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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:46 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:46 -0700 |
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diff --git a/13707-h/13707-h.htm b/13707-h/13707-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..adc9869 --- /dev/null +++ b/13707-h/13707-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16652 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Twice-Told Tales, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + + .ctr {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em;} + + .noindent {text-indent: 0em;} + + .quote {text-align: justify; + margin-left: 1.85em; + margin-right: 1.85em; + text-indent: 0em;} + + hr.med {text-align: center; + width: 60%; + margin-top: 1.5em; + margin-bottom: 1.5em;} + + hr.short {text-align: center; + width: 25%; + margin-top: 1.5em; + margin-bottom: 2em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13707 ***</div> + +<h1>TWICE-TOLD TALES</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE</h2> + +<h5>PHILADELPHIA:<br/> +DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER,<br/> +23 SOUTH NINTH STREET</h5> + +<h4>1889</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">THE GRAY CHAMPION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">SUNDAY AT HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">THE WEDDING-KNELL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">THE GENTLE BOY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">WAKEFIELD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">THE GREAT CARBUNCLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">THE PROPHETIC PICTURES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">DAVID SWAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">FANCY’S SHOW-BOX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE:</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21"> I. HOWE’S MASQUERADE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22"> II. EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23"> III. LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24"> IV. OLD ESTHER DUDLEY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">THE HAUNTED MIND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">THE VILLAGE UNCLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">THE AMBITIOUS GUEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">THE SISTER-YEARS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">SNOWFLAKES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">THE SEVEN VAGABONDS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">THE WHITE OLD MAID</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">THE SHAKER BRIDAL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">NIGHT-SKETCHES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">THE LILY’S QUEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">THE THREEFOLD DESTINY</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr class="med" /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Twice-Told Tales</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a> +THE GRAY CHAMPION</h2> + +<p> +There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual pressure of +heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. +James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the +charters of all the colonies and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take +away our liberties and endanger our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund +Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny—a governor and +council holding office from the king and wholly independent of the country; +laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by +their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and the titles +of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by +restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the first band +of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years our +ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had +invariably secured their allegiance to the mother-country, whether its head +chanced to be a Parliament, Protector or popish monarch. Till these evil times, +however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled +themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the +native subjects of Great Britain. +</p> + +<p> +At length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of Orange had ventured on +an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious +rights and the salvation of New England. It was but a doubtful whisper; it +might be false or the attempt might fail, and in either case the man that +stirred against King James would lose his head. Still, the intelligence +produced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteriously in the streets and +threw bold glances at their oppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued +and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land +from its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to +avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their +despotism by yet harsher measures. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, +being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the governor’s guard and +made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when +the march commenced. The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go +through the streets less as the martial music of the soldiers than as a +muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude by various avenues +assembled in King street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century +afterward, of another encounter between the troops of Britain and a people +struggling against her tyranny. +</p> + +<p> +Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of +their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their +character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier +occasions. There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy +but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence in +Heaven’s blessing on a righteous cause which would have marked a band of +the original Puritans when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, +it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in +the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house +was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the +Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms +might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, were the +veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned villages and slaughtered +young and old with pious fierceness while the godly souls throughout the land +were helping them with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the +crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if +there were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted their +influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the town at a +period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment was +almost the Universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained. +</p> + +<p> +“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,” cried some, +“because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to +be dragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King +street.” +</p> + +<p> +Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who +looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a +candidate for the highest honor of his profession—a crown of martyrdom. +It was actually fancied at that period that New England might have a John +Rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the <i>Primer</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew,” +cried others. “We are to be massacred, man and male-child.” +</p> + +<p> +Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class believed +the governor’s object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor under the +old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known +to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing that Sir Edmund Andros +intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force and to confound +the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand firm for the old charter-governor!” shouted the crowd, +seizing upon the idea—“the good old Governor Bradstreet!” +</p> + +<p> +While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the well-known +figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who +appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with characteristic mildness +besought them to submit to the constituted authorities. +</p> + +<p> +“My children,” concluded this venerable person, “do nothing +rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England and expect +patiently what the Lord will do in this matter.” +</p> + +<p> +The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of the drum had been +approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations from +house to house and the regular tramp of martial footsteps it burst into the +street. A double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole +breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as +to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress +of a machine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next, +moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party +of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but +erect and soldier-like. Those around him were his favorite councillors and the +bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph, our +arch-enemy, that “blasted wretch,” as Cotton Mather calls him, who +achieved the downfall of our ancient government and was followed with a +sensible curse-through life and to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, +scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind with a +downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the +people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of +his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor and two or three civil +officers under the Crown were also there. But the figure which most attracted +the public eye and stirred up the deepest feeling was the Episcopal clergyman +of King’s Chapel riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly +vestments, the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution, the union of +Church and State, and all those abominations which had driven the Puritans to +the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. +</p> + +<p> +The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its moral, +the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things +and the character of the people—on one side the religious multitude with +their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other the group of despotic +rulers with the high churchman in the midst and here and there a crucifix at +their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust +authority and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, +waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by +which obedience could be secured. +</p> + +<p> +“O Lord of hosts,” cried a voice among the crowd, “provide a +champion for thy people!” +</p> + +<p> +This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald’s cry to +introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were now +huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers had +advanced no more than a third of its length. The intervening space was +empty—a paved solitude between lofty edifices which threw almost a +twilight shadow over it. Suddenly there was seen the figure of an ancient man +who seemed to have emerged from among the people and was walking by himself +along the centre of the street to confront the armed band. He wore the old +Puritan dress—a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hat in the fashion of at +least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his +hand to assist the tremulous gait of age. +</p> + +<p> +When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, +displaying a face of antique majesty rendered doubly venerable by the hoary +beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at once of encouragement +and warning, then turned again and resumed his way. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this gray patriarch?” asked the young men of their sires. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this venerable brother?” asked the old men among +themselves. +</p> + +<p> +But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of fourscore years +and upward, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of +such evident authority whom they must have known in their early days, the +associate of Winthrop and all the old councillors, giving laws and making +prayers and leading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to have +remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth as their own were now. +And the young! How could he have passed so utterly from their +memories—that hoary sire, the relic of long-departed times, whose awful +benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads in childhood? +</p> + +<p> +“Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who can this old man be?” +whispered the wondering crowd. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary +walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, +and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the old man raised +himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his +shoulders, leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now he marched onward with +a warrior’s step, keeping time to the military music. Thus the aged form +advanced on one side and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the +other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped +his staff by the middle and held it before him like a leader’s truncheon. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand!” cried he. +</p> + +<p> +The eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike peal of that +voice—fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to God +in prayer—were irresistible. At the old man’s word and outstretched +arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and the advancing line stood still. +A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately form, combining +the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, +could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause whom the +oppressor’s drum had summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe +and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New England. +</p> + +<p> +The governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to +an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their +snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He, however, +blenched not a step, but, glancing his severe eye round the group, which half +encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have +thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and +council with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority +of the Crown, had no alternative but obedience. +</p> + +<p> +“What does this old fellow here?” cried Edward Randolph, +fiercely.—“On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the +dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen—to stand aside or +be trampled on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay! Let us show respect to the good grandsire,” said +Bullivant, laughing. “See you not he is some old round-headed dignitary +who hath lain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change of +times? Doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old +Noll’s name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you mad, old man?” demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and +harsh tones. “How dare you stay the march of King James’s +governor?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now,” replied the +gray figure, with stern composure. “I am here, Sir Governor, because the +cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and, +beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear +once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints. And what speak ye of +James? There is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by +to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where ye would +make it a word of terror. Back, thou that wast a governor, back! With this +night thy power is ended. To-morrow, the prison! Back, lest I foretell the +scaffold!” +</p> + +<p> +The people had been drawing nearer and nearer and drinking in the words of +their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to +converse except with the dead of many years ago. But his voice stirred their +souls. They confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms and ready to +convert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros +looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude +and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to +quench, and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurely in +an open space where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his +thoughts he uttered no word which might discover, but, whether the oppressor +were overawed by the Gray Champion’s look or perceived his peril in the +threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back and ordered +his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another sunset the +governor and all that rode so proudly with him were prisoners, and long ere it +was known that James had abdicated King William was proclaimed throughout New +England. +</p> + +<p> +But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that when the troops had gone +from King street and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, +Bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his +own. Others soberly affirmed that while they marvelled at the venerable +grandeur of his aspect the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly +into the hues of twilight, till where he stood there was an empty space. But +all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The men of that generation watched +for his reappearance in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor +knew when his funeral passed nor where his gravestone was. +</p> + +<p> +And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in the records +of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence too mighty for the age, +but glorious in all after-times for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its +high example to the subject. I have heard that whenever the descendants of the +Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires the old man appears again. When +eighty years had passed, he walked once more in King street. Five years later, +in the twilight of an April morning, he stood on the green beside the +meeting-house at Lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a slab of +slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution. And when our +fathers were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through that +night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be ere he comes +again! His hour is one of darkness and adversity and peril. But should domestic +tyranny oppress us or the invader’s step pollute our soil, still may the +Gray Champion come! for he is the type of New England’s hereditary +spirit, and his shadowy march on the eve of danger must ever be the pledge that +New England’s sons will vindicate their ancestry. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a> +SUNDAY AT HOME</h2> + +<p> +Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrust back the curtain to watch the +sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite my chamber window. First +the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy +aspect; next it encroaches on the tower and causes the index of the dial to +glisten like gold as it points to the gilded figure of the hour. Now the +loftiest window gleams, and now the lower. The carved framework of the portal +is marked strongly out. At length the morning glory in its descent from heaven +comes down the stone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing +with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among +the nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks though the same sun brightens it +every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of brightness for the +Sabbath. +</p> + +<p> +By dwelling near a church a person soon contracts an attachment for the +edifice. We naturally personify it, and conceive its massy walls and its dim +emptiness to be instinct with a calm and meditative and somewhat melancholy +spirit. But the steeple stands foremost in our thoughts, as well as locally. It +impresses us as a giant with a mind comprehensive and discriminating enough to +care for the great and small concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks +a moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of +their separate and most secret affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings +abroad the hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither have +gladness and festivity found a better utterance than by its tongue; and when +the dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy voice +to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite of this connection with human interests, +what a moral loneliness on week-days broods round about its stately height! It +has no kindred with the houses above which it towers; it looks down into the +narrow thoroughfare—the lonelier because the crowd are elbowing their +passage at its base. A glance at the body of the church deepens this +impression. Within, by the light of distant windows, amid refracted shadows we +discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless +pulpit and the clock which tells to solitude how time is passing. +Time—where man lives not—what is it but eternity? And in the +church, we might suppose, are garnered up throughout the week all thoughts and +feelings that have reference to eternity, until the holy day comes round again +to let them forth. Might not, then, its more appropriate site be in the +outskirts of the town, with space for old trees to wave around it and throw +their solemn shadows over a quiet green? We will say more of this hereafter. +</p> + +<p> +But on the Sabbath I watch the earliest sunshine and fancy that a holier +brightness marks the day when there shall be no buzz of voices on the Exchange +nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd nor business anywhere but at church. Many +have fancied so. For my own part, whether I see it scattered down among tangled +woods, or beaming broad across the fields, or hemmed in between brick +buildings, or tracing out the figure of the casement on my chamber floor, still +I recognize the Sabbath sunshine. And ever let me recognize it! Some +illusions—and this among them—are the shadows of great truths. +Doubts may flit around me or seem to close their evil wings and settle down, +but so long as I imagine that the earth is hallowed and the light of heaven +retains its sanctity on the Sabbath—while that blessed sunshine lives +within me—never can my soul have lost the instinct of its faith. If it +have gone astray, it will return again. +</p> + +<p> +I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths from morning till night behind the +curtain of my open window. Are they spent amiss? Every spot so near the church +as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple should be deemed +consecrated ground to-day. With stronger truth be it said that a devout heart +may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a temple to the +same. My heart, perhaps, has no such holy, nor, I would fain trust, such +impious, potency. It must suffice that, though my form be absent, my inner man +goes constantly to church, while many whose bodily presence fills the +accustomed seats have left their souls at home. But I am there even before my +friend the sexton. At length he comes—a man of kindly but sombre aspect, +in dark gray clothes, and hair of the same mixture. He comes and applies his +key to the wide portal. Now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews or +ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy the +music of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too! All the steeples in town are +talking together aloft in the sunny air and rejoicing among themselves while +their spires point heavenward. Meantime, here are the children assembling to +the Sabbath-school, which is kept somewhere within the church. Often, while +looking at the arched portal, I have been gladdened by the sight of a score of +these little girls and boys in pink, blue, yellow and crimson frocks bursting +suddenly forth into the sunshine like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been +shut up in the solemn gloom. Or I might compare them to cherubs haunting that +holy place. +</p> + +<p> +About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell individuals of +the congregation begin to appear. The earliest is invariably an old woman in +black whose bent frame and rounded shoulders are evidently laden with some +heavy affliction which she is eager to rest upon the altar. Would that the +Sabbath came twice as often, for the sake of that sorrowful old soul! There is +an elderly man, also, who arrives in good season and leans against the corner +of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a +darksome brow. I sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. +After these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes, either disappearing +through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity. At last, and always +with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple overhead and throws +out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower to its foundation. As if there were +magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, are +immediately thronged with two long lines of people, all converging hitherward +and streaming into the church. Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws +nearer—a deeper thunder by its contrast with the surrounding +stillness—until it sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal among +their humblest brethren. Beyond that entrance—in theory, at +least—there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor, indeed, by the +goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on the +hither side. Those pretty girls! Why will they disturb my pious meditations? Of +all days in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the +Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the +blessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself, +I must needs look. One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and black +silk downward to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie, one +universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if she had made a +garment of the sunshine. The greater part, however, have adopted a milder +cheerfulness of hue. Their veils, especially when the wind raises them, give a +lightness to the general effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they +flit up the steps and vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all—though +it is very strange that I should know it—wear white stockings, white as +snow, and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above the +ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one. +</p> + +<p> +Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity, needing no +black silk gown to denote his office. His aspect claims my reverence, but +cannot win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping fast the gate of +Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that +face should be my study. By middle age, or sooner, the creed has generally +wrought upon the heart or been attempered by it. As the minister passes into +the church the bell holds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the +congregation dies away. The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then +at my window-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that he has +caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies asleep in the +quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me, and brings also an +uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties. Oh, I ought to have gone to +church! The bustle of the rising congregation reaches my ears. They are +standing up to pray. Could I bring my heart into unison with those who are +praying in yonder church and lift it heavenward with a fervor of supplication, +but no distinct request, would not that be the safest kind of +prayer?—“Lord, look down upon me in mercy!” With that +sentiment gushing from my soul, might I not leave all the rest to him? +</p> + +<p> +Hark! the hymn! This, at least, is a portion of the service which I can enjoy +better than if I sat within the walls, where the full choir and the massive +melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon me. At this distance it +thrills through my frame and plays upon my heart-strings with a pleasure both +of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised! I know nothing of music as a +science, and the most elaborate harmonies, if they please me, please as simply +as a nurse’s lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my +mind with fanciful echoes till I start from my reverie and find that the sermon +has commenced. It is my misfortune seldom to fructify in a regular way by any +but printed sermons. The first strong idea which the preacher utters gives +birth to a train of thought and leads me onward step by step quite out of +hearing of the good man’s voice unless he be indeed a son of thunder. At +my open window, catching now and then a sentence of the “parson’s +saw,” I am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit stairs. The +broken and scattered fragments of this one discourse will be the texts of many +sermons preached by those colleague pastors—colleagues, but often +disputants—my Mind and Heart. The former pretends to be a scholar and +perplexes me with doctrinal points; the latter takes me on the score of +feeling; and both, like several other preachers, spend their strength to very +little purpose. I, their sole auditor, cannot always understand them. +</p> + +<p> +Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind my curtain +just before the close of the afternoon service. The hour-hand on the dial has +passed beyond four o’clock. The declining sun is hidden behind the +steeple and throws its shadow straight across the street; so that my chamber is +darkened as with a cloud. Around the church door all is solitude, and an +impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold. A commotion is heard. The seats +are slammed down and the pew doors thrown back; a multitude of feet are +trampling along the unseen aisles, and the congregation bursts suddenly through +the portal. Foremost scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and +dark phalanx of grown men, and lastly a crowd of females with young children +and a few scattered husbands. This instantaneous outbreak of life into +loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes of the day. Some of the good people +are rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped, as it +were, in a sort of holy trance by the fervor of their devotion. There is a +young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flourish a white +handkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silk pantaloons which +shine as if varnished. They must have been made of the stuff called +“everlasting,” or perhaps of the same piece as Christian’s +garments in the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, for he put them on two summers +ago and has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken a great liking to those +black silk pantaloons. But now, with nods and greetings among friends, each +matron takes her husband’s arm and paces gravely homeward, while the +girls also flutter away after arranging sunset walks with their favored +bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve of love. At length the whole congregation +is dispersed. No; here, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two sable +ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens +his severe visage and bestows a kind word on each. Poor souls! To them the most +captivating picture of bliss in heaven is “There we shall be +white!” +</p> + +<p> +All is solitude again. But hark! A broken warbling of voices, and now, attuning +its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. Who are the +choristers? Let me dream that the angels who came down from heaven this blessed +morn to blend themselves with the worship of the truly good are playing and +singing their farewell to the earth. On the wings of that rich melody they were +borne upward. +</p> + +<p> +This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A few of the singing-men and +singing-women had lingered behind their fellows and raised their voices +fitfully and blew a careless note upon the organ. Yet it lifted my soul higher +than all their former strains. They are gone—the sons and daughters of +Music—and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. For six days more +there will be no face of man in the pews and aisles and galleries, nor a voice +in the pulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while to rear this massive +edifice to be a desert in the heart of the town and populous only for a few +hours of each seventh day? Oh, but the church is a symbol of religion. May its +site, which was consecrated on the day when the first tree was felled, be kept +holy for ever, a spot of solitude and peace amid the trouble and vanity of our +week-day world! There is a moral, and a religion too, even in the silent walls. +And may the steeple still point heavenward and be decked with the hallowed +sunshine of the Sabbath morn! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a> +THE WEDDING-KNELL</h2> + +<p> +There is a certain church, in the city of New York which I have always regarded +with peculiar interest on account of a marriage there solemnized under very +singular circumstances in my grandmother’s girlhood. That venerable lady +chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite +narrative. Whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical +one to which she referred I am not antiquarian enough to know, nor would it be +worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error by reading the +date of its erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately church +surrounded by an enclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear urns, +pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of +private affection or more splendid memorials of historic dust. With such a +place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be +willing to connect some legendary interest. +</p> + +<p> +The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though +there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady’s part and forty +years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five Mr. Ellenwood was a +shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their +own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein of generous sentiment; a +scholar throughout life, though always an indolent one, because his studies had +no definite object either of public advantage or personal ambition; a +gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a +considerable relaxation in his behalf of the common rules of society. In truth, +there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinking with +diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to +become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people +searched his lineage for a hereditary taint of insanity. But there was no need +of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an +engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of +other food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an +aimless and abortive life. +</p> + +<p> +The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom in everything but +age as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she +had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an +exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid +fortune. A Southern gentleman considerably younger than herself succeeded to +her hand and carried her to Charleston, where after many uncomfortable years +she found herself again a widow. It would have been singular if any uncommon +delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney’s; it +could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty +of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart’s principles +consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her Southern husband, which +had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her +comfort. To be brief, she was that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a +philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all +that should have been her happiness and making the best of what remained. Sage +in most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty +that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not remain beautiful by +proxy in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly +on any consideration; she struggled with Time, and held fast her roses in spite +of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil as not +worth the trouble of acquiring it. +</p> + +<p> +The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man +as Mr. Ellenwood was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s return to her +native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur in +supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the +affair; there were considerations of expediency which she would be far more +likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood, and there was just the specious +phantom of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which +sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the +accidents of life. All the wonder was how the gentleman, with his lack of +worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced +to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. But while people talked +the wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized according to the +Episcopalian forms and in open church, with a degree of publicity that +attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries and +the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, or +possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed +separately to church. By some accident the bridegroom was a little less +punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants, with whose arrival, after +this tedious but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to +commence. +</p> + +<p> +The clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and the +gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal-party came through the church door +with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The whole group, +except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. As they streamed +up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either +side, their steps were as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room +and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant was the +spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its +entrance. At the moment when the bride’s foot touched the threshold the +bell swung heavily in the tower above her and sent forth its deepest knell. The +vibrations died away, and returned with prolonged solemnity as she entered the +body of the church. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens! What an omen!” whispered a young lady to her lover. +</p> + +<p> +“On my honor,” replied the gentleman, “I believe the bell has +the good taste to toll of its own accord. What has she to do with weddings? If +you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its +merriest peal. It has only a funeral-knell for her.” +</p> + +<p> +The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle of +entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell—or, at least, to +reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore +continued to advance with undiminished gayety. The gorgeous dresses of the +time—the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats, +the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery, the buckles, canes and swords, all +displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery—made the +group appear more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. But by what +perversity of taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so +wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor +of attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age and become +a moral to the beautiful around her? On they went, however, and had glittered +along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to +fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright-pageant +till it shone forth again as from a mist. +</p> + +<p> +This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together, while a +slight scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confused whispering among +the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might have been fancifully +compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenly shaken by a puff of wind which +threatened to scatter the leaves of an old brown, withered rose on the same +stalk with two dewy buds, such being the emblem of the widow between her fair +young bridemaids. But her heroism was admirable. She had started with an +irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her +heart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she +took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. The bell continued to swing, +strike and vibrate with the same doleful regularity as when a corpse is on its +way to the tomb. +</p> + +<p> +“My young friends here have their nerves a little shaken,” said the +widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. “But so many weddings +have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out +unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune under such different +auspices.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” answered the rector, in great perplexity, “this +strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous Bishop +Taylor wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe that, to +speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal-chamber in +black and cut the wedding-garment out of a coffin-pall. And it has been the +custom of divers nations to infuse something of sadness into their marriage +ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is +life’s chiefest business. Thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral +from this funeral-knell.” +</p> + +<p> +But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener point, he +did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire into the mystery and stop +those sounds so dismally appropriate to such a marriage. A brief space elapsed, +during which the silence was broken only by whispers and a few suppressed +titterings among the wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first +shock were disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young +have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The +widow’s glance was observed to wander for an instant toward a window of +the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had dedicated to +her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their faded orbs and her +thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two buried men with a voice +at her ear and a cry afar off were calling her to lie down beside them. +Perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had been +her fate if, after years of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral +and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, +long her husband. But why had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank +from each other’s embrace? +</p> + +<p> +Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to fade in +the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now +spread through the church: a hearse with a train of several coaches was +creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the churchyard, while the +bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately after, the footsteps of +the bridegroom and his friends were heard at the door. The widow looked down +the aisle and clenched the arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with +such unconscious violence that the fair girl trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“You frighten me, my dear madam,” cried she. “For +heaven’s sake, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, my dear—nothing,” said the widow; then, whispering +close to her ear, “There is a foolish fancy that I cannot get rid of. I +am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two first husbands +for groomsmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look! look!” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here? The +funeral!” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke a dark procession paced into the church. First came an old man and +woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the +deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary hair, he leaning on a +staff and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared +another and another pair, as aged, as black and mournful as the first. As they +drew near the widow recognized in every face some trait of former friends long +forgotten, but now returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare +a shroud, or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and +infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. Many +a merry night had she danced with them in youth, and now in joyless age she +felt that some withered partner should request her hand and all unite in a +dance of death to the music of the funeral-bell. +</p> + +<p> +While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle it was observed that from +pew to pew the spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe as some object +hitherto concealed by the intervening figures came full in sight. Many turned +away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid stare, and a young girl giggled +hysterically and fainted with the laughter on her lips. When the spectral +procession approached the altar, each couple separated and slowly diverged, +till in the centre appeared a form that had been worthily ushered in with all +this gloomy pomp, the death-knell and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his +shroud. +</p> + +<p> +No garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a death-like aspect. The +eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in +the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse stood +motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the +clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my bride!” said those pale lips. “The hearse is ready; +the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us be married, +and then to our coffins!” +</p> + +<p> +How shall the widow’s horror be represented? It gave her the ghastliness +of a dead man’s bride. Her youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at +the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; the whole scene expressed by +the strongest imagery the vain struggle of the gilded vanities of this world +when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow and death. +</p> + +<p> +The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ellenwood,” said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of +authority, “you are not well. Your mind has been agitated by the unusual +circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred. As an old +friend, let me entreat you to return home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Home—yes; but not without my bride,” answered he, in the +same hollow accents. “You deem this mockery—perhaps madness. Had I +bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had I forced my +withered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery or +madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come hither without +a wedding-garment—the bridegroom or the bride.” +</p> + +<p> +He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow, contrasting +the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had +arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None that beheld them could deny the +terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to +draw. +</p> + +<p> +“Cruel! cruel!” groaned the heartstricken bride. +</p> + +<p> +“Cruel?” repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a +wild bitterness, “Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! +In youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away all +the substance of my life and made it a dream without reality enough even to +grieve at—with only a pervading gloom, through which I walked wearily and +cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have built my tomb and would +not give up the thought of resting there—no, not for such a life as we +once pictured—you call me to the altar. At your summons I am here. But +other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart and +all that could be termed your life. What is there for me but your decay and +death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral-friends, and bespoken the +sexton’s deepest knell, and am come in my shroud to wed you as with a +burial-service, that we may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre and +enter it together.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not frenzy, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion in a +heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of the +day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. She seized the +bridegroom’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” cried she; “let us wed even at the door of the +sepulchre. My life is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its close there is +one true feeling. It has made me what I was in youth: it makes me worthy of +you. Time is no more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity.” +</p> + +<p> +With a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear +was gathering in his own. How strange that gush of human feeling from the +frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the tear, even with his shroud. +</p> + +<p> +“Beloved of my youth,” said he, “I have been wild. The +despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once and maddened me. Forgive and +be forgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none of our +morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the altar as +lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated through life, yet who meet +again as they are leaving it and find their earthly affection changed into +something holy as religion. And what is time to the married of eternity?” +</p> + +<p> +Amid the tears of many and a swell of exalted sentiment in those who felt +aright was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. The train of withered +mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged +bride and the death-bell tolling through the whole till its deep voice +overpowered the marriage-words,—all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. +But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of +this impressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal +knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. +And when the awful rite was finished and with cold hand in cold hand the +married of eternity withdrew, the organ’s peal of solemn triumph drowned +the wedding-knell. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a> THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL</h2> + +<h4>A PARABLE<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a></h4> + +<p> +The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house pulling lustily at the +bell-rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the street. +Children with bright faces tripped merrily beside their parents or mimicked a +graver gait in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors +looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine +made them prettier than on week-days. When the throng had mostly streamed into +the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend +Mr. Hooper’s door. The first glimpse of the clergyman’s figure was +the signal for the bell to cease its summons. +</p> + +<p> +“But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?” cried the +sexton, in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +All within hearing immediately turned about and beheld the semblance of Mr. +Hooper pacing slowly his meditative way toward the meeting-house. With one +accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were +coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper’s pulpit. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure it is our parson?” inquired Goodman Gray of the +sexton. +</p> + +<p> +“Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,” replied the sexton. +“He was to have exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute of Westbury, but +Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral +sermon.” +</p> + +<p> +The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a +gentlemanly person of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with +due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band and brushed +the weekly dust from his Sunday’s garb. There was but one thing +remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his forehead and hanging down over +his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. +On a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which entirely +concealed his features except the mouth and chin, but probably did not +intercept his sight further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and +inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him good Mr. Hooper walked +onward at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground, +as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his +parishioners who still waited on the meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck +were they that his greeting hardly met with a return. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face was behind +that piece of crape,” said the sexton. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like it,” muttered an old woman as she hobbled into +the meeting-house. “He has changed himself into something awful only by +hiding his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our parson has gone mad!” cried Goodman Gray, following him across +the threshold. +</p> + +<p> +A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the +meeting-house and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from +twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright and turned directly +about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again +with a terrible racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the +women’s gowns and shuffling of the men’s feet, greatly at variance +with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. But +Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. He entered +with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side +and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, +who occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe +how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the +appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing +wonder till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs and showed himself in the +pulpit, face to face with his congregation except for the black veil. That +mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath +as he gave out the psalm, it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page +as he read the Scriptures, and while he prayed the veil lay heavily on his +uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was +addressing? +</p> + +<p> +Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape that more than one woman of +delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the +pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister as his +black veil to them. