Chapter XXXIX: Prologue: From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

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?

'Twas 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 'tis 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.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem
Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought
about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched
and who "cried out" against various persons. They were
countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the
minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he
used them to gratify his private enmities.

SALEM

[A.D. 1692]

Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne,
How rides a witch when night-winds blowe?
Folk say that you are none too goode
To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,
When one you wot of gives the signe:
Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.

In meetinge-time I watched you well,
Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:
Your folded hands laye on your booke;
But Richard answered to a looke
That fain would tempt him unto hell,
Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.

You looke into my Richard's eyes
With evill glances shamelesse growne;
I found about his wriste a hair,
And guesse what fingers tyed it there!
He shall not lightly be your prize--
Your Master first shall take his owne.

'Tis not in nature he should be
(Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)
A childe, to hange upon your gowne!
He loved me well in Salem towne
Until this wanton witcherie
His heart and myne crept dark betweene.

Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,
Your goodman missed you from his side.
He had no strength to move, until
Agen, as if in slumber still,
Beside him at the dawne you laye.
Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.

Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete
As drifts the Bay fogg overhead--
Or over yonder hill-topp, where
There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear
When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet
The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work
without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and
condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court
sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed
soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse,
seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent
character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to
convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who
had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and
on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill
and hanged.

THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE

[July 19, 1692]

The chill New England sunshine
Lay on the kitchen floor;
The wild New England north wind
Came rattling at the door.

And by the wide old fire-place,
Deep in her cushioned chair,
Lay back an ancient woman,
With shining snow-white hair.

The peace of God was on her face,
Her eyes were sweet and calm,
And when you heard her earnest voice
It sounded like a psalm.

In all the land they loved her well;
From country and from town
Came many a heart for counsel,
And many a soul cast down.

Her hands had fed the hungry poor
With blessing and with bread;
Her face was like a comforting
From out the Gospel read.

So weak and silent as she lay,
Her warm hands clasped in prayer,
A sudden knocking at the door
Came on her unaware.

And as she turned her hoary head,
Beside her chair there stood
Four grim and grisly Puritans--
No visitants for good.

They came upon her like a host,
And bade her speak and tell
Why she had sworn a wicked oath
To serve the powers of hell;

To work the works of darkness
On children of the light,
A witch they might not suffer here
Who read the Word aright.

Like one who sees her fireside yawn,
A pit of black despair,
Or one who wakes from quiet dreams
Within a lion's lair,

She glared at them with starting eyes,
Her voice essayed no sound;
She gasped like any hunted deer
The eager dogs surround.

"Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry;
She looked from side to side--
No human help--"Oh, gracious God!"
In agony she cried.

Then, calling back her feeble life,
The white lips uttered slow,
"I am as pure as babe unborn
From this foul thing, ye know.

"If God doth visit me for sin,
Beneath His rod I bend,"
But pitiless and wroth were they,
And bent upon their end.

They tortured her with taunt and jeer,
They vexed her night and day--
No husband's arm nor sister's tears
Availed their rage to stay.

Before the church they haled her then;
The minister arose
And poured upon her patient head
The worst of all its woes:

He bade her be accursed of God
Forever here and there;
He cursed her with a heavy curse
No mortal man may bear.

She stood among the cowering crowd
As calm as saints in heaven,
Her eyes as sweet as summer skies,
Her face like summer's even.

The devils wrought their wicked will
On matron and on maid.
"Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all,
But not a word she said.

They fastened chains about her feet,
And carried her away;
For many days in Salem jail
Alone and ill she lay

She heard the scythe along the field
Ring through the fragrant air,
She smelt the wild-rose on the wind
That bloweth everywhere.

Reviled and hated and bereft,
The soul had plenteous rest,
Though sorrow like a frantic flood
Beat sore upon her breast.

At last the prison door stood wide,
They led the saint abroad;
By many an old familiar place
Her trembling footsteps trod.

Till faint with weakness and distress,
She climbed a hillside bleak,
And faced the gallows built thereon,
Still undisturbed and meek.

They hanged this weary woman there,
Like any felon stout;
Her white hairs on the cruel rope
Were scattered all about.

The body swung upon the tree
In every flitting wind,
Reviled and mocked by passengers
And folk of evil mind.

A woman old and innocent,
To die a death of shame,
With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,
And none to utter blame.

Oh, God, that such a thing should be
On earth which Thou hast made!
A voice from heaven answered me,
"Father forgive," He said.

ROSE TERRY COOKE.

At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course,
condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former
had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her
defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August
5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor
was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy.
Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution
was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a
reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.

A SALEM WITCH

[August 19, 1692]

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 heart
From 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 TRIAL

From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

[September 7, 1692]

SCENE II.--_Interior of the Meeting-house._ MATHER _and the
Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a
raised platform._ MARTHA _in chains_. COREY _near her_. MARY
WALCOT _in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them_ GLOYD.
_Confusion and murmurs during the scene._

HATHORNE

CALL Martha Corey.

MARTHA

I am here.

HATHORNE

Come forward.

_She ascends the platform._

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you
Of having on the tenth of June last past,
And divers other times before and after,
Wickedly used and practised certain arts
Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,
Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,
Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts
The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,
Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,
Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute
Made and provided in that case. What say you?

MARTHA

Before I answer, give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE

We have not sent for you, nor are we here,
To hear you pray, but to examine you
In whatsoever is alleged against you
Why do you hurt this person?

MARTHA

I do not.
I am not guilty of the charge against me.

MARY

Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!
Avoid, avoid, Witch!

MARTHA

I am innocent.
I never had to do with any Witchcraft
Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.

MARY

You 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!

HATHORNE

Who made these marks
Upon her hands?

MARTHA

I do not know. I stand
Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.

HATHORNE

Who hurt her then?

MARTHA

I know not.

HATHORNE

Do you think
She is bewitched?

MARTHA

Indeed I do not think so.
I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.

HATHORNE

Then answer me: When certain persons came
To see you yesterday, how did you know
Beforehand why they came?

MARTHA

I had had speech;
The children said I hurt them, and I thought
These people came to question me about it.

HATHORNE

How did you know the children had been told
To note the clothes you wore?

MARTHA

My husband told me
What others said about it.

HATHORNE

Goodman Corey,
Say, did you tell her?

COREY

I must speak the truth;
I did not tell her. It was some one else.

HATHORNE

Did 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.

MARTHA _bites her lips, and is silent_.

You bite your lips, but do not answer me!

MARY

Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!

HATHORNE

You said your husband told you.

MARTHA

Yes, he told me
The children said I troubled them.

HATHORNE

Then tell me,
Why do you trouble them?

MARTHA

I have denied it.

MARY

She 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._

HATHORNE

And there are persons here who know the truth
Of what has now been said. What answer make you?

MARTHA

I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE

Whom would you pray to?

MARTHA

To my God and Father.

HATHORNE

Who is your God and Father?

MARTHA

The Almighty!

HATHORNE

Doth he you pray to say that he is God?
It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.

MARY

There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.

HATHORNE

What does it say to you?

MARTHA

I see no shape.

HATHORNE

Did you not hear it whisper?

MARTHA

I heard nothing.

MARY

What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!

_Falls into a swoon._

HATHORNE

You see this woman cannot stand before you.
If you would look for mercy, you must look
In God's way, by confession of your guilt.
Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?

MARTHA

I do not know. He who appeared of old
In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,
May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.
I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!

COREY

O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.

HATHORNE

No; 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!

MARTHA

I see nothing.

HATHORNE

'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.

MARY

Now it has flown away. It sits up there
Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.

MARTHA

Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.
Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.

_She leans against the railing._

MARY

Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!

HATHORNE

Did you not carry once the Devil's Book
To this young woman?

MARTHA

Never.

HATHORNE

Have you signed it,
Or touched it?

MARTHA

No; I never saw it.

