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.

UPSALL (at the window). 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.

UPSALL. 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?

JOHN ENDICOTT. 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?

UPSALL. 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.

JOHN ENDICOTT. 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.

KEMPTHORN. Sir, to you. You've the advantage of me. I don't know you. What may I call your name?

BUTTER. That's not your name?

KEMPTHORN. Yes, that's my name. What's yours?

BUTTER. My name is Butter. I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.

KEMPTHORN. Will you be seated?

BUTTER. What say? Who's conceited?

KEMPTHORN.

Will you sit down?

BUTTER. Oh, thank you.

KEMPTHORN. Spread yourself Upon this chair, sweet Butter.

BUTTER (sitting down). 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.

KEMPTHORN. 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.

KEMPTHORN. 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.

BUTTER. 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.

KEMPTHORN. 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.

KEMPTHORN. 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?

KEMPTHORN. I say, confound the tedious man With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?

BUTTER. You're free to go, by order of the Court. Your servant, sir. [Exit.

KEMPTHORN (shouting from the window). 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?

KEMPTHORN. Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow.

BUTTER. That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter. You need not speak so loud.

KEMPTHORN (shaking hands). Good-by! Good-by!

BUTTER. Your servant, sir.

KEMPTHORN. 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.

ENDICOTT. 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?

BELLINGHAM. 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?

BELLINGHAM. 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.

BELLINGHAM. 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.

ENDICOTT. 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.

BELLINGHAM. The guilt of it Be on their heads, not ours.

ENDICOTT. Are all set free?

BELLINGHAM. All are at large.

ENDICOTT. 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.

ENDICOTT. 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.