Who's there?
JOHN ENDICOTT. Am I so changed you do not know my voice?
UPSALL. I know you. Have you heard what things have happened?
JOHN ENDICOTT. I have heard nothing.
Stay; I will come down.
JOHN ENDICOTT. I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me! I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient To know the worst. Oh, I am very weary With waiting and with watching and pursuing!
Enter UPSALL.
UPSALL. Thank God, you have come back! I've much to tell you. Where have you been?
You know that I was seized,
Fined, and released again. You know that Edith,
After her scourging in three towns, was banished
Into the wilderness, into the land
That is not sown; and there I followed her,
But found her not. Where is she?
She is here.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, do not speak that word, for it means death!
UPSALL. No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber. Listen to me. When news of Leddra's death Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly Got access to the presence of the King, Told him there was a vein of innocent blood Opened in his dominions here, which threatened To overrun them all. The King replied. "But I will stop that vein!" and he forthwith Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, That they proceed no further in this business. So all are pardoned, and all set at large.
JOHN ENDICOTT. Thank God! This is a victory for truth! Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up In prison wall, nor put to death on scaffolds!
UPSALL. Come in; the morning air blows sharp and cold Through the damp streets.
It is the dawn of day
That chases the old darkness from our sky,
And tills the land with liberty and light.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. — The parlor of the Three Mariners. Enter KEMPTHORN.
KEMPTHORN. A dull life this,—a dull life anyway! Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard, Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing From nor'-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber, Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! I said to Ralph, says I, "What's to be done?" Says he: "Just slip your hawser in the night; Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." But that won't do; because, you see, the owners Somehow or other are mixed up with it. Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole Thinks as important as the Rule of Three.
Reads.
"Make no comparisons; make no long meals." Those are good rules and golden for a landlord To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! "Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths." I drink to the King's, whatever he may say And, as to ill opinions, that depends. Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion; And both of these opinions I'll maintain As long as there's a shot left in the locker.
Enter EDWARD BUTTER, with an ear-trumpet.
BUTTER. Good morning, Captain Kempthorn.
Sir, to you.
You've the advantage of me. I don't know you.
What may I call your name?
That's not your name?
KEMPTHORN. Yes, that's my name. What's yours?
My name is Butter.
I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.
KEMPTHORN. Will you be seated?
What say? Who's conceited?
KEMPTHORN.
Will you sit down?
Oh, thank you.
Spread yourself
Upon this chair, sweet Butter.
A fine morning.
KEMPTHORN. Nothing's the matter with it that I know of. I have seen better, and I have seen worse. The wind's nor'west. That's fair for them that sail.
BUTTER. You need not speak so loud; I understand you. You sail to-day.
No, I don't sail to-day.
So, be it fair or foul, it matters not.
Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here.
BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke.
KEMPTHORN. Then, will you drink? There's good ale at this inn.
BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to drink.
KEMPTHORN. Well, almost everything's against the law In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, You're sure to fetch up soon on something else.
BUTTER. And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. I am not one of those who think a sup Of this New England air is better worth Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale.
KEMPTHORN. Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air. But, as I said, I do not sail to-day.
BUTTER. Ah yes; you sail today.
I'm under bonds
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes;
And one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged.
No, all are pardoned,
All are set free by order of the Court;
But some of them would fain return to England.
You must not take them. Upon that condition
Your bond is cancelled.
Ah, the wind has shifted!
I pray you, do you speak officially?
BUTTER. I always speak officially. To prove it, Here is the bond.
Rising and giving a paper.
And here's my hand upon it,
And look you, when I say I'll do a thing
The thing is done. Am I now free to go?
BUTTER. What say?
I say, confound the tedious man
With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?
You're free to go, by order of the Court.
Your servant, sir.
[Exit.
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo!
If ever a man was happy to leave Boston,
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow!
Re-enter BUTTER.
BUTTER. Pray, did you call?
Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow.
BUTTER. That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter. You need not speak so loud.
Good-by! Good-by!
BUTTER. Your servant, sir.
And yours a thousand times!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. — GOVERNOR ENDICOTT'S private room. An open window.
ENDICOTT seated in an arm-chair. BELLINGHAM standing near.
ENDICOTT. O lost, O loved! wilt thou return no more? O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost! How many men are dragged into their graves By their rebellious children! I now feel The agony of a father's breaking heart In David's cry, "O Absalom, my son!"