HATHORNE

Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?

MARTHA

No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit
Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds,
I cannot help it. I am innocent.

HATHORNE

Did 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?

HATHORNE

Did you not
On one occasion hide your husband's saddle
To hinder him from coming to the Sessions?

MARTHA

I thought it was a folly in a farmer
To waste his time pursuing such illusions.

HATHORNE

What was the bird that this young woman saw
Just now upon your hand?

MARTHA

I know no bird.

HATHORNE

Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?

MARTHA

No, never, never!

HATHORNE

What then was the Book
You showed to this young woman, and besought her
To write in it?

MARTHA

Where should I have a book?
I showed her none, nor have none.

MARY

The next Sabbath
Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey
Will not be there!

MARTHA

Ah, you are all against me.
What can I do or say?

HATHORNE

You can confess.

MARTHA

No, I cannot, for I am innocent.

HATHORNE

We have the proof of many witnesses
That you are guilty.

MARTHA

Give 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 wine
So many times at our Lord's Table with you?
Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know
That I have led a blameless life among you,
That never any whisper of suspicion
Was breathed against me till this accusation.
And shall this count for nothing? Will you take
My life away from me, because this girl,
Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,
Accuses me of things I blush to name?

HATHORNE

What! is it not enough? Would you hear more?
Giles Corey!

COREY

I am here.

HATHORNE

Come forward, then.

COREY _ascends the platform_.

Is it not true, that on a certain night
You were impeded strangely in your prayers?
That something hindered you? and that you left
This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone
Upon the hearth?

COREY

Yes; I cannot deny it.

HATHORNE

Did you not say the Devil hindered you?

COREY

I think I said some words to that effect.

HATHORNE

Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,
To you belonging, broke from their enclosure
And leaped into the river, and were drowned?

COREY

It is most true.

HATHORNE

And did you not then say
That they were overlooked?

COREY

So much I said.
I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,
A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!

(_Aside._)

HATHORNE

Who did these things?

COREY

I do not know who did them.

HATHORNE

Then I will tell you. It is some one near you;
You see her now; this woman, your own wife.

COREY

I call the heavens to witness, it is false!
She never harmed me, never hindered me
In 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 her
As otherwise than patient, brave, and true,
Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,
A virtuous and industrious and good wife!

HATHORNE

Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;
You are a witness, not an advocate!
Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.

MARTHA

O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!

MARY

Go, 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!

[_Exit_ MARTHA; COREY _following_.

COREY

The dream! the dream! the dream!

HATHORNE

What does he say?
Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself
Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery
By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?

COREY

I 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._

HATHORNE

Do you refuse to plead?--'Twere better for you
To 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.

HATHORNE

Tell the Court;
Have you not seen the supernatural power
Of this old man? Have you not seen him do
Strange feats of strength?

GLOYD

I've seen him lead the field,
On a hot day, in mowing, and against
Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.
He threw me like a feather. I have seen him
Lift up a barrel with his single hands,
Which two strong men could hardly lift together,
And, holding it above his head, drink from it.

HATHORNE

That is enough; we need not question further.
What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?

MARY

See there! See there!

HATHORNE

What is it? I see nothing.

MARY

Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,
Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder
By stamping on his body! In his shroud
He comes here to bear witness to the crime!
_The crowd shrinks back from_ COREY _in horror_.

HATHORNE

Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living
Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die!
It might have been an easier death. Your doom
Will 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 condemned
To the _peine forte et dure_! To have your body
Pressed 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 high
Upon the Locust-tree.

So when before the magistrates
For triall he did come,
He would no true confession make,
But was compleatlie dumbe.

"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,
"What hast thou heare to pleade
To these that now accuse thy soule
Of 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."

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 awoke
The 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 now
A 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, beware
Of 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 say
She 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 wide
Her 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 could
To 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 plead
Than 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 word
Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze
Each 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 news
That 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 down
Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:
In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed
The 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 grieved
That 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 know
How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow
Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore
To 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.