Giles Corey of the Salem Farms
Page 1
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.
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!
MATHER. Then tell me, Witch and woman,
For you must know the pathways through this wood,
Where lieth Salem Village?
TITUBA. Reverend sir,
The village is near by. I’m going there
With these few herbs. I’ll lead you. Follow me.
MATHER. First say, who are you? I am loath to follow
A stranger in this wilderness, for fear
Of being misled, and left in some morass.
Who are you?
TITUBA. I am Tituba the Witch,
Wife of John Indian.
MATHER. 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!
TITUBA. I do not need a horse!
I can ride through the air upon a stick,
Above the tree-tops and above the houses,
And no one see me, no one overtake me.
[Exeunt.
II. — A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE’S. A clock in the corner.
Enter HATHORNE and MATHER. HATHORNE. You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here
Beneath my humble roof.
MATHER. I thank your Worship.
HATHORNE. Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued
With your long ride through unfrequented woods.
They sit down. MATHER. You know the purport of my visit here,—
To be advised by you, and counsel with you,
And with the Reverend Clergy of the village,
Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you;
And see with mine own eyes the wonders told
Of spectres and the shadows of the dead,
That come back from their graves to speak with men.
HATHORNE. Some men there are, I have known such, who think
That the two worlds—the seen and the unseen,
The world of matter and the world of spirit—
Are like the hemispheres upon our maps,
And touch each other only at a point.
But these two worlds are not divided thus,
Save for the purposes of common speech,
They form one globe, in which the parted s as
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?
MATHER. 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.
HATHORNE. Dear sir, we have inquired;
Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through,
And then resifted it.
MATHER. 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.
HATHORNE. 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.
MATHER. 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.
MATHER. 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.
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.
TITUBA. Look into this glass.
What see you?
MARY. 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?
TITUBA. It is San Salvador,
Where Tituba was born. What see you now?
MARY. A man all black and fierce.
TITUBA. 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?
MARY. Holding in his hand
A waxen figure. He is melting it
Slowly before a fire.
TITUBA. 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 terri
fy me, Tituba! Oh, save me
From those who make me pine and waste away!
Who are they? Tell me.
TITUBA. 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. WALCOT. There she lies,
Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!
O my poor sister!
MATHER. 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.
HATHORNE. You now see
With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands,
The mysteries of this Witchcraft.
MATHER. One would need
The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus
To see and touch them all.
HATHORNE. 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.
MARY. (starting)
Take her hence!
Take her away from me. I see her there!
She’s coming to torment me!
WALCOT. (taking her hand)
O my sister!
What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me.
She’s in a trance.
MARY. Do you not see her there?
TITUBA. My child, who is it?
MARY. Ah, I do not know,
I cannot see her face.
TITUBA. 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!
MATHER. 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!
WALCOT. (thrusting with his sword)
There is nothing there!
MATHER to HATHORNE. Do you see anything?
HATHORNE. The laws that govern
The spiritual world prevent our seeing