BELLINGHAM. Can you not turn your thoughts a little while To public matters? There are papers here That need attention.
Trouble me no more!
My business now is with another world,
Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly fear
That in my righteous zeal I have been led
To doing many things which, left undone,
My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it,
Or has some person told me, that John Norton
Is dead?
You have not dreamed it. He is dead,
And gone to his reward. It was no dream.
ENDICOTT. Then it was very sudden; for I saw him Standing where you now stand, not long ago.
BELLINGHAM. By his own fireside, in the afternoon, A faintness and a giddiness came o'er him; And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried, "The hand of God is on me!" and fell dead.
ENDICOTT. And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it, That Humphrey Atherton is dead?
Alas!
He too is gone, and by a death as sudden.
Returning home one evening, at the place
Where usually the Quakers have been scourged,
His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground,
So that his brains were dashed about the street.
ENDICOTT. I am not superstitions, Bellingham, And yet I tremble lest it may have been A judgment on him.
So the people think.
They say his horse saw standing in the way
The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened.
And furthermore, brave Richard Davenport,
The captain of the Castle, in the storm
Has been struck dead by lightning.
Speak no more.
For as I listen to your voice it seems
As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices,
And the dead bodies lay about the streets
Of the disconsolate city! Bellingham,
I did not put those wretched men to death.
I did but guard the passage with the sword
Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it!
Yet now I would that I had taken no part
In all that bloody work.
The guilt of it
Be on their heads, not ours.
Are all set free?
BELLINGHAM. All are at large.
And none have been sent back
To England to malign us with the King?
BELLINGHAM. The ship that brought them sails this very hour, But carries no one back.
A distant cannon.
What is that gun?
BELLINGHAM. Her parting signal. Through the window there, Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs, Dropping below the Castle, outward bound.
ENDICOTT. O white, white, white! Would that my soul had wings As spotless as those shining sails to fly with! Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark! I thought I heard the hall door open and shut! I thought I beard the footsteps of my boy!
BELLINGHAM. It was the wind. There's no one in the passage.
ENDICOTT. O Absalom, my son! I feel the world Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking! Death knocks! I go to meet him! Welcome, Death!
Rises, and sinks back dead; his head failing aside upon his shoulder.
BELLINGHAM. O ghastly sight! Like one who has been hanged! Endicott! Endicott! He makes no answer!
Raises Endicott's head.
He breathes no more! How bright this signet-ring Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it Through such long years of trouble, as if Death Had given him this memento of affection, And whispered in his ear, "Remember me!" How placid and how quiet is his face, Now that the struggle and the strife are ended Only the acrid spirit of the times Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace, Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace!
GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
GILES COREY Farmer. JOHN HATHORNE Magistrate. COTTON MATHER Minister of the Gospel. JONATHAN WALCOT A youth. RICHARD GARDNER Sea-Captain. JOHN GLOYD Corey's hired man. MARTHA Wife of Giles Corey. TITUBA An Indian woman. MARY WALCOT One of the Afflicted.
The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692.
PROLOGUE.
Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,— These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past,
Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and, amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,— Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,— Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace?
'T was but a village then; the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead.
Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 't is no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!"
Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone, This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.
ACT I.
SCENE I. — The woods near Salem Village. Enter TITUBA, with a basket of herbs.
TITUBA. Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood; And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts; And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions; And meadow-saffron and black hellebore, That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy; And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye-bright, That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheumatisms; I know them, and the places where they hide In field and meadow; and I know their secrets, And gather them because they give me power Over all men and women. Armed with these, I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, Am stronger than the captain with his sword, Am richer than the merchant with his money, Am wiser than the scholar with his books, Mightier than Ministers and Magistrates, With all the fear and reverence that attend them! For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, Or fall into delirium and convulsions; I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand; A touch from me and they are weak with pain, A look from me, and they consume and die. The death of cattle and the blight of corn, The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,— These are my doings, and they know it not. Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!
Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a riding-whip in his hand.
MATHER. Methinks that I have come by paths unknown Into the land and atmosphere of Witches; For, meditating as I journeyed on, Lo! I have lost my way! If I remember Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned That tells the story of a man who, praying For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits, Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face; I, journeying to circumvent the Witches, Surely by Witches have been led astray. I am persuaded there are few affairs In which the Devil doth not interfere. We cannot undertake a journey even, But Satan will be there to meddle with it By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me Into this thicket, struck me in the face With branches of the trees, and so entangled The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles, That I must needs dismount, and search on foot For the lost pathway leading to the village.
Re-enter TITUBA.
What shape is this? What monstrous apparition, Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way? Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman—
TITUBA. I am a woman, but I am not good, I am a Witch!
Then tell me, Witch and woman,
For you must know the pathways through this wood,
Where lieth Salem Village?
Reverend sir,
The village is near by. I'm going there
With these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me.
MATHER. First say, who are you? I am loath to follow A stranger in this wilderness, for fear Of being misled, and left in some morass. Who are you?
I am Tituba the Witch,
Wife of John Indian.
You are Tituba?
I know you then. You have renounced the Devil,
And have become a penitent confessor,
The Lord be praised! Go on, I'll follow you.
Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands
Tethered among the trees, not far from here.
TITUBA. Let me get up behind you, reverend sir.
MATHER. The Lord forbid! What would the people think, If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him? The Lord forbid!
I do not need a horse!
I can ride through the air upon a stick,
Above the tree-tops and above the houses,
And no one see me, no one overtake me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. — A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in the corner. Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.
HATHORNE. You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here Beneath my humble roof.
I thank your Worship.
HATHORNE. Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued With your long ride through unfrequented woods.
They sit down.
MATHER. You know the purport of my visit here,— To be advised by you, and counsel with you, And with the Reverend Clergy of the village, Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you; And see with mine own eyes the wonders told Of spectres and the shadows of the dead, That come back from their graves to speak with men.
HATHORNE. Some men there are, I have known such, who think That the two worlds—the seen and the unseen, The world of matter and the world of spirit— Are like the hemispheres upon our maps, And touch each other only at a point. But these two worlds are not divided thus, Save for the purposes of common speech, They form one globe, in which the parted seas All flow together and are intermingled, While the great continents remain distinct.
MATHER. I doubt it not. The spiritual world Lies all about us, and its avenues Are open to the unseen feet of phantoms That come and go, and we perceive them not, Save by their influence, or when at times A most mysterious Providence permits them To manifest themselves to mortal eyes.
HATHORNE. You, who are always welcome here among us, Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom, Your learning in these things to be our guide. The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us, And ravages the land with all his hosts.
MATHER. The Unclean Spirit said, "My name is Legion!" Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction! But when our fervent, well-directed prayers, Which are the great artillery of Heaven, Are brought into the field, I see them scattered And driven like autumn leaves before the wind.
HATHORNE. You as a Minister of God, can meet them With spiritual weapons: but, alas! I, as a Magistrate, must combat them With weapons from the armory of the flesh.
MATHER. These wonders of the world invisible,— These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,— The multiplied and manifold afflictions With which the aged and the dying saints Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered,— Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaim The Second Coming of our Lord on earth. The evening wolves will be much more abroad, When we are near the evening of the world.
HATHORNE. When you shall see, as I have hourly seen, The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us, See children tortured by invisible spirits, And wasted and consumed by powers unseen, You will confess the half has not been told you.
MATHER. It must be so. The death-pangs of the Devil Will make him more a Devil than before; And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heated Seven times more hot before its putting out.
HATHORNE. Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you For counsel and for guidance in this matter. What further shall we do?
Remember this,
That as a sparrow falls not to the ground
Without the will of God, so not a Devil
Can come down from the air without his leave.
We must inquire.
Dear sir, we have inquired;
Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through,
And then resifted it.
If God permits
These Evil Spirits from the unseen regions
To visit us with surprising informations,
We must inquire what cause there is for this,
But not receive the testimony borne
By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt
In the accused.
Upon such evidence
We do not rest our case. The ways are many
In which the guilty do betray themselves.
MATHER. Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness, That on one side no innocent blood be shed By too excessive zeal, and on the other No shelter given to any work of darkness.
HATHORNE. For one, I do not fear excess of zeal. What do we gain by parleying with the Devil? You reason, but you hesitate to act! Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in such cases The only safety is in acting promptly. 'T is not the part of wisdom to delay In things where not to do is still to do A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from. You are a man of books and meditation, But I am one who acts.
God give us wisdom
In the directing of this thorny business,
And guide us, lest New England should become
Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor
In the opinion of the world abroad!
The clock strikes.
I never hear the striking of a clock Without a warning and an admonition That time is on the wing, and we must quicken Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward, As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!
They rise.
HATHORNE. Then let us make all haste; and I will show you In what disguises and what fearful shapes The Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood, And you will pardon my excess of zeal.
Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoed
The house of Job is making now on thee
One last assault, more deadly and more snarled
With unintelligible circumstances
Than any thou hast hitherto encountered!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. — A room in WALCOT'S House. MARY WALCOT seated in an arm-chair. TITUBA with a mirror.
MARY. Tell me another story, Tituba. A drowsiness is stealing over me Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes, I am awake, and in another world. Dim faces of the dead and of the absent Come floating up before me,—floating, fading, And disappearing.
Look into this glass.
What see you?
Nothing but a golden vapor.
Yes, something more. An island, with the sea
Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge.
What land is this?
It is San Salvador,
Where Tituba was born. What see you now?
MARY. A man all black and fierce.
That is my father.
He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,—
Taught me the use of herbs and images.
What is he doing?
Holding in his hand
A waxen figure. He is melting it
Slowly before a fire.
And now what see you?
MARY. A woman lying on a bed of leaves, Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying!
TITUBA. That is the way the Obi men destroy The people they dislike! That is the way Some one is wasting and consuming you.
MARY. You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save me From those who make me pine and waste away! Who are they? Tell me.
That I do not know,
But you will see them. They will come to you.
MARY. No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it! I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.
Fails into a trance.
TITUBA. Hark! there is some one coming!
Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT.
There she lies,
Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!
O my poor sister!
Is she always thus?
WALCOT. Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions.
MATHER. Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted!
HATHORNE. Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep.
MATHER. Some fearful vision haunts her.
You now see
With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands,
The mysteries of this Witchcraft.
One would need
The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus
To see and touch them all.
You now have entered
The realm of ghosts and phantoms,—the vast realm
Of the unknown and the invisible,
Through whose wide-open gates there blows a wind
From the dark valley of the shadow of Death,
That freezes us with horror.
Take her hence!
Take her away from me. I see her there!
She's coming to torment me!
O my sister!
What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me.
She's in a trance.
Do you not see her there?
TITUBA. My child, who is it?
Ah, I do not know,
I cannot see her face.
How is she clad?
MARY. She wears a crimson bodice. In her hand She holds an image, and is pinching it Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures me! I see her face now. It is Goodwife Bishop! Why does she torture me? I never harmed her! And now she strikes me with an iron rod! Oh, I am beaten!
This is wonderful!.
I can see nothing! Is this apparition
Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it?
HATHORNE. It is. The spectre is invisible Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it.
MARY. Look! look! there is another clad in gray! She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatens To stab me with it! It is Goodwife Corey! Keep her away! Now she is coming at me! Oh, mercy! mercy!
There is nothing there!
MATHER to HATHORNE. Do you see anything?
The laws that govern
The spiritual world prevent our seeing
Things palpable and visible to her.
These spectres are to us as if they were not.
Mark her; she wakes.
TITUBA touches her, and she awakes.
Who are these gentlemen?
WALCOT. They are our friends. Dear Mary, are you better?
MARY. Weak, very weak.
Taking a spindle from her lap, and holding it up.
TITUBA. You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife Corey When she rushed at you.
Mark that, reverend sir!
MATHER. It is most marvellous, most inexplicable!
TITUBA. (picking up a bit of gray cloth from the floor). And here, too, is a bit of her gray dress, That the sword cut away.
Beholding this,
It were indeed by far more credulous
To be incredulous than to believe.
None but a Sadducee, who doubts of all
Pertaining to the spiritual world,
Could doubt such manifest and damning proofs!
HATHORNE. Are you convinced?
Dear child, be comforted!
Only by prayer and fasting can you drive
These Unclean Spirits from you. An old man
Gives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary!
ACT II
SCENE I. — GILES COREY's farm. Morning. Enter COREY, with a horseshoe and a hammer.
COREY. The Lord hath prospered me. The rising sun Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods As if he loved them. On a morn like this I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God For all his goodness unto me and mine. My orchard groans with russets and pearmains; My ripening corn shines golden in the sun; My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive The birds sing blithely on the trees around me! And blither than the birds my heart within me. But Satan still goes up and down the earth; And to protect this house from his assaults, And keep the powers of darkness from my door, This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold.
