my God that I am not afraid To give my judgment. Wenlock Christison, You must be taken back from hence to prison, Thence to the place of public execution, There to be hanged till you be dead—dead,—dead.
CHRISTISON. If ye have power to take my life from me,— Which I do question,—God hath power to raise The principle of life in other men, And send them here among you. There shall be No peace unto the wicked, saith my God. Listen, ye Magistrates, for the Lord hath said it! The day ye put his servitors to death, That day the Day of your own Visitation, The Day of Wrath shall pass above your heads, And ye shall be accursed forevermore!
To EDITH, embracing her.
Cheer up, dear heart! they have not power to harm us.
[Exeunt CHRISTISON and EDITH guarded. The Scene closes.
SCENE II. — A street. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT and UPSALL.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! and yet the busy people Go up and down the streets on their affairs Of business or of pleasure, as if nothing Had happened to disturb them or their thoughts! When bloody tragedies like this are acted, The pulses of a nation should stand still The town should be in mourning, and the people Speak only in low whispers to each other.
UPSALL. I know this people; and that underneath A cold outside there burns a secret fire That will find vent and will not be put out, Till every remnant of these barbarous laws Shall be to ashes burned, and blown away.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! It is incredible Such things can be! I feel the blood within me Fast mounting in rebellion, since in vain Have I implored compassion of my father!
UPSALL. You know your father only as a father; I know him better as a Magistrate. He is a man both loving and severe; A tender heart; a will inflexible. None ever loved him more than I have loved him. He is an upright man and a just man In all things save the treatment of the Quakers.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Yet I have found him cruel and unjust Even as a father. He has driven me forth Into the street; has shut his door upon me, With words of bitterness. I am as homeless As these poor Quakers are.
Then come with me.
You shall be welcome for your father's sake,
And the old friendship that has been between us.
He will relent erelong. A father's anger
Is like a sword without a handle, piercing
Both ways alike, and wounding him that wields it
No less than him that it is pointed at.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. — The prison. Night. EDITH reading the Bible by a lamp.
EDITH. "Blessed are ye when men shall persecute you, And shall revile you, and shall say against you All manner of evil falsely for my sake! Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great Is your reward in heaven. For so the prophets, Which were before you, have been persecuted."
Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Edith!
Who is it that speaketh?
Saul of Tarsus:
As thou didst call me once.
Yea, I remember.
Thou art the Governor's son.
I am ashamed
Thou shouldst remember me.
Why comest thou
Into this dark guest-chamber in the night?
What seekest thou?
Forgiveness!
I forgive
All who have injured me. What hast thou done?
JOHN ENDICOTT. I have betrayed thee, thinking that in this I did God service. Now, in deep contrition, I come to rescue thee.
From what?
From prison.
EDITH.
I am safe here within these gloomy walls.
JOHN ENDICOTT. From scourging in the streets, and in three towns!
EDITH. Remembering who was scourged for me, I shrink not Nor shudder at the forty stripes save one.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Perhaps from death itself!
I fear not death,
Knowing who died for me.
Surely some divine
Ambassador is speaking through those lips
And looking through those eyes! I cannot answer!
EDITH. If all these prison doors stood opened wide I would not cross the threshold,—not one step. There are invisible bars I cannot break; There are invisible doors that shut me in, And keep me ever steadfast to my purpose.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Thou hast the patience and the faith of Saints!
EDITH. Thy Priest hath been with me this day to save me, Not only from the death that comes to all, But from the second death!
The Pharisee!
My heart revolts against him and his creed!
Alas! the coat that was without a seam
Is rent asunder by contending sects;
Each bears away a portion of the garment,
Blindly believing that he has the whole!
EDITH. When Death, the Healer, shall have touched our eyes With moist clay of the grave, then shall we see The truth as we have never yet beheld it. But he that overcometh shall not be Hurt of the second death. Has he forgotten The many mansions in our father's house?
JOHN ENDICOTT. There is no pity in his iron heart! The hands that now bear stamped upon their palms The burning sign of Heresy, hereafter Shall be uplifted against such accusers, And then the imprinted letter and its meaning Will not be Heresy, but Holiness!
EDITH. Remember, thou condemnest thine own father!
JOHN ENDICOTT. I have no father! He has cast me off. I am as homeless as the wind that moans And wanders through the streets. Oh, come with me! Do not delay. Thy God shall be my God, And where thou goest I will go.
I cannot.
Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal it;
From the first moment I beheld thy face
I felt a tenderness in my soul towards thee.
My mind has since been inward to the Lord,
Waiting his word. It has not yet been spoken.
JOHN ENDICOTT. I cannot wait. Trust me. Oh, come with me!
EDITH. In the next room, my father, an old man, Sitteth imprisoned and condemned to death, Willing to prove his faith by martyrdom; And thinkest thou his daughter would do less?
JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, life is sweet, and death is terrible!
EDITH. I have too long walked hand in hand with death To shudder at that pale familiar face. But leave me now. I wish to be alone.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Not yet. Oh, let me stay.
Urge me no more.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Alas! good-night. I will not say good-by!
EDITH. Put this temptation underneath thy feet. To him that overcometh shall be given The white stone with the new name written on it, That no man knows save him that doth receive it, And I will give thee a new name, and call thee Paul of Damascus, and not Saul of Tarsus.
[Exit ENDICOTT. EDITH sits down again to read the Bible.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. — King Street, in front of the town-house. KEMPTHORN in the pillory. MERRY and a crowd of lookers-on.
The world is full of care,
Much like unto a bubble;
Women and care, and care and women,
And women and care and trouble.
Good Master Merry, may I say confound?
MERRY. Ay, that you may.
Well, then, with your permission,
Confound the Pillory!
That's the very thing
The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks.
He said, Confound the stocks, because they put him
Into his own. He was the first man in them.
KEMPTHORN. For swearing, was it?
No, it was for charging;
He charged the town too much; and so the town,
To make things square, set him in his own stocks,
And fined him five pounds sterling,—just enough
To settle his own bill.
And served him right;
But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells?
MERRY. Not quite.
For, do you see? I'm getting tired
Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest
Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy
Mast-headed, looking out for land! Sail ho!
Here comes a heavy-laden merchant-man
With the lee clews eased off and running free
Before the wind. A solid man of Boston.
A comfortable man, with dividends,
And the first salmon, and the first green peas.
A gentleman passes.
He does not even turn his head to look. He's gone without a word. Here comes another, A different kind of craft on a taut bow-line,— Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, A pious and a ponderous citizen, Looking as rubicund and round and splendid As the great bottle in his own shop window!
DEACON FIRMIN passes.
And here's my host of the Three Mariners, My creditor and trusty taverner, My corporal in the Great Artillery! He's not a man to pass me without speaking.
COLE looks away and passes.
Don't yaw so; keep your luff, old hypocrite! Respectable, ah yes, respectable, You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? I did not know the Mary Ann was in! And yet this is my old friend, Captain Goldsmith, As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. Why, Ralph, my boy!
Enter RALPH GOLDSMITH.
Why, Simon, is it you?
Set in the bilboes?
Chock-a-block, you see,
And without chafing-gear.
And what's it for?
KEMPTHORN. Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook there, That handsome man.
For swearing.
KEMPTHORN.
They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing,
And Quakers for not swearing. So look out.
GOLDSMITH. I pray you set him free; he meant no harm; 'T is an old habit he picked up afloat.
MERRY. Well, as your time is out, you may come down, The law allows you now to go at large Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common.
KEMPTHORN. Now, hearties, bear a hand! Let go and haul.
KEMPTHORN is set free, and comes forward, shaking GOLDSMITH'S hand.
KEMPTHORN. Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
God bless you, Simon!
KEMPTHORN. Now let us make a straight wake for the tavern Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander; Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, And talk about old times.
First I must pay
My duty to the Governor, and take him
His letters and despatches. Come with me.
KEMPTHORN. I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday.
GOLDSMITH. Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and Comb.
KEMPTHORN. I thank you. That's too near to the town pump. I will go with you to the Governor's, And wait outside there, sailing off and on; If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal.
MERRY. Shall I go with you and point out the way?
GOLDSMITH. Oh no, I thank you. I am not a stranger Here in your crooked little town.
How now, sir?
Do you abuse our town? [Exit.
Oh, no offence.
KEMPTHORN. Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred pound.
GOLDSMITH. Hard lines. What for?
To take some Quakers back
I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow.
And how to do it I don't clearly see,
For one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged! What shall I do?
Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night;
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. — Street in front of the prison. In the background a gateway and several flights of steps leading up terraces to the Governor's house. A pump on one side of the street. JOHN ENDICOTT, MERRY, UPSALL, and others. A drum beats.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh shame, shame, shame!
Yes, it would be a shame
But for the damnable sin of Heresy!
JOHN ENDICOTT. A woman scourged and dragged about our streets!
MERRY. Well, Roxbury and Dorchester must take Their share of shame. She will be whipped in each! Three towns, and Forty Stripes save one; that makes Thirteen in each.
And are we Jews or Christians?
See where she comes, amid a gaping crowd!
And she a child. Oh, pitiful! pitiful!
There's blood upon her clothes, her hands, her feet!
Enter MARSHAL and a drummer. EDITH, stripped to the waist, followed by the hangman with a scourge, and a noisy crowd.
EDITH. Here let me rest one moment. I am tired. Will some one give me water?
At his peril.
UPSALL. Alas! that I should live to see this day!
