In the sweet shire of Devon.

Those are the bells.

Marg.

Wilt go to church, John?

John. I have been there already.

Marg. How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,

And when I rose, I looked (as my custom is)

From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
And the first object I discerned

Was the glistening spire of St. Mary Ottery.

Marg. Well, John.

John. Then I remembered 'twas the sabbath-day.
Immediately a wish arose in my mind,

To go to church and pray with Christian people.
And then I checked myself, and said to myself,
"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
(Not having been at church in all that time,)
And is it fit, that now for the first time

Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people
With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts,
And do thyself no good; for how could'st thou pray,
With unwashed hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
And then I at my own presumption smiled;
And then I wept that I should smile at all,
Having such cause of grief! I wept outright;
Tears like a river flooded all my face,

And I began to pray, and found I could pray;

And still I yearned to say my prayers in the church.

"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."

So stealing down the stairs, like one that feared detection,

Or was about to act unlawful business

At that dead time of dawn,

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.

(Whether by negligence I knew not,

Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,

For all things felt like mystery).

Marg. Yes.

John. So entering in, not without fear,
I passed into the family pew,
And covering up my eyes for shame,
And deep perception of unworthiness,
Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
Where I so oft had kneeled,

A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
More poignant than the first;

But afterwards was greatly comforted.

It seemed the guilt of blood was passing from me, Even in the act and agony of tears,

And all my sins forgiven.

THE WITCH.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT in the Family of SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.

Servant. ONE summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,
Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

That westward fronts our house,

Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted

Three hundred years ago,

By a neighboring prior of the Fairford name.

Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not

The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,

And begged an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
With angry chiding; but I can never think
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
That he could use a woman, an old woman,
With such discourtesy; but he refused her-
And better had he met a lion in his path
Than that old woman that night;

For she was one who practised the black arts,

And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.

She looked at him as one that meant to blast him,

And with a frightful noise,

('Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And partly like the hissing of a snake,)

She nothing said but this

(Sir Francis told the words):

A mischief, mischief, mischief,
And a nine-times killing curse,

By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,

Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,

And shuts up the womb of his purse.

And still she cried

A mischief,

And a nine-fold withering curse:

For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,

Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed,

Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath

Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;

So he described it.

Stranger. A terrible curse! What followed?

Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,

Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,

And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,

And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin

As a two-month's babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think

He bore his death-wound like a little child;

With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,

Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,

Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
And, when they asked him his complaint, he laid

His hand upon his heart to show the place,
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,

And pricked him with a pin.

And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begged an alms.

Stranger.

But did the witch confess?

Servant. All this and more at her death.

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world

(The mystery of God) unbeautified,

Disordered, marred, where such strange things are acted.

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