Nails down the horseshoe.
There, ye night-hags and witches that torment The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here!— What is the matter in the field?—John Gloyd! The cattle are all running to the woods!— John Gloyd! Where is the man?
Look there!
What ails the cattle? Are they all bewitched?
They run like mad.
They have been overlooked.
COREY. The Evil Eye is on them sure enough. Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them!
Exit GLOYD and enter MARTHA.
MARTHA. What is amiss?
The cattle are bewitched.
They are broken loose and making for the woods.
MARTHA. Why will you harbor such delusions, Giles? Bewitched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them; I saw him even now take down the bars And turn them loose! They're only frolicsome.
COREY. The rascal!
I was standing in the road,
Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him.
COREY. With Proctor's wife? And what says Goodwife Proctor?
MARTHA. Sad things indeed; the saddest you can hear Of Bridget Bishop. She's cried out upon!
COREY. Poor soul! I've known her forty year or more. She was the widow Wasselby, and then She married Oliver, and Bishop next. She's had three husbands. I remember well My games of shovel-board at Bishop's tavern In the old merry days, and she so gay With her red paragon bodice and her ribbons! Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch!
MARTHA. They'll little help her now,—her caps and ribbons, And her red paragon bodice and her plumes, With which she flaunted in the Meeting-house! When next she goes there, it will be for trial.
COREY. When will that be?
This very day at ten.
COREY. Then get you ready. We'll go and see it. Come; you shall ride behind me on the pillion.
MARTHA. Not I. You know I do not like such things. I wonder you should. I do not believe In Witches nor in Witchcraft.
Well, I do.
There's a strange fascination in it all.
That draws me on and on. I know not why.
MARTHA. What do we know of spirits good or ill, Or of their power to help us or to harm us?
COREY. Surely what's in the Bible must be true. Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul? Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost Of Samuel from his grave? The Bible says so.
MARTHA. That happened very long ago.
With God
There is no long ago.
There is with us.
COREY. And Mary Magdalene had seven devils, And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion!
God's power is infinite. I do not doubt it.
If in His providence He once permitted
Such things to be among the Israelites,
It does not follow He permits them now,
And among us who are not Israelites.
But we will not dispute about it, Giles.
Go to the village if you think it best,
And leave me here; I'll go about my work.
[Exit into the house.
COREY. And I will go and saddle the gray mare. The last word always. That is woman's nature. If an old man will marry a young wife, He must make up his mind to many things. It's putting new cloth into an old garment, When the strain comes, it is the old gives way.
Goes to the door.
Oh, Martha! I forgot to tell you something. I've had a letter from a friend of mine, A certain Richard Gardner of Nantucket, Master and owner of a whaling-vessel; He writes that he is coming down to see us. I hope you'll like him.
I will do my best.
That's a good woman. Now I will be gone.
I've not seen Gardner for this twenty year;
But there is something of the sea about him,—
Something so open, generous, large; and strong,
It makes me love him better than a brother.
[Exit.
MARTHA comes to the door.
MARTHA. Oh these old friends and cronies of my husband, These captains from Nantucket and the Cape, That come and turn my house into a tavern With their carousing! Still, there's something frank In these seafaring men that makes me like them. Why, here's a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep! Giles has done this to keep away the Witches. I hope this Richard Gardner will bring him A gale of good sound common-sense to blow The fog of these delusions from his brain!
COREY (within). Ho! Martha! Martha!
Have you seen my saddle?
MARTHA. I saw it yesterday.
Where did you see it?
MARTHA. On a gray mare, that somebody was riding Along the village road.
Who was it? Tell me.
MARTHA. Some one who should have stayed at home.
I see!
Don't vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is.
MARTHA. I've hidden it away.
Go fetch it me.
MARTHA. Go find it.
No. I'll ride down to the village
Bareback; and when the people stare and say,
"Giles Corey, where's your saddle?" I will answer,
"A Witch has stolen it." How shall you like that!
MARTHA. I shall not like it.
Then go fetch the saddle.
[Exit MARTHA.
If an old man will marry a young wife, Why then—why then—why then—he must spell Baker!
Enter MARTHA with the saddle, which she throws down.
MARTHA. There! There's the saddle.