TITUBA. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Tituba, an enslaved Indigenous woman in colonial Salem, recounts the poisonous plants she knows and the harm she can inflict—asserting a power that remains unseen and unclaimed by those around her.
The poem
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 hide In field and meadow; and I know their secrets, And gather them because they give me power Over 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 enemies Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me! Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a riding-whip in his hand.
Tituba, an enslaved Indigenous woman in colonial Salem, recounts the poisonous plants she knows and the harm she can inflict—asserting a power that remains unseen and unclaimed by those around her. This monologue reveals a woman who has lost every outward sign of status, transforming her sole possession—secret knowledge—into a form of revenge. The twist at the end reverses the entire power dynamic: she asserts that those who label her a slave are, in fact, enslaved by her.
Line-by-line
Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood; / And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts;
I know them, and the places where they hide / In field and meadow; and I know their secrets,
I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, / Am stronger than the captain with his sword,
For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, / Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy,
I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand; / A touch from me and they are weak with pain,
The death of cattle and the blight of corn, / The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,--
Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies / Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!
Tone & mood
The tone is both defiant and incantatory—it feels like a spell being spoken aloud. There’s genuine fury beneath the surface, but Tituba expresses her monologue with a chilling precision instead of fiery anger, which adds to its danger. By the end, it veers into a sense of dark triumph.
Symbols & metaphors
- Poisonous plants — The herbs represent more than just their physical presence — they symbolize elusive, uncontainable knowledge. They thrive in the wild, can't be possessed, and their potency remains unseen until it's too late. For Tituba, gaining control over them is the only form of power accessible to someone who has been stripped of all other forms of authority.
- The catalogue of colonial authority (captain, merchant, scholar, minister, magistrate) — This list outlines the complete framework of Puritan colonial power — military, economic, intellectual, religious, and legal. By piling them up only to tear them down, Tituba (and Longfellow) reveal the entire hierarchy as weak, founded on fear rather than true strength.
- The Evil Eye and Evil Hand — These are the specific accusations from the Salem witch trials flipped on their heads. In the courtroom, they were seen as proof of guilt; here, they’re worn as badges of honor. This symbol illustrates how the same act can appear entirely different based on who has the power to define it.
- Natural disasters (shipwreck, tornado, fire) — By taking credit for disasters, Tituba connects herself with powers beyond the reach of any human authority. This evokes a sense of freedom through fear — the only form of freedom that the poem implies was accessible to her.
- Slavery / the word 'slave' — The word shows up twice in the last two lines, but it carries opposite meanings each time. The first instance refers to the label placed on her, while the second signifies the condition she has quietly enforced on her oppressors. This repetition serves as the poem's main rhetorical strategy.
Historical context
This poem is a dramatic monologue inspired by Longfellow's verse drama *New England Tragedies* (1868), which was later included in his larger trilogy *Christus: A Mystery* (1872). Tituba was a real person—an enslaved woman likely of Indigenous Caribbean descent, owned by Reverend Samuel Parris in Salem, Massachusetts. In 1692, she was among the first three accused of witchcraft, and her confession—whether forced or calculated—helped spark the Salem witch trials that led to nineteen executions. Longfellow wrote in the aftermath of the Civil War, and his portrayal of Tituba resonates deeply with that period: a nation confronting slavery was also being prompted to revisit a woman whose enslavement was tied to the hysteria that devastated her community. The stage direction at the poem's conclusion—Mather entering booted and spurred—immediately brings colonial religious authority into the room she has just claimed as her own.
FAQ
Yes. Tituba was an enslaved woman owned by Reverend Samuel Parris in Salem Village. In 1692, she was among the first three individuals accused of witchcraft. There is some debate about her origins—she likely hailed from Barbados and may have had Indigenous Caribbean or African ancestry. Her confession during the trials was the first and most detailed, significantly influencing the community's perception of a witches' sabbath. Ultimately, she was sold to cover her jail fees and subsequently vanishes from the historical record.
It's a powerful monologue taken from Longfellow's verse play *New England Tragedies* (1868), particularly from the part called *Giles Corey of the Salem Farms*. The play portrays the Salem witch trials, featuring Tituba as a character who delivers this soliloquy just before the magistrate Cotton Mather makes his entrance. Although the poem stands well on its own, it was crafted as a speech within a broader theatrical context.
The catalogue serves a dual purpose. First, it positions her as someone with actual, detailed botanical knowledge — this isn't just vague superstition; it's a thorough inventory. Second, it creates a sense of rhythm and momentum, resembling a spell being recited. By the time she reaches the phrase 'I know their secrets,' the reader has already been pulled into her world on her own terms.
The poem expresses clear sympathy. Longfellow gives Tituba the strongest voice in the scene, and her reasoning is solid: she has lost every social right, so she has developed the one power that cannot be taken from her. The final line — 'Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me' — is meant to resonate as a triumph rather than a condemnation. Writing in 1868, shortly after the Civil War, Longfellow aimed to portray an enslaved woman not as a monster.
These are the legal and theological terms from the Salem witch trials that described how a witch was believed to harm her victims — either by a glance (the Evil Eye) or a touch (the Evil Hand). Accusers said they experienced pain when Tituba looked at or touched them. Instead of denying these claims, Tituba embraces them as her powers, which allows Longfellow to turn the trial's narrative on its head: what the court labeled a crime, she considers her only means of defense.
The stage direction highlights a structural irony. Tituba has just claimed to be more powerful than ministers and magistrates — and then in walks the most renowned Puritan minister of the time. Mather is 'booted and spurred,' indicating he has just arrived, showcasing his worldly authority. This contrast between her unseen, internal strength and his overt, institutional power encapsulates the central tension of the play in one striking image.
The poem argues that legal power and real power are different. Those who control Tituba's body don't possess her knowledge, and it's her knowledge that truly dominates them — through fear. Longfellow highlights that the Salem witch panic stemmed from a community's fear of what it couldn't comprehend or control. Tituba, seen as the most powerless person in the room by legal standards, emerges as the one everyone fears.
The poem is crafted in blank verse — unrhymed iambic pentameter — the typical format for dramatic monologues and stage speeches in Longfellow's tradition. This absence of rhyme prevents it from sounding like a nursery rhyme and instead lends it the gravity of genuine speech. The rhythm is adaptable, allowing for the lengthy plant catalogues at the beginning and the sharp turns at the end.