Act I

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 hideIn field and meadow; and I know their secrets,And gather them because they give me powerOver 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 enemiesWho, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!

Methinks that I have come by paths unknownInto the land and atmosphere of Witches;For, meditating as I journeyed on,Lo! I have lost my way! If I rememberRightly, it is Scribonius the learnedThat tells the story of a man who, prayingFor 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 affairsIn which the Devil doth not interfere.We cannot undertake a journey even,But Satan will be there to meddle with itBy hindering or by furthering. He hath led meInto this thicket, struck me in the faceWith branches of the trees, and so entangledThe fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles,That I must needs dismount, and search on footFor the lost pathway leading to the village.

What shape is this? What monstrous apparition,Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way?Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman--

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 thereWith these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me.

First say, who are you? I am loath to followA stranger in this wilderness, for fearOf 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 standsTethered among the trees, not far from here.

Let me get up behind you, reverend sir.

The Lord forbid! What would the people think,If they should see the Reverend Cotton MatherRide 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.

SCENE II. -- A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in thecorner.Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome hereBeneath my humble roof.

I thank your Worship.

Pray you be seated. You must be fatiguedWith your long ride through unfrequented woods.

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 toldOf spectres and the shadows of the dead,That come back from their graves to speak with men.

Some men there are, I have known such, who thinkThat 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 seasAll flow together and are intermingled,While the great continents remain distinct.

I doubt it not. The spiritual worldLies all about us, and its avenuesAre open to the unseen feet of phantomsThat come and go, and we perceive them not,Save by their influence, or when at timesA most mysterious Providence permits themTo manifest themselves to mortal eyes.

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.

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 scatteredAnd driven like autumn leaves before the wind.

You as a Minister of God, can meet themWith spiritual weapons: but, alas!I, as a Magistrate, must combat themWith weapons from the armory of the flesh.

These wonders of the world invisible,--These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,--The multiplied and manifold afflictionsWith which the aged and the dying saintsHave their death prefaced and their age imbittered,--Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaimThe Second Coming of our Lord on earth.The evening wolves will be much more abroad,When we are near the evening of the world.

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.

It must be so. The death-pangs of the DevilWill make him more a Devil than before;And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heatedSeven times more hot before its putting out.

Advise me, reverend sir. I look to youFor counsel and for guidance in this matter.What further shall we do?

Remember this,That as a sparrow falls not to the groundWithout the will of God, so not a DevilCan 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 permitsThese Evil Spirits from the unseen regionsTo visit us with surprising informations,We must inquire what cause there is for this,But not receive the testimony borneBy spectres as conclusive proof of guiltIn the accused.

Upon such evidenceWe do not rest our case. The ways are manyIn which the guilty do betray themselves.

Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness,That on one side no innocent blood be shedBy too excessive zeal, and on the otherNo shelter given to any work of darkness.

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 casesThe only safety is in acting promptly.'T is not the part of wisdom to delayIn things where not to do is still to doA 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 wisdomIn the directing of this thorny business,And guide us, lest New England should becomeOf an unsavory and sulphurous odorIn the opinion of the world abroad!

I never hear the striking of a clockWithout a warning and an admonitionThat time is on the wing, and we must quickenOur tardy pace in journeying Heavenward,As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!

Then let us make all haste; and I will show youIn what disguises and what fearful shapesThe Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood,And you will pardon my excess of zeal.

Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoedThe house of Job is making now on theeOne last assault, more deadly and more snarledWith unintelligible circumstancesThan any thou hast hitherto encountered!

Tell me another story, Tituba.A drowsiness is stealing over meWhich is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes,I am awake, and in another world.Dim faces of the dead and of the absentCome 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 seaBreaking all round it, like a blooming hedge.What land is this?

It is San Salvador,Where Tituba was born. What see you now?

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 handA waxen figure. He is melting itSlowly before a fire.

And now what see you?

A woman lying on a bed of leaves,Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying!

That is the way the Obi men destroyThe people they dislike! That is the waySome one is wasting and consuming you.

You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save meFrom 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.

No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it!I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.

Hark! there is some one coming!

There she lies,Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!O my poor sister!

Is she always thus?

Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions.

Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted!

Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep.

Some fearful vision haunts her.

You now seeWith your own eyes, and touch with your own hands,The mysteries of this Witchcraft.

One would needThe hands of Briareus and the eyes of ArgusTo see and touch them all.

You now have enteredThe realm of ghosts and phantoms,--the vast realmOf the unknown and the invisible,Through whose wide-open gates there blows a windFrom 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.

Do you not see her there?

My child, who is it?

Ah, I do not know,I cannot see her face.

How is she clad?

She wears a crimson bodice. In her handShe holds an image, and is pinching itBetween 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 apparitionVisibly there, and yet we cannot see it?

It is. The spectre is invisibleUnto our grosser senses, but she sees it.

Look! look! there is another clad in gray!She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatensTo 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?

The laws that governThe spiritual world prevent our seeingThings palpable and visible to her.These spectres are to us as if they were not.Mark her; she wakes.

Who are these gentlemen?

They are our friends. Dear Mary, are you better?

Weak, very weak.

You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife CoreyWhen she rushed at you.

Mark that, reverend sir!

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 credulousTo be incredulous than to believe.None but a Sadducee, who doubts of allPertaining to the spiritual world,Could doubt such manifest and damning proofs!

Are you convinced?

MATHER to MARY.Dear child, be comforted!Only by prayer and fasting can you driveThese Unclean Spirits from you. An old manGives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary!