APPENDIX THE TRAGEDY OF WITCHCRAFT. As the tragedy of Witchcraft has not been published, nor is likely to be, while the dramatic interests of the country are unprotected by any copyright law, it may not be amiss to afford the reader a further opportunity of passing his judgment on this production by a few extracts, and the publication of a contemporary comment on the play, with a letter in the Evening Post, giving an account of its first performance. "The curtain rises in the new play upon a scene in a wood, and we are immediately introduced to the witch-haunted atmosphere of the era, for the spirit of that great persecution was abroad, as it were, in the air, and surrounded everything as a mysterious Presence. The first words between two of the yeomanry are tinctured with the popular superstition. We feel from the very moment that there is a general blight, a tendency to evil that cannot be resisted. This is the perfection of the Tragic interest, and it never leaves us through the piece. It was a time of Superstition, when the Prince of the Powers of the Air set up his throne in Salem, clung to the skirts of the dark wood, hung threatening in the blackness of the cloud, interpreted his mysteries in the flight of birds, hung out his inscriptions in the withered folds of old women's faces, to be read by conceited interpreters of Heaven's law, and hypocritical men of cruelty. A fearful time that. In the play all this is felt, as the talk of the characters keeps continually approaching, by a species of fascination, as it were, the fatal subject. Day by day it gathers strength. From distant regions, it is heard of in the neighbouring villages, and gradually approaches, like some fell disease, closing in upon the life-the devoted town of Salem, and within that town of Salem, at its very heart, the lives and persons of a man and woman of no ordinary mould among those townspeople, the hero and heroine of the play -the Mother and Son of the story. There are several passions at work in the Drama-there is Bigotry seeking its victim, Christianity borrowing weapons from Hell to circumvent the Devil-the jealousy of the lover serving God and his passion, too, at the same time, and calling Revenge-Religion-there are petty cowardice and curiosity, but far above them all, striking a root in nature deeper even than the miscalled devotion of those times, the relation between a mother and her son-the untaught emotion of boyhood rising up bolder and stronger than the inveterate hardihood and selfish hypocrisy of manhood. By this simple element of strength one human being at least is saved, and the expedients of that miserable age shattered and almost driven back from their strongholds. How all this and more is done those who have seen or will soon witness this tragedy, will be at no loss to understand. Mr. Murdoch is labouring to a purpose and with the author. The play is a beautiful example of development, All is elaborately wrought out, the details are numerous, and the result simplicity. The plot is simply this. A proud woman of great independence and superior education, retires, when age and trouble have begun to set their marks upon her, to the comparative solitude of Salem. She bore trouble in her heart, was among the townspeople, but not of them, loved lonely walks on the hill side, gathered old Indian relics, which she kept out of reverence for the past. "The fee grief due to her single breast" was remorse for an act of pride, by which her husband had fallen in a duel. A word from her might have prevented the calamity, and she had not spoken it. With such elements, and the material the meddlesome town naturally afforded, and the vile poison of witchcraft already introduced into the land, how easily was this woman implicated. She walked alone and talked much with herselfit was a trick of witchcraft. She possessed little Indian figures, which she called after the names of the local characters of the town--the magistrates and constables, whose religion was to be set at work either through fear or the insult-these were the instruments of incantation, like the waxen images of ancient necromancy. She laughed at the folly of her persecutors-it was of course hardened wickedness. The atmosphere is so choking, that the son yields and for a moment believes his mother's guilt, but when he listens to her explanation of the silent grief, the lonely walks, he spurns the whole brood in language and acts of unmeasured indignation. This is the triumph of the actor, as well as of the moral element in the fifth act. But evil men have had their counsel and completed their deed. The Witch is condemned to die! "Gideon. The deed is done! Ruin upon a sacred head What have ye done-thou sepulchre of all belief (To Deacon Gidney.) And truth, stares not this lie you have enacted Ye are the most accursed deceivers, Or century hath hatched. Ye have enfogged, Darkened, and led astray my childish love, Made this aged mother seem a horror and a hag To one, who, drop by drop, would once have died—and will To save or serve her! Blasted this blest place And made its men and women beasts of prey, Hunting each other to chains and flames and deaths. This passage tells much of the story. There are other incidents and personages. The Deacon is strongly marked, so is that feeble little shadow of him and the justice, petty officer Pudeater. The Deacon is described A sturdy gentleman of solemn port, Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch Is full and hungry ever, his step Demure and confident as though he trod On holy pavements always. The little official is the type of timid, obsequious sextons, who hang upon the eyelids of the vestry and the clergyman, or any in authority. He always appears in character, and is sure of being laughed at. He bears about him with the best grace in the world the utmost extent of the ridiculous. As a specimen of the dialogue, we give the first scene between the Deacon and Ambla, in which he seeks to entrap her. "Deacon. I should be sorry to know your age was racked Sleep you well o' nights? Ambla. I'm thankful for the rest I find, and if the other villagers take Deacon. You seek your bed Early, I hope, as doth become your age. Ambla. A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation Am lapped in sleep. Deacon. Dream you much now, My aged friend-we at our age, that is, at yours, Ambla. I have not dreamed A dream, for three and twenty years, Except awake. Deacon. Was there no vision in your sleep last night? You heard of Margaret Purdy's death at Groton ? Her spectre, 'tis given out, passed over this house Of yours-in a white flame at midnight. Ambla. An angel, she, to honor so this low Deacon. You think well, then, of her, do you? Ambla. There is a silent service, sir, I've heard It said, keeps up its worship at the heart Although the lips be closed. Deacon. What! prayer irregular and chance begot! Sad orthodoxy ! I, Deacon Perfect Gidney, A humble pattern to this lowly parish, Am used to have a different way I snuff my candle with a prayer, And with a prayer wind up my watch, And go to prayer at striking of the clock, The great one, my learned grandfather's gift, This is compact and straightforward, nothing wanting, nothing superfluous. The American writer who can sustain five acts of a play at this standard is an acquisition! The scattered poetic beauties of single lines and figures, exercises of an original fancy, are numerous and always aid the dramatic element. Passages like the following are sufficient proofs of a new poet and dramatist somewhere among us. (Gideon's affection for his mother.) Ambla. Be calm, my son, nor love me too much! When from your hand I go, I die a death At every step; you seem to hold the roof-tree With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them: My weary head when night draws on. Gid. Then there's calamity at hand that colors everything. (No evil spirits in the New World). Believe it not ! Believe it not!-Clear, crystal and unstained, |