A WOMAN. Did I forsake my father and my mother And come here to New England to see this?
EDITH. I am athirst. Will no one give me water?
JOHN ENDICOTT (making his way through the crowd with water). In the Lord's name!
EDITH (drinking.
Sweet as the water of Samaria's well
This water tastes. I thank thee. Is it thou?
I was afraid thou hadst deserted me.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Never will I desert thee, nor deny thee. Be comforted.
O Master Endicott,
Be careful what you say.
Peace, idle babbler!
MERRY. You'll rue these words!
Art thou not better now?
EDITH. They've struck me as with roses.
Ah, these wounds!
These bloody garments!
It is granted me
To seal my testimony with my blood.
JOHN ENDICOTT. O blood-red seal of man's vindictive wrath! O roses in the garden of the Lord! I, of the household of Iscariot, I have betrayed in thee my Lord and Master.
WENLOCK CHRISTISON appears above, at the window of the prison, stretching out his hands through the bars.
CHRISTISON. Be of good courage, O my child! my child! Blessed art thou when men shall persecute thee! Fear not their faces, saith the Lord, fear not, For I am with thee to deliver thee.
A CITIZEN. Who is it crying from the prison yonder.
MERRY. It is old Wenlock Christison.
Remember
Him who was scourged, and mocked, and crucified!
I see his messengers attending thee.
Be steadfast, oh, be steadfast to the end!
EDITH (with exultation). I cannot reach thee with these arms, O father! But closely in my soul do I embrace thee And hold thee. In thy dungeon and thy death I will be with thee, and will comfort thee.
MARSHAL. Come, put an end to this. Let the drum beat.
The drum beats. Exeunt all but JOHN ENDICOTT, UPSALL, and MERRY.
CHRISTISON. Dear child, farewell! Never shall I behold Thy face again with these bleared eyes of flesh; And never wast thou fairer, lovelier, dearer Than now, when scourged and bleeding, and insulted For the truth's sake. O pitiless, pitiless town! The wrath of God hangs over thee; and the day Is near at hand when thou shalt be abandoned To desolation and the breeding of nettles. The bittern and the cormorant shall lodge Upon thine upper lintels, and their voice Sing in thy windows. Yea, thus saith the Lord!
Awake! awake! ye sleepers, ere too late,
And wipe these bloody statutes from your books!
[Exit.
MERRY. Take heed; the walls have ears!
At last, the heart
Of every honest man must speak or break!
Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT with his halberdiers.
ENDICOTT. What is this stir and tumult in the street?
MERRY. Worshipful sir, the whipping of a girl, And her old father howling from the prison.
ENDICOTT (to his halberdiers). Go on.
Antiochus! Antiochus!
O thou that slayest the Maccabees! The Lord
Shall smite thee with incurable disease,
And no man shall endure to carry thee!
MERRY. Peace, old blasphemer!
I both feel and see
The presence and the waft of death go forth
Against thee, and already thou dost look
Like one that's dead!
And there is your own son,
Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition.
ENDICOTT. Arrest him. Do not spare him.
His own child!
There is some special providence takes care
That none shall be too happy in this world!
His own first-born.
O Absalom, my son!
[Exeunt; the Governor with his halberdiers ascending the steps of his house.
SCENE III. — The Governor's private room. Papers upon the table.
ENDICOTT and BELLINGHAM
ENDICOTT. There is a ship from England has come in, Bringing despatches and much news from home, His majesty was at the Abbey crowned; And when the coronation was complete There passed a mighty tempest o'er the city, Portentous with great thunderings and lightnings.
BELLINGHAM. After his father's, if I well remember, There was an earthquake, that foreboded evil.
ENDICOTT. Ten of the Regicides have been put to death! The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw Have been dragged from their graves, and publicly Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn.
Horrible!
ENDICOTT. Thus the old tyranny revives again. Its arm is long enough to reach us here, As you will see. For, more insulting still Than flaunting in our faces dead men's shrouds, Here is the King's Mandamus, taking from us, From this day forth, all power to punish Quakers.
BELLINGHAM. That takes from us all power; we are but puppets, And can no longer execute our laws.
ENDICOTT. His Majesty begins with pleasant words, "Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well;" Then with a ruthless hand he strips from me All that which makes me what I am; as if From some old general in the field, grown gray In service, scarred with many wounds, Just at the hour of victory, he should strip His badge of office and his well-gained honors, And thrust him back into the ranks again.
Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room.
Here, read it for yourself; you see his words Are pleasant words—considerate—not reproachful— Nothing could be more gentle—or more royal; But then the meaning underneath the words, Mark that. He says all people known as Quakers Among us, now condemned to suffer death Or any corporal punishment whatever, Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious To the like condemnation, shall be sent Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there In such wise as shall be agreeable Unto the English law and their demerits. Is it not so?
Ay, so the paper says.
ENDICOTT. It means we shall no longer rule the Province; It means farewell to law and liberty, Authority, respect for Magistrates, The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth. If all the knaves upon this continent Can make appeal to England, and so thwart The ends of truth and justice by delay, Our power is gone forever. We are nothing But ciphers, valueless save when we follow Some unit; and our unit is the King! 'T is he that gives us value.
I confess
Such seems to be the meaning of this paper,
But being the King's Mandamus, signed and sealed,
We must obey, or we are in rebellion.
I tell you, Richard Bellingham,—I tell you,
That this is the beginning of a struggle
Of which no mortal can foresee the end.
I shall not live to fight the battle for you,
I am a man disgraced in every way;
This order takes from me my self-respect
And the respect of others. 'T is my doom,
Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed!
Take it, and see that it is executed
So far as this, that all be set at large;
But see that none of them be sent to England
To bear false witness, and to spread reports
That might be prejudicial to ourselves.
[Exit BELLINGHAM.
Dolefully saying, "Set thy house in order,
For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live!
For me the shadow on the dial-plate
Goeth not back, but on into the dark!
[Exit.
SCENE IV. — The street. A crowd, reading a placard on the door of the Meeting-house. NICHOLAS UPSALL among them. Enter John Norton.
NORTON. What is this gathering here?
One William Brand,
An old man like ourselves, and weak in body,
Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison,
The people are excited, and they threaten
To tear the prison down.
What has been done?
UPSALL. He has been put in irons, with his neck And heels tied close together, and so left From five in the morning until nine at night.
NORTON. What more was done?
He has been kept five days
In prison without food, and cruelly beaten,
So that his limbs were cold, his senses stopped.
NORTON. What more?
And is this not enough?
Now hear me.
This William Brand of yours has tried to beat
Our Gospel Ordinances black and blue;
And, if he has been beaten in like manner,
It is but justice, and I will appear
In his behalf that did so. I suppose
That he refused to work.
He was too weak.
How could an old man work, when he was starving?
NORTON. And what is this placard?
The Magistrates,
To appease the people and prevent a tumult,
Have put up these placards throughout the town,
Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with
Impartially and sternly by the Court.
Down with this weak and cowardly concession,
This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin!
I fling it in his face! I trample it
Under my feet! It is his cunning craft,
The masterpiece of his diplomacy,
To cry and plead for boundless toleration.
But toleration is the first-born child
Of all abominations and deceits.
There is no room in Christ's triumphant army
For tolerationists. And if an Angel
Preach any other gospel unto you
Than that ye have received, God's malediction
Descend upon him! Let him be accursed!
[Exit.
Now, go thy ways, John Norton, go thy ways,
Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee!
But even now there cometh out of England,
Like an o'ertaking and accusing conscience,
An outraged man, to call thee to account
For the unrighteous murder of his son!
[Exit.
SCENE V. — The Wilderness. Enter EDITH.
EDITH. How beautiful are these autumnal woods! The wilderness doth blossom like the rose, And change into a garden of the Lord! How silent everywhere! Alone and lost Here in the forest, there comes over me An inward awfulness. I recall the words Of the Apostle Paul: "In journeyings often, Often in perils in the wilderness, In weariness, in painfulness, in watchings, In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness;" And I forget my weariness and pain, My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst. The Lord hath said that He will seek his flock In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell Securely in the wilderness, and sleep Safe in the woods! Whichever way I turn, I come back with my face towards the town. Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. O cruel town! I know what waits me there, And yet I must go back; for ever louder I hear the inward calling of the Spirit, And must obey the voice. O woods that wear Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained, From you I learn a lesson of submission, And am obedient even unto death, If God so wills it. [Exit.
Edith! Edith! Edith!
He enters.
I follow, but I find no trace of her!
Blood! blood! The leaves above me and around me
Are red with blood! The pathways of the forest,
The clouds that canopy the setting sun
And even the little river in the meadows
Are stained with it! Where'er I look, I see it!
Away, thou horrible vision! Leave me! leave me!
Alas! you winding stream, that gropes its way
Through mist and shadow, doubling on itself,
At length will find, by the unerring law
Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man,
Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling
Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways
Subject to law? and when thou seemest to wander
The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing
Nearer and nearer to it, till at length
Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest?
[Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I. — Daybreak. Street in front of UPSALL's house. A light in the window. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.
JOHN ENDICOTT. O silent, sombre, and deserted streets, To me ye 're peopled with a sad procession, And echo only to the voice of sorrow! O houses full of peacefulness and sleep, Far better were it to awake no more Than wake to look upon such scenes again! There is a light in Master Upsall's window. The good man is already risen, for sleep Deserts the couches of the old.
Knocks at UPSALL's door.