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he +strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences rather than +to drive them thither by the thunders of the word. The sermon which he now +delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the +general series of his pulpit oratory, but there was something either in the +sentiment of the discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors which +made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their +pastor’s lips. It was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the +gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper’s temperament. The subject had reference to +secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest, +and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the +Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each +member of the congregation, the most innocent girl and the man of hardened +breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them behind his awful veil and +discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped +hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper +said—at least, no violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy +voice the hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So +sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister that +they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that +a stranger’s visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture and +voice were those of Mr. Hooper. +</p> + +<p> +At the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, +eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits +the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, +huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the centre; some +went homeward alone, wrapped in silent meditation; some talked loudly and +profaned the Sabbath-day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their +sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or +two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper’s +eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade. +</p> + +<p> +After a brief interval forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his +flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence +to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind dignity as their friend +and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and +laid his hands on the little children’s heads to bless them. Such was +always his custom on the Sabbath-day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him +for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking +by their pastor’s side. Old Squire Saunders—doubtless by an +accidental lapse of memory—neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, +where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food almost every Sunday +since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and at the +moment of closing the door was observed to look back upon the people, all of +whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from +beneath the black veil and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as he +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“How strange,” said a lady, “that a simple black veil, such +as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on +Mr. Hooper’s face!” +</p> + +<p> +“Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper’s +intellects,” observed her husband, the physician of the village. +“But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary even +on a sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it covers only our +pastor’s face, throws its influence over his whole person and makes him +ghost-like from head to foot. Do you not feel it so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly do I,” replied the lady; “and I would not be alone +with him for the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men sometimes are so,” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its +conclusion the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The relatives and +friends were assembled in the house and the more distant acquaintances stood +about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk +was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black +veil. It was now an appropriate emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room +where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin to take a last farewell of +his deceased parishioner. As he stooped the veil hung straight down from his +forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been closed for ever, the dead +maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, +that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the +interview between the dead and living scrupled not to affirm that at the +instant when the clergyman’s features were disclosed the corpse had +slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance +retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness +of this prodigy. +</p> + +<p> +From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence +to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and +heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes +that the music of a heavenly harp swept by the fingers of the dead seemed +faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. The people +trembled, though they but darkly understood him, when he prayed that they and +himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young +maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their +faces. The bearers went heavily forth and the mourners followed, saddening all +the street, with the dead before them and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you look back?” said one in the procession to his partner. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a fancy,” replied she, “that the minister and the +maiden’s spirit were walking hand in hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so had I at the same moment,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +That night the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in +wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness +for such occasions which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier +merriment would have been thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition +which made him more beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his +arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe which had gathered over +him throughout the day would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. +When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same +horrible black veil which had added deeper gloom to the funeral and could +portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the +guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crape +and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before the +minister, but the bride’s cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of +the bridegroom, and her death-like paleness caused a whisper that the maiden +who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. +If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they +tolled the wedding-knell. +</p> + +<p> +After performing the ceremony Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, +wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that +ought to have brightened the features of the guests like a cheerful gleam from +the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the +looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which +it overwhelmed all others. His frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt +the untasted wine upon the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the +Earth too had on her black veil. +</p> + +<p> +The next day the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson +Hooper’s black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied +a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street and good +women gossipping at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the +tavernkeeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it on their way to +school. One imitative little imp covered his face with an old black +handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized +himself and he wellnigh lost his wits by his own waggery. +</p> + +<p> +It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the +parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper wherefore he +did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such +interference, he had never lacked advisers nor shown himself averse to be +guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of +self-distrust that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an +indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable +weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a +subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither plainly +confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the +responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a +deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery +before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its +duties. The minister received them with friendly courtesy, but became silent +after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing +their important business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. +There was the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper’s forehead and +concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could +perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to +their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a +fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might +speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable time, +speechless, confused and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper’s eye, which +they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. Finally, the deputies +returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to +be handled except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not +require a General Synod. +</p> + +<p> +But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the +black veil had impressed all besides herself. When the deputies returned +without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she with the calm +energy of her character determined to chase away the strange cloud that +appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper every moment more darkly than before. +As his plighted wife it should be her privilege to know what the black veil +concealed. At the minister’s first visit, therefore, she entered upon the +subject with a direct simplicity which made the task easier both for him and +her. After he had seated himself she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, +but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the +multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his forehead to +his mouth and slightly stirring with his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said she, aloud, and smiling, “there is nothing +terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which I am always +glad to look upon. Come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind the cloud. +First lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is an hour to come,” said he, “when all of us shall +cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece +of crape till then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your words are a mystery too,” returned the young lady. +“Take away the veil from them, at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “so far as my vow may suffer +me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it +ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of +multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No mortal eye +will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me from the world; even +you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she earnestly +inquired, “that you should thus darken your eyes for ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, “I, +perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a +black veil.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an +innocent sorrow?” urged Elizabeth. “Beloved and respected as you +are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of +secret sin. For the sake of your holy office do away this scandal.” +</p> + +<p> +The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that +were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper’s mildness did not +forsake him. He even smiled again—that same sad smile which always +appeared like a faint glimmering of light proceeding from the obscurity beneath +the veil. +</p> + +<p> +“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough,” he merely +replied; “and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the +same?” And with this gentle but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist all +her entreaties. +</p> + +<p> +At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought, +considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her lover +from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a +symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears +rolled down her cheeks. But in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the +place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when like a +sudden twilight in the air its terrors fell around her. She arose and stood +trembling before him. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you feel it, then, at last?” said he, mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand and turned to leave the +room. He rushed forward and caught her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried he, passionately. +“Do not desert me though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be +mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between +our souls. It is but a mortal veil; it is not for eternity. Oh, you know not +how lonely I am, and how frightened to be alone behind my black veil! Do not +leave me in this miserable obscurity for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lift the veil but once and look me in the face,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Never! It cannot be!” replied Mr. Hooper. +</p> + +<p> +“Then farewell!” said Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew her arm from his grasp and slowly departed, pausing at the door to +give one long, shuddering gaze that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of +the black veil. But even amid his grief Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a +material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors which it +shadowed forth must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers. +</p> + +<p> +From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper’s black veil or +by a direct appeal to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By +persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice it was reckoned merely +an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men +otherwise rational and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. But +with the multitude good Mr. Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk +the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and +timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of +hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class +compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial-ground; for +when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the +gravestones peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that the stare +of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved him to the very depth of his +kind heart to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking up +their merriest sports while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their +instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else that a +preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In +truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great that he never +willingly passed before a mirror nor stooped to drink at a still fountain lest +in its peaceful bosom he should be affrighted by himself. This was what gave +plausibility to the whispers that Mr. Hooper’s conscience tortured him +for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed or otherwise than so +obscurely intimated. Thus from beneath the black veil there rolled a cloud into +the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, +so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said that ghost and +fiend consorted with him there. With self-shudderings and outward terrors he +walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul or gazing +through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was +believed, respected his dreadful secret and never blew aside the veil. But +still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as +he passed by. +</p> + +<p> +Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect of +making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious +emblem—for there was no other apparent cause—he became a man of +awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. His converts always regarded +him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, +that before he brought them to celestial light they had been with him behind +the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark +affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper and would not yield their +breath till he appeared, though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, +they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of +the black veil even when Death had bared his visage. Strangers came long +distances to attend service at his church with the mere idle purpose of gazing +at his figure because it was forbidden them to behold his face. But many were +made to quake ere they departed. Once, during Governor Belcher’s +administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered +with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council and the +representatives, and wrought so deep an impression that the legislative +measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our +earliest ancestral sway. +</p> + +<p> +In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet +shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved and dimly +feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever +summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows +above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England churches, +and they called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners who were of +mature age when he was settled had been borne away by many a funeral: he had +one congregation in the church and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and, +having wrought so late into the evening and done his work so well, it was now +good Father Hooper’s turn to rest. +</p> + +<p> +Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight in the death-chamber of +the old clergyman. Natural connections he had none. But there was the +decorously grave though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last +pangs of the patient whom he could not save. There were the deacons and other +eminently pious members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark +of Westbury, a young and zealous divine who had ridden in haste to pray by the +bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse—no hired handmaiden +of Death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in +solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish even at the dying-hour. +Who but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head of good Father Hooper upon the +death-pillow with the black veil still swathed about his brow and reaching down +over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it +to stir. All through life that piece of crape had hung between him and the +world; it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman’s love +and kept him in that saddest of all prisons his own heart; and still it lay +upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber and shade him +from the sunshine of eternity. +</p> + +<p> +For some time previous his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between +the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into +the indistinctness of the world to come. There had been feverish turns which +tossed him from side to side and wore away what little strength he had. But in +his most convulsive struggles and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, +when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful +solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul +could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow who with averted +eyes would have covered that aged face which she had last beheld in the +comeliness of manhood. +</p> + +<p> +At length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and +bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse and breath that grew fainter and +fainter except when a long, deep and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude +the flight of his spirit. +</p> + +<p> +The minister of Westbury approached the bedside. +</p> + +<p> +“Venerable Father Hooper,” said he, “the moment of your +release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in +time from eternity?” +</p> + +<p> +Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; +then—apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful—he +exerted himself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea,” said he, in faint accents; “my soul hath a patient +weariness until that veil be lifted.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is it fitting,” resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, “that a +man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, +so far as mortal judgment may pronounce,—is it fitting that a father in +the Church should leave a shadow on his memory that may seem to blacken a life +so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to +be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. Before the +veil of eternity be lifted let me cast aside this black veil from your +face;” and, thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to reveal +the mystery of so many years. +</p> + +<p> +But, exerting a sudden energy that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father +Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes and pressed them +strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle if the minister of Westbury +would contend with a dying man. +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried the veiled clergyman. “On earth, never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dark old man,” exclaimed the affrighted minister, “with what +horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?” +</p> + +<p> +Father Hooper’s breath heaved: it rattled in his throat; but, with a +mighty effort grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life and held +it back till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed, and there he sat +shivering with the arms of Death around him, while the black veil hung down, +awful at that last moment in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the +faint, sad smile so often there now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity and +linger on Father Hooper’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you tremble at me alone?” cried he, turning his veiled face +round the circle of pale spectators. “Tremble also at each other. Have +men avoided me and women shown no pity and children screamed and fled only for +my black veil? What but the mystery which it obscurely typifies has made this +piece of crape so awful? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend, +the lover to his best-beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of +his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin,—then deem +me a monster for the symbol beneath which I have lived and die. I look around +me, and, lo! on every visage a black veil!” +</p> + +<p> +While his auditors shrank from one another in mutual affright, Father Hooper +fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse with a faint smile lingering on the +lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore +him to the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that +grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper’s face is +dust; but awful is still the thought that it mouldered beneath the black veil. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a> THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT</h2> + +<p class="quote"> +There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the curious +history of the early settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry Mount. In the +slight sketch here attempted the facts recorded on the grave pages of our New +England annalists have wrought themselves almost spontaneously into a sort of +allegory. The masques, mummeries and festive customs described in the text are +in accordance with the manners of the age. Authority on these points may be +found in Strutt’s <i>Book of English Sports and Pastimes</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Bright were the days at Merry Mount when the Maypole was the banner-staff of +that gay colony. They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to +pour sunshine over New England’s rugged hills and scatter flower-seeds +throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. Midsummer +eve had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and roses in her lap of a +more vivid hue than the tender buds of spring. But May, or her mirthful spirit, +dwelt all the year round at Merry Mount, sporting with the summer months and +revelling with autumn and basking in the glow of winter’s fireside. +Through a world of toil and care she flitted with a dream-like smile, and came +hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts of Merry Mount. +</p> + +<p> +Never had the Maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on Midsummer eve. This +venerated emblem was a pine tree which had preserved the slender grace of +youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the old wood-monarchs. From its +top streamed a silken banner colored like the rainbow. Down nearly to the +ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and others of the liveliest +green, and some with silvery leaves fastened by ribbons that fluttered in +fantastic knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Garden-flowers and +blossoms of the wilderness laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and +dewy that they must have grown by magic on that happy pine tree. Where this +green and flowery splendor terminated the shaft of the Maypole was stained with +the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the lowest green bough +hung an abundant wreath of roses—some that had been gathered in the +sunniest spots of the forest, and others, of still richer blush, which the +colonists had reared from English seed. O people of the Golden Age, the chief +of your husbandry was to raise flowers! +</p> + +<p> +But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the Maypole? It +could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves +and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in +the fresh woods of the West. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps of +Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely youth uprose the head and +branching antlers of a stag; a second, human in all other points, had the grim +visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, +showed the beard and horns of a venerable he-goat. There was the likeness of a +bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with pink silk +stockings. And here, again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark +forest, lending each of his forepaws to the grasp of a human hand and as ready +for the dance as any in that circle. His inferior nature rose halfway to meet +his companions as they stooped. Other faces wore the similitude of man or +woman, but distorted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before their +mouths, which seemed of awful depth and stretched from ear to ear in an eternal +fit of laughter. Here might be seen the salvage man—well known in +heraldry—hairy as a baboon and girdled with green leaves. By his +side—a nobler figure, but still a counterfeit—appeared an Indian +hunter with feathery crest and wampum-belt. Many of this strange company wore +foolscaps and had little bells appended to their garments, tinkling with a +silvery sound responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some +youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in +the irregular throng by the expression of wild revelry upon their features. +</p> + +<p> +Such were the colonists of Merry Mount as they stood in the broad smile of +sunset round their venerated Maypole. Had a wanderer bewildered in the +melancholy forest heard their mirth and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he +might have fancied them the crew of Comus, some already transformed to brutes, +some midway between man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of tipsy +jollity that foreran the change; but a band of Puritans who watched the scene, +invisible themselves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls +with whom their superstition peopled the black wilderness. +</p> + +<p> +Within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had ever +trodden on any more solid footing than a purple-and-golden cloud. One was a +youth in glistening apparel with a scarf of the rainbow pattern crosswise on +his breast. His right hand held a gilded staff—the ensign of high dignity +among the revellers—and his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair +maiden not less gayly decorated than himself. Bright roses glowed in contrast +with the dark and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round their feet or +had sprung up spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to +the Maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an +English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen +fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his +rolling eye and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest +monster there, and the very Comus of the crew. +</p> + +<p> +“Votaries of the Maypole,” cried the flower-decked priest, +“merrily all day long have the woods echoed to your mirth. But be this +your merriest hour, my hearts! Lo! here stand the Lord and Lady of the May, +whom I, a clerk of Oxford and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently to join +in holy matrimony.—Up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, green +men and glee-maidens, bears and wolves and horned gentlemen! Come! a chorus now +rich with the old mirth of Merry England and the wilder glee of this fresh +forest, and then a dance, to show the youthful pair what life is made of and +how airily they should go through it!—All ye that love the Maypole, lend +your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!” +</p> + +<p> +This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where jest and +delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and Lady of +the May, though their titles must be laid down at sunset, were really and truly +to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same bright +eve. The wreath of roses that hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole +had been twined for them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol +of their flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar +burst from the rout of monstrous figures. +</p> + +<p> +“Begin you the stave, reverend sir,” cried they all, “and +never did the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the Maypole shall send +up.” +</p> + +<p> +Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with practised +minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such a mirthful cadence +that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound. But the May-lord—he +of the gilded staff—chancing to look into his lady’s eyes, was +wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, sweet Lady of the May,” whispered he, reproachfully, +“is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look +so sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive +shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter +than the mere remembrance of what is now passing.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind +too?” said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high treason +to be sad at Merry Mount. “Therefore do I sigh amid this festive music. +And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these +shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and their mirth unreal, and that we +are no true lord and lady of the May. What is the mystery in my heart?” +</p> + +<p> +Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower of +withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers! No sooner +had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were sensible of something +vague and unsubstantial in their former pleasures, and felt a dreary +presentiment of inevitable change. From the moment that they truly loved they +had subjected themselves to earth’s doom of care and sorrow and troubled +joy, and had no more a home at Merry Mount. That was Edith’s mystery. Now +leave we the priest to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole +till the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the +forest mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay +people were. +</p> + +<p> +Two hundred years ago, and more, the Old World and its inhabitants became +mutually weary of each other. Men voyaged by thousands to the West—some +to barter glass and such like jewels for the furs of the Indian hunter, some to +conquer virgin empires, and one stern band to pray. But none of these motives +had much weight with thecolonists of Merry Mount. Their leaders were men who +had sported so long with life, that when Thought and Wisdom came, even these +unwelcome guests were led astray by the crowd of vanities which they should +have put to flight. Erring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made to put on +masques, and play the fool. The men of whom we speak, after losing the +heart’s fresh gayety, imagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came +hither to act out their latest day-dream. They gathered followers from all that +giddy tribe whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer men. In their +train were minstrels, not unknown in London streets; wandering players, whose +theatres had been the halls of noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers, and +mountebanks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and fairs; in a +word, mirth makers of every sort, such as abounded in that age, but now began +to be discountenanced by the rapid growth of Puritanism. Light had their +footsteps been on land, and as lightly they came across the sea. Many had been +maddened by their previous troubles into a gay despair; others were as madly +gay in the flush of youth, like the May Lord and his Lady; but whatever might +be the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay at Merry Mount. The young +deemed themselves happy. The elder spirits, if they knew that mirth was but the +counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wilfully, because at +least her garments glittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a lifetime, they +would not venture among the sober truths of life not even to be truly blest. +</p> + +<p> +All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were transplanted hither. The King +of Christmas was duly crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway. On the +Eve of St. John, they felled whole acres of the forest to make bonfires, and +danced by the blaze all night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers into +the flame. At harvest time, though their crop was of the smallest, they made an +image with the sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal garlands, +and bore it home triumphantly. But what chiefly characterized the colonists of +Merry Mount was their veneration for the Maypole. It has made their true +history a poet’s tale. Spring decked the hallowed emblem with young +blossoms and fresh green boughs; Summer brought roses of the deepest blush, and +the perfected foliage of the forest; Autumn enriched it with that red and +yellow gorgeousness which converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower; +and Winter silvered it with sleet, and hung it round with icicles, till it +flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a frozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate +season did homage to the Maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own richest +splendor. Its votaries danced round it, once, at least, in every month; +sometimes they called it their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the +banner staff of Merry Mount. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a sterner faith than those +Maypole worshippers. Not far from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans, +most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then wrought +in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. Their +weapons were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage. When they met +in conclave, it was never to keep up the old English mirth, but to hear sermons +three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on the heads of wolves and the scalps +of Indians. Their festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the singing +of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who did but dream of a dance! The +selectman nodded to the constable; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate in +the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the whipping-post, which might be +termed the Puritan Maypole. +</p> + +<p> +A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the difficult woods, each with +a horseload of iron armor to burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near +the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the silken colonists, sporting +round their Maypole; perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to +communicate their mirth to the grave Indian, or masquerading in the skins of +deer and wolves which they had hunted for that especial purpose. Often the +whole colony were playing at Blindman’s Buff, magistrates and all with +their eyes bandaged, except a single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners +pursued by the tinkling of the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, they +were seen following a flower-decked corpse with merriment and festive music to +his grave. But did the dead man laugh? In their quietest times they sang +ballads and told tales for the edification of their pious visitors, or +perplexed them with juggling tricks, or grinned at them through horse-collars; +and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their own stupidity and +began a yawning-match. At the very least of these enormities the men of iron +shook their heads and frowned so darkly that the revellers looked up, imagining +that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine which was to be perpetual +there. On the other hand, the Puritans affirmed that when a psalm was pealing +from their place of worship the echo which the forest sent them back seemed +often like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of laughter. Who +but the fiend and his bond-slaves the crew of Merry Mount had thus disturbed +them? In due time a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on +the other as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance +to the Maypole. The future complexion of New England was involved in this +important quarrel. Should the grisly saints establish their jurisdiction over +the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime and make it a +land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm for ever; but should +the banner-staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the +hills, and flowers would beautify the forest and late posterity do homage to +the Maypole. +</p> + +<p> +After these authentic passages from history we return to the nuptials of the +Lord and Lady of the May. Alas! we have delayed too long, and must darken our +tale too suddenly. As we glance again at the Maypole a solitary sunbeam is +fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint golden tinge blended with the +hues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing +the whole domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom which has rushed so +instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. But some of these black +shadows have rushed forth in human shape. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, with the setting sun the last day of mirth had passed from Merry Mount. +The ring of gay masquers was disordered and broken; the stag lowered his +antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of the +morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. The Puritans had played a +characteristic part in the Maypole mummeries. Their darksome figures were +intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of +the moment when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a +dream. The leader of the hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while +the rout of monsters cowered around him like evil spirits in the presence of a +dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern was +the energy of his aspect that the whole man, visage, frame and soul, seemed +wrought of iron gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his +headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan of Puritans: it was Endicott +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand off, priest of Baal!” said he, with a grim frown and laying +no reverent hand upon the surplice. “I know thee, Blackstone!<a href="#fn2" name="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> +Thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted +Church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity and to give example of it in +thy life. But now shall it be seen that the Lord hath sanctified this +wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would defile it! And +first for this flower-decked abomination, the altar of thy worship!” +</p> + +<p> +And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hallowed Maypole. Nor long did +it resist his arm. It groaned with a dismal sound, it showered leaves and +rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast, and finally, with all its green +boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the +banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew +darker and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on his work; +“there lies the only Maypole in New England. The thought is strong within +me that by its fall is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirthmakers +amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith John Endicott!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” echoed his followers. +</p> + +<p> +But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for their idol. At the sound the +Puritan leader glanced at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet +at this moment strangely expressive of sorrow and dismay. +</p> + +<p> +“Valiant captain,” quoth Peter Palfrey, the ancient of the band, +“what order shall be taken with the prisoners?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought not to repent me of cutting down a Maypole,” replied +Endicott, “yet now I could find in my heart to plant it again and give +each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. It would have +served rarely for a whipping-post.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there are pine trees enow,” suggested the lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +“True, good ancient,” said the leader. “Wherefore bind the +heathen crew and bestow on them a small matter of stripes apiece as earnest of +our future justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves so +soon as Providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered settlements +where such accommodations may be found. Further penalties, such as branding and +cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter.” +</p> + +<p> +“How many stripes for the priest?” inquired Ancient Palfrey. +</p> + +<p> +“None as yet,” answered Endicott, bending his iron frown upon the +culprit. “It must be for the Great and General Court to determine whether +stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may atone for his +transgressions. Let him look to himself. For such as violate our civil order it +may be permitted us to show mercy, but woe to the wretch that troubleth our +religion!” +</p> + +<p> +“And this dancing bear?” resumed the officer. “Must he share +the stripes of his fellows?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shoot him through the head!” said the energetic Puritan. “I +suspect witchcraft in the beast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here be a couple of shining ones,” continued Peter Palfrey, +pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of the May. “They seem to be of +high station among these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be fitted +with less than a double share of stripes.” +</p> + +<p> +Endicott rested on his sword and closely surveyed the dress and aspect of the +hapless pair. There they stood, pale, downcast and apprehensive, yet there was +an air of mutual support and of pure affection seeking aid and giving it that +showed them to be man and wife with the sanction of a priest upon their love. +The youth in the peril of the moment, had dropped his gilded staff and thrown +his arm about the Lady of the May, who leaned against his breast too lightly to +burden him, but with weight enough to express that their destinies were linked +together for good or evil. They looked first at each other and then into the +grim captain’s face. There they stood in the first hour of wedlock, while +the idle pleasures of which their companions were the emblems had given place +to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark Puritans. But never had +their youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was chastened by +adversity. +</p> + +<p> +“Youth,” said Endicott, “ye stand in an evil case—thou +and thy maiden-wife. Make ready presently, for I am minded that ye shall both +have a token to remember your wedding-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stern man,” cried the May-lord, “how can I move thee? Were +the means at hand, I would resist to the death; being powerless, I entreat. Do +with me as thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so,” replied the immitigable zealot. “We are not wont to +show an idle courtesy to that sex which requireth the stricter +discipline.—What sayest thou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer +thy share of the penalty besides his own?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it death,” said Edith, “and lay it all on me.” +</p> + +<p> +Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woeful case. Their foes +were triumphant, their friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the +benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous destiny in the shape of the +Puritan leader their only guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not +altogether conceal that the iron man was softened. He smiled at the fair +spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for the inevitable blight of early +hopes. +</p> + +<p> +“The troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple,” +observed Endicott. “We will see how they comport themselves under their +present trials ere we burden them with greater. If among the spoil there be any +garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this May-lord and his +Lady instead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And shall not the youth’s hair be cut?” asked Peter Palfrey, +looking with abhorrence at the lovelock and long glossy curls of the young man. +</p> + +<p> +“Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell fashion,” +answered the captain. “Then bring them along with us, but more gently +than their fellows. There be qualities in the youth which may make him valiant +to fight and sober to toil and pious to pray, and in the maiden that may fit +her to become a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than +her own hath been.—Nor think ye, young ones, that they are the happiest, +even in our lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancing round a +Maypole.” +</p> + +<p> +And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid the rock-foundation of New +England, lifted the wreath of roses from the ruin of the Maypole and threw it +with his own gauntleted hand over the heads of the Lord and Lady of the May. It +was a deed of prophecy. As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all +systematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the +sad forest. They returned to it no more. But as their flowery garland was +wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown there, so in the tie that united +them were intertwined all the purest and best of their early joys. They went +heavenward supporting each other along the difficult path which it was their +lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of Merry +Mount. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a> THE GENTLE BOY</h2> + +<p> +In the course of the year 1656 several of the people called Quakers—led, +as they professed, by the inward movement of the spirit—made their +appearance in New England. Their reputation as holders of mystic and pernicious +principles having spread before them, the Puritans early endeavored to banish +and to prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect. But the measures by +which it was intended to purge the land of heresy, though more than +sufficiently vigorous, were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming +persecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy +courage unknown to the Puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross by +providing for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness. +Though it was the singular fact that every nation of the earth rejected the +wandering enthusiasts who practised peace toward all men, the place of greatest +uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes the most eligible, was the +province of Massachusetts Bay. +</p> + +<p> +The fines, imprisonments and stripes liberally distributed by our pious +forefathers, the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred +years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the +Quakers as peace, honor and reward would have been for the worldly-minded. +Every European vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against +the oppression which they hoped to share; and when shipmasters were restrained +by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous +journeys through the Indian country, and appeared in the province as if +conveyed by a supernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened almost to +madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the +rules of decency as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular +contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the +present day. The command of the Spirit, inaudible except to the soul and not to +be controverted on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous +exhibitions which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate +chastisement of the rod. These extravagances, and the persecution which was at +once their cause and consequence, continued to increase, till in the year 1659 +the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker sect +with the crown of martyrdom. +</p> + +<p> +An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, +but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at +the head of the government. He was a man of narrow mind and imperfect +education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mischievous by +violent and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously and +unjustifiably to compass the death of the enthusiasts, and his whole conduct in +respect to them was marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful +feelings were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and +his associates in after-times. The historian of the sect affirms that by the +wrath of Heaven a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the +“bloody town” of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he +takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and +triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook them in old age or at the +parting-hour. He tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in madness, +but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome +disease and “death by rottenness” of the fierce and cruel governor. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of +the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to +the neighboring country-town in which he resided. The air was cool, the sky +clear, and the lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon +which had now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man of +middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had +reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay +between him and his home. The low straw-thatched houses were scattered at +considerable intervals along the road, and, the country having been settled but +about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still bore no small +proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind wandered among the +branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine trees and moaning +as if it lamented the desolation of which it was the instrument. The road had +penetrated the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just +emerging into an open space, when the traveller’s ears were saluted by a +sound more mournful than even that of the wind. It was like the wailing of some +one in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir +tree in the centre of a cleared but unenclosed and uncultivated field. The +Puritan could not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made +accursed a few hours before by the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had +been thrown together into one hasty grave beneath the tree on which they +suffered. He struggled, however, against the superstitious fears which belonged +to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen. +</p> + +<p> +“The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be +otherwise,” thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight. +“Methinks it is like the wailing of a child—some infant, it may be, +which has strayed from its mother and chanced upon this place of death. For the +ease of mine own conscience I must search this matter out.” He therefore +left the path and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. Though now so +desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand footsteps of +those who had witnessed the spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired, +leaving the dead to their loneliness. +</p> + +<p> +The traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the middle upward was +covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been erected beneath, and +other preparations made for the work of death. Under this unhappy +tree—which in after-times was believed to drop poison with its +dew—sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It was a slender and +light-clad little boy who leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and +half-frozen earth and wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his +grief might receive the punishment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had +been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child’s shoulder and addressed +him compassionately. +</p> + +<p> +“You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you +weep,” said he. “But dry your eyes and tell me where your mother +dwells; I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in her +arms tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the +stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more than six +years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much of its infantile +expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy’s frightened gaze and feeling +that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure him: +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to +leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made +grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch? Take heart, child, and +tell me what is your name and where is your home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering +voice, “they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.” +</p> + +<p> +The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, +the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made the Puritan believe +that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on which +he sat; but perceiving that the apparition stood the test of a short mental +prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he +adopted a more rational supposition. “The poor child is stricken in his +intellect,” thought he, “but verily his words are fearful in a +place like this.” He then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the +boy’s fantasy: +</p> + +<p> +“Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, +and I fear you are ill-provided with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and +bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank thee, friend, but, though I be hungry and shivering with cold, +thou wilt not give me food nor lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet +tone which despair had taught him even so young. “My father was of the +people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of earth, and here +is my home.” +</p> + +<p> +The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished it +as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he possessed a compassionate +heart which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone. “God +forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the +accursed sect,” said he to himself. “Do we not all spring from an +evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us? He +shall not perish, neither in body nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for +him, in soul.” He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again +hid his face in the cold earth of the grave: +</p> + +<p> +“Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have +wandered to this unhallowed spot?” +</p> + +<p> +“They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father +thence,” said the boy, “and I stood afar off watching the crowd of +people; and when they were gone, I came hither, and found only this grave. I +knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said, ‘This shall be my +home.’” +</p> + +<p> +“No, child, no, not while I have a roof over my head or a morsel to share +with you,” exclaimed the Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully +excited. “Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold heart +beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. The traveller, +however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and, seeming to acquire some degree +of confidence, he at length arose; but his slender limbs tottered with +weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death +for support. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor boy, are you so feeble?” said the Puritan. “When did +you taste food last?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,” replied +Ilbrahim, “but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day, saying +that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey’s end. Trouble not +thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked food many times ere +now.” +</p> + +<p> +The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about him, while +his heart stirred with shame and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the +instruments in this persecution. In the awakened warmth of his feelings he +resolved that at whatever risk he would not forsake the poor little defenceless +being whom Heaven had confided to his care. With this determination he left the +accursed field and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy +had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his progress, +and he soon beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a +native of a distant clime, had built in the Western wilderness. It was +surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling was +situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept +for protection. +</p> + +<p> +“Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head +had sunk upon his shoulder; “there is our home.” +</p> + +<p> +At the word “home” a thrill passed through the child’s frame, +but he continued silent. A few moments brought them to the cottage door, at +which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were wandering +everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security +of a dwelling. The summons was answered by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and +dull-featured piece of humanity, who, after ascertaining that his master was +the applicant, undid the door and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him +in. Farther back in the passageway the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, +but no little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their +father’s return. +</p> + +<p> +As the Puritan entered he thrust aside his cloak and displayed Ilbrahim’s +face to the female. +</p> + +<p> +“Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence hath put into our +hands,” observed he. “Be kind to him, even as if he were of those +dear ones who have departed from us.” +</p> + +<p> +“What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?” she +inquired. “Is he one whom the wilderness-folk have ravished from some +Christian mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Dorothy; this poor child is no captive from the wilderness,” +he replied. “The heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty +morsel and to drink of his birchen cup, but Christian men, alas! had cast him +out to die.” Then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows, +upon his father’s grave, and how his heart had prompted him like the +speaking of an inward voice to take the little outcast home and be kind unto +him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him as if he were his +own child, and to afford him the instruction which should counteract the +pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant mind. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and she +approved of all his doings and intentions. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a mother, dear child?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +The tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply, but Dorothy +at length understood that he had a mother, who like the rest of her sect was a +persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from the prison a short time before, +carried into the uninhabited wilderness and left to perish there by hunger or +wild beasts. This was no uncommon method of disposing of the Quakers, and they +were accustomed to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more +hospitable to them than civilized man. +</p> + +<p> +“Fear not, little boy; you shall not need a mother, and a kind +one,” said Dorothy, when she had gathered this information. “Dry +your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I will be your mother.” +</p> + +<p> +The good woman prepared the little bed from which her own children had +successively been borne to another resting-place. Before Ilbrahim would consent +to occupy it he knelt down, and as Dorothy listed to his simple and affecting +prayer she marvelled how the parents that had taught it to him could have been +judged worthy of death. When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale +and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the +bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive gladness in her +heart. +</p> + +<p> +Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the old country. He +had remained in England during the first years of the Civil War, in which he +had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons under Cromwell. But when the +ambitious designs of his leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the +army of the Parliament and sought a refuge from the strife which was no longer +holy among the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. A more +worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in drawing him thither, for New +England offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes as well as to +dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had hitherto found it difficult to +provide for a wife and increasing family. To this supposed impurity of motive +the more bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the removal by death of all +the children for whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful. They +had left their native country blooming like roses, and like roses they had +perished in a foreign soil. Those expounders of the ways of Providence, who had +thus judged their brother and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were +not more charitable when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the +void in their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect. Nor did +they fail to communicate their disapprobation to Tobias, but the latter in +reply merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and +deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been +adduced in his own favor. Even his beauty, however, and his winning manners +sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the +outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, +affirmed that no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them. Their +antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill-success of divers +theological discussions in which it was attempted to convince him of the errors +of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful controversialist, but the +feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be +enticed nor driven from the faith which his father had died for. +</p> + +<p> +The odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great measure by the +child’s protectors, insomuch that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began +to experience a most bitter species of persecution in the cold regards of many +a friend whom they had valued. The common people manifested their opinions more +openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration, being a representative to the +General Court and an approved lieutenant in the train-bands, yet within a week +after his adoption of Ilbrahim he had been both hissed and hooted. Once, also, +when walking through a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some +invisible speaker, and it cried, “What shall be done to the backslider? +Lo! the scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord +three knots.” These insults irritated Pearson’s temper for the +moment; they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible but powerful +workers toward an end which his most secret thought had not yet whispered. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member of their family, Pearson +and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear with them at public +worship. They had anticipated some opposition to this measure from the boy, but +he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new +mourning-suit which Dorothy had wrought for him. As the parish was then, and +during many subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the +commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. At the first sound +of that martial call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts Tobias and Dorothy +set forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like two parents linked +together by the infant of their love. On their path through the leafless woods +they were overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom avoided +them and passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their +constancy when they had descended the hill and drew near the pine-built and +undecorated house of prayer. Around the door, from which the drummer still sent +forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, including +several of the oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle-aged and +nearly all the younger males. Pearson found it difficult to sustain their +united and disapproving gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently +circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her and faltered not in her +approach. As they entered the door they overheard the muttered sentiments of +the assemblage; and when the reviling voices of the little children smote +Ilbrahim’s ear, he wept. +</p> + +<p> +The interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. The low ceiling, the +unplastered walls, the naked woodwork and the undraperied pulpit offered +nothing to excite the devotion which without such external aids often remains +latent in the heart. The floor of the building was occupied by rows of long +cushionless benches, supplying the place of pews, and the broad aisle formed a +sexual division impassable except by children beneath a certain age. +</p> + +<p> +Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house, and Ilbrahim, +being within the years of infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. +The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their rusty cloaks as he passed by; +even the mild-featured maidens seemed to dread contamination; and many a stern +old man arose and turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the +gentle boy, as if the sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a sweet +infant of the skies that had strayed away from his home, and all the +inhabitants of this miserable world closed up their impure hearts against him, +drew back their earth-soiled garments from his touch and said, “We are +holier than thou.” +</p> + +<p> +Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother and retaining fast hold of +her hand, assumed a grave and decorous demeanor such as might befit a person of +matured taste and understanding who should find himself in a temple dedicated +to some worship which he did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. +The exercises had not yet commenced, however, when the boy’s attention +was arrested by an event apparently of trifling interest. A woman having her +face muffled in a hood and a cloak drawn completely about her form advanced +slowly up the broad aisle and took place upon the foremost bench. +Ilbrahim’s faint color varied, his nerves fluttered; he was unable to +turn his eyes from the muffled female. +</p> + +<p> +When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister arose, and, having +turned the hour-glass which stood by the great Bible, commenced his discourse. +He was now well stricken in years, a man of pale, thin countenance, and his +gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet skull-cap. In his younger +days he had practically learned the meaning of persecution from Archbishop +Laud, and he was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he had +murmured then. Introducing the often-discussed subject of the Quakers, he gave +a history of that sect and a description of their tenets in which error +predominated and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. He adverted +to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned his hearers of weaker +parts against calling in question the just severity which God-fearing +magistrates had at length been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger of +pity—in some cases a commendable and Christian virtue, but inapplicable +to this pernicious sect. He observed that such was their devilish obstinacy in +error that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and +desperate heretics. He affirmed that no man without Heaven’s especial +warrant should attempt their conversion lest while he lent his hand to draw +them from the slough he should himself be precipitated into its lowest depths. +</p> + +<p> +The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the glass +when the sermon concluded. An approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, +having given out a hymn, took his seat with much self-congratulation, and +endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the people. +But while voices from all parts of the house were tuning themselves to sing a +scene occurred which, though not very unusual at that period in the province, +happened to be without precedent in this parish. +</p> + +<p> +The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank of the +audience, now arose and with slow, stately and unwavering step ascended the +pulpit stairs. The quaverings of incipient harmony were hushed and the divine +sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment while she undid the door +and stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been +thundered. She then divested herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a +most singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist +with a knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its +blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had strewn upon her +head. Her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness +of a countenance which, emaciated with want and wild with enthusiasm and +strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing +earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound nor any movement except a +faint shuddering which every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely +conscious of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke +for the first few moments in a low voice and not invariably distinct utterance. +Her discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her +reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to +spread its own atmosphere round the hearer’s soul, and to move his +feelings by some influence unconnected with the words. As she proceeded +beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen like bright things moving +in a turbid river, or a strong and singularly shaped idea leapt forth and +seized at once on the understanding or the heart. But the course of her +unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions of her sect, and from +thence the step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally a +woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge now wrapped themselves in the +garb of piety. The character of her speech was changed; her images became +distinct though wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +“The governor and his mighty men,” she said, “have gathered +together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, ‘What shall we do +unto this people—even unto the people that have come into this land to +put our iniquity to the blush?’ And, lo! the devil entereth into the +council-chamber like a lame man of low stature and gravely apparelled, with a +dark and twisted countenance and a bright, downcast eye. And he standeth up +among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and every man +lends his ear, for his word is ‘Slay! Slay!rsquo; But I say unto ye, Woe +to them that slay! Woe to them that shed the blood of saints! Woe to them that +have slain the husband and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander +homeless and hungry and cold till he die, and have saved the mother alive in +the cruelty of their tender mercies! Woe to them in their lifetime! Cursed are +they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts! Woe to them in their +death-hour, whether it come swiftly with blood and violence or after long and +lingering pain! Woe in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave, when the +children’s children shall revile the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, +at the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, +and the father, the mother and the child, shall await them in a day that they +cannot escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are moving +with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! +Lift your voices, chosen ones, cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judgment +with me!” +</p> + +<p> +Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook for +inspiration, the speaker was silent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric +shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience generally had not +been drawn onward in the current with her own. They remained stupefied, +stranded, as it were, in the midst of a torrent which deafened them by its +roaring, but might not move them by its violence. The clergyman, who could not +hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, +now addressed her in the tone of just indignation and legitimate authority. +</p> + +<p> +“Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane,” he +said, “Is it to the Lord’s house that you come to pour forth the +foulness of your heart and the inspiration of the devil? Get you down, and +remember that the sentence of death is on you—yea, and shall be executed, +were it but for this day’s work.” +</p> + +<p> +“I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,” replied +she, in a depressed, and even mild, tone. “I have done my mission unto +thee and to thy people; reward me with stripes, imprisonment or death, as ye +shall be permitted.” The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps +to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. +</p> + +<p> +The people, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the +house, whispering among themselves and glancing toward the intruder. Many of +them now recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the governor with +frightful language as he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, +that she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only by an +involuntary banishment into the wilderness. The new outrage by which she had +provoked her fate seemed to render further lenity impossible, and a gentleman +in military dress, with a stout man of inferior rank, drew toward the door of +the meetinghouse and awaited her approach. Scarcely did her feet press the +floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment of her peril, +when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy threw his arms round his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I am here, mother; it is I, and I will go with thee to prison,” he +exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for she knew +that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his face +again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the happy visions with which +her excited fancy had often deceived her in the solitude of the desert or in +prison; but when she felt his hand warm within her own and heard his little +eloquence of childish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Blessed art thou, my son!” she sobbed. “My heart was +withered—yea, dead with thee and with thy father—and now it leaps +as in the first moment when I pressed thee to my bosom.” +</p> + +<p> +She knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that could find +no words expressed itself in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to +vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows of past years and the +darker peril that was nigh cast not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting +moment. Soon, however, the spectators saw a change upon her face as the +consciousness of her sad estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears +which joy had opened. By the words she uttered it would seem that the +indulgence of natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its errors, +and made her know how far she had strayed from duty in following the dictates +of a wild fanaticism. +</p> + +<p> +“In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy,” she said, +“for thy mother’s path has gone darkening onward, till now the end +is death. Son, son, I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering, +and I have fed thee with the food that I was fainting for; yet I have +ill-performed a mother’s part by thee in life, and now I leave thee no +inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the world, and find +all hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections turned to bitterness +for my sake. My child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle spirit, and +I the cause of all!” +</p> + +<p> +She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long raven hair, discolored +with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a veil. A low and +interrupted moan was the voice of her heart’s anguish, and it did not +fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue for a +sin. Sobs were audible in the female section of the house, and every man who +was a father drew his hand across his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the +consciousness of guilt oppressed him; so that he could not go forth and offer +himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched her +husband’s eye. Her mind was free from the influence that had begun to +work on his, and she drew near the Quaker woman and addressed her in the +hearing of all the congregation. +</p> + +<p> +“Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother,” she +said, taking Ilbrahim’s hand. “Providence has signally marked out +my husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our +roof now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. Leave +the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while she +gazed earnestly in Dorothy’s face. Her mild but saddened features and +neat matronly attire harmonized together and were like a verse of fireside +poetry. Her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could +be so, in respect to God and man, while the enthusiast, in her robe of +sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently violated the duties of +the present life and the future by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. +The two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, formed a practical +allegory: it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism contending for the +empire of a young heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou art not of our people,” said the Quaker, mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“No, we are not of your people,” replied Dorothy, with mildness, +“but we are Christians looking upward to the same heaven with you. Doubt +not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our tender +and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I trust, my own children have gone +before me, for I also have been a mother. I am no longer so,” she added, +in a faltering tone, “and your son will have all my care.” +</p> + +<p> +“But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?” +demanded the Quaker. “Can ye teach him the enlightened faith which his +father has died for, and for which I—even I—am soon to become an +unworthy martyr? The boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark +fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not deceive you,” answered Dorothy. “If your child +become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction which Heaven has +imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we must do +toward him according to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of yours. +Were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in complying with +your wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and then +turned her eyes upward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and the +contention of her soul was evident. +</p> + +<p> +“Friend,” she said, at length, to Dorothy, “I doubt not that +my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. Nay, I will believe +that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely thou +art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband. Doth he stand here +among this multitude of people? Let him come forth, for I must know to whom I +commit this most precious trust.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary delay Tobias +Pearson came forth from among them. The Quaker saw the dress which marked his +military rank, and shook her head; but then she noted the hesitating air, the +eyes that struggled with her own and were vanquished, the color that went and +came and could find no resting-place. As she gazed an unmirthful smile spread +over her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some desolate spot. +Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake: +</p> + +<p> +“I hear it, I hear it! The voice speaketh within me and saith, +‘Leave thy child, Catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for I +have other work for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy +love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.’ I +go, friends, I go. Take ye my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence trusting that +all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands there is a labor in the +vineyard.” +</p> + +<p> +She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first struggled and clung to +his mother with sobs and tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his +cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her hands over his head in mental +prayer, she was ready to depart. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, friends in mine extremity,” she said to Pearson and his +wife; “the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to +be returned a thousandfold hereafter.—And farewell, ye mine enemies, to +whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor to stay my +footsteps even for a moment. The day is coming when ye shall call upon me to +witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and I will rise up and +answer.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her steps toward the door, and the men who had stationed themselves +to guard it withdrew and suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity +overcame the virulence of religious hatred. Sanctified by her love and her +affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her till she had +journeyed up the hill and was lost behind its brow. She went, the apostle of +her own unquiet heart, to renew the wanderings of past years. For her voice had +been already heard in many lands of Christendom, and she had pined in the cells +of a Catholic Inquisition before she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of +the Puritans. Her mission had extended also to the followers of the Prophet, +and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which all the +contending sects of our purer religion united to deny her. Her husband and +herself had resided many months in Turkey, where even the sultan’s +countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim’s +birthplace, and his Oriental name was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of +an unbeliever. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over Ilbrahim that +could be delegated, their affection for him became, like the memory of their +native land or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the immovable +furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after a week or two of mental +disquiet, began to gratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that he +considered them as parents and their house as home. Before the winter snows +were melted the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and +heathen country, seemed native in the New England cottage and inseparable from +the warmth and security of its hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment, +and in the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim’s demeanor lost a +premature manliness which had resulted from his earlier situation; he became +more childlike and his natural character displayed itself with freedom. It was +in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his +father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind of +the boy. In his general state Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most +trifling events and from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich +treasures of happiness by a faculty analogous to that of the witch-hazel, which +points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. His airy gayety, coming +to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the family, and Ilbrahim +was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening moody countenances and chasing +away the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of pain, the +exuberant cheerfulness of the boy’s prevailing temper sometimes yielded +to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not always be followed up to +their original source, but most frequently they appeared to flow—though +Ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a cause—from wounded love. The +flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty of offences against the +decorum of a Puritan household, and on these occasions he did not invariably +escape rebuke. But the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was +infallible in distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his +heart and poison all his enjoyments till he became sensible that he was +entirely forgiven. Of the malice which generally accompanies a superfluity of +sensitiveness Ilbrahim was altogether destitute. When trodden upon, he would +not turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was wanting in the stamina +of self-support. It was a plant that would twine beautifully round something +stronger than itself; but if repulsed or torn away, it had no choice but to +wither on the ground. Dorothy’s acuteness taught her that severity would +crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one +who handles a butterfly. Her husband manifested an equal affection, although it +grew daily less productive of familiar caresses. +</p> + +<p> +The feelings of the neighboring people in regard to the Quaker infant and his +protectors had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary +triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their sympathies. The scorn +and bitterness of which he was the object were very grievous to Ilbrahim, +especially when any circumstance made him sensible that the children his equals +in age partook of the enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature had +already overflowed in attachments to everything about him, and still there was +a residue of unappropriated love which he yearned to bestow upon the little +ones who were taught to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on Ilbrahim +was accustomed to remain for hours silent and inactive within hearing of the +children’s voices at their play, yet with his usual delicacy of feeling +he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from the smallest +individual among them. Chance, however, at length seemed to open a medium of +communication between his heart and theirs; it was by means of a boy about two +years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a tree in the +vicinity of Pearson’s habitation. As the sufferer’s own home was at +some distance, Dorothy willingly received him under her roof and became his +tender and careful nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and it +would have deterred him in other circumstances from attempting to make a friend +of this boy. The countenance of the latter immediately impressed a beholder +disagreeably, but it required some examination to discover that the cause was a +very slight distortion of the mouth and the irregular, broken line and near +approach of the eyebrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities was +an almost imperceptible twist of every joint and the uneven prominence of the +breast, forming a body regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all +its details. The disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the +village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect, although at a +later period of life he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. But, +whatever might be his personal or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim’s heart +seized upon and clung to him from the moment that he was brought wounded into +the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that +of the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had +created a sort of relationship between them. Food, rest and the fresh air for +which he languished were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of +the little stranger and with a fond jealousy endeavored to be the medium of all +the cares that were bestowed upon him. As the boy became convalescent Ilbrahim +contrived games suitable to his situation or amused him by a faculty which he +had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace. It was that of +reciting imaginary adventures on the spur of the moment, and apparently in +inexhaustible succession. His tales were, of course, monstrous, disjointed and +without aim, but they were curious on account of a vein of human tenderness +which ran through them all and was like a sweet familiar face encountered in +the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The auditor paid much attention to +these romances and sometimes interrupted them by brief remarks upon the +incidents, displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral +obliquity which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim’s instinctive +rectitude. Nothing, however, could arrest the progress of the latter’s +affection, and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark +and stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy’s parents at length +removed him to complete his cure under their own roof. +</p> + +<p> +Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure, but he made anxious +and continual inquiries respecting him and informed himself of the day when he +was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleasant summer afternoon the +children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned +amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering invalid was there, +leaning on a staff. The glee of a score of untainted bosoms was heard in light +and airy voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine become audible; the +grown men of this weary world as they journeyed by the spot marvelled why life, +beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom, and their hearts or +their imaginations answered them and said that the bliss of childhood gushes +from its innocence. But it happened that an unexpected addition was made to the +heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came toward the children with a look +of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested +his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society. +A hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood +whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but all at once the devil of their +fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and, sending up a fierce, shrill +cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an instant he was the centre of +a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones +and displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the +bloodthirstiness of manhood. +</p> + +<p> +The invalid, in the mean while, stood apart from the tumult, crying out with a +loud voice, “Fear not, Ilbrahim; come hither and take my hand,” and +his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching the victim’s +struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foul-hearted +little villain lifted his staff and struck Ilbrahim on the mouth so forcibly +that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child’s arms had been raised +to guard his head from the storm of blows, but now he dropped them at once. His +persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long fair +locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever +entered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a +few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little +heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson’s door. +</p> + +<p> +Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing +accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was more +serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative +character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously known him. His +gait was thenceforth slow, even and unvaried by the sudden bursts of +sprightlier motion which had once corresponded to his overflowing gladness; his +countenance was heavier, and its former play of expression—the dance of +sunshine reflected from moving water—was destroyed by the cloud over his +existence; his notice was attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and +he appeared to find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him +than at a happier period. A stranger founding his judgment upon these +circumstances would have said that the dulness of the child’s intellect +widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in the +direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which were brooding within him when +they should naturally have been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to +revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his quiet +demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into passionate +weeping and ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so miserably sore +that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire. Sometimes at night, and +probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry, “Mother! Mother!” as +if her place, which a stranger had supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted +of no substitute in his extreme affliction. Perhaps among the many life-weary +wretches then upon the earth there was not one who combined innocence and +misery like this poor broken-hearted infant so soon the victim of his own +heavenly nature. +</p> + +<p> +While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an earlier +origin and of different character had come to its perfection in his adopted +father. The incident with which this tale commences found Pearson in a state of +religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted and longing for a more fervid faith +than he possessed. The first effect of his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce +a softened feeling, an incipient love for the child’s whole sect, but +joined to this, and resulting, perhaps, from self-suspicion, was a proud and +ostentatious contempt of their tenets and practical extravagances. In the +course of much thought, however—for the subject struggled irresistibly +into his mind—the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, +and the points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another +aspect or vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go on even +while he slept, and that which had been a doubt when he laid down to rest would +often hold the place of a truth confirmed by some forgotten demonstration when +he recalled his thoughts in the morning. But, while he was thus becoming +assimilated to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing toward them, +grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his +acquaintance wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. +Such was his state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim’s misfortune, and +the emotions consequent upon that event completed the change of which the child +had been the original instrument. +</p> + +<p> +In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors nor the infatuation +of their victims had decreased. The dungeons were never empty; the streets of +almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a woman whose mild +and Christian spirit no cruelty could embitter had been sacrificed, and more +innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in +prayer. Early after the Restoration the English Quakers represented to Charles +II. that a “vein of blood was open in his dominions,” but, though +the displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not +prompt. And now the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson +to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife, to a firm endurance of a +thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim, to pine and droop like a cankered rose-bud; +his mother, to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust +which can be committed to a woman. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson’s +habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his broad +hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and +large logs dripping with half-melted snow lay ready to cast upon the embers. +But the apartment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of much of the +homely wealth which had once adorned it, for the exaction of repeated fines and +his own neglect of temporal affairs had greatly impoverished the owner. And +with the furniture of peace the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the +sword was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for ever: the soldier had +done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard his +head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested was drawn +before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its +pages. +</p> + +<p> +He who listened while the other read was the master of the house, now emaciated +in form and altered as to the expression and healthiness of his countenance, +for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts and his body had been +worn by imprisonment and stripes. The hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat +beside him had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the same mode +of life. In person he was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made +him hateful to the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed +hat and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page the snow +drifted against the windows or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a +blast kept laughing in the chimney and the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. +And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle and swept down +by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can +be conceived; it came as if the past were speaking, as if the dead had +contributed each a whisper, as if the desolation of ages were breathed in that +one lamenting sound. +</p> + +<p> +The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, his hand between the +pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson. The +attitude and features of the latter might have indicated the endurance of +bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed +and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Friend Tobias,” inquired the old man, compassionately, “hast +thou found no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and +indistinct,” replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. “Yea; and +when I have hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless and +intended for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book,” he +added, in a tone of sullen bitterness; “I have no part in its +consolations, and they do but fret my sorrow the more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, feeble brother; be not as one who hath never known the +light,” said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. “Art +thou he that wouldst be content to give all and endure all for +conscience’ sake, desiring even peculiar trials that thy faith might be +purified and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink beneath +an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here below +and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy burden is yet +light.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!” exclaimed Pearson, +with the impatience of a variable spirit. “From my youth upward I have +been a man marked out for wrath, and year by year—yea, day after +day—I have endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. And +now I speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to +ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want and +nakedness. All this I could have borne and counted myself blessed. But when my +heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon the child of a stranger, +and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and now he too must die as +if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and I will lay me down in +the dust and lift up my head no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee, for I also +have had my hours of darkness wherein I have murmured against the cross,” +said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his +companion’s thoughts from his own sorrows: “Even of late was the +light obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished me on pain of +death and the constables led me onward from village to village toward the +wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk +deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my +footsteps by the blood that followed. As we went on—” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not borne all this, and have I murmured?” interrupted +Pearson, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, friend, but hear me,” continued the other. “As we +journeyed on night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of +the persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid that I +should glory therein. The lights began to glimmer in the cottage windows, and I +could discern the inmates as they gathered in comfort and security, every man +with his wife and children by their own evening hearth. At length we came to a +tract of fertile land. In the dim light the forest was not visible around it, +and, behold, there was a straw-thatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of +my home far over the wild ocean—far in our own England. Then came bitter +thoughts upon me—yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. The +happiness of my early days was painted to me, the disquiet of my manhood, the +altered faith of my declining years. I remembered how I had been moved to go +forth a wanderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay +on her dying-bed, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?” exclaimed +Pearson, shuddering. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea! yea!” replied the old man, hurriedly. “I was kneeling +by her bedside when the voice spoke loud within me, but immediately I rose and +took my staff and gat me gone. Oh that it were permitted me to forget her +woeful look when I thus withdrew my arm and left her journeying through the +dark valley alone! for her soul was faint and she had leaned upon my prayers. +Now in that night of horror I was assailed by the thought that I had been an +erring Christian and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter with her pale dying +features seemed to stand by me and whisper, ‘Father, you are deceived; go +home and shelter your gray head.’—O Thou to whom I have looked in +my furthest wanderings,” continued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes +to heaven, “inflict not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the +unmitigated agony of my soul when I believed that all I had done and suffered +for thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend!—But I yielded not; I +knelt down and wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely +into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on in peace and joy toward the +wilderness.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of reason, +was deeply moved while reciting this tale, and his unwonted emotion seemed to +rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat in silence, with their +faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of +persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still drifted hard against the +windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down +the spacious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now +and then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the +eyes of both Quakers to the door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous +gust of wind had led his thoughts by a natural association to homeless +travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“I have wellnigh sunk under my own share of this trial,” observed +he, sighing heavily; “yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if so +the child’s mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, +but this will be the sorest of all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fear not for Catharine,” replied the old Quaker, “for I know +that valiant woman and have seen how she can bear the cross. A mother’s +heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with her +faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus +early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and she will feel that +he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. Blessed, blessed are they +that with so little suffering can enter into peace!” +</p> + +<p> +The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound: it was a +quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson’s wan countenance +grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him what to dread; the +old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his glance was firm as that of +the tried soldier who awaits his enemy. +</p> + +<p> +“The men of blood have come to seek me,” he observed, with +calmness. “They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment, and +now am I to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long +looked for. I will open unto them lest they say, ‘Lo, he +feareth!rsquo;” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay; I will present myself before them,” said Pearson, with +recovered fortitude. “It may be that they seek me alone and know not that +thou abidest with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go boldly, both one and the other,” rejoined his companion. +“It is not fitting that thou or I should shrink.” +</p> + +<p> +They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they opened, +bidding the applicant “Come in, in God’s name!” A furious +blast of wind drove the storm into their faces and extinguished the lamp; they +had barely time to discern a figure so white from head to foot with the drifted +snow that it seemed like Winter’s self come in human shape to seek refuge +from its own desolation. +</p> + +<p> +“Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may,” said +Pearson. “It must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peace be with this household!” said the stranger, when they stood +on the floor of the inner apartment. +</p> + +<p> +Pearson started; the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the fire +till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze. It was a female voice that had +spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in that +comfortable light. +</p> + +<p> +“Catharine, blessed woman,” exclaimed the old man, “art thou +come to this darkened land again? Art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as +in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from the +dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant, but strengthen, strengthen now thy +heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once ere thou go to thy +reward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rejoice, friends!” she replied. “Thou who hast long been of +our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! Lo, I come, +the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is over-past. The +heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved in gentleness toward us, and +he hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. A +ship’s company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and I also +sailed joyfully among them.” +</p> + +<p> +As Catharine spoke her eyes were roaming about the room in search of him for +whose sake security was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the old +man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task assigned him. +</p> + +<p> +“Sister,” he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, +“thou tellest us of his love manifested in temporal good, and now must we +speak to thee of that selfsame love displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, +Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path +and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward +continually, but still the cares of that little child have drawn thine eyes and +thy affections to the earth. Sister, go on rejoicing, for his tottering +footsteps shall impede thine own no more.” +</p> + +<p> +But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled. She shook like a leaf; she +turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm old man +extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon hers as if to repress +any outbreak of passion. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a woman—I am but a woman; will He try me above my +strength?” said Catharine, very quickly and almost in a whisper. “I +have been wounded sore; I have suffered much—many things in the body, +many in the mind; crucified in myself and in them that were dearest to me. +Surely,” added she, with a long shudder, “he hath spared me in this +one thing.” She broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence: +“Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God done to me? Hath he cast me +down never to rise again? Hath he crushed my very heart in his hand?—And +thou to whom I committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me +back the boy well, sound, alive—alive—or earth and heaven shall +avenge me!” +</p> + +<p> +The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by the faint—the very +faint—voice of a child. +</p> + +<p> +On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest and to Dorothy +that Ilbrahim’s brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The +two former would willingly have remained by him to make use of the prayers and +pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they +be impotent as to the departing traveller’s reception in the world +whither he goes, may at least sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. But, +though Ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked +upon him; so that Dorothy’s entreaties and their own conviction that the +child’s feet might tread heaven’s pavement and not soil it had +induced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, +and, except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been +thought to slumber. As nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise, +something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy’s mind and to render +his sense of hearing active and acute. If a passing wind lingered to shake the +casement, he strove to turn his head toward it; if the door jarred to and fro +upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice +of the old man as he read the Scriptures rose but a little higher, the child +almost held his dying-breath to listen; if a snowdrift swept by the cottage +with a sound like the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some +visitant should enter. But after a little time he relinquished whatever secret +hope had agitated him and with one low complaining whisper turned his cheek +upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness and +besought her to draw near him; she did so, and Ilbrahim took her hand in both +of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he +retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the repose of his +countenance, a very faint trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a +mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him and made him shiver. +</p> + +<p> +As the boy thus led her by the hand in his quiet progress over the borders of +eternity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the near though dim +delightfulness of the home he was about to reach; she would not have enticed +the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that she must leave him +and return. But just when Ilbrahim’s feet were pressing on the soil of +Paradise he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of +the weary path which he had travelled. As Dorothy looked upon his features she +perceived that their placid expression was again disturbed. Her own thoughts +had been so wrapped in him that all sounds of the storm and of human speech +were lost to her; but when Catharine’s shriek pierced through the room, +the boy strove to raise himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Friend, she is come! Open unto her!” cried he. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew Ilbrahim to her +bosom, and he nestled there with no violence of joy, but contentedly as if he +were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her face, and, reading its agony, +said with feeble earnestness, +</p> + +<p> +“Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now;” and with these words +the gentle boy was dead. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The king’s mandate to stay the New England persecutors was effectual in +preventing further martyrdoms, but the colonial authorities, trusting in the +remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of the +royal government, shortly renewed their severities in all other respects. +Catharine’s fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering of all human +ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted, there was she to receive the blow; and +whenever a dungeon was unbarred, thither she came to cast herself upon the +floor. But in process of time a more Christian spirit—a spirit of +forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation—began to pervade the +land in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims +eyed her rather in pity than in wrath, when the matrons fed her with the +fragments of their children’s food and offered her a lodging on a hard +and lowly bed, when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast +stones after the roving enthusiast,—then did Catharine return to +Pearson’s dwelling, and made that her home. +</p> + +<p> +As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his ashes, as if his gentle +spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce +and vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs which had once irritated +it. When the course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner +familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep but general +interest—a being on whom the otherwise superfluous sympathies of all +might be bestowed. Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is +pleasant to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses +which are not costly, yet manifest good-will; and when at last she died, a long +train of her once bitter persecutors followed her with decent sadness and tears +that were not painful to her place by Ilbrahim’s green and sunken grave. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a> MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE</h2> + +<p> +A young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on his way from Morristown, +where he had dealt largely with the deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the +village of Parker’s Falls, on Salmon River. He had a neat little cart +painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side-panel, and an Indian +chief holding a pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk on the rear. The pedler drove a +smart little mare and was a young man of excellent character, keen at a +bargain, but none the worse liked by the Yankees, who, as I have heard them +say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was +he beloved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favor he used to +court by presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his stock, knowing well that +the country-lasses of New England are generally great performers on pipes. +Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedler was inquisitive +and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the news and anxious to tell +it again. +</p> + +<p> +After an early breakfast at Morristown the tobacco-pedler—whose name was +Dominicus Pike—had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece of +woods without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little gray mare. +It being nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip +as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. An opportunity seemed at hand +when, after lighting a cigar with a sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man +coming over the brow of the hill at the foot of which the pedler had stopped +his green cart. Dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he +carried a bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick and travelled with a +weary yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had started in the +freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same +all day. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when within +speaking-distance. “You go a pretty good jog. What’s the latest +news at Parker’s Falls?” +</p> + +<p> +The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over his eyes, and answered, rather +sullenly, that he did not come from Parker’s Falls, which, as being the +limit of his own day’s journey, the pedler had naturally mentioned in his +inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have the +latest news where you did come from. I’m not particular about +Parker’s Falls. Any place will answer.” +</p> + +<p> +Being thus importuned, the traveller—who was as ill-looking a fellow as +one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods—appeared to +hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news or +weighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mounting on the step of the +cart, he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud +and no other mortal would have heard him. +</p> + +<p> +“I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he. “Old Mr. +Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchard at eight o’clock +last night by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch of a +St. Michael’s pear tree where nobody would find him till the +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated the stranger betook +himself to his journey again with more speed than ever, not even turning his +head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar and relate all the +particulars. The pedler whistled to his mare and went up the hill, pondering on +the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had known in the way of trade, +having sold him many a bunch of long nines and a great deal of pig-tail, +lady’s twist and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished at the rapidity +with which the news had spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a +straight line; the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o’clock the +preceding night, yet Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when, +in all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham’s own family had but just +discovered his corpse hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree. The +stranger on foot must have worn seven-league boots, to travel at such a rate. +</p> + +<p> +“Ill-news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus Pike, “but +this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired to go express with the +President’s message.” +</p> + +<p> +The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a mistake of +one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate to +introduce the story at every tavern and country-store along the road, expending +a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. He +found himself invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so +pestered with questions that he could not avoid filling up the outline till it +became quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece of corroborative +evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader, and a former clerk of his to whom +Dominicus related the facts testified that the old gentleman was accustomed to +return home through the orchard about nightfall with the money and valuable +papers of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little grief at Mr. +Higginbotham’s catastrophe, hinting—what the pedler had discovered +in his own dealings with him—that he was a crusty old fellow as close as +a vise. His property would descend to a pretty niece who was now keeping school +in Kimballton. +</p> + +<p> +What with telling the news for the public good and driving bargains for his +own, Dominicus was so much delayed on the road that he chose to put up at a +tavern about five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After supper, lighting +one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room and went through the +story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took him half an hour to +tell. There were as many as twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom +received it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer who had +arrived on horseback a short time before and was now seated in a corner, +smoking his pipe. When the story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, +brought his chair right in front of Dominicus and stared him full in the face, +puffing out the vilest tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you make affidavit,” demanded he, in the tone of a +country-justice taking an examination, “that old Squire Higginbotham of +Kimballton was murdered in his orchard the night before last and found hanging +on his great pear tree yesterday morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell the story as I heard it, mister,” answered Dominicus, +dropping his half-burnt cigar. “I don’t say that I saw the thing +done, so I can’t take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “that if Squire +Higginbotham was murdered night before last I drank a glass of bitters with his +ghost this morning. Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store as I +was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for +him on the road. He didn’t seem to know any more about his own murder +than I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then it can’t be a fact!” exclaimed Dominicus Pike. +</p> + +<p> +“I guess he’d have mentioned, if it was,” said the old +farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leaving Dominicus quite +down in the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham! The pedler had no heart to +mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin +and water and went to bed, where all night long he dreamed of hanging on the +St. Michael’s pear tree. +</p> + +<p> +To avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested that his suspension would have +pleased him better than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in the gray +of the morning, put the little mare into the green cart and trotted swiftly +away toward Parker’s Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy road and the +pleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, and might have encouraged him to +repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to bear it, but he met +neither ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman nor foot-traveller till, just as +he crossed Salmon River, a man came trudging down to the bridge with a bundle +over his shoulder, on the end of a stick. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, mister,” said the pedler, reining in his mare. +“If you come from Kimballton or that neighborhood, maybe you can tell me +the real fact about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow +actually murdered two or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger?” +</p> + +<p> +Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe at first that the stranger +himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden question the +Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, +while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! There was no colored man. It was an Irishman that hanged him +last night at eight o’clock; I came away at seven. His folks can’t +have looked for him in the orchard yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted himself and, though he +seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace which would have +kept the pedler’s mare on a smart trot. Dominicus stared after him in +great perplexity. If the murder had not been committed till Tuesday night, who +was the prophet that had foretold it in all its circumstances on Tuesday +morning? If Mr. Higginbotham’s corpse were not yet discovered by his own +family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles’ distance, to know +that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton before +the unfortunate man was hanged at all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the +stranger’s surprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a +hue-and-cry after him as an accomplice in the murder, since a murder, it +seemed, had really been perpetrated. +</p> + +<p> +“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “I +don’t want his black blood on my head, and hanging the nigger +wouldn’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentleman? It’s a +sin, I know, but I should hate to have him come to life a second time and give +me the lie.” +</p> + +<p> +With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into the street of Parker’s +Falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three +cotton-factories and a slitting-mill can make it. The machinery was not in +motion and but a few of the shop doors unbarred when he alighted in the +stable-yard of the tavern and made it his first business to order the mare four +quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart Mr. +Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the hostler. He deemed it advisable, +however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and also to +be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a mulatto or by the +son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relate it on his own authority or +that of any one person, but mentioned it as a report generally diffused. +</p> + +<p> +The story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became so +much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it had originated. Mr. +Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of the +place, being part-owner of the slitting-mill and a considerable stockholder in +the cotton-factories. The inhabitants felt their own prosperity interested in +his fate. Such was the excitement that the Parker’s Falls <i>Gazette</i> +anticipated its regular day of publication, and came out with half a form of +blank paper and a column of double pica emphasized with capitals and headed +“HORRID MURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM!” Among other dreadful details, +the printed account described the mark of the cord round the dead man’s +neck and stated the number of thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; +there was much pathos, also, about the affliction of his niece, who had gone +from one fainting-fit to another ever since her uncle was found hanging on the +St. Michael’s pear tree with his pockets inside out. The village poet +likewise commemorated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a +ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and in consideration of Mr. +Higginbotham’s claims on the town determined to issue handbills offering +a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers and the +recovery of the stolen property. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consisting of +shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory-girls, mill-men and +schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity as +more than compensated for the silence of the cotton-machines, which refrained +from their usual din out of respect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham cared +about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult. +</p> + +<p> +Our friend Dominicus in his vanity of heart forgot his intended precautions, +and, mounting on the town-pump, announced himself as the bearer of the +authentic intelligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He +immediately became the great man of the moment, and had just begun a new +edition of the narrative with a voice like a field-preacher when the mail-stage +drove into the village street. It had travelled all night, and must have +shifted horses at Kimballton at three in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we shall hear all the particulars!” shouted the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern followed by a thousand people; +for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he now left it at +sixes and sevens to hear the news. The pedler, foremost in the race, discovered +two passengers, both of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to find +themselves in the centre of a mob. Every man assailing them with separate +questions, all propounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, though +one was a lawyer and the other a young lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us the particulars about old +Mr. Higginbotham!” bawled the mob. “What is the coroner’s +verdict? Are the murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s niece come +out of her fainting-fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!” +</p> + +<p> +The coachman said not a word except to swear awfully at the hostler for not +bringing him a fresh team of horses. The lawyer inside had generally his wits +about him even when asleep; the first thing he did after learning the cause of +the excitement was to produce a large red pocketbook. Meantime, Dominicus Pike, +being an extremely polite young man, and also suspecting that a female tongue +would tell the story as glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out of +the coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, +and had such a sweet, pretty mouth that Dominicus would almost as lief have +heard a love-tale from it as a tale of murder. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the +mill-men and the factory-girls, “I can assure you that some unaccountable +mistake—or, more probably, a wilful falsehood maliciously contrived to +injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit—has excited this singular uproar. +We passed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and most +certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been perpetrated. But +I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s own oral testimony in +the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit of his in the Connecticut +courts which was delivered me from that gentleman himself. I find it dated at +ten o’clock last evening.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, the lawyer, exhibited the date and signature of the note, which +irrefragably proved either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when +he wrote it, or, as some deemed the more probable case of two doubtful ones, +that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue to transact it even +after his death. But unexpected evidence was forthcoming. The young lady, after +listening to the pedler’s explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth +her gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, +making a modest signal to be heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s +niece.” +</p> + +<p> +A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and +bright—that same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the authority +of the Parker’s Falls <i>Gazette</i>, to be lying at death’s door +in a fainting-fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubted all along whether a +young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, “that +this strange story is quite unfounded as to myself, and I believe I may affirm +it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the +kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to my own support +by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend the vacation of +commencement-week with a friend about five miles from Parker’s Falls. My +generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside and +gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay my stage-fare, and another dollar +for my extra expenses. He then laid his pocketbook under his pillow, shook +hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag instead of +breakfasting on the road. I feel confident, therefore, that I left my beloved +relative alive, and trust that I shall find him so on my return.” +</p> + +<p> +The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so sensible and +well worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety, that everybody +thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in the State. But a +stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object of abhorrence +at Parker’s Falls and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed for his +murder, so excessive was the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their +mistake. The mill-men resolved to bestow public honors on Dominicus Pike, only +hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail or refresh him +with an ablution at the town-pump, on the top of which he had declared himself +the bearer of the news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of +prosecuting him for a misdemeanor in circulating unfounded reports, to the +great disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus +either from mob-law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made by the +young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his +benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out of town under a discharge +of artillery from the schoolboys, who found plenty of ammunition in the +neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he turned his head to exchange a +farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s niece a ball of the consistence +of hasty-pudding hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His +whole person was so bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had +almost a mind to ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the +town-pump; for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of +charity. +</p> + +<p> +However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud—an emblem of +all stains of undeserved opprobrium—was easily brushed off when dry. +Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain from a +hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. The handbills of the +selectmen would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the State, the +paragraph in the Parker’s Falls <i>Gazette</i> would be reprinted from +Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in the London newspapers, and many a +miser would tremble for his moneybags and life on learning the catastrophe of +Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditated with much fervor on the charms of the +young schoolmistress, and swore that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so +like an angel as Miss Higginbotham while defending him from the wrathful +populace at Parker’s Falls. +</p> + +<p> +Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along determined to +visit that place, though business had drawn, him out of the most direct road +from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the supposed murder he continued +to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect +which the whole case assumed. Had nothing occurred to corroborate the story of +the first traveller, it might now have been considered as a hoax; but the +yellow man was evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact, and +there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly +questioned. When to this singular combination of incidents it was added that +the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of +life, and that he had an orchard and a St. Michael’s pear tree, near +which he always passed at nightfall, the circumstantial evidence appeared so +strong that Dominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by the lawyer, or +even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making +cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr. +Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of doubtful character whom he had +hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy. +</p> + +<p> +“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike, aloud, on +reaching the top of a lonely hill, “if I’ll believe old +Higginbotham is unhanged till I see him with my own eyes and hear it from his +own mouth. And, as he’s a real shaver, I’ll have the minister, or +some other responsible man, for an endorser.” +</p> + +<p> +It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton turnpike, +about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His little mare was +fast bringing him up with a man on horseback who trotted through the gate a few +rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer and kept on towards the +village. Dominicus was acquainted with the toll-man, and while making change +the usual remarks on the weather passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash to bring +it down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen +anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just +before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the +dusk. He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s +sale there. The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me, +but to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged +on; for, wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“So they tell me,” said Dominicus. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,” +continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself tonight, ‘He’s +more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.’” +</p> + +<p> +The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the +horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to recognize the rear of +Mr. Higginbotham, but through the evening shadows and amid the dust from the +horse’s feet the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial, as if the shape +of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light. +</p> + +<p> +Dominicus shivered. “Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world +by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought he. He shook the reins and +rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old +shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reaching this +point the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback, but found himself at the +head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns +clustered round the meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a +gate, the boundary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard, farther still a +mowing-field, and last of all a house. These were the premises of Mr. +Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in +the background by the Kimballton turnpike. +</p> + +<p> +Dominicus knew the place, and the little mare stopped short by instinct, for he +was not conscious of tightening the reins. “For the soul of me, I cannot +get by this gate!” said he, trembling. “I never shall be my own man +again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael’s +pear tree.” He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the +gate-post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were +chasing behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep +stroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim +in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree. One great +branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path and threw the +darkest shadow on that one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the +branch. +</p> + +<p> +The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of peaceable +occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful emergency. Certain +it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishman with the +butt-end of his whip, and found—not, indeed, hanging on the St. +Michael’s pear tree, but trembling beneath it with a halter round his +neck—the old identical Mr. Higginbotham. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus, tremulously, +“you’re an honest man, and I’ll take your word for it. Have +you been hanged, or not?” +</p> + +<p> +If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the simple +machinery by which this “coming event” was made to cast its +“shadow before.” Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of +Mr. Higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each delaying +the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in the act of +perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, like the +heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of Dominicus Pike. +</p> + +<p> +It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedler into high favor, +sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and settled his whole +property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. In due time the +old gentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a Christian death in +bed; since which melancholy event, Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton +and established a large tobacco-manufactory in my native village. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a> LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE</h2> + +<p> +Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! +</p> + +<p> +The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little Annie stands +on her father’s doorsteps trying to hear what the man with the loud voice +is talking about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling the people that an +elephant and a lion and a royal tiger and a horse with horns, and other strange +beasts from foreign countries, have come to town and will receive all visitors +who choose to wait upon them. Perhaps little Annie would like to go? Yes, and I +can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street with +the green trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine and the +pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept +them with her broom. She feels that impulse to go strolling away—that +longing after the mystery of the great world—which many children feel, +and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a ramble with me. +See! I do but hold out my hand, and like some bright bird in the sunny air, +with her blue silk frock fluttering upward from her white pantalets, she comes +bounding on tiptoe across the street. +</p> + +<p> +Smooth back your brown curls, Annie, and let me tie on your bonnet, and we will +set forth. What a strange couple to go on their rambles together! One walks in +black attire, with a measured step and a heavy brow and his thoughtful eyes +bent down, while the gay little girl trips lightly along as if she were forced +to keep hold of my hand lest her feet should dance away from the earth. Yet +there is sympathy between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I +have a smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown +ladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie, for I delight to let +my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless child. So come, Annie; but +if I moralize as we go, do not listen to me: only look about you and be merry. +</p> + +<p> +Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses and stage-coaches with +four thundering to meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a slower +pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the wharves; and here are rattling +gigs which perhaps will be smashed to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, +comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie +afraid of such a tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but +passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of +grown people who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to +extreme old age. Nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way for little +Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to such +respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure. A street-musician has seated +himself on the steps of yonder church and pours forth his strains to the busy +town—a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz +of voices and the war of passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None +but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively +tune, as if she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. But +where would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in their toes or the +rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeble with disease; +some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such ponderous +size that their agility would crack the flagstones; but many, many have leaden +feet because their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad thought that I +have chanced upon. What a company of dancers should we be! For I too am a +gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately +on. +</p> + +<p> +It is a question with me whether this giddy child or my sage self have most +pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. We love the silks of sunny hue that +glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods men; we are +pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver and the chased gold, the rings of +wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window of the +jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks for a glimpse of her passing figure in +the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware-stores. All that is bright and gay +attracts us both. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood as well as present +partialities give a peculiar magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on +the dainties of a confectioner—those pies with such white and flaky +paste, their contents being a mystery, whether rich mince with whole plums +intermixed, or piquant apple delicately rose-flavored; those cakes, +heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet little circlets +sweetly named kisses; those dark majestic masses fit to be bridal-loaves at the +wedding of an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered +with sugar! Then the mighty treasures of sugarplums, white and crimson and +yellow, in large glass vases, and candy of all varieties, and those little +cockles—or whatever they are called—much prized by children for +their sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick +maids and bachelors! Oh, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so doth yours, but +we will not be tempted except to an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward +devouring the vision of a plum-cake. +</p> + +<p> +Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind, in the +window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is deeply read in +Peter Parley’s tomes and has an increasing love for fairy-tales, though +seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe next year to the <i>Juvenile +Miscellany</i>. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from the printed +page and keep gazing at the pretty pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which +make this shop-window the continual loitering-place of children. What would +Annie think if, in the book which I mean to send her on New Year’s day, +she should find her sweet little self bound up in silk or morocco with gilt +edges, there to remain till she become a woman grown with children of her own +to read about their mother’s childhood? That would be very queer. +</p> + +<p> +Little Annie is weary of pictures and pulls me onward by the hand, till +suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars! Is +this a toyshop, or is it fairy-land? For here are gilded chariots in which the +king and queen of the fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers on +these small horses should gallop in triumphal procession before and behind the +royal pair. Here, too, are dishes of chinaware fit to be the dining-set of +those same princely personages when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest +hall of their palace—full five feet high—and behold their nobles +feasting adown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and queen +should sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. Here stands a +turbaned Turk threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is, and +next a Chinese mandarin who nods his head at Annie and myself. Here we may +review a whole army of horse and foot in red-and-blue uniforms, with drums, +fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music; they have halted on the +shelf of this window after their weary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie +for soldiers? No conquering queen is she—neither a Semiramis nor a +Catharine; her whole heart is set upon that doll who gazes at us with such a +fashionable stare. This is the little girl’s true plaything. Though made +of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage endowed by childish fancy +with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a +sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world +with which children ape the real one. Little Annie does not understand what I +am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. We will invite +her home with us as we return.—Meantime, good-bye, Dame Doll! A toy +yourself, you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are also toys, +though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they +wear grave visages. Oh, with your never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect +to moralize on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would you +be!—Come, little Annie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. +</p> + +<p> +Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is curious in the most crowded +part of a town to meet with living creatures that had their birthplace in some +far solitude, but have acquired a second nature in the wilderness of men. Look +up, Annie, at that canary-bird hanging out of the window in his cage. Poor +little fellow! His golden feathers are all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he +would have glistened twice as brightly among the summer islands, but still he +has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so +well without the uproar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not +know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, calling out, “Pretty +Poll! Pretty Poll!” as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her +prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, though gaudily +dressed in green and yellow! If she had said “Pretty Annie!” there +would have been some sense in it. See that gray squirrel at the door of the +fruit-shop whirling round and round so merrily within his wire wheel! Being +condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an amusement. Admirable philosophy! +</p> + +<p> +Here comes a big, rough dog—a countryman’s dog—in search of +his master, smelling at everybody’s heels and touching little +Annie’s hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain +have patted him.—Success to your search, Fidelity!—And there sits a +great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, +gazing at this transitory world with owl’s eyes, and making pithy +comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast.—Oh, sage +puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers. +</p> + +<p> +Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier and his ding-dong-bell. +Look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with +wild beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king, according to their +custom in the days of Æsop. But they are choosing neither a king nor a +President, else we should hear a most horrible snarling! They have come from +the deep woods and the wild mountains and the desert sands and the polar snows +only to do homage to my little Annie. As we enter among them the great elephant +makes us a bow in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down +his mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind. Annie returns +the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who is certainly the +best-bred monster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are busy with two +beef-bones. The royal tiger, the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his +narrow cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the spectators or recalling the +fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such +inferior animals from the jungles of Bengal. +</p> + +<p> +Here we see the very same wolf—do not go near him, Annie!—the +selfsame wolf that devoured little Red Riding-Hood and her grandmother. In the +next cage a hyena from Egypt who has doubtless howled around the pyramids and a +black bear from our own forests are fellow-prisoners and most excellent +friends. Are there any two living creatures who have so few sympathies that +they cannot possibly be friends? Here sits a great white bear whom common +observers would call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be only +absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of +his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs +whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. +But oh those unsentimental monkeys! The ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, +ill-natured, mischievous and queer little brutes! Annie does not love the +monkeys; their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste and +makes her mind unquiet because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to +humanity. But here is a little pony just big enough for Annie to ride, and +round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs +to a band of music. And here, with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a +riding-whip in his hand—here comes a little gentleman small enough to be +king of the fairies and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a +flying leap into the saddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily +gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman.—Come, +Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there. +</p> + +<p> +Mercy on us! What a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie ever read +the cries of London city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that +his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes another, mounted on a cart and +blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, +“Fresh fish!” And hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin +from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged +from smoke and soot and darksome caverns into the upper air. What cares the +world for that? But, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction—the +scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, +sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie +sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe. +</p> + +<p> +Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he tell +us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book or a show of beautiful wax figures, +or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan? I guess the +latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his right hand and shakes it slowly at +first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides +at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession far and near. +</p> + +<p> +Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! +</p> + +<p> +Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town. It drowns the +buzzing talk of many tongues and draws each man’s mind from his own +business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the hushed +chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen where the +hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who of all that address the public ear, +whether in church or court-house or hall of state, has such an attentive +audience as the town-crier! What saith the people’s orator? +</p> + +<p> +“Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL of five years old, in a blue silk +frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will +bring her back to her afflicted mother—” +</p> + +<p> +Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found.—Oh, my pretty Annie, we forgot +to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair and has sent the +town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old and young, for +the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand? Well, let us hasten +homeward; and as we go forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that after +wandering a little way into the world you may return at the first summons with +an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have gone +too far astray for the town-crier to call me back. +</p> + +<p> +Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit throughout my ramble with +little Annie. Say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle +matter, a babble of childish talk and a reverie of childish imaginations about +topics unworthy of a grown man’s notice. Has it been merely this? Not +so—not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm it. As the pure +breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived +by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth for +little cause or none, their grief soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence +on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost +forgotten and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday, when +life settles darkly down upon us and we doubt whether to call ourselves young +any more,—then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, +and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. After +drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence we shall return into the +crowd, as I do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life—perhaps as +fervently as ever, but for a time with a kinder and purer heart and a spirit +more lightly wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a> +WAKEFIELD</h2> + +<p> +In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth, of a +man—let us call him Wakefield—who absented himself for a long time +from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor, +without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be condemned either as +naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is +perhaps the strangest instance on record of marital delinquency, and, moreover, +as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. The +wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretence of going a journey, took +lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife +or friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt +upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his home every day, and +frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his +matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned certain, his estate +settled, his name dismissed from memory and his wife long, long ago resigned to +her autumnal widowhood—he entered the door one evening quietly as from a +day’s absence, and became a loving spouse till death. +</p> + +<p> +This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of the purest +originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, +which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. We know, each for himself, +that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. +To my own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred, always exciting +wonder, but with a sense that the story must be true and a conception of its +hero’s character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time +is well spent in thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his own +meditation; or if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of +Wakefield’s vagary, I bid him welcome, trusting that there will be a +pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly +and condensed into the final sentence. Thought has always its efficacy and +every striking incident its moral. +</p> + +<p> +What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our own idea and +call it by his name. He was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial +affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual sentiment; of all +husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness +would keep his heart at rest wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, +but not actively so; his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings that +tended to no purpose or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom so +energetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the +term, made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With a cold but not depraved nor +wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous thoughts nor perplexed +with originality, who could have anticipated that our friend would entitle +himself to a foremost place among the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his +acquaintances been asked who was the man in London the surest to perform +nothing to-day which should be remembered on the morrow, they would have +thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. She, +without having analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness +that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sort of vanity, the most +uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition to craft which had seldom produced +more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets hardly worth revealing; +and, lastly, of what she called a little strangeness sometimes in the good man. +This latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-existent. +</p> + +<p> +Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. It is the dusk of an +October evening. His equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an +oil-cloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteau in the +other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into +the country. She would fain inquire the length of his journey, its object and +the probable time of his return, but, indulgent to his harmless love of +mystery, interrogates him only by a look. He tells her not to expect him +positively by the return-coach nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four +days, but, at all events, to look for him at supper on Friday evening. +Wakefield, himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. +He holds out his hand; she gives her own and meets his parting kiss in the +matter-of-course way of a ten years’ matrimony, and forth goes the +middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a whole +week’s absence. After the door has closed behind him, she perceives it +thrust partly open and a vision of her husband’s face through the +aperture, smiling on her and gone in a moment. For the time this little +incident is dismissed without a thought, but long afterward, when she has been +more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs and flickers across all her +reminiscences of Wakefield’s visage. In her many musings she surrounds +the original smile with a multitude of fantasies which make it strange and +awful; as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is +frozen on his pale features; or if she dreams of him in heaven, still his +blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet for its sake, when all +others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow. +</p> + +<p> +But our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him along the street +ere he lose his individuality and melt into the great mass of London life. It +would be vain searching for him there. Let us follow close at his heels, +therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him +comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment previously +bespoken. He is in the next street to his own and at his journey’s end. +He can scarcely trust his good-fortune in having got thither unperceived, +recollecting that at one time he was delayed by the throng in the very focus of +a lighted lantern, and again there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind +his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon he heard a +voice shouting afar and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless a dozen +busybodies had been watching him and told his wife the whole affair. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great +world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish +man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. +Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself even for a little week +from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she for a single moment to deem thee +dead or lost or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious +of a change in thy true wife for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in +human affections—not that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly +close again. +</p> + +<p> +Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, Wakefield lies +down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the +wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed, “No,” thinks he, +gathering the bedclothes about him; “I will not sleep alone another +night.” In the morning he rises earlier than usual and sets himself to +consider what he really means to do. Such are his loose and rambling modes of +thought that he has taken this very singular step with the consciousness of a +purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his own +contemplation. The vagueness of the project and the convulsive effort with +which he plunges into the execution of it are equally characteristic of a +feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, +and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at home—how his +exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and, briefly, how the +little sphere of creatures and circumstances in which he was a central object +will be affected by his removal. A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the +bottom of the affair. But how is he to attain his ends? Not, certainly, by +keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in +the next street to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach +had been whirling him away all night. Yet should he reappear, the whole project +is knocked in the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this +dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the +street and send one hasty glance toward his forsaken domicile. Habit—for +he is a man of habits—takes him by the hand and guides him, wholly +unaware, to his own door, where, just at the critical moment, he is aroused by +the scraping of his foot upon the step.—Wakefield, whither are you going? +</p> + +<p> +At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. Little dreaming of the doom +to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with +agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head at the distant +corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight of him? Will not the whole +household—the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid-servant and the dirty +little footboy—raise a hue-and-cry through London streets in pursuit of +their fugitive lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers courage to pause +and look homeward, but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar +edifice such as affects us all when, after a separation of months or years, we +again see some hill or lake or work of art with which we were friends of old. +In ordinary cases this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and +contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In Wakefield the +magic of a single night has wrought a similar transformation, because in that +brief period a great moral change has been effected. But this is a secret from +himself. Before leaving the spot he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his +wife passing athwart the front window with her face turned toward the head of +the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea that +among a thousand such atoms of mortality her eye must have detected him. Right +glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by +the coal-fire of his lodgings. +</p> + +<p> +So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham. After the initial +conception and the stirring up of the man’s sluggish temperament to put +it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. We may +suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig of reddish +hair and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of +brown, from a Jew’s old-clothes bag. It is accomplished: Wakefield is +another man. The new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the +old would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his +unparalleled position. Furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness +occasionally incident to his temper and brought on at present by the inadequate +sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. +Wakefield. He will not go back until she be frightened half to death. Well, +twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a heavier step, +a paler cheek and more anxious brow, and in the third week of his +non-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering the house in the guise of +an apothecary. Next day the knocker is muffled. Toward nightfall comes the +chariot of a physician and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burden at +Wakefield’s door, whence after a quarter of an hour’s visit he +emerges, perchance the herald of a funeral. Dear woman! will she die? +</p> + +<p> +By this time Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling, but +still lingers away from his wife’s bedside, pleading with his conscience +that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains him, +he does not know it. In the course of a few weeks she gradually recovers. The +crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet, and, let him return soon +or late, it will never be feverish for him again. Such ideas glimmer through +the mist of Wakefield’s mind and render him indistinctly conscious that +an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from his former home. +“It is but in the next street,” he sometimes says. Fool! it is in +another world. Hitherto he has put off’ his return from one particular +day to another; henceforward he leaves the precise time undetermined—not +to-morrow; probably next week; pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as +much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the self-banished Wakefield. +</p> + +<p> +Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen pages! Then +might I exemplify how an influence beyond our control lays its strong hand on +every deed which we do and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of +necessity. +</p> + +<p> +Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for ten years or so to haunt around +his house without once crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife +with all the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading +out of hers. Long since, it must be remarked, he has lost the perception of +singularity in his conduct. +</p> + +<p> +Now for a scene. Amid the throng of a London street we distinguish a man, now +waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet +bearing in his whole aspect the handwriting of no common fate for such as have +the skill to read it. He is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply +wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about +him, but oftener seem to look inward. He bends his head and moves with an +indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to +the world. Watch him long enough to see what we have described, and you will +allow that circumstances—which often produce remarkable men from +Nature’s ordinary handiwork—have produced one such here. Next, +leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite +direction, where a portly female considerably in the wane of life, with a +prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding to yonder church. She has the placid +mien of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away or have become so +essential to her heart that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the +lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing a slight obstruction occurs and +brings these two figures directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure +of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand face to face, +staring into each other’s eyes. After a ten years’ separation thus +Wakefield meets his wife. The throng eddies away and carries them asunder. The +sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the +portal and throws a perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, however, +opening her prayer-book as she goes. +</p> + +<p> +And the man? With so wild a face that busy and selfish London stands to gaze +after him he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door and throws himself upon +the bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his feeble mind acquires a +brief energy from their strength; all the miserable strangeness of his life is +revealed to him at a glance, and he cries out passionately, “Wakefield, +Wakefield! You are mad!” Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his +situation must have so moulded him to itself that, considered in regard to his +fellow-creatures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his +right mind. He had contrived—or, rather, he had happened—to +dissever himself from the world, to vanish, to give up his place and privileges +with living men without being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is +nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the city as of old, but the +crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside +his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor the +affection of the other. It was Wakefield’s unprecedented fate to retain +his original share of human sympathies and to be still involved in human +interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It would be a +most curious speculation to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his +heart and intellect separately and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would +seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of +the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the moment, and still he would keep +saying, “I shall soon go back,” nor reflect that he had been saying +so for twenty years. +</p> + +<p> +I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear in the retrospect +scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had at first limited his +absence. He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in the main +business of his life. When, after a little while more, he should deem it time +to re-enter his parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy on beholding the +middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what a mistake! Would Time but await the close +of our favorite follies, we should be young men—all of us—and till +Doomsday. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wakefield is taking his +customary walk toward the dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty +night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter down upon the pavement and +are gone before a man can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, +Wakefield discerns through the parlor-windows of the second floor the red glow +and the glimmer and fitful flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears +a grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and chin and the +broad waist form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the +up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost too merrily for the shade of an +elderly widow. At this instant a shower chances to fall, and is driven by the +unmannerly gust full into Wakefield’s face and bosom. He is quite +penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand wet and shivering here, when +his own hearth has a good fire to warm him and his own wife will run to fetch +the gray coat and small-clothes which doubtless she has kept carefully in the +closet of their bedchamber? No; Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends the +steps—heavily, for twenty years have stiffened his legs since he came +down, but he knows it not.—Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home +that is left you? Then step into your grave.—The door opens. As he passes +in we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile +which was the precursor of the little joke that he has ever since been playing +off at his wife’s expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed the poor +woman! Well, a good night’s rest to Wakefield! +</p> + +<p> +This happy event—supposing it to be such—could only have occurred +at an unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across the +threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall lend +its wisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming confusion +of our mysterious world individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and +systems to one another and to a whole, that by stepping aside for a moment a +man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever. Like +Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the outcast of the universe. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a> +A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP</h2> + +<p class="ctr"> +(SCENE, <i>the corner of two principal streets</i>,<a href="#fn3" name="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> +<i>the</i> TOWN-PUMP <i>talking through its nose</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +Noon by the north clock! Noon by the east! High noon, too, by these hot +sunbeams, which full, scarcely aslope, upon my head and almost make the water +bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have +a tough time of it! And among all the town-officers chosen at March meeting, +where is he that sustains for a single year the burden of such manifold duties +as are imposed in perpetuity upon the town-pump? The title of +“town-treasurer” is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best +treasure that the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make me their +chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper without expense to him +that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire department and one of the +physicians to the board of health. As a keeper of the peace all water-drinkers +will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of the duties of the +town-clerk by promulgating public notices when they are posted on my front. To +speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, +moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother-officers by the cool, steady, +upright, downright and impartial discharge of my business and the constancy +with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain, for +all day long I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching +out my arms to rich and poor alike, and at night I hold a lantern over my head +both to show where I am and keep people out of the gutters. At this sultry +noontide I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron +goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dramseller on the mall at muster-day, I +cry aloud to all and sundry in my plainest accents and at the very tiptop of my +voice. +</p> + +<p> +Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen! +Walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of +Father Adam—better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer or wine of +any price; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to +pay! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves! +</p> + +<p> +It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they +come.—A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff and away again, so as to keep +yourselves in a nice cool sweat.—You, my friend, will need another cupful +to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your +cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day, and +like a wise man have passed by the taverns and stopped at the running brooks +and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have +been burnt to a cinder or melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a +jelly-fish. Drink and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to +quench the fiery fever of last night’s potations, which he drained from +no cup of mine.—Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been great +strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a +closer intimacy till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on +you, man! the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet and is converted +quite to steam in the miniature Tophet which you mistake for a stomach. Fill +again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, +tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s +food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, you +know the flavor of cold water. Good-bye; and whenever you are thirsty, remember +that I keep a constant supply at the old stand.—Who next?—Oh, my +little friend, you are let loose from school and come hither to scrub your +blooming face and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other +schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the town-pump? Take it, pure as the +current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be +scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child! put down the cup +and yield your place to this elderly gentleman who treads so tenderly over the +paving-stones that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by +without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for +people who have no wine-cellars.—Well, well, sir, no harm done, I hope? +Go draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you +a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant +titillation of the gout, it is all one to the town-pump. This thirsty dog with +his red tongue lolling out does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his +hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away +again!—Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout? +</p> + +<p> +Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and while my +spout has a moment’s leisure I will delight the town with a few +historical remniscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of +venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth in the very +spot where you now behold me on the sunny pavement. The water was as bright and +clear and deemed as precious as liquid diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of +it from time immemorial till the fatal deluge of the firewater burst upon the +red men and swept their whole race away from the cold fountains. Endicott and +his followers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long +beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch-bark. Governor +Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here out of the hollow of +his hand. The elder Higginson here wet his palm and laid it on the brow of the +first town-born child. For many years it was the watering-place, and, as it +were, the washbowl, of the vicinity, whither all decent folks resorted to +purify their visages and gaze at them afterward—at least, the pretty +maidens did—in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath-days, whenever a babe +was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here and placed it on the +communion-table of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the site of +yonder stately brick one. Thus one generation after another was consecrated to +Heaven by its waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its glassy +bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life were but a flitting image +in a fountain. Finally the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all +sides and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid +stream, forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets. In the hot months, +when its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in clouds over the +forgotten birthplace of the waters, now their grave. But in the course of time +a town-pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and when the first +decayed, another took its place, and then another, and still another, till here +stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink and be +refreshed. The water is as pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the +red sagamore beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is +treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick +buildings. And be it the moral of my story that, as this wasted and long-lost +fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold +water—too little valued since your fathers’ days—be +recognized by all. +</p> + +<p> +Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence and spout +forth a stream of water to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two +yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No +part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how +rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, till their +capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece and they can +afford time to breathe it in with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their +quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your +true toper. +</p> + +<p> +But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of +my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty if I insist a +little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is +altogether for your good. The better you think of me, the better men and women +you will find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on +washing-days, though on that account alone I might call myself the household +god of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable +friends, at the show of dirty faces which you would present without my pains to +keep you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight bells make +you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the town-pump and found +me always at my post firm amid the confusion and ready to drain my vital +current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my +claims to a medical diploma as the physician whose simple rule of practice is +preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found men sick, or left them so, +since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial +influence on mankind. +</p> + +<p> +No; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede to +me—if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a +class—of being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such +spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast +portion of its crime and anguish which has gushed from the fiery fountains of +the still. In this mighty enterprise the cow shall be my great confederate. +Milk and water—the TOWN-PUMP and the Cow! Such is the glorious +copartnership that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot the +vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and +finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed +consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so +wretched where her squalid form may shelter herself. Then Disease, for lack of +other victims, shall gnaw its own heart and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, +shall lose half her strength. Until now the frenzy of hereditary fever has +raged in the human blood, transmitted from sire to son and rekindled in every +generation by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be +extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war—the +drunkenness of nations—perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war +of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy—a calm +bliss of temperate affections—shall pass hand in hand through life and +lie down not reluctantly at its protracted close. To them the past will be no +turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the +delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits +were and are to be by a lingering smile of memory and hope. +</p> + +<p> +Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying, especially to an unpractised orator. I never +conceived till now what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake; +hereafter they shall have the business to themselves.—Do, some kind +Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle.—Thank you, +sir!—My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my +instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor-casks into one +great pile and make a bonfire in honor of the town-pump. And when I shall have +decayed like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a marble +fountain richly sculptured take my place upon this spot. Such monuments should +be erected everywhere and inscribed with the names of the distinguished +champions of my cause. Now, listen, for something very important is to come +next. +</p> + +<p> +There are two or three honest friends of mine—and true friends I know +they are—who nevertheless by their fiery pugnacity in my behalf do put me +in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even a total overthrow upon the pavement +and the loss of the treasure which I guard.—I pray you, gentlemen, let +this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for +temperance and take up the honorable cause of the town-pump in the style of a +toper fighting for his brandy-bottle? Or can the excellent qualities of cold +water be no otherwise exemplified than by plunging slapdash into hot water and +woefully scalding yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may. In the moral +warfare which you are to wage—and, indeed, in the whole conduct of your +lives—you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never +permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold +disquietudes, of the world around me to reach that deep, calm well of purity +which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool +earth’s fever or cleanse its stains. +</p> + +<p> +One o’clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I may as well +hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance with a large +stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband while drawing her water, +as Rachel did of old!—Hold out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to +the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the pitcher as you +go, and forget not in a glass of my own liquor to drink “SUCCESS TO THE +TOWN-PUMP.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a> +THE GREAT CARBUNCLE<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a></h2> + +<h4>A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS</h4> + +<p> +At nightfall once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the Crystal +Hills, a party of adventurers were refreshing themselves after a toilsome and +fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither, not as friends +nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by +his own selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. Their feeling of +brotherhood, however, was strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual +aid in building a rude hut of branches and kindling a great fire of shattered +pines that had drifted down the headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the +lower bank of which they were to pass the night. There was but one of their +number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies by the +absorbing spell of the pursuit as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight +of human faces in the remote and solitary region whither they had ascended. A +vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement, while +scant a mile above their heads was that bleak verge where the hills throw off +their shaggy mantle of forest-trees and either robe themselves in clouds or +tower naked into the sky. The roar of the Amonoosuck would have been too awful +for endurance if only a solitary man had listened while the mountain-stream +talked with the wind. +</p> + +<p> +The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings and welcomed one +another to the hut where each man was the host and all were the guests of the +whole company. They spread their individual supplies of food on the flat +surface of a rock and partook of a general repast; at the close of which a +sentiment of good-fellowship was perceptible among the party, though repressed +by the idea that the renewed search for the Great Carbuncle must make them +strangers again in the morning. Seven men and one young woman, they warmed +themselves together at the fire, which extended its bright wall along the whole +front of their wigwam. As they observed the various and contrasted figures that +made up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of himself in the +unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the conclusion +that an odder society had never met in city or wilderness, on mountain or +plain. +</p> + +<p> +The eldest of the group—a tall, lean, weatherbeaten man some sixty years +of age—was clad in the skins of wild animals whose fashion of dress he +did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf and the bear had long been his +most intimate companions. He was one of those ill-fated mortals, such as the +Indians told of, whom in their early youth the Great Carbuncle smote with a +peculiar madness and became the passionate dream of their existence. All who +visited that region knew him as “the Seeker,” and by no other name. +As none could remember when he first took up the search, there went a fable in +the valley of the Saco that for his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle +he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still +with the same feverish hopes at sunrise, the same despair at eve. Near this +miserable Seeker sat a little elderly personage wearing a high-crowned hat +shaped somewhat like a crucible. He was from beyond the sea—a Doctor +Cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by continually +stooping over charcoal-furnaces and inhaling unwholesome fumes during his +researches in chemistry and alchemy. It was told of him—whether truly or +not—that at the commencement of his studies he had drained his body of +all its richest blood and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an +unsuccessful experiment, and had never been a well man since. Another of the +adventurers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman of +Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton’s church. His enemies had a +ridiculous story that Master Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour +after prayer-time every morning and evening in wallowing naked among an immense +quantity of pine-tree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of +Massachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his companions +knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his +thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles which were supposed to +deform and discolor the whole face of nature to this gentleman’s +perception. The fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the greater +pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a bright-eyed man, but woefully pined +away, which was no more than natural if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary +diet was fog, morning mist and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, +sauced with moonshine whenever he could get it. Certain it is that the poetry +which flowed from him had a smack of all these dainties. The sixth of the party +was a young man of haughty mien and sat somewhat apart from the rest, wearing +his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the fire glittered on the rich +embroidery of his dress and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his +sword. This was the lord De Vere, who when at home was said to spend much of +his time in the burial-vault of his dead progenitors rummaging their mouldy +coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among +bones and dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected +haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. Lastly, there was a handsome youth +in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person in whom a delicate +shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a young +wife’s affection. Her name was Hannah, and her husband’s +Matthew—two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair who +seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose wits had +been set agog by the Great Carbuncle. +</p> + +<p> +Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the same fire, sat this +varied group of adventurers, all so intent upon a single object that of +whatever else they began to speak their closing words were sure to be +illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. Several related the circumstances that +brought them thither. One had listened to a traveller’s tale of this +marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had immediately been seized +with such a thirst for beholding it as could only be quenched in its intensest +lustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous Captain Smith visited these +coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the +intervening years till now that he took up the search. A third, being encamped +on a hunting-expedition full forty miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at +midnight and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so that the +shadows of the trees fell backward from it. They spoke of the innumerable +attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the singular fatality +which had hitherto withheld success from all adventurers, though it might seem +so easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the moon and almost +matched the sun. It was observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness +of every other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a +scarcely-hidden conviction that he would himself be the favored one. As if to +allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian traditions that a +spirit kept watch about the gem and bewildered those who sought it either by +removing it from peak to peak of the higher hills or by calling up a mist from +the enchanted lake over which it hung. But these tales were deemed unworthy of +credit, all professing to believe that the search had been baffled by want of +sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might +naturally obstruct the passage to any given point among the intricacies of +forest, valley and mountain. +</p> + +<p> +In a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious spectacles looked +round upon the party, making each individual in turn the object of the sneer +which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“So, fellow-pilgrims,” said he, “here we are, seven wise men +and one fair damsel, who doubtless is as wise as any graybeard of the company. +Here we are, I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Methinks, now, it +were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the Great +Carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch it.—What says our +friend in the bearskin? How mean you, good sir, to enjoy the prize which you +have been seeking the Lord knows how long among the Crystal Hills?” +</p> + +<p> +“How enjoy it!” exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly. “I hope +for no enjoyment from it--that folly has past, long ago! I keep up the search +for this accursed stone, because the vain ambition of my youth has become a +fate upon me, in old age. The pursuit alone is my strength--the energy of my +soul--the warmth of my blood, and the pith and marrow of my bones! Were I to +turn my back upon it, I should fall down dead, on the hither side of the Notch, +which is the gate-way of this mountain region. Yet, not to have my wasted life +time back again, would I give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having found +it, I shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it +in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried with me for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, wretch, regardless of the interests of science!” cried Doctor +Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation. “Thou art not worthy to behold, +even from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever was +concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is the sole purpose for which a +wise man may desire the possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on +obtaining it--for I have a presentiment, good people, that the prize is +reserved to crown my scientific reputation--I shall return to Europe, and +employ my remaining years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion of +the stone will I grind to impalpable powder; other parts shall be dissolved in +acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so admirable a composition; and the +remainder I design to melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. +By these various methods, I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow +the result of my labours upon the world, in a folio volume.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent!” quoth the man with the spectacles. “Nor need you +hesitate, learned Sir, on account of the necessary destruction of the gem; +since the perusal of your folio may teach every mother’s son of us to +concoct a Great Carbuncle of his own.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, verily,” said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, “for mine own +part, I object to the making of these counterfeits, as being calculated to +reduce the marketable value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, Sirs, I have an +interest in keeping up the price. Here have I quitted my regular traffic, +leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great +hazard, and furthermore, have put myself to peril of death or captivity by the +accursed heathen savages--and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the +congregation, because the quest for the Great Carbuncle is deemed little better +than a traffic with the evil one. Now think ye that I would have done this +grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate, without a reasonable +chance of profit?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,” said the man with the spectacles. +“I never laid such a great folly to thy charge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly, I hope not,” said the merchant. “Now, as touching +this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I have never had a glimpse of it, +but, be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely +outvalue the Great Mogul’s best diamond, which he holds at an +incalculable sum; wherefore I am minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard +and voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or into heathendom if +Providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the +best bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may place it among his +crown-jewels. If any of ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That have I, thou sordid man!” exclaimed the poet. “Dost +thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou wouldst transmute all this +ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For myself, +hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my attic-chamber in one +of the darksome alleys of London. There night and day will I gaze upon it. My +soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be diffused throughout my intellectual +powers and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus long ages +after I am gone the splendor of the Great Carbuncle will blaze around my +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well said, Master Poet!” cried he of the spectacles. “Hide +it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, it will gleam through the holes and make +thee look like a jack-o’-lantern!” +</p> + +<p> +“To think,” ejaculated the lord De Vere, rather to himself than his +companions, the best of whom he held utterly unworthy of his +intercourse—“to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk +of conveying the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grubb street! Have not I +resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the +great hall of my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages, making a +noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of armor, the banners and +escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of +heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain but that +I might win it and make it a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? And never +on the diadem of the White Mountains did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half +so honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the De Veres.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a noble thought,” said the cynic, with an obsequious sneer. +“Yet, might I presume to say so, the gem would make a rare sepulchral +lamp, and would display the glories of Your Lordship’s progenitors more +truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle-hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, forsooth,” observed Matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand +in hand with his bride, “the gentleman has bethought himself of a +profitable use for this bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a +like purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, fellow?” exclaimed His Lordship, in surprise. “What +castle-hall hast thou to hang it in?” +</p> + +<p> +“No castle,” replied Matthew, “but as neat a cottage as any +within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must know, friends, that Hannah and I, +being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the Great Carbuncle +because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings and it will be such +a pretty thing to show the neighbors when they visit us! It will shine through +the house, so that we may pick up a pin in any corner, and will set all the +windows a-glowing as if there were a great fire of pine-knots in the chimney. +And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see one +another’s faces!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of the young +couple’s project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with +which the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to adorn his palace. +Especially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, +now twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured mirth that +Matthew asked him rather peevishly what he himself meant to do with the Great +Carbuncle. +</p> + +<p> +“The Great Carbuncle!” answered the cynic, with ineffable scorn. +“Why, you blockhead, there is no such thing in <i>rerum naturâ</i>. +I have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak +of these mountains and poke my head into every chasm for the sole purpose of +demonstrating to the satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thyself +that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug.” +</p> + +<p> +Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the adventurers to +the Crystal Hills, but none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of +the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one of those wretched and +evil men whose yearnings are downward to the darkness instead of heavenward, +and who, could they but extinguish the lights which God hath kindled for us, +would count the midnight gloom their chiefest glory. +</p> + +<p> +As the cynic spoke several of the party were startled by a gleam of red +splendor that showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the +rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with an illumination unlike that of +their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of the forest-trees. They listened +for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came +not near them. The stars—those dial-points of heaven—now warned the +adventurers to close their eyes on the blazing logs and open them in dreams to +the glow of the Great Carbuncle. +</p> + +<p> +The young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest corner of the +wigwam, and were separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of +curiously-woven twigs such as might have hung in deep festoons around the +bridal-bower of Eve. The modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry +while the other guests were talking. She and her husband fell asleep with hands +tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more +blessed light of one another’s eyes. They awoke at the same instant and +with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with +their consciousness of the reality of life and love. But no sooner did she +recollect where they were than the bride peeped through the interstices of the +leafy curtain and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted. +</p> + +<p> +“Up, dear Matthew!” cried she, in haste. “The strange folk +are all gone. Up this very minute, or we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!” +</p> + +<p> +In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty prize which +had lured them thither that they had slept peacefully all night and till the +summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine, while the other adventurers +had tossed their limbs in feverish wakefulness or dreamed of climbing +precipices, and set off to realize their dreams with the curliest peep of dawn. +But Matthew and Hannah after their calm rest were as light as two young deer, +and merely stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of +the Amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food ere they turned their faces +to the mountain-side. It was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection as they +toiled up the difficult ascent gathering strength from the mutual aid which +they afforded. +</p> + +<p> +After several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe and the +entanglement of Hannah’s hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of +the forest and were now to pursue a more adventurous course. The innumerable +trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, +which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks +and desolate sunshine that rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at the +obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be buried again in +its depths rather than trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go on?” said Matthew, throwing his arm round +Hannah’s waist both to protect her and to comfort his heart by drawing +her close to it. +</p> + +<p> +But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman’s love of jewels, +and could not forego the hope of possessing the very brightest in the world, in +spite of the perils with which it must be won. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us climb a little higher,” whispered she, yet tremulously, as +she turned her face upward to the lonely sky. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then,” said Matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing +her along with him; for she became timid again the moment that he grew bold. +</p> + +<p> +And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, now treading +upon the tops and thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines which by the +growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had barely reached three feet in +altitude. Next they came to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped +confusedly together like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief. +In this bleak realm of upper air nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no +life but what was concentred in their two hearts; they had climbed so high that +Nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company. She lingered beneath them +within the verge of the forest-trees, and sent a farewell glance after her +children as they strayed where her own green footprints had never been. But +soon they were to be hidden from her eye. Densely and dark the mists began to +gather below, casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape and sailing +heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest mountain-peak had summoned a council +of its kindred clouds. Finally the vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a +mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over which the wanderers might +have trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed +earth which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to behold that green earth +again—more intensely, alas! than beneath a clouded sky they had ever +desired a glimpse of heaven. They even felt it a relief to their desolation +when the mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed its lonely peak, +and thus annihilated—at least, for them—the whole region of visible +space. But they drew closer together with a fond and melancholy gaze, dreading +lest the universal cloud should snatch them from each other’s sight. +Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to climb as far and as high +between earth and heaven as they could find foothold if Hannah’s strength +had not begun to fail, and with that her courage also. Her breath grew short. +She refused to burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against +his side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. At last she sank +down on one of the rocky steps of the acclivity. +</p> + +<p> +“We are lost, dear Matthew,” said she, mournfully; “we shall +never find our way to the earth again. And oh how happy we might have been in +our cottage!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart, we will yet be happy there,” answered Matthew. +“Look! In this direction the sunshine penetrates the dismal mist; by its +aid I can direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go back, love, +and dream no more of the Great Carbuncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sun cannot be yonder,” said Hannah, with despondence. +“By this time it must be noon; if there could ever be any sunshine here, +it would come from above our heads.” +</p> + +<p> +“But look!” repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. “It +is brightening every moment. If not sunshine, what can it be?” +</p> + +<p> +Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking through +the mist and changing its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew more +vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with the gloom. Now, also, the +cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one +object after another started out of its impenetrable obscurity into sight with +precisely the effect of a new creation before the indistinctness of the old +chaos had been completely swallowed up. As the process went on they saw the +gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very border +of a mountain-lake, deep, bright, clear and calmly beautiful, spreading from +brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the solid rock. A ray of +glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, +but closed their eyes, with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid +splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted +lake. +</p> + +<p> +For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery and found the long-sought +shrine of the Great Carbuncle. They threw their arms around each other and +trembled at their own success, for as the legends of this wondrous gem rushed +thick upon their memory they felt themselves marked out by fate, and the +consciousness was fearful. Often from childhood upward they had seen it shining +like a distant star, and now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on +their hearts. They seemed changed to one another’s eyes in the red +brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the +lake, the rocks and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its +power. But with their next glance they beheld an object that drew their +attention even from the mighty stone. At the base of the cliff, directly +beneath the Great Carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man with his arms +extended in the act of climbing and his face turned upward as if to drink the +full gush of splendor. But he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the Seeker,” whispered Hannah, convulsively grasping her +husband’s arm. “Matthew, he is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“The joy of success has killed him,” replied Matthew, trembling +violently. “Or perhaps the very light of the Great Carbuncle was +death.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘The Great Carbuncle’!” cried a peevish voice behind +them. “The great humbug! If you have found it, prithee point it out to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned their heads, and there was the cynic with his prodigious spectacles +set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at +the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Carbuncle itself, yet +seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were +condensed about his person. Though its radiance actually threw the shadow of +the unbeliever at his own feet as he turned his back upon the glorious jewel, +he would not be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is your great humbug?” he repeated. “I challenge you +to make me see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and +turning the cynic round toward the illuminated cliff. “Take off those +abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, these colored spectacles probably darkened the cynic’s sight in at +least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze at an +eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his nose and +fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But +scarcely had he encountered it when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped +his head and pressed both hands across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there +was in very truth no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on +earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor cynic. So long accustomed to +view all objects through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of +brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked +vision, had blinded him for ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Matthew,” said Hannah, clinging to him, “let us go +hence.” +</p> + +<p> +Matthew saw that she was faint, and, kneeling down, supported her in his arms +while he threw some of the thrillingly-cold water of the enchanted lake upon +her face and bosom. It revived her, but could not renovate her courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dearest,” cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his +breast; “we will go hence and return to our humble cottage. The blessed +sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. We will kindle +the cheerful glow of our hearth at eventide and be happy in its light. But +never again will we desire more light than all the world may share with +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said his bride, “for how could we live by day or sleep +by night in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle?” +</p> + +<p> +Out of the hollow of their hands they drank each a draught from the lake, which +presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their +guidance to the blinded cynic, who uttered not a word, and even stifled his +groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain. Yet +as they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit’s lake, they +threw a farewell glance toward the cliff and beheld the vapors gathering in +dense volumes, through which the gem burned duskily. +</p> + +<p> +As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, the legend goes on to +tell that the worshipful Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a +desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself again to his +warehouse, near the town-dock, in Boston. But as he passed through the Notch of +the mountains a war-party of Indians captured our unlucky merchant and carried +him to Montreal, there holding him in bondage till by the payment of a heavy +ransom he had woefully subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his +long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that for the rest +of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence-worth of +copper. Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory with a +prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to powder, dissolved in acids, +melted in the crucible and burnt with the blowpipe, and published the result of +his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. And for all these +purposes the gem itself could not have answered better than the granite. The +poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice which +he found in a sunless chasm of the mountains, and swore that it corresponded in +all points with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The critics say that, if his +poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. +The lord De Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself +with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled in due course of time another coffin +in the ancestral vault. As the funeral torches gleamed within that dark +receptacle, there was no need of the Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of +earthly pomp. +</p> + +<p> +The cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world a +miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of light for the +wilful blindness of his former life. The whole night long he would lift his +splendor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face eastward at +sunrise as duly as a Persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to Rome to witness +the magnificent illumination of Saint Peter’s church, and finally +perished in the Great Fire of London, into the midst of which he had thrust +himself with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the blaze that +was kindling earth and heaven. +</p> + +<p> +Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years and were fond of telling the +legend of the Great Carbuncle. The tale, however, toward the close of their +lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence that had been accorded to +it by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed +that from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to +reject a jewel which would have dimmed all earthly things its splendor waned. +When our pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone with +particles of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a tradition that as +the youthful pair departed the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff +and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at noontide the Seeker’s form +may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. +</p> + +<p> +Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and say that +they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down the +valley of the Saco. And be it owned that many a mile from the Crystal Hills I +saw a wondrous light around their summits, and was lured by the faith of poesy +to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Carbuncle. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a> +THE PROPHETIC PICTURES<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a></h2> + +<p> +“But this painter!” cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. “He +not only excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all +other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather and gives lectures +in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best-instructed man +among us on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman, a citizen of +the world—yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will speak like a native of +each clime and country on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is now +going. Nor is all this what I most admire in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Elinor, who had listened with a women’s +interest to the description of such a man. “Yet this is admirable +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely it is,” replied her lover, “but far less so than his +natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that +all men—and all women too, Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves +in this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these,” said +Elinor, laughing, “Boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. Are +you telling me of a painter, or a wizard?” +</p> + +<p> +“In truth,” answered he, “that question might be asked much +more seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a +man’s features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments +and passions and throws them upon the canvas like sunshine, or perhaps, in the +portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful +gift,” added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthusiasm. +“I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walter, are you in earnest?” exclaimed Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“For Heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look +which you now wear,” said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed. +“There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemed frightened +to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, nothing!” answered Elinor, hastily. “You paint my +face with your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit +this wonderful artist.” +</p> + +<p> +But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a remarkable +expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It +was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what should have been the +feelings of a maiden on the eve of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of +her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“A look!” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder that it startled +him if it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know by my own experience how +frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it at the +time; I have seen nothing of it since; I did but dream it;” and she +busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which she meant that her +portrait should be taken. +</p> + +<p> +The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native artists +who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from the Indians and +manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. Perhaps, if he could +have revoked his life and prearranged his destiny, he might have chosen to +belong to that school without a master in the hope of being at least original, +since there were no works of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had +been born and educated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur +or beauty of conception and every touch of the master-hand in all the most +famous pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls of churches till +there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. Art could add nothing to +its lessons, but Nature might. He had, therefore, visited a world whither none +of his professional brethren had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible +images that were noble and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to +canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations to an artist of +eminence, though many of the colonial gentry on the painter’s arrival had +expressed a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by moans of his +skill. Whenever such proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the +applicant and seemed to look him through and through. If he beheld only a sleek +and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the +picture and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the +reward; but if the face were the index of anything uncommon in thought, +sentiment or experience, or if he met a beggar in the street with a white beard +and a furrowed brow, or if sometimes a child happened to look up and smile, he +would exhaust all the art on them that he denied to wealth. +</p> + +<p> +Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an object of +general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate the technical merit of his +productions, yet there were points in regard to which the opinion of the crowd +was as valuable as the refined judgment of the amateur. He watched the effect +that each picture produced on such untutored beholders, and derived profit from +their remarks, while they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature +herself as him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must be owned, was +tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it an offence +against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of the Creator, to +bring into existence such lively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at +the art which could raise phantoms at will and keep the form of the dead among +the living, were inclined to consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the +famous Black Man of old witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. These +foolish fancies were more than half believed among the mob. Even in superior +circles his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising like +smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused by the varied +knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his profession. +</p> + +<p> +Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to obtain +their portraits as the first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long +series of family pictures. The day after the conversation above recorded they +visited the painter’s rooms. A servant ushered them into an apartment +where, though the artist himself was not visible, there were personages whom +they could hardly forbear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the +whole assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea +of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. Several of the portraits +were known to them either as distinguished characters of the day or their +private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett, looking as if he had just +received an undutiful communication from the House of Representatives and were +inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he +opposed, sturdy and somewhat puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The +ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from the wall in ruff and +farthingale, an imperious old dame not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, +then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long +afterward made him a distinguished general. Their personal friends were +recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures the whole mind and character +were brought out on the countenance and concentrated into a single look; so +that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled themselves so +strikingly as the portraits did. +</p> + +<p> +Among these modern worthies there were two old bearded saints who had almost +vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale but unfaded Madonna +who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, and now regarded the lovers with such +a mild and holy look that they longed to worship too. +</p> + +<p> +“How singular a thought,” observed Walter Ludlow, “that this +beautiful face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh, if all +beauty would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?” +</p> + +<p> +“If earth were heaven, I might,” she replied. “But, where all +things fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!” +</p> + +<p> +“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he +be,” continued Walter; “he troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly +at us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had been +recently commenced. After a little inspection they began to recognize the +features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman, growing into shape and +life, as it were, out of a cloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Kind old man!” exclaimed Elinor. “He gazes at me as if he +were about to utter a word of paternal advice.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at me,” said Walter, “as if he were about to shake his +head and rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. I +shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before him to be +married.” +</p> + +<p> +They now heard a footstep on the floor, and, turning, beheld the painter, who +had been some moments in the room and had listened to a few of their remarks. +He was a middle-aged man with a countenance well worthy of his own pencil. +Indeed, by the picturesque though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and +perhaps because his soul dwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat +like a portrait himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the +artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the +canvas to salute them. +</p> + +<p> +Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the object of +their visit. While he spoke a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and +Elinor’s with so happy an effect that they also seemed living pictures of +youth and beauty gladdened by bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck. +</p> + +<p> +“My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston +must be brief,” said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance, +he added, “But your wishes shall be gratified though I disappoint the +chief-justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose this opportunity for the sake +of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade.” +</p> + +<p> +The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into one +picture and represent them engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would +have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected because so large a +space of canvas would have been unfit for the room which it was intended to +decorate. Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon. After they had +taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an +influence over their fates the painter was about to acquire. +</p> + +<p> +“The old women of Boston affirm,” continued he, “that after +he has once got possession of a person’s face and figure he may paint him +in any act or situation whatever, and the picture will be prophetic. Do you +believe it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling. “Yet if he has such magic, +there is something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it +well.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the portraits at the +same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he sometimes +used, that the faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly, he gave now a +touch to Walter and now to Elinor, and the features of one and the other began +to start forth so vividly that it appeared as if his triumphant art would +actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade +they beheld their phantom selves, but, though the likeness promised to be +perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the expression: it seemed more +vague than in most of the painter’s works. He, however, was satisfied +with the prospect of success, and, being much interested in the lovers, +employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of +their two figures. During their sittings he engaged them in conversation and +kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, which, though continually +varying, it was his purpose to combine and fix. At length he announced that at +their next visit both the portraits would be ready for delivery. +</p> + +<p> +“If my pencil will but be true to my conception in the few last touches +which I meditate,” observed he, “these two pictures will be my very +best performances. Seldom indeed has an artist such subjects.” While +speaking he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor withdrew it till they +had reached the bottom of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing in the whole circle of human vanities takes stronger hold of the +imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be +so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, the mirror-like +water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually present us with +portraits—or, rather, ghosts—of ourselves which we glance at and +straightway forget them. But we forget them only because they vanish. It is the +idea of duration—of earthly immortality—that gives such a +mysterious interest to our own portraits. +</p> + +<p> +Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to the +painter’s room punctually at the appointed hour to meet those pictured +shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity. The sunshine +flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they +closed the door. Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, +which rested against the farthest wall of the room. At the first glance through +the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural +attitudes and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a +simultaneous exclamation of delight. +</p> + +<p> +“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in +sunshine for ever. No dark passions can gather on our faces.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can sadden +us.” +</p> + +<p> +This was said while they were approaching and had yet gained only an imperfect +view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a +table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own +judgment as to his perfected labors. At intervals he sent a glance from beneath +his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile with his pencil +suspended over the sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of +the other’s picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but +without uttering a word. At length Walter stepped forward, then back, viewing +Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative +tone. “Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer I look. It +is certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress, the features, +all are the same, and yet something is altered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired +the painter, now drawing near with irrepressible interest. +</p> + +<p> +“The features are perfect Elinor,” answered Walter, “and at +the first glance the expression seemed also hers; but I could fancy that the +portrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it. The eyes are +fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and +terror. Is this like Elinor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter. +</p> + +<p> +Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. Motionless and absorbed, +fascinated, as it were, in contemplation of Walter’s portrait, +Elinor’s face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just +been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours before a mirror, she could +not have caught the look so successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, +it could not have thrown back her present aspect with stronger and more +melancholy truth. She appeared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the +artist and her lover. +</p> + +<p> +“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “what change has +come over you?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not hear him nor desist from her fixed gaze till he seized her hand, +and thus attracted her notice; then with a sudden tremor she looked from the +picture to the face of the original. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see no change in your portrait?” asked she. +</p> + +<p> +“In mine? None,” replied Walter, examining it. “But let me +see. Yes; there is a slight change—an improvement, I think, in the +picture, though none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression than +yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes and about to +be uttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look, it becomes very +decided.” +</p> + +<p> +While he was intent on these observations Elinor turned to the painter. She +regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy and +commiseration, though wherefore she could but vaguely guess. +</p> + +<p> +“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered. “How came it +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand and leading her +apart, “in both these pictures I have painted what I saw. The +artist—the true artist—must look beneath the exterior. It is his +gift—his proudest, but often a melancholy one—to see the inmost +soul, and by a power indefinable even to himself to make it glow or darken upon +the canvas in glances that express the thought and sentiment of years. Would +that I might convince myself of error in the present instance!” +</p> + +<p> +They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands almost +as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old +thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and all such picturesque +vagaries of an artist’s idle moments. Turning them over with seeming +carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed. +</p> + +<p> +“If I have failed,” continued he—“if your heart does +not see itself reflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to +trust my delineation of the other—it is not yet too late to alter them. I +might change the action of these figures too. But would it influence the +event?” He directed her notice to the sketch. +</p> + +<p> +A thrill ran through Elinor’s frame; a shriek was upon her lips, but she +stifled it with the self-command that becomes habitual to all who hide thoughts +of fear and anguish within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she perceived +that Walter had advanced near enough to have seen the sketch, though she could +not determine whether it had caught his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“We will not have the pictures altered,” said she, hastily. +“If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing. “May your griefs be +such fanciful ones that only your pictures may mourn for them! For your joys, +may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely face till it +quite belie my art!” +</p> + +<p> +After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the pictures formed the two most +splendid ornaments of their abode. They hung side by side, separated by a +narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet always returning the +gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemen who professed a knowledge of such +subjects reckoned these among the most admirable specimens of modern +portraiture, while common observers compared them with the originals, feature +by feature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was on a third +class—neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people of +natural sensibility—that the pictures wrought their strongest effect. +Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested, would +return day after day and study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic +volume. Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted their earliest notice. In the +absence of himself and his bride they sometimes disputed as to the expression +which the painter had intended to throw upon the features, all agreeing that +there was a look of earnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was +less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture. They differed, +indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom that +dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom and alien from the natural +temperament of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful person announced as +the result of much scrutiny that both these pictures were parts of one design, +and that the melancholy strength of feeling in Elinor’s countenance bore +reference to the more vivid emotion—or, as he termed it, the wild +passion—in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even began a +sketch in which the action of the two figures was to correspond with their +mutual expression. +</p> + +<p> +It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor’s face was assuming +a deeper shade of pensiveness which threatened soon to render her too true a +counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the other hand, instead of +acquiring the vivid look which the painter had given him on the canvas, became +reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes of emotion, however it might be +smouldering within. In course of time Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple +silk wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels before the +pictures, under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues or the light +dim them. It was enough. Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the silk +must never be withdrawn nor the portraits mentioned in her presence. +</p> + +<p> +Time wore on, and the painter came again. He had been far enough to the north +to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast round +of cloud and forest from the summit of New England’s loftiest mountain. +But he did not profane that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain +in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making his soul the mirror of its +loveliness and grandeur till not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than +his recollection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, +again, had flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could +as soon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous +cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery except as +a framework for the delineations of the human form and face, instinct with +thought, passion or suffering. With store of such his adventurous ramble had +enriched him. The stern dignity of Indian chiefs, the dusky loveliness of +Indian girls, the domestic life of wigwams, the stealthy march, the battle +beneath gloomy pine trees, the frontier fortress with its garrison, the anomaly +of the old French partisan bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy +deserts,—such were the scenes and portraits that he had sketched. The +glow of perilous moments, flashes of wild feeling, struggles of fierce power, +love, hate, grief, frenzy—in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old +earth—had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio was filled +with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory which genius would +transmute into its own substance and imbue with immortality. He felt that the +deep wisdom in his art which he had sought so far was found. +</p> + +<p> +But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest or its +overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the companions of +his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossing purpose wreathes itself, +he was insulated from the mass of humankind. He had no aim, no pleasure, no +sympathies, but what were ultimately connected with his art. Though gentle in +manner and upright in intent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; +his heart was cold: no living creature could be brought near enough to keep him +warm. For these two beings, however, he had felt in its greatest intensity the +sort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of his pencil. He had +pried into their souls with his keenest insight and pictured the result upon +their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall short of that +standard which no genius ever reached, his own severe conception. He had caught +from the duskiness of the future—at least, so he fancied—a fearful +secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the portraits. So much of +himself—of his imagination and all other powers—had been lavished +on the study of Walter and Elinor that he almost regarded them as creations of +his own, like the thousands with which he had peopled the realms of Picture. +Therefore did they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of +waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the +noontide sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life nor +pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with an +unalterable expression which his magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. +He could not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld the originals of +those airy pictures. +</p> + +<p> +“O glorious Art!” Thus mused the enthusiastic painter as he trod +the street. “Thou art the image of the Creator’s own. The +innumerable forms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. The +dead live again; thou recallest them to their old scenes and givest their gray +shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou +snatchest back the fleeting moments of history. With thee there is no past, for +at thy touch all that is great becomes for ever present, and illustrious men +live through long ages in the visible performance of the very deeds which made +them what they are. O potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly-revealed past to +stand in that narrow strip of sunlight which we call ‘now,’ canst +thou summon the shrouded future to meet her there? Have I not achieved it? Am I +not thy prophet?” +</p> + +<p> +Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud as he passed +through the toilsome street among people that knew not of his reveries nor +could understand nor care for them. It is not good for man to cherish a +solitary ambition. Unless there be those around him by whose example he may +regulate himself, his thoughts, desires and hopes will become extravagant and +he the semblance—perhaps the reality—of a madman. Reading other +bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to see the +disorder of his own. +</p> + +<p> +“And this should be the house,” said he, looking up and down the +front before he knocked. “Heaven help my brains! That picture! Methinks +it will never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it is +framed within them, painted strongly and glowing in the richest tints—the +faces of the portraits, the figures and action of the sketch!” +</p> + +<p> +He knocked. +</p> + +<p> +“The portraits—are they within?” inquired he of the domestic; +then, recollecting himself, “Your master and mistress—are they at +home?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he noticed that +picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself, “and +the portraits too.” +</p> + +<p> +The guest was admitted into a parlor communicating by a central door with an +interior room of the same size. As the first apartment was empty, he passed to +the entrance of the second, within which his eyes were greeted by those living +personages, as well as their pictured representatives, who had long been the +objects of so singular an interest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold. +</p> + +<p> +They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standing before the +portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich and voluminous folds +of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel with one hand, while the other +grasped that of his bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed forth +again in undiminished splendor, appearing to throw a sombre light across the +room rather than to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had +been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had +successively dwelt upon her countenance, deepening with the lapse of time into +a quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made it the very +expression of the portrait. Walter’s face was moody and dull or animated +only by fitful flashes which left a heavier darkness for their momentary +illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, and thence to his own, in +the contemplation of which he finally stood absorbed. +</p> + +<p> +The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him on its +progress toward its victims. A strange thought darted into his mind. Was not +his own the form in which that Destiny had embodied itself, and he a chief +agent of the coming evil which he had foreshadowed? +</p> + +<p> +Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it as with his +own heart and abandoning himself to the spell of evil influence that the +painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kindled, while as Elinor +watched the increasing wildness of his face her own assumed a look of terror; +and when, at last, he turned upon her, the resemblance of both to their +portraits was complete. +</p> + +<p> +“Our fate is upon us!” howled Walter. “Die!” +</p> + +<p> +Drawing a knife, he sustained her as she was sinking to the ground, and aimed +it at her bosom. In the action and in the look and attitude of each the painter +beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all its tremendous +coloring, was finished. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold, madman!” cried he, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +He had advanced from the door and interposed himself between the wretched +beings with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny as to alter a +scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician controlling the phantoms which +he had evoked. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” muttered Walter Ludlow as he relapsed from fierce +excitement into sullen gloom. “Does Fate impede its own decree?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wretched lady,” said the painter, “did I not warn +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the +quiet grief which it had disturbed. “But I loved him.” +</p> + +<p> +Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one or all our deeds +be shadowed forth and set before us, some would call it fate and hurry onward, +others be swept along by their passionate desires, and none be turned aside by +the prophetic pictures. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a> +DAVID SWAN</h2> + +<h4>A FANTASY</h4> + +<p> +We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually +influence our course through life and our final destiny. There are innumerable +other events, if such they may be called, which come close upon us, yet pass +away without actual results or even betraying their near approach by the +reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the +vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, +exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This +idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of David Swan. +</p> + +<p> +We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on +the high road from his native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a +small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it +enough to say that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable +parents, and had received an ordinary school education with a classic finish by +a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly +noon of a summer’s day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined +him to sit down in the first convenient shade and await the coming up of the +stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little +tuft of maples with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling +spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan. +Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips and then flung himself along +the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons tied up +in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him; the dust +did not yet rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday, and his +grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. The spring murmured +drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead, +and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David +Swan. But we are to relate events which he did not dream of. +</p> + +<p> +While he lay sound asleep in the shade other people were wide awake, and passed +to and fro, afoot, on horseback and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny +road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor the left and +knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way without admitting the +slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept, +and several whose hearts were brimming full of scorn ejected their venomous +superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, +thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow +looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor +David into the texture of his evening’s discourse as an awful instance of +dead drunkenness by the roadside. +</p> + +<p> +But censure, praise, merriment, scorn and indifference were all one—or, +rather, all nothing—to David Swan. He had slept only a few moments when a +brown carriage drawn by a handsome pair of horses bowled easily along and was +brought to a standstill nearly in front of David’s resting-place. A +linch-pin had fallen out and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The +damage was slight and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly +merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the +coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel the lady and gentleman +sheltered themselves beneath the maple trees, and there espied the bubbling +fountain and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the +humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the +gout would allow, and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown +lest David should start up all of a sudden. +</p> + +<p> +“How soundly he sleeps!” whispered the old gentleman. “From +what a depth he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without +an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would suppose +health and an untroubled mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“And youth besides,” said the lady. “Healthy and quiet age +does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our +wakefulness.” +</p> + +<p> +The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the +unknown youth to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber +with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving that a +stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a +branch aside so as to intercept it, and, having done this little act of +kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Providence seems to have laid him here,” whispered she to her +husband, “and to have brought us hither to find him, after our +disappointment in our cousin’s son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our +departed Henry. Shall we waken him?” +</p> + +<p> +“To what purpose?” said the merchant, hesitating. “We know +nothing of the youth’s character.” +</p> + +<p> +“That open countenance!” replied his wife, in the same hushed +voice, yet earnestly. “This innocent sleep!” +</p> + +<p> +While these whispers were passing, the sleeper’s heart did not throb, nor +his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of +interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burden of +gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth +except a distant relative with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases +people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician and awaken a young +man to splendor who fell asleep in poverty. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we not waken him?” repeated the lady, persuasively. +</p> + +<p> +“The coach is ready, sir,” said the servant, behind. +</p> + +<p> +The old couple started, reddened and hurried away, mutually wondering that they +should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant +threw himself back in the carriage and occupied his mind with the plan of a +magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan +enjoyed his nap. +</p> + +<p> +The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two when a pretty young girl +came along with a tripping pace which showed precisely how her little heart was +dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that +caused—is there any harm in saying it?—her garter to slip its knot. +Conscious that the silken girth—if silk it were—was relaxing its +hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple trees, and there found a +young man asleep by the spring. Blushing as red as any rose that she should +have intruded into a gentleman’s bedchamber, and for such a purpose too, +she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the +sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering overhead—buzz, buzz, +buzz—now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, +and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the +eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted +as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, +brushed him soundly and drove him from beneath the maple shade. How sweet a +picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath and a deeper blush +she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with +a dragon in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“He is handsome!” thought she, and blushed redder yet. +</p> + +<p> +How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him that, +shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder and allow him to +perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome +brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old +and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom in all his vague +but passionate desires he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a +perfect love, him only could she receive into the depths of her heart, and now +her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it pass +away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again. +</p> + +<p> +“How sound he sleeps!” murmured the girl. She departed, but did not +trip along the road so lightly as when she came. +</p> + +<p> +Now, this girl’s father was a thriving country merchant in the +neighborhood, and happened at that identical time to be looking out for just +such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with +the daughter, he would have become the father’s clerk, and all else in +natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune—the best of +fortunes—stolen so near that her garments brushed against him, and he +knew nothing of the matter. +</p> + +<p> +The girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the maple +shade. Both had dark faces set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant +over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These +were a couple of rascals who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, +and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of +their next piece of villainy on a game of cards which was to have been decided +here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the +rogues whispered to his fellow: +</p> + +<p> +“Hist! Do you see that bundle under his head?” +</p> + +<p> +The other villain nodded, winked and leered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet you a horn of brandy,” said the first, “that +the chap has either a pocketbook or a snug little hoard of small change stowed +away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we will find it in his pantaloons +pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how if he wakes?” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk and +nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“So be it!” muttered the second villain. +</p> + +<p> +They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger toward +his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two +faces, grim, wrinkled and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, +looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends should he suddenly awake. +Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly +have known themselves as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more +tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother’s breast. +</p> + +<p> +“I must take away the bundle,” whispered one. +</p> + +<p> +“If he stirs, I’ll strike,” muttered the other. +</p> + +<p> +But at this moment a dog scenting along the ground came in beneath the maple +trees and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men and then at the quiet +sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw!” said one villain. “We can do nothing now. The +dog’s master must be close behind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s take a drink and be off,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom and drew forth a +pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a +flask of liquor with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank a +comfortable dram, and left the spot with so many jests and such laughter at +their unaccomplished wickedness that they might be said to have gone on their +way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once +imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against +their souls in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still +slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him +nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. He slept, but +no longer so quietly as at first. An hour’s repose had snatched from his +elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. Now +he stirred, now moved his lips without a sound, now talked in an inward tone to +the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder +and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of +David’s slumber; and there was the stagecoach. He started up with all his +ideas about him. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloo, driver! Take a passenger?” shouted he. +</p> + +<p> +“Room on top!” answered the driver. +</p> + +<p> +Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily toward Boston without so much as a +parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a +phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love +had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to +crimson them with his blood, all in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. +Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that +almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, while +viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, +there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even +partially available? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a> +SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE</h2> + +<p> +So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. Here I stand with wearied +knees—earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond +me still. Oh that I could soar up into the very zenith, where man never +breathed nor eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal azure melts away from the +eye and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! And yet I shiver at that +cold and solitary thought. What clouds are gathering in the golden west with +direful intent against the brightness and the warmth of this summer afternoon? +They are ponderous air-ships, black as death and freighted with the tempest, +and at intervals their thunder—the signal-guns of that unearthly +squadron—rolls distant along the deep of heaven. These nearer heaps of +fleecy vapor—methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day +long—seem scattered here and there for the repose of tired pilgrims +through the sky. Perhaps—for who can tell?—beautiful spirits are +disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the brief +appearance of their curly locks of golden light and laughing faces fair and +faint as the people of a rosy dream. Or where the floating mass so imperfectly +obstructs the color of the firmament a slender foot and fairy limb resting too +heavily upon the frail support may be thrust through and suddenly withdrawn, +while longing fancy follows them in vain. Yonder, again, is an airy archipelago +where the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. Every one +of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance which the +slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion like water wrung from a +sea-maid’s hair. Bright they are as a young man’s visions, and, +like them, would be realized in dullness, obscurity and tears. I will look on +them no more. +</p> + +<p> +In three parts of the visible circle whose centre is this spire I discern +cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, +little placid lakes, and here and there a rising ground that would fain be +termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea, stretching away toward a viewless +boundary, blue and calm except where the passing anger of a shadow flits across +its surface and is gone. Hitherward a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; +on the verge of the harbor formed by its extremity is a town, and over it am I, +a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. Oh that the multitude of chimneys could +speak, like those of Madrid, and betray in smoky whispers the secrets of all +who since their first foundation have assembled at the hearths within! Oh that +the Limping Devil of Le Sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand over +this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber and make me familiar with their +inhabitants! The most desirable mode of existence might be that of a +spiritualized Paul Pry hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing their +deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity +and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. But +none of these things are possible; and if I would know the interior of brick +walls or the mystery of human bosoms, I can but guess. +</p> + +<p> +Yonder is a fair street extending north and south. The stately mansions are +placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends +from every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees—the broadleafed +horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful but infrequent +willow, and others whereof I know not the names—grow thrivingly among +brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these green +citizens and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and +pleasant walk. On its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, +advancing from the upper end, and he, unless distance and the medium of a +pocket spyglass do him more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. He +saunters slowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending +his eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before +him. Certainly he has a pensive air. Is he in doubt or in debt? Is he—if +the question be allowable—in love? Does he strive to be melancholy and +gentlemanlike, or is he merely overcome by the heat? But I bid him farewell for +the present. The door of one of the houses—an aristocratic edifice with +curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows—is now opened, and +down the steps come two ladies swinging their parasols and lightly arrayed for +a summer ramble. Both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left-hand +lass is the fairer of the twain, and, though she be so serious at this moment, +I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle fun within her. They stand +talking a little while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. +Meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I may look elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +Upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is a busy contrast to the +quiet scene which I have just noticed. Business evidently has its centre there, +and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing +riches or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant +country village or shaded lake in the forest or wild and cool sea-beach. I see +vessels unlading at the wharf and precious merchandise strown upon the ground +abundantly as at the bottom of the sea—that market whence no goods +return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of +sales. Here the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils and sailors +ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with +cries long-drawn and roughly melodious till the bales and puncheons ascend to +upper air. At a little distance a group of gentlemen are assembled round the +door of a warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would wager—if it were +safe, in these times, to be responsible for any one—that the least +eminent among them might vie with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker +of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the company. It is the elderly +personage in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair the superfluous whiteness +of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships are wafted on +some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name, I will +venture to say, though I know it not, is a familiar sound among the +far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies. +</p> + +<p> +But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. On looking again to the +long and shady walk I perceive that the two fair girls have encountered the +young man. After a sort of shyness in the recognition, he turns back with them. +Moreover, he has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions by placing +himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the Venus to whom I, +enacting on a steeple-top the part of Paris on the top of Ida, adjudged the +golden apple. +</p> + +<p> +In two streets converging at right angles toward my watch-tower I distinguish +three different processions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in +bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence I look down, the painted +veterans that garrison the windows of a toy-shop. And yet it stirs my heart. +Their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sun-flash on their bayonets +and musket-barrels, the roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife +ever and anon piercing through,—these things have wakened a warlike fire, +peaceful though I be. Close to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys +ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a harsh +and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin and ridiculously aping the +intricate manoeuvres of the foremost band. Nevertheless, as slight differences +are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one might be tempted to ask, +“Which are the boys?” or, rather, “Which the men?” But, +leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which, though sadder in +outward show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It is a +funeral—a hearse drawn by a black and bony steed and covered by a dusty +pall, two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep, +a dozen couple of careless mourners in their every-day attire. Such was not the +fashion of our fathers when they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no +doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the King of +Terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy +have been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is a proof that he retains +his proper majesty. The military men and the military boys are wheeling round +the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face. Immediately the drum is +silent, all but the tap that regulates each simultaneous footfall. The soldiers +yield the path to the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children +quit their ranks and cluster on the sidewalks with timorous and instinctive +curiosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the steeple and +pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; the lightning glimmers on them +as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder rattles heavily while they throw +the earth upon its lid. Verily, the shower is near, and I tremble for the young +man and the girls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady street. +</p> + +<p> +How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, +and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The new-born, +the aged, the dying, the strong in life and the recent dead are in the chambers +of these many mansions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable and the +desperate dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses +over which my eyes roam so coldly guilt is entering into hearts that are still +tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue; guilt is on the very edge of +commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the +criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in +my mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would make their way +in eloquence. Lo! the raindrops are descending. +</p> + +<p> +The clouds within a little time have gathered over all the sky, hanging +heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals +the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then +comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind +has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense +bodies to rebel against the approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the +funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all people hurry +homeward—all that have a home—while a few lounge by the corners or +trudge on desperately at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communicates +with the shady street I discern the rich old merchant putting himself to the +top of his speed lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste. +Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence and painful moderation wherewith he +journeys, it is but too evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness +in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid pace, come three other of my +acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the young man unseasonably interrupted +in their walk. Their footsteps are supported by the risen dust, the wind lends +them its velocity, they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the +tempestuous breeze. The ladies would not thus rival Atalanta if they but knew +that any one were at leisure to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward, +laughing in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. At the +corner where the narrow lane enters into the street they come plump against the +old merchant, whose tortoise-motion has just brought him to that point. He +likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the whole air gathers speedily +upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally he thrusts aside +the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the two girls, and +plods onward like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. All this is easy +to be understood. How disconsolate the poor lover stands, regardless of the +rain that threatens an exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till +he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with +whatever comfort it conveys! +</p> + +<p> +The old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the storm lets loose +its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they +shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower and shrinking away from +the quick fiery glare. The large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs +and rise again in smoke. There is a rush and roar as of a river through the +air, and muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their +dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did +Arethusa sink. I love not my station here aloft in the midst of the tumult +which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on +my brow and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will +descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks out +in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness or boils up in +far-distant points like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let +me look once more at the green plain and little hills of the country, over +which the giant of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at the town +whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead; and, +turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author’s prospects, +I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A little speck of +azure has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage and go +rejoicing through the tempest, and on yonder darkest cloud, born like hallowed +hopes of the glory of another world and the trouble and tears of this, +brightens forth the rainbow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a> +THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS</h2> + +<p> +In those strange old times when fantastic dreams and madmen’s reveries +were realized among the actual circumstances of life, two persons met together +at an appointed hour and place. One was a lady graceful in form and fair of +feature, though pale and troubled and smitten with an untimely blight in what +should have been the fullest bloom of her years; the other was an ancient and +meanly-dressed woman of ill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken and +decrepit that even the space since she began to decay must have exceeded the +ordinary term of human existence. In the spot where they encountered no mortal +could observe them. Three little hills stood near each other, and down in the +midst of them sunk a hollow basin almost mathematically circular, two or three +hundred feet in breadth and of such depth that a stately cedar might but just +be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills and partly +fringed the outer verge of the intermediate hollow, within which there was +nothing but the brown grass of October and here and there a tree-trunk that had +fallen long ago and lay mouldering with no green successor from its roots. One +of these masses of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside +a pool of green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. Such scenes as +this (so gray tradition tells) were once the resort of a power of evil and his +plighted subjects, and here at midnight or on the dim verge of evening they +were said to stand round the mantling pool disturbing its putrid waters in the +performance of an impious baptismal rite. The chill beauty of an autumnal +sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole down +their sides into the hollow. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,” said the aged crone, +“according as thou hast desired. Say quickly what thou wouldst have of +me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here.” +</p> + +<p> +As the old withered woman spoke a smile glimmered on her countenance like +lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. The lady trembled and cast her eyes +upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to return with her purpose +unaccomplished. But it was not so ordained. +</p> + +<p> +“I am stranger in this land, as you know,” said she, at length. +“Whence I come it matters not, but I have left those behind me with whom +my fate was intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for ever. There is a +weight in my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come hither to inquire +of their welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the +ends of the earth?” cried the old woman, peering into the lady’s +face. “Not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet be thou bold, +and the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hilltop before thy wish be +granted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will do your bidding though I die,” replied the lady, +desperately. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw aside the +hood that shrouded her gray locks and beckoned her companion to draw near. +</p> + +<p> +“Kneel down,” she said, “and lay your forehead on my +knees.” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling burned +fiercely up within her. As she knelt down the border of her garment was dipped +into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old woman’s knees, and the +latter drew a cloak about the lady’s face, so that she was in darkness. +Then she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of which she started +and would have arisen. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me flee! Let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon +me!” she cried. But, with returning recollection, she hushed herself and +was still as death, for it seemed as if other voices, familiar in infancy and +unforgotten through many wanderings and in all the vicissitudes of her heart +and fortune, were mingling with the accents of the prayer. At first the words +were faint and indistinct—not rendered so by distance, but rather +resembling the dim pages of a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and +gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as the prayer proceeded, did +those voices strengthen upon the ear, till at length the petition ended, and +the conversation of an aged man and of a woman broken and decayed like himself +became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. But those strangers +appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. Their voices +were encompassed and re-echoed by the walls of a chamber the windows of which +were rattling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the crackling of +a fire and the tinkling of the embers as they fell among the ashes rendered the +scene almost as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melancholy hearth sat +these two old people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and +tearful, and their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a daughter, a +wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her and leaving shame +and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded also to +other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk their voices seemed +to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn leaves; +and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow between +three hills. +</p> + +<p> +“A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it,” remarked +the old woman, smiling in the lady’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“And did you also hear them?” exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable +humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, and we have yet more to hear,” replied the old woman, +“wherefore cover thy face quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was +not meant to be acceptable in heaven, and soon in the pauses of her breath +strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing, so as to drown and +overpower the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through the obscurity +of sound and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which in +their turn gave way to a wild roar of laughter broken suddenly by groanings and +sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. +Chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats and the scourge +resounded at their command. All these noises deepened and became substantial to +the listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every soft and dreamy +accent of the love-songs that died causelessly into funeral-hymns. She +shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling +of flume, and she grew faint at the fearful merriment raging miserably around +her. In the midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other +in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and +melodious voice it might once have been. He went to and fro continually, and +his feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that frenzied company whose +own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world he sought an auditor for +the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as +his reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s perfidy, of a wife who +had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate. Even as he went +on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up in unison, till they +changed into the hollow, fitful and uneven sound of the wind as it fought among +the pine trees on those three lonely hills. +</p> + +<p> +The lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a +mad-house?” inquired the latter. +</p> + +<p> +“True, true!” said the lady to herself; “there is mirth +within its walls, but misery, misery without.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldst thou hear more?” demanded the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one other voice I would fain listen to again,” replied +the lady, faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst get thee +hence before the hour be past.” +</p> + +<p> +The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep shades +obscured the hollow and the pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to +overspread the world. Again that evil woman began to weave her spell. Long did +it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals +of her words like a clang that had travelled far over valley and rising ground +and was just ready to die in the air. The lady shook upon her companion’s +knees as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew, and sadder, and +deepened into the tone of a death-bell, knolling dolefully from some +ivy-mantled tower and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to +the hall and to the solitary wayfarer, that all might weep for the doom +appointed in turn to them. Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly +on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so +that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy array. Before them +went the priest, reading the burial-service, while the leaves of his book were +rustling in the breeze. And though no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, +still there were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct, from women +and from men, breathed against the daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of +her parents, the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband, +the mother who had sinned against natural affection and left her child to die. +The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the +wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin-pall, moaned sadly round +the verge of the hollow between three hills. But when the old woman stirred the +kneeling lady, she lifted not her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Here has been a sweet hour’s sport!” said the withered +crone, chuckling to herself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a> +THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY</h2> + +<h4>A SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE</h4> + +<p> +Methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him rather to pore over the current +of life than to plunge into its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were a +toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the land. In youth, perhaps, it +is good for the observer to run about the earth, to leave the track of his +footsteps far and wide, to mingle himself with the action of numberless +vicissitudes, and, finally, in some calm solitude to feed a musing spirit on +all that he has seen and felt. But there are natures too indolent or too +sensitive to endure the dust, the sunshine or the rain, the turmoil of moral +and physical elements, to which all the wayfarers of the world expose +themselves. For such a man how pleasant a miracle could life be made to roll +its variegated length by the threshold of his own hermitage, and the great +globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its thousand scenes before +his eyes without whirling him onward in its course! If any mortal be favored +with a lot analogous to this, it is the toll-gatherer. So, at least, have I +often fancied while lounging on a bench at the door of a small square edifice +which stands between shore and shore in the midst of a long bridge. Beneath the +timbers ebbs and flows an arm of the sea, while above, like the life-blood +through a great artery, the travel of the north and east is continually +throbbing. Sitting on the aforesaid bench, I amuse myself with a conception, +illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air, of the +toll-gatherer’s day. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning—dim, gray, dewy summer’s morn—the distant roll +of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend’s slumbers, +creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream and gradually +replacing it with realities. Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to +wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for +the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The timbers groan beneath the +slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering +from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern +over the toll-house is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a +nap some ten miles long. The toll is paid; creak, creak, again go the wheels, +and the huge hay-mow vanishes into the morning mist. As yet nature is but half +awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. But yonder, dashing from the +shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter of hoofs, +comes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onward at the same headlong, +restless rate all through the quiet night. The bridge resounds in one continued +peal as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely affording the toll-gatherer +a glimpse at the sleepy passengers, who now bestir their torpid limbs and snuff +a cordial in the briny air. The morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they +forget how wearily the darkness toiled away. And behold now the fervid day in +his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the waves, nor scorning to throw a +tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer’s little hermitage. The +old man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) frames a simile of the +stage-coach and the sun. +</p> + +<p> +While the world is rousing itself we may glance slightly at the scene of our +sketch. It sits above the bosom of the broad flood—a spot not of earth, +but in the midst of waters which rush with a murmuring sound among the massive +beams beneath. Over the door is a weatherbeaten board inscribed with the rates +of toll in letters so nearly effaced that the gilding of the sunshine can +hardly make them legible. Beneath the window is a wooden bench on which a long +succession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves. Peeping within-doors, we +perceive the whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and +advertisements of various import and the immense show-bill of a wandering +caravan. And there sits our good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early +sunbeams. He is a man, as his aspect may announce, of quiet soul and +thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who of the wisdom which the passing world +scatters along the wayside has gathered a reasonable store. +</p> + +<p> +Now the sun smiles upon the landscape and earth smiles back again upon the sky. +Frequent now are the travellers. The toll-gatherer’s practised ear can +distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number of its wheels and how many +horses beat the resounding timbers with their iron tramp. Here, in a +substantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take advantage of the dewy +road, come a gentleman and his wife with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting +gladsomely between them. The bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious +bandboxes and carpet-bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dusty +with yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four-wheeled carryall peopled +with a round half dozen of pretty girls, all drawn by a single horse and driven +by a single gentleman. Luckless wight doomed through a whole summer day to be +the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolicsome maidens! Bolt upright in a +sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man who as he pays his toll hands the +toll-gatherer a printed card to stick upon the wall. The vinegar-faced +traveller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. Now paces slowly from timber +to timber a horseman clad in black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, +whithersoever his steed might bear him, would still journey through a mist of +brooding thought. He is a country preacher going to labor at a protracted +meeting. The next object passing townward is a butcher’s cart canopied +with its arch of snow-white cotton. Behind comes a “sauceman” +driving a wagon full of new potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, +turnips and summer squashes, and next two wrinkled, withered witch-looking old +gossips in an antediluvian chaise drawn by a horse of former generations and +going to peddle out a lot of huckleberries. See, there, a man trundling a +wheelbarrow-load of lobsters. And now a milk-cart rattles briskly onward, +covered with green canvas and conveying the contributions of a whole herd of +cows, in large tin canisters. +</p> + +<p> +But let all these pay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that causes +the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers brought +sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome influence all along the road. It +is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished panels of which reflect the +whole moving panorama of the landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our +friend with his visage broadened, so that his meditative smile is transformed +to grotesque merriment. Within sits a youth fresh as the summer morn, and +beside him a young lady in white with white gloves upon her slender hands and a +white veil flowing down over her face. But methinks her blushing cheek burns +through the snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin sits in front. And who are +these on whom, and on all that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems +never to have settled? Two lovers whom the priest has blessed this blessed morn +and sent them forth, with one of the bride-maids, on the matrimonial +tour.—Take my blessing too, ye happy ones! May the sky not frown upon you +nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen rain! May the hot sun kindle +no fever in your hearts! May your whole life’s pilgrimage be as blissful +as this first day’s journey, and its close be gladdened with even +brighter anticipations than those which hallow your bridal-night! They pass, +and ere the reflection of their joy has faded from his face another spectacle +throws a melancholy shadow over the spirit of the observing man. In a close +carriage sits a fragile figure muffled carefully and shrinking even from the +mild breath of summer. She leans against a manly form, and his arm enfolds her +as if to guard his treasure from some enemy. Let but a few weeks pass, and when +he shall strive to embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to his +heart. +</p> + +<p> +And now has Morning gathered up her dewy pearls and fled away. The sun rolls +blazing through the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with. The +horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave their glistening sides in +short quick pantings when the reins are tightened at the toll-house. Glisten, +too, the faces of the travellers. Their garments are thickly bestrewn with +dust; their whiskers and hair look hoary; their throats are choked with the +dusty atmosphere which they have left behind them. No air is stirring on the +road. Nature dares draw no breath lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of +dust. “A hot and dusty day!” cry the poor pilgrims as they wipe +their begrimed foreheads and woo the doubtful breeze which the river bears +along with it.—“Awful hot! Dreadful dusty!” answers the +sympathetic toll-gatherer. They start again to pass through the fiery furnace, +while he re-enters his cool hermitage and besprinkles it with a pail of briny +water from the stream beneath. He thinks within himself that the sun is not so +fierce here as elsewhere, and that the gentle air doth not forget him in these +sultry days. Yes, old friend, and a quiet heart will make a dog-day temperate. +He hears a weary footstep, and perceives a traveller with pack and staff, who +sits down upon the hospitable bench and removes the hat from his wet brow. The +toll-gatherer administers a cup of cold water, and, discovering his guest to be +a man of homely sense, he engages him in profitable talk, uttering the maxims +of a philosophy which he has found in his own soul, but knows not how it came +there. And as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey he tells him a +sovereign remedy for blistered feet. +</p> + +<p> +Now comes the noontide hour—of all the hours, nearest akin to midnight, +for each has its own calmness and repose. Soon, however, the world begins to +turn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest epoch of the day, when an +accident impedes the march of sublunary things. The draw being lifted to permit +the passage of a schooner laden with wood from the Eastern forests, she sticks +immovably right athwart the bridge. Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm a +throng of impatient travellers fret and fume. Here are two sailors in a gig +with the top thrown back, both puffing cigars and swearing all sorts of +forecastle oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly-dressed gentleman and +lady, he from a tailor’s shop-board and she from a milliner’s back +room—the aristocrats of a summer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest +of us but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer’s day? Here is a +tin-pedler whose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders like a travelling +meteor or opposition sun, and on the other side a seller of spruce beer, which +brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone bottles. Here conic a party +of ladies on horseback, in green ridings habits, and gentlemen attendant, and +there a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over the bridge with a +multitude nous clatter of their little hoofs; here a Frenchman with a +hand-organ on his shoulder, and there an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On this +side, heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles, appears a train of wagons +conveying all the wild beasts of a caravan; and on that a company of summer +soldiers marching from village to village on a festival campaign, attended by +the “brass band.” Now look at the scene, and it presents an emblem +of the mysterious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in which +individuals, or the great world itself, seem often to be involved. What miracle +shall set all things right again? +</p> + +<p> +But see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcase through the chasm; the draw +descends; horse and foot pass onward and leave the bridge vacant from end to +end. “And thus,” muses the toll-gatherer, “have I found it +with all stoppages, even though the universe seemed to be at a stand.” +The sage old man! +</p> + +<p> +Far westward now the reddening sun throws a broad sheet of splendor across the +flood, and to the eyes of distant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers of +the bridge. Strollers come from the town to quaff the freshening breeze. One or +two let down long lines and haul up flapping flounders or cunners or small cod, +or perhaps an eel. Others, and fair girls among them, with the flush of the hot +day still on their cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of seaweed +floating upward with the flowing tide. The horses now tramp heavily along the +bridge and wistfully bethink them of their stables.—Rest, rest, thou +weary world! for to-morrow’s round of toil and pleasure will be as +wearisome as to-day’s has been, yet both shall bear thee onward a +day’s march of eternity.—Now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward +and discerns the lighthouse kindling on a far island, and the stars, too, +kindling in the sky, as if but a little way beyond; and, mingling reveries of +heaven with remembrances of earth, the whole procession of mortal travellers, +all the dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems like a flitting show of +phantoms for his thoughtful soul to muse upon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a> +THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN</h2> + +<p> +At fifteen I became a resident in a country village more than a hundred miles +from home. The morning after my arrival—a September morning, but warm and +bright as any in July—I rambled into a wood of oaks with a few walnut +trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. The ground was +rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings and traversed +only by cattle-paths. The track which I chanced to follow led me to a crystal +spring with a border of grass as freshly green as on May morning, and +overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. One solitary sunbeam found its way +down and played like a goldfish in the water. +</p> + +<p> +From my childhood I have loved to gaze into a spring. The water filled a +circular basin, small but deep and set round with stones, some of which were +covered with slimy moss, the others naked and of variegated hue—reddish, +white and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled in the +lonely sunbeam and seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light. In +one spot the gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but without +obscuring the fountain or breaking the glassiness of its surface. It appeared +as if some living creature were about to emerge—the naiad of the spring, +perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young woman with a gown of filmy +water-moss, a belt of rainbow-drops and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. +How would the beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see her sitting on +one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples and throwing up water +to sparkle in the sun! Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they +would immediately be moist, as with morning dew. Then would she set about her +labors, like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered leaves, and +bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left +by cattle in drinking, till the bright sand in the bright water were like a +treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too near, he would find +only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen +her. +</p> + +<p> +Reclining on the border of grass where the dewy goddess should have been, I +bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They were +the reflection of my own. I looked again, and, lo! another face, deeper in the +fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as +thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young girl with locks of paly +gold. A mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole +shadowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be if, while +dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. Through +the dim rosiness of the cheeks I could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, +the acorns and the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the +golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness and became a glory round +that head so beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted and +how soon it was left desolate. I breathed, and there was the face; I held my +breath, and it was gone. Had it passed away or faded into nothing? I doubted +whether it had ever been. +</p> + +<p> +My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend where that +vision found and left me! For a long time I sat perfectly still, waiting till +it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter +of my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I often started from a pleasant +dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to wile it back. Deep were my musings as to +the race and attributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she the +daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of +children’s eyes? And did her beauty gladden me for that one moment and +then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy or woodland +goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid who had +drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had a lovely girl with a warm +heart and lips that would bear pressure stolen softly behind me and thrown her +image into the spring? +</p> + +<p> +I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I departed, but with a spell +upon me which drew me back that same afternoon to the haunted spring. There was +the water gushing, the sand sparkling and the sunbeam glimmering. There the +vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who +immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible—all +except a pair of long legs—beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish +look. I could have slain him as an enchanter who kept the mysterious beauty +imprisoned in the fountain. +</p> + +<p> +Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between me and the church-spire +rose a little hill, and on its summit a group of trees insulated from all the +rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance hovering on them from the +west and their own solitary shadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far +declined, the sunshine was almost pensive and the shade almost cheerful; glory +and gloom were mingled in the placid light, as if the spirits of the Day and +Evening had met in friendship under those trees and found themselves akin. I +was admiring the picture when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind the +clump of oaks. My heart knew her: it was the vision, but so distant and +ethereal did she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory +of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit sunk within me, sadder than +before. How could I ever reach her? +</p> + +<p> +While I gazed a sudden shower came pattering down upon the leaves. In a moment +the air was full of brightness, each raindrop catching a portion of sunlight as +it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing like a mist, just substantial +enough to bear the burden of radiance. A rainbow vivid as Niagara’s was +painted in the air. Its southern limb came down before the group of trees and +enveloped the fair vision as if the hues of heaven were the only garment for +her beauty. When the rainbow vanished, she who had seemed a part of it was no +longer there. Was her existence absorbed in nature’s loveliest +phenomenon, and did her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet I +would not despair of her return, for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem +of Hope. +</p> + +<p> +Thus did the vision leave me, and many a doleful day succeeded to the parting +moment. By the spring and in the wood and on the hill and through the village, +at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when she had +vanished from my sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and went, months +rolled away, and she appeared not in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but +wandered to and fro or sat in solitude like one that had caught a glimpse of +heaven and could take no more joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world +where my thoughts lived and breathed, and the vision in the midst of them. +Without intending it, I became at once the author and hero of a romance, +conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my own, and +experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and despair had their end +in bliss. Oh, had I the burning fancy of my early youth with manhood’s +colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter +at my tale. +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of January I was summoned home. The day before my departure, +visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, I found that the +spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter +sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. “Let me hope,” thought I, +“or my heart will be as icy as the fountain and the whole world as +desolate as this snowy hill.” Most of the day was spent in preparing for +the journey, which was to commence at four o’clock the next morning. +About an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, I descended from my +chamber to the sitting-room to take leave of the old clergyman and his family +with whom I had been an inmate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed +through the entry. +</p> + +<p> +According to their invariable custom—so pleasant a one when the fire +blazes cheerfully—the family were sitting in the parlor with no other +light than what came from the hearth. As the good clergyman’s scanty +stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of his fires +was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder away from +morning till night with a dull warmth and no flame. This evening the heap of +tan was newly put on and surmounted with three sticks of red oak full of +moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine that had not yet kindled. There was no +light except the little that came sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without +even glimmering on the andirons. But I knew the position of the old +minister’s arm-chair, and also where his wife sat with her knitting-work, +and how to avoid his two daughters—one a stout country lass, and the +other a consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I found my own place next +to that of the son, a learned collegian who had come home to keep school in the +village during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was less room than +usual to-night between the collegian’s chair and mine. +</p> + +<p> +As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some time +after my entrance. Nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the +matron’s knitting-needles. At times the fire threw out a brief and dusky +gleam which twinkled on the old man’s glasses and hovered doubtfully +round our circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed +it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of +the mode in which departed people who had known and loved each other here would +hold communion in eternity? We were aware of each other’s presence, not +by sight nor sound nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. Would it not be +so among the dead? +</p> + +<p> +The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter addressing a remark to +some one in the circle whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and decayed +accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start and +bend toward the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that sweet, low +tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many old recollections, or mockeries of +such, the shadows of things familiar yet unknown, and fill my mind with +confused images of her features who had spoken, though buried in the gloom of +the parlor? Whom had my heart recognized, that it throbbed so? I listened to +catch her gentle breathing, and strove by the intensity of my gaze to picture +forth a shape where none was visible. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow, and where +the darkness had been, there was she—the vision of the fountain. A spirit +of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow and appeared again in the +firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze and be gone. Yet her cheek was +rosy and lifelike, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were +even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them. She knew me. The +mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her +countenance when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and +dimpling there now. One moment our glance mingled; the next, down rolled the +heap of tan upon the kindled wood, and darkness snatched away that daughter of +the light, and gave her back to me no more! +</p> + +<p> +Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the simple mystery be +revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire and had left +home for a boarding-school the morning after I arrived and returned the day +before my departure? If I transformed her to an angel, it is what every +youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the essence of my story. +But slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a> +FANCY’S SHOW-BOX</h2> + +<h4>A MORALITY</h4> + +<p> +What is guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is a point of vast interest +whether the soul may contract such stains in all their depth and flagrancy from +deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which physically have +never had existence. Must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set its +seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them their entire +validity against the sinner? Or, while none but crimes perpetrated are +cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts—of which +guilty deeds are no more than shadows,—will these draw down the full +weight of a condemning sentence in the supreme court of eternity? In the +solitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert afar from men or in a church +while the body is kneeling the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes +which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a +fearful truth. +</p> + +<p> +Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. A venerable +gentleman—one Mr. Smith—who had long been regarded as a pattern of +moral excellence was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous +wine. His children being gone forth about their worldly business and his +grandchildren at school, he sat alone in a deep luxurious arm-chair with his +feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table. Some old people have a dread of +solitude, and when better company may not be had rejoice even to hear the quiet +breathing of a babe asleep upon the carpet. But Mr. Smith, whose silver hair +was the bright symbol of a life unstained except by such spots as are +inseparable from human nature—he had no need of a babe to protect him by +its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own soul. +Nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood must soothe +him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts +will stray into the misty region of the past and the old man be chill and sad. +Wine will not always cheer him. +</p> + +<p> +Such might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when, through the brilliant +medium of his glass of old Madeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. +These were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of an itinerant showman, +with a box of pictures on her back; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, +with a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her buttonhole and a huge manuscript +volume beneath her arm; and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in +a dusky mantle which concealed both face and form. But Mr. Smith had a shrewd +idea that it was Conscience. How kind of Fancy, Memory and Conscience to visit +the old gentleman just as he was beginning to imagine that the wine had neither +so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the liquor +were less aged! Through the dim length of the apartment, where crimson curtains +muffled the glare of sunshine and created a rich obscurity, the three guests +drew near the silver-haired old man. Memory, with a finger between the leaves +of her huge volume, placed herself at his right hand; Conscience, with her face +still hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be +next his heart; while Fancy set down her picture-box upon the table with the +magnifying-glass convenient to his eye. +</p> + +<p> +We can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many pictures +which at the pulling of a string successively peopled the box with the +semblances of living scenes. One was a moonlight picture, in the background a +lowly dwelling, and in front, partly shadowed by a tree, yet besprinkled with +flakes of radiance, two youthful figures, male and female. The young man stood +with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip and a gleam of triumph in his +eye as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate at +his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame and anguish which hardly +allowed her to lift her clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not +lift. But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was depicted, +nor the slender grace of the form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the +obduracy of the young man. He was the personification of triumphant scorn. +</p> + +<p> +Now, strange to say, as old Mr. Smith peeped through the magnifying-glass, +which made the objects start out from the canvas with magical deception, he +began to recognize the farmhouse, the tree and both the figures of the picture. +The young man in times long past had often met his gaze within the +looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his first love—his +cottage-love, his Martha Burroughs. Mr. Smith was scandalized. “Oh, vile +and slanderous picture!” he exclaims. “When have I triumphed over +ruined innocence? Was not Martha wedded in her teens to David Tomkins, who won +her girlish love and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? And ever since his +death she has lived a reputable widow!” +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, rustling them to +and fro with uncertain fingers, until among the earlier pages she found one +which had reference to this picture. She reads it close to the old +gentleman’s ear: it is a record merely of sinful thought which never was +embodied in an act, but, while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her face +and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. Though not a death-blow, the +torture was extreme. +</p> + +<p> +The exhibition proceeded. One after another Fancy displayed her pictures, all +of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious artist on purpose to +vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have been adduced in any earthly +court that he was guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to +stare him in the face. In one scene there was a table set out, with several +bottles and glasses half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an +expiring lamp. There had been mirth and revelry until the hand of the clock +stood just at midnight, when Murder stepped between the boon-companions. A +young man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead with a ghastly wound +crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled rage and +horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith. The +murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer. “What does this +rascal of a painter mean?” cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond all patience. +“Edward Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to +him through more than half a century. Neither I nor any other ever murdered +him. Was he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token of our long +friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane and a mourning-ring?” +</p> + +<p> +Again had Memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon so +confused a page that she surely must have scribbled it when she was tipsy. The +purport was, however, that while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were heating +their young blood with wine a quarrel had flashed up between them, and Mr. +Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at Spencer’s head. True, it +missed its aim and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next morning, when +the incident was imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty +laugh. Yet, again, while Memory was reading, Conscience unveiled her face, +struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith and quelled his remonstrance with her +iron frown. The pain was quite excruciating. +</p> + +<p> +Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful a touch, and in colors +so faint and pale, that the subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, +semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the surface of the canvas, into +which the figures seemed to vanish while the eye sought most earnestly to fix +them. But in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, Mr. Smith was invariably +haunted by his own lineaments at various ages as in a dusty mirror. After +poring several minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguishable +pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended to represent him, now +in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs of three +half-starved children. “Really, this puzzles me!” quoth Mr. Smith, +with the irony of conscious rectitude. “Asking pardon of the painter, I +pronounce him a fool as well as a scandalous knave. A man of my standing in the +world to be robbing little children of their clothes! Ridiculous!” +</p> + +<p> +But while he spoke Memory had searched her fatal volume and found a page which +with her sad calm voice she poured into his ear. It was not altogether +inapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had been grievously +tempted by many devilish sophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to +commence a lawsuit against three orphan-children, joint-heirs to a considerable +estate. Fortunately, before he was quite decided, his claims had turned out +nearly as devoid of law as justice. As Memory ceased to read Conscience again +thrust aside her mantle, and would have struck her victim with the envenomed +dagger only that he struggled and clasped his hands before his heart. Even +then, however, he sustained an ugly gash. +</p> + +<p> +Why should we follow Fancy through the whole series of those awful pictures? +Painted by an artist of wondrous power and terrible acquaintance with the +secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never-perpetrated sins that +had glided through the lifetime of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of cloudy +fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evidence against him at the +day of judgment? Be that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one +truly penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture and left the +canvas white as snow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too keen to be +endured, bellowed aloud with impatient agony, and suddenly discovered that his +three guests were gone. There he sat alone, a silver-haired and +highly-venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the crimsoned-curtained room, +with no box of pictures on the table, but only a decanter of most excellent +Madeira. Yet his heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the dagger. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have argued the matter with +Conscience and alleged many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so +pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should be somewhat in the +following fashion. A scheme of guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly +resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in order to +produce a sense of reality in the reader’s mind, must be conceived with +such proportionate strength by the author as to seem in the glow of fancy more +like truth, past, present or to come, than purely fiction. The prospective +sinner, on the other hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never feels +a perfect certainty that it will be executed. There is a dreaminess diffused +about his thoughts; in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his +victim’s heart and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand. +Thus a novel-writer or a dramatist, in creating a villain of romance and +fitting him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life in projecting +crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost meet each other halfway between +reality and fancy. It is not until the crime is accomplished that Guilt +clenches its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims it for his own. Then, and +not before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by +repentance, grows a thousandfold more virulent by its self-consciousness. Be it +considered, also, that men often overestimate their capacity for evil. At a +distance, while its attendant circumstances do not press upon their notice and +its results are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. They may take the +steps which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental action as in +working out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunction at the +final moment. They knew not what deed it was that they deemed themselves +resolved to do. In truth, there is no such thing in man’s nature as a +settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of +execution. Let us hope, therefore, that all the dreadful consequences of sin +will not be incurred unless the act have set its seal upon the thought. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have framed, some sad and awful truths +are interwoven. Man must not disclaim his brotherhood even with the guiltiest, +since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the +flitting phantoms of iniquity. He must feel that when he shall knock at the +gate of heaven no semblance of an unspotted life can entitle him to entrance +there. Penitence must kneel and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or +that golden gate will never open. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a> +DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT</h2> + +<p> +That very singular man old Dr. Heidegger once invited four venerable friends to +meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen—Mr. +Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew and Mr. Gascoigne—and a withered gentlewoman +whose name was the widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures who +had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they +were not long ago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had +been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and +was now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best +years and his health and substance in the pursuit of sinful pleasures which had +given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout and divers other torments of +soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil +fame—or, at least, had been so till time had buried him from the +knowledge of the present generation and made him obscure instead of infamous. +As for the widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in +her day, but for a long while past she had lived in deep seclusion on account +of certain scandalous stories which had prejudiced the gentry of the town +against her. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these three old +gentlemen—Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew and Mr. Gascoigne—were +early lovers of the widow Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting +each other’s throats for her sake. And before proceeding farther I will +merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought +to be a little beside themselves, as is not infrequently the case with old +people when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear old friends,” said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be +seated, “I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little +experiments with which I amuse myself here in my study.” +</p> + +<p> +If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger’s study must have been a very +curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with cobwebs and +besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, +the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and +black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. +Over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, +according to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold +consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner +of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet with its door ajar, within +which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a +looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt +frame. Among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that +the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased patients dwelt within its verge +and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite +side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young +lady arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin and brocade, and with a +visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been +on the point of marriage with this young lady, but, being affected with some +slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover’s prescriptions and +died on the bridal-evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be +mentioned: it was a ponderous folio volume bound in black leather, with massive +silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the +title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic, and once, when +a chambermaid had lifted it merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had +rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon +the floor and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror, while the +brazen head of Hippocrates frowned and said, “Forbear!” +</p> + +<p> +Such was Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a +small round table as black as ebony stood in the centre of the room, sustaining +a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. The sunshine came +through the window between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains and +fell directly across this vase, so that a mild splendor was reflected from it +on the ashen visages of the five old people who sat around. Four +champagne-glasses were also on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear old friends,” repeated Dr. Heidegger, “may I reckon +on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman whose eccentricity had +become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these +fables—to my shame be it spoken—might possibly be traced back to +mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle +the reader’s faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a +fiction-monger. +</p> + +<p> +When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, +they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an +air-pump or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar +nonsense with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. +But without waiting for a reply Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber and +returned with the same ponderous folio bound in black leather which common +report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the +volume and took from among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a +rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish +hue and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the +doctor’s hands. +</p> + +<p> +“This rose,” said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh—“this same +withered and crumbling flower—blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was +given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder, and I meant to wear it in +my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between the +leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of +half a century could ever bloom again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said the widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her +head. “You might as well ask whether an old woman’s wrinkled face +could ever bloom again.” +</p> + +<p> +“See!” answered Dr. Heidegger. He uncovered the vase and threw the +faded rose into the water which it contained. At first it lay lightly on the +surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, +a singular change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred and +assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a +deathlike slumber, the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green, and +there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had +first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full-blown, for some of its +delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or +three dewdrops were sparkling. +</p> + +<p> +“That is certainly a very pretty deception,” said the +doctor’s friends—carelessly, however, for they had witnessed +greater miracles at a conjurer’s show. “Pray, how was it +effected?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you never hear of the Fountain of Youth?” asked Dr. Heidegger, +“which Ponce de Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or +three centuries ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“But did Ponce de Leon ever find it?” said the widow Wycherly. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Dr. Heidegger, “for he never sought it in the +right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is +situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake +Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias which, though +numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of +this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such +matters, has sent me what you see in the vase.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ahem!” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the +doctor’s story; “and what may be the effect of this fluid on the +human frame?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,” replied Dr. +Heidegger.—“And all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so +much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my +own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow +young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress +of the experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +While he spoke Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne-glasses with +the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an +effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths +of the glasses and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor +diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed +cordial and comfortable properties, and, though utter sceptics as to its +rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. +Heidegger besought them to stay a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Before you drink, my respectable old friends,” said he, “it +would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should +draw up a few general rules for your guidance in passing a second time through +the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be if, with your +peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all +the young people of the age!” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor’s four venerable friends made him no answer except by a feeble +and tremulous laugh, so very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely +Repentance treads behind the steps of Error, they should ever go astray again. +</p> + +<p> +“Drink, then,” said the doctor, bowing; “I rejoice that I +have so well selected the subjects of my experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +With palsied hands they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, if it +really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have +been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more woefully. They looked as +if they had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring +of Nature’s dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable +creatures who now sat stooping round the doctor’s table without life +enough in their souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing +young again. They drank off the water and replaced their glasses on the table. +</p> + +<p> +Assuredly, there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the +party—not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous +wine—together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over +all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks +instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. They gazed at +one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth away +the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving on +their brows. The widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a +woman again. +</p> + +<p> +“Give us more of this wondrous water,” cried they, eagerly. +“We are younger, but we are still too old. Quick! give us more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Patience, patience!” quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat, watching the +experiment with philosophic coolness. “You have been a long time growing +old; surely you might be content to grow young in half an hour. But the water +is at your service.” Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of +youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people +in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. +</p> + +<p> +While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim the doctor’s four guests +snatched their glasses from the table and swallowed the contents at a single +gulp. Was it delusion? Even while the draught was passing down their throats it +seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear +and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks: they sat around +the table three gentlemen of middle age and a woman hardly beyond her buxom +prime. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear widow, you are charming!” cried Colonel Killigrew, whose +eyes had been fixed upon her face while the shadows of age were flitting from +it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. +</p> + +<p> +The fair widow knew of old that Colonel Killigrew’s compliments were not +always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still +dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the +water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating +qualities—unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a +lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. +Gascoigne’s mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether relating +to the past, present or future could not easily be determined, since the same +ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth +full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory and the people’s +right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other in a sly and doubtful +whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the +secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents and a deeply-deferential +tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel +Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle-song and ringing +his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom +figure of the widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was +involved in a calculation of dollars and cents with which was strangely +intermingled a project for supplying the East Indies with ice by harnessing a +team of whales to the polar icebergs. As for the widow Wycherly, she stood +before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image and greeting it as +the friend whom she loved better than all the world besides. She thrust her +face close to the glass to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or +crow’s-foot had indeed vanished; she examined whether the snow had so +entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown +aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to +the table. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear old doctor,” cried she, “pray favor me with another +glass.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, my dear madam—certainly,” replied the complaisant +doctor. “See! I have already filled the glasses.” +</p> + +<p> +There, in fact, stood the four glasses brimful of this wonderful water, the +delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, resembled the +tremulous glitter of diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +It was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown duskier than ever, but a +mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase and rested alike on the +four guests and on the doctor’s venerable figure. He sat in a +high-backed, elaborately-carved oaken arm-chair with a gray dignity of aspect +that might have well befitted that very Father Time whose power had never been +disputed save by this fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third draught +of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his +mysterious visage. But the next moment the exhilarating gush of young life shot +through their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its +miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only as the +trouble of a dream from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the +soul, so early lost and without which the world’s successive scenes had +been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all +their prospects. They felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe. +</p> + +<p> +“We are young! We are young!” they cried, exultingly. +</p> + +<p> +Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked +characteristics of middle life and mutually assimilated them all. They were a +group of merry youngsters almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of +their years. The most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock +the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. +They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned attire—the wide-skirted coats +and flapped waistcoats of the young men and the ancient cap and gown of the +blooming girl. One limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a +pair of spectacles astride of his nose and pretended to pore over the +black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair +and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted +mirthfully and leaped about the room. +</p> + +<p> +The widow Wycherly—if so fresh a damsel could be called a +widow—tripped up to the doctor’s chair with a mischievous merriment +in her rosy face. +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor, you dear old soul,” cried she, “get up and dance +with me;” and then the four young people laughed louder than ever to +think what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray excuse me,” answered the doctor, quietly. “I am old and +rheumatic, and my dancing-days were over long ago. But either of these gay +young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dance with me, Clara,” cried Colonel Killigrew. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! I will be her partner,” shouted Mr. Gascoigne. +</p> + +<p> +“She promised me her hand fifty years ago,” exclaimed Mr. +Medbourne. +</p> + +<p> +They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate grasp, +another threw his arm about her waist, the third buried his hand among the +glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow’s cap. Blushing, panting, +struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by +turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple +embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with +bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the +duskiness of the chamber and the antique dresses which they still wore, the +tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, +withered grand-sires ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a +shrivelled grandam. But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. +</p> + +<p> +Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor +quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening +glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one +another’s throats. As they struggled to and fro the table was overturned +and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious Water of Youth +flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly +which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The +insect fluttered lightly through the chamber and settled on the snowy head of +Dr. Heidegger. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, gentlemen! Come, Madam Wycherly!” exclaimed the +doctor. “I really must protest against this riot.” +</p> + +<p> +They stood still and shivered, for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them +back from their sunny youth far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. +They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved armchair holding the +rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the +shattered vase. At the motion of his hand the four rioters resumed their +seats—the more readily because their violent exertions had wearied them, +youthful though they were. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor Sylvia’s rose!” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it +in the light of the sunset clouds. “It appears to be fading again.” +</p> + +<p> +And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it the flower continued to +shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first +thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to +its petals. +</p> + +<p> +“I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,” observed he, +pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. +</p> + +<p> +While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor’s snowy head +and fell upon the floor. His guests shivered again. A strange +dullness—whether of the body or spirit they could not tell—was +creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and fancied that +each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a deepening furrow where +none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been +crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people sitting with +their old friend Dr. Heidegger? +</p> + +<p> +“Are we grown old again so soon?” cried they, dolefully. +</p> + +<p> +In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient +than that of wine; the delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes, +they were old again. With a shuddering impulse that showed her a woman still, +the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face and wished that the +coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, friends, ye are old again,” said Dr. Heidegger, “and, +lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well, I bemoan it not; +for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my +lips in it—no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. +Such is the lesson ye have taught me.” +</p> + +<p> +But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. +They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida and quaff at morning, +noon and night from the Fountain of Youth. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a> +Legends of the Province-House</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a> +I.<br/> +HOWE’S MASQUERADE</h2> + +<p> +One afternoon last summer, while walking along Washington street, my eye was +attracted by a sign-board protruding over a narrow archway nearly opposite the +Old South Church. The sign represented the front of a stately edifice which was +designated as the “OLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept by Thomas Waite.” I was +glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained, of visiting and +rambling over the mansion of the old royal governors of Massachusetts, and, +entering the arched passage which penetrated through the middle of a brick row +of shops, a few steps transported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into +a small and secluded court-yard. One side of this space was occupied by the +square front of the Province House, three stories high and surmounted by a +cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, with his bow bent +and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire of +the Old South. The figure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, +ever since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed him on +his long sentinel’s watch over the city. +</p> + +<p> +The Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recently to have been +overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. A flight of red freestone steps +fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron ascends from the court-yard +to the spacious porch, over which is a balcony with an iron balustrade of +similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. These letters and +figures—“16 P.S. 79”—are wrought into the ironwork of +the balcony, and probably express the date of the edifice, with the initials of +its founder’s name. +</p> + +<p> +A wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right +of which is the entrance to the bar-room. It was in this apartment, I presume, +that the ancient governors held their levees with vice-regal pomp, surrounded +by the military men, the counsellors, the judges, and other officers of the +Crown, while all the loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. But the +room in its present condition cannot boast even of faded magnificence. The +panelled wainscot is covered with dingy paint and acquires a duskier hue from +the deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown by the brick block that +shuts it in from Washington street. A ray of sunshine never visits this +apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches which have been +extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The most venerable and ornamental +object is a chimney-piece set round with Dutch tiles of blue-figured china, +representing scenes from Scripture, and, for aught I know, the lady of Pownall +or Bernard may have sat beside this fireplace and told her children the story +of each blue tile. A bar in modern style, well replenished with decanters, +bottles, cigar-boxes and network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump +and a soda-fount, extends along one side of the room. +</p> + +<p> +At my entrance an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zest which +satisfied me that the cellars of the Province House still hold good liquor, +though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by the old governors. +After sipping a glass of port-sangaree prepared by the skilful hands of Mr. +Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy successor and representative of so many +historic personages to conduct me over their time-honored mansion. He readily +complied, but, to confess the truth, I was forced to draw strenuously upon my +imagination in order to find aught that was interesting in a house which, +without its historic associations, would have seemed merely such a tavern as is +usually favored by the custom of decent city boarders and old-fashioned country +gentlemen. The chambers, which were probably spacious in former times, are now +cut up by partitions and subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty +room for the narrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger: The +great staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a feature of +grandeur and magnificence. It winds through the midst of the house by flights +of broad steps, each flight terminating in a square landing-place, whence the +ascent is continued toward the cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in +the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with +its quaintly twisted and intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these +stairs the military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor +have trodden as the wearers mounted to the cupola which afforded them so wide a +view over their metropolis and the surrounding country. The cupola is an +octagon with several windows, and a door opening upon the roof. From this +station, as I pleased myself with imagining, Gage may have beheld his +disastrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of the tri-mountains intervened), +and Howe have marked the approaches of Washington’s besieging army, +although the buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut out almost every +object save the steeple of the Old South, which seems almost within arm’s +length. Descending from the cupola, I paused in the garret to observe the +ponderous white-oak framework, so much more massive than the frames of modern +houses, and thereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the +materials of which were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the mansion, +are still as sound as ever, but, the floors and other interior parts being +greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole and build a new house +within the ancient frame-and brickwork. Among other inconveniences of the +present edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake +down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that +beneath it. +</p> + +<p> +We stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony where in old +times it was doubtless the custom of the king’s representative to show +himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up hats with +stately bendings of his dignified person. In those days the front of the +Province House looked upon the street, and the whole site now occupied by the +brick range of stores, as well as the present court-yard, was laid out in +grass-plats overshadowed by trees and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now the +old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern +building; at one of the back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses sewing +and chatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glance toward the +balcony. Descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly +gentleman above mentioned—the smack of whose lips had spoken so favorably +for Mr. Waite’s good liquor—was still lounging in his chair. He +seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house who +might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his summer seat at the +open window and his prescriptive corner at the winter’s fireside. Being +of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address him with a remark calculated to +draw forth his historical reminiscences, if any such were in his mind, and it +gratified me to discover that, between memory and tradition, the old gentleman +was really possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the Province House. The +portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the +following legend. He professed to have received it at one or two removes from +an eye-witness, but this derivation, together with the lapse of time, must have +afforded opportunities for many variations of the narrative; so that, +despairing of literal and absolute truth, I have not scrupled to make such +further changes as seemed conducive to the reader’s profit and delight. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +At one of the entertainments given at the province-house during the latter part +of the siege of Boston there passed a scene which has never yet been +satisfactorily explained. The officers of the British army and the loyal gentry +of the province, most of whom were collected within the beleaguered town, had +been invited to a masqued ball, for it was the policy for Sir William Howe to +hide the distress and danger of the period and the desperate aspect of the +siege under an ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the +oldest members of the provincial court circle might be believed, was the most +gay and gorgeous affair that had occurred in the annals of the government. The +brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemed to have +stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits or to have flitted forth +from the magic pages of romance, or at least to have flown hither from one of +the London theatres without a change of garments. Steeled knights of the +Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth and high-ruffed ladies of her +court were mingled with characters of comedy, such as a parti-colored Merry +Andrew jingling his cap and bells, a Falstaff almost as provocative of laughter +as his prototype, and a Don Quixote with a bean-pole for a lance and a pot-lid +for a shield. +</p> + +<p> +But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures ridiculously +dressed in old regimentals which seemed to have been purchased at a military +rag-fair or pilfered from some receptacle of the cast-off clothes of both the +French and British armies. Portions of their attire had probably been worn at +the siege of Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might have been rent +and tattered by sword, ball or bayonet as long ago as Wolfe’s victory. +One of these worthies—a tall, lank figure brandishing a rusty sword of +immense longitude—purported to be no less a personage than General George +Washington, and the other principal officers of the American army, such as +Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by similar +scarecrows. An interview in the mock-heroic style between the rebel warriors +and the British commander-in-chief was received with immense applause, which +came loudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. +</p> + +<p> +There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eying these antics +sternly and scornfully at once with a frown and a bitter smile. It was an old +man formerly of high station and great repute in the province, and who had been +a very famous soldier in his day. Some surprise had been expressed that a +person of Colonel Joliffe’s known Whig principles, though now too old to +take an active part in the contest, should have remained in Boston during the +siege, and especially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion of +Sir William Howe. But thither he had come with a fair granddaughter under his +arm, and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, +the best-sustained character in the masquerade, because so well representing +the antique spirit of his native land. The other guests affirmed that Colonel +Joliffe’s black puritanical scowl threw a shadow round about him, +although, in spite of his sombre influence, their gayety continued to blaze +higher, like—an ominous comparison—the flickering brilliancy of a +lamp which has but a little while to burn. +</p> + +<p> +Eleven strokes full half an hour ago had pealed from the clock of the Old +South, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some new spectacle or +pageant was about to be exhibited which should put a fitting close to the +splendid festivities of the night. +</p> + +<p> +“What new jest has Your Excellency in hand?” asked the Reverend +Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian scruples had not kept him from the +entertainment. “Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than beseems +my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general of the +rebels. One other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my clerical wig +and band.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so, good Dr. Byles,” answered Sir William Howe; “if +mirth were a crime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this +new foolery, I know no more about it than yourself—perhaps not so much. +Honestly, now, doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some of your +countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, +whose high spirit had been stung by many taunts against New +England—“perhaps we are to have a masque of allegorical +figures—Victory with trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill, Plenty with +her overflowing horn to typify the present abundance in this good town, and +Glory with a wreath for His Excellency’s brow.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one of his +darkest frowns had they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was spared +the necessity of a retort by a singular interruption. A sound of music was +heard without the house, as if proceeding from a full band of military +instruments stationed in the street, playing, not such a festal strain as was +suited to the occasion, but a slow funeral-march. The drums appeared to be +muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath which at once hushed +the merriment of the auditors, filling all with wonder and some with +apprehension. The idea occurred to many that either the funeral procession of +some great personage had halted in front of the province-house, or that a +corpse in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin was about to be +borne from the portal. After listening a moment, Sir William Howe called in a +stern voice to the leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened the +entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. The man was drum-major to one of +the British regiments. +</p> + +<p> +“Dighton,” demanded the general, “what means this foolery? +Bid your band silence that dead march, or, by my word, they shall have +sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains. Silence it, sirrah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Your Honor,” answered the drum-major, whose rubicund +visage had lost all its color, “the fault is none of mine. I and my band +are all here together, and I question whether there be a man of us that could +play that march without book. I never heard it but once before, and that was at +the funeral of his late Majesty, King George II.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” said Sir William Howe, recovering his composure; +“it is the prelude to some masquerading antic. Let it pass.” +</p> + +<p> +A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks that were +dispersed through the apartments none could tell precisely from whence it came. +It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge and having the aspect of +a steward or principal domestic in the household of a nobleman or great English +landholder. This figure advanced to the outer door of the mansion, and, +throwing both its leaves wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked +back toward the grand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. At the +same time, the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The eyes +of Sir William Howe and his guests being directed to the staircase, there +appeared on the uppermost landing-place, that was discernible from the bottom, +several personages descending toward the door. The foremost was a man of stern +visage, wearing a steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it, a dark cloak +and huge wrinkled boots that came halfway up his legs. Under his arm was a +rolled-up banner which seemed to be the banner of England, but strangely rent +and torn; he had a sword in his right hand and grasped a Bible in his left. The +next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, +over which descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet and a doublet and hose +of black satin; he carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. Close behind these +two came a young man of very striking countenance and demeanor with deep +thought and contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his +eye; his garb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and +there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the same group with these were +three or four others, all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing +themselves like personages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It +was the idea of the beholders that these figures went to join the mysterious +funeral that had halted in front of the province-house, yet that supposition +seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved their +hands as they crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal. +</p> + +<p> +“In the devil’s name, what is this?” muttered Sir William +Howe to a gentleman beside him. “A procession of the regicide judges of +King Charles the martyr?” +</p> + +<p> +“These,” said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the +first time that evening—“these, if I interpret them aright, are the +Puritan governors, the rulers of the old original democracy of +Massachusetts—Endicott with the banner from which he had torn the symbol +of subjection, and Winthrop and Sir Henry Vane and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham +and Leverett.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff?” asked Miss +Joliffe. +</p> + +<p> +“Because in after-years,” answered her grandfather, “he laid +down the wisest head in England upon the block for the principles of +liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will not Your Excellency order out the guard?” whispered Lord +Percy, who, with other British officers, had now assembled round the general. +“There may be a plot under this mummery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tush! we have nothing to fear,” carelessly replied Sir William +Howe. “There can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest, and that +somewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best policy +would be to laugh it off. See! here come more of these gentry.” +</p> + +<p> +Another group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. The first +was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch who cautiously felt his way +downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, and stretching forth his +gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man’s shoulder, came a tall +soldier-like figure equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breastplate +and a long sword, which rattled against the stairs. Next was seen a stout man +dressed in rich and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had +the swinging motion of a seaman’s walk, and, chancing to stumble on the +staircase, he suddenly grew wrathful and was heard to mutter an oath. He was +followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled wig such as are represented +in the portraits of Queen Anne’s time and earlier, and the breast of his +coat was decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing to the door he +bowed to the right hand and to the left in a very gracious and insinuating +style, but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puritan governors, he +seemed to wring his hands with sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Dr. Byles,” said Sir +William Howe. “What worthies are these?” +</p> + +<p> +“If it please Your Excellency, they lived somewhat before my day,” +answered the doctor; “but doubtless our friend the colonel has been hand +and glove with them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Their living faces I never looked upon,” said Colonel Joliffe, +gravely; “although I have spoken face to face with many rulers of this +land, and shall greet yet another with an old man’s blessing ere I die. +But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable patriarch to be Bradstreet, +the last of the Puritans, who was governor at ninety or thereabouts. The next +is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England schoolboy will tell you, and +therefore the people cast him down from his high seat into a dungeon. Then +comes Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea-captain and governor. May many +of his countrymen rise as high from as low an origin! Lastly, you saw the +gracious earl of Bellamont, who ruled us under King William.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked Lord Percy. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, were I a rebel,” said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, “I +might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to +form the funeral procession of royal authority in New England.” +</p> + +<p> +Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. The one in +advance had a thoughtful, anxious and somewhat crafty expression of face, and +in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently the result both of an +ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high stations, he seemed not +incapable of cringing to a greater than himself. A few steps behind came an +officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform cut in a fashion old enough to +have been worn by the duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, +which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover +of the wine-cup and good-fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens, he appeared +ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some secret +mischief. Next came a portly gentleman wearing a coat of shaggy cloth lined +with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness and humor in his face and a folio +volume under his arm, but his aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented +beyond all patience and harassed almost to death. He went hastily down, and was +followed by a dignified person dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich +embroidery; his demeanor would have possessed much stateliness, only that a +grievous fit of the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair with +contortions of face and body. When Dr. Byles beheld this figure on the +staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly +until the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish +and despair and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the funeral music +summoned him. +</p> + +<p> +“Governor Belcher—my old patron—in his very shape and +dress!” gasped Dr. Byles. “This is an awful mockery.” +</p> + +<p> +“A tedious foolery, rather,” said Sir William Howe, with an air of +indifference. “But who were the three that preceded him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Governor Dudley, a cunning politician; yet his craft once brought him to +a prison,” replied Colonel Joliffe. “Governor Shute, formerly a +colonel under Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the province, +and learned Governor Burnett, whom the legislature tormented into a mortal +fever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Methinks they were miserable men—these royal governors of +Massachusetts,” observed Miss Joliffe. “Heavens! how dim the light +grows!” +</p> + +<p> +It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the staircase now +burned dim and duskily; so that several figures which passed hastily down the +stairs and went forth from the porch appeared rather like shadows than persons +of fleshly substance. +</p> + +<p> +Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the contiguous apartments +watching the progress of this singular pageant with various emotions of anger, +contempt or half-acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. The +shapes which now seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession were +recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress or broad characteristics +of manner than by any perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. +Their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow, but Dr. Byles and +other gentlemen who had long been familiar with the successive rulers of the +province were heard to whisper the names of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis +Bernard and of the well-remembered Hutchinson, thereby confessing that the +actors, whoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors had +succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages. As +they vanished from the door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the +gloom of night with a dread expression of woe. Following the mimic +representative of Hutchinson came a military figure holding before his face the +cocked hat which he had taken from his powdered head, but his epaulettes and +other insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and something in his +mien reminded the beholders of one who had recently been master of the +province-house and chief of all the land. +</p> + +<p> +“The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass!” exclaimed Lord +Percy, turning pale. +</p> + +<p> +“No, surely,” cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; “it +could not be Gage, or Sir William would have greeted his old comrade in arms. +Perhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of that be assured, young lady,” answered Sir William Howe, fixing +his eyes with a very marked expression upon the immovable visage of her +grandfather. “I have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a host +to these departing guests; the next that takes his leave shall receive due +courtesy.” +</p> + +<p> +A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. It seemed as it +the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks, were now about +to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets and roll of the +muffled drums were a call to some loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an +irresistible impulse, were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if it were he whom +the dreary music summoned to the funeral of departed power. +</p> + +<p> +“See! here comes the last,” whispered Miss Joliffe, pointing her +tremulous finger to the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +A figure had come into view as if descending the stairs, although so dusky was +the region whence it emerged some of the spectators fancied that they had seen +this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the gloom. Downward the figure +came with a stately and martial tread, and, reaching the lowest stair, was +observed to be a tall man booted and wrapped in a military cloak, which was +drawn up around the face so as to meet the napped brim of a laced hat; the +features, therefore, were completely hidden. But the British officers deemed +that they had seen that military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed +embroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which +protruded from the folds of the cloak and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. +Apart from these trifling particulars there were characteristics of gait and +bearing which impelled the wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure +to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that their host had not +suddenly vanished from the midst of them. With a dark flush of wrath upon his +brow, they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the +cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Villain, unmuffle yourself!” cried he. “You pass no +farther.” +</p> + +<p> +The figure, without blenching a hair’s-breadth from the sword which was +pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak +from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse +of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his +countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he +recoiled several steps from the figure and let fall his sword upon the floor. +The martial shape again drew the cloak about his features and passed on, but, +reaching the threshold with his back toward the spectators, he was seen to +stamp his foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. It was afterward +affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage and +sorrow when for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed +through the portal of the province-house. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark! The procession moves,” said Miss Joliffe. +</p> + +<p> +The music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were mingled +with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the Old South and with the roar +of artillery which announced that the beleaguered army of Washington had +intrenched itself upon a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the +cannon smote upon his ear Colonel Joliffe raised himself to the full height of +his aged form and smiled sternly on the British general. +</p> + +<p> +“Would Your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of the +pageant?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care of your gray head!” cried Sir William Howe, fiercely, +though with a quivering lip. “It has stood too long on a traitor’s +shoulders.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must make haste to chop it off, then,” calmly replied the +colonel, “for a few hours longer, and not all the power of Sir William +Howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The +empire of Britain in this ancient province is at its last gasp to-night; almost +while I speak it is a dead corpse, and methinks the shadows of the old +governors are fit mourners at its funeral.” +</p> + +<p> +With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing his +granddaughter’s arm within his own, retired from the last festival that a +British ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It was +supposed that the colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence +in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. However this might be, such +knowledge has never become general. The actors in the scene have vanished into +deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian hand who scattered the cargoes of +the tea-ships on the waves and gained a place in history, yet left no names. +But superstition, among other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous +tale that on the anniversary night of Britain’s discomfiture the ghosts +of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the +Province House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, +tossing his clenched hands into the air and stamping his iron-shod boots upon +the broad freestone steps with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the +sound of a foot-tramp. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, I drew a +long breath and looked round the room, striving with the best energy of my +imagination to throw a tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the +realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar-smoke, +clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visible emblem, I suppose, +of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were +woefully disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey-punch +which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the +picturesque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate of the Brookline +stage was suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some +far-descended governor. A stage-driver sat at one of the windows reading a +penny paper of the day—the Boston <i>Times</i>—and presenting a +figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of “Times in +Boston” seventy or a hundred years ago. On the window-seat lay a bundle +neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle curiosity +to read: “MISS SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE.” A pretty +chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work when we attempt to +throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world +and the day that is passing over us have aught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the +stately staircase down which the procession of the old governors had descended, +and as I emerged through the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded +me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. Then, diving through +the narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng of +Washington street. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a> +II.<br/> +EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT</h2> + +<p> +The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrance from +midsummer till January. One idle evening last winter, confident that he would +be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, I resolved to pay him another +visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some +else unheard-of fact of history. The night was chill and raw, and rendered +boisterous by almost a gale of wind which whistled along Washington street, +causing the gaslights to flare and flicker within the lamps. +</p> + +<p> +As I hurried onward my fancy was busy with a comparison between the present +aspect of the street and that which it probably wore when the British governors +inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices in those times +were few till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the +wooden dwellings and warehouses from the most populous quarters of the town. +The buildings stood insulated and independent, not, as now, merging their +separate existences into connected ranges with a front of tiresome identity, +but each possessing features of its own, as if the owner’s individual +taste had shaped it, and the whole presenting a picturesque irregularity the +absence of which is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern +architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and +there a tallow candle glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows, +would form a sombre contrast to the street as I beheld it with the gaslights +blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops and throwing a noonday +brightness through the huge plates of glass. But the black, lowering sky, as I +turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it frowned upon +the ante-Revolutionary New Englanders. The wintry blast had the same shriek +that was familiar to their ears. The Old South Church, too, still pointed its +antique spire into the darkness and was lost between earth and heaven, and, as +I passed, its clock, which had warned so many generations how transitory was +their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself. +“Only seven o’clock!” thought I. “My old friend’s +legends will scarcely kill the hours ’twixt this and bedtime.” +</p> + +<p> +Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confined +precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of the +Province House. On entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected, the old +tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds +of smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognized me with evident pleasure, for my +rare properties as a patient listener invariably make me a favorite with +elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrative propensites. Drawing a chair to the +fire, I desired mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey-punch, +which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, +a dark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling of nutmeg +strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made +himself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany, and I rejoiced at the oddity of the +name, because it gave his image and character a sort of individuality in my +conception. The old gentleman’s draught acted as a solvent upon his +memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead +people and traits of ancient manners, some of which were childish as a +nurse’s lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of the +grave historian. Nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious +picture which used to hang in one of the chambers of the Province House, +directly above the room where we were now sitting. The following is as correct +a version of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any other +source, although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the +marvellous. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +In one of the apartments of the province-house there was long preserved an +ancient picture the frame of which was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself +so dark with age, damp and smoke that not a touch of the painter’s art +could be discerned. Time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it and left to +tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. +During the rule of many successive governors it had hung, by prescriptive and +undisputed right, over the mantel piece of the same chamber, and it still kept +its place when Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson assumed the administration of the +province on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard. +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant-governor sat one afternoon resting his head against the carved +back of his stately arm-chair and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness +of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs +of the deepest moment required the ruler’s decision; for within that very +hour Hutchinson had received intelligence of the arrival of a British fleet +bringing three regiments from Halifax to overawe the insubordination of the +people. These troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of Castle +William and the town itself, yet, instead of affixing his signature to an +official order, there sat the lieutenant-governor so carefully scrutinizing the +black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice of two young +persons who attended him. One, wearing a military dress of buff, was his +kinsman, Francis Lincoln, the provincial captain of Castle William; the other, +who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was Alice Vane, his favorite niece. +She was clad entirely in white—a pale, ethereal creature who, though a +native of New England, had been educated abroad and seemed not merely a +stranger from another clime, but almost a being from another world. For several +years, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and +there had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting which she +found few opportunities of gratifying in the undecorated dwellings of the +colonial gentry. It was said that the early productions of her own pencil +exhibited no inferior genius, though perhaps the rude atmosphere of New England +had cramped her hand and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. But, observing +her uncle’s steadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of +years to discover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it known, my dear uncle,” inquired she, “what this old +picture once represented? Possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a +masterpiece of some great artist; else why has it so long held such a +conspicuous place?” +</p> + +<p> +As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom—for he was as attentive to all +the humors and caprices of Alice as if she had been his own best-beloved +child—did not immediately reply, the young captain of Castle William took +that office upon himself. +</p> + +<p> +“This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,” said he, +“has been an heirloom in the province-house from time immemorial. As to +the painter, I can tell you nothing; but if half the stories told of it be +true, not one of the great Italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a +piece of work as that before you.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and fantasies +which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular demonstration, had grown +to be articles of popular belief in reference to this old picture. One of the +wildest, and at the same time the best-accredited, accounts stated it to be an +original and authentic portrait of the evil one, taken at a witch-meeting near +Salem, and that its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by +several of the confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. It +was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the +blackness of the picture, and had shown himself at seasons of public calamity +to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for instance, had beheld this +ominous apparition on the eve of General Abercrombie’s shameful and +bloody defeat under the walls of Ticonderoga. Many of the servants of the +province-house had caught glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them at +morning or evening twilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire +that glimmered on the hearth beneath, although, if any were, bold enough to +hold a torch before the picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable +as ever. The oldest inhabitant of Boston recollected that his father—in +whose days the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight—had once looked +upon it, but would never suffer himself to be questioned as to the face which +was there represented. In connection with such stories, it was remarkable that +over the top of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk, +indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the picture until the +duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. But, after all, it was the +most singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous governors of +Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the +state-chamber of the province-house. +</p> + +<p> +“Some of these fables are really awful,” observed Alice Vane, who +had occasionally shuddered as well as smiled while her cousin spoke. “It +would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the canvas, since +the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those which fancy paints +instead of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But would it be possible,” inquired her cousin,” to restore +this dark picture to its pristine hues?” +</p> + +<p> +“Such arts are known in Italy,” said Alice. +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood, and +listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives. Yet his voice +had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the explanation of the +mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you are +so fond,” remarked he, “but my antiquarian researches have long +since made me acquainted with the subject of this picture—if picture it +can be called—which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face +of the long-buried man whom it once represented. It was the portrait of Edward +Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the history of New +England.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of that Edward Randolph,” exclaimed Captain Lincoln, “who +obtained the repeal of the first provincial charter, under which our +forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privileges—he that was styled +the arch-enemy of New England, and whose memory is still held in detestation as +the destroyer of our liberties?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was the same Randolph,” answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily in +his chair. “It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular +odium.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our annals tell us,” continued the captain of Castle William, +“that the curse of the people followed this Randolph where he went and +wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was +seen, likewise, in the manner of his death. They say, too, that the inward +misery of that curse worked itself outward and was visible on the wretched +man’s countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. If so, and +if this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of +blackness has gathered over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how little +of historic truth lies at the bottom,” said the lieutenant-governor. +“As regards the life and character of Edward Randolph, too implicit +credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, who—I must say it, though +some of his blood runs in my veins—has filled our early history with old +women’s tales as fanciful and extravagant as those of Greece or +Rome.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” whispered Alice Vane, “may not such fables have a +moral? And methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not +without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the province-house. +When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they should be +reminded of the awful weight of a people’s curse.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at his niece, as if her +girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast which all his +policy or principles could not entirely subdue. He knew, indeed, that Alice, in +spite of her foreign education, retained the native sympathies of a New England +girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Peace, silly child!” cried he, at last, more harshly than he had +ever before addressed the gentle Alice. “The rebuke of a king; is more to +be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude.—Captain +Lincoln, it is decided: the fortress of Castle William must be occupied by the +royal troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town or +encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of tumult, and almost +rebellion, that His Majesty’s government should have a wall of strength +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trust, sir—trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people,” +said Captain Lincoln, “nor teach them that they can ever be on other +terms with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side +by side through the French war. Do not convert the streets of your native town +into a camp. Think twice before you give up old Castle William, the key of the +province, into other keeping than that of true-born New Englanders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, rising from his +chair. “A British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive +the necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. Your presence also +will be required. Till then, farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while Alice and +her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and once pausing to +glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain of Castle William fancied +that the girl’s air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of +those spirits of fable—fairies or creatures of a more antique +mythology—who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal affairs, half in +caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for +her to pass Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Come forth, dark and evil shape!” cried she. “It is thine +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +In the evening Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the +foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various +interests had summoned them together. There were the selectmen of +Boston—plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives +of the old puritanical founders whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an +impress upon the New England character. Contrasting with these were one or two +members of council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered +waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat +ostentatious display of courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was +a major of the British army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor’s orders +for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. +The captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson’s chair, with +folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whom he was +soon to be superseded in his command. On a table in the centre of the chamber +stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a dozen +waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for the lieutenant-governor’s +signature. +</p> + +<p> +Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains, which +fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of a +lady’s robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been there +at such a time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her +singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not +surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chairman of the selectmen was +addressing to the lieutenant-governor a long and solemn protest against the +reception of the British troops into the town. +</p> + +<p> +“And if Your Honor,” concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy +old gentleman, “shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary +sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the +responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood +be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon Your Honor’s memory. +You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our forefathers; the more +to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honorable mention +as a true patriot and upright ruler when your own doings shall be written down +in history.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well in +the annals of my country,” replied Hutchinson, controlling his impatience +into courtesy, “nor know I any better method of attaining that end than +by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief which, with your +pardon, seems to have infected older men than myself. Would you have me wait +till the mob shall sack the province-house as they did my private mansion? +Trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee for protection +to the king’s banner, the raising of which is now so distasteful to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the +lieutenant-governor’s orders. “The demagogues of this province have +raised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him in God’s +name and the king’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws,” answered +the captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +“Craving your pardon, young sir,” said the venerable selectman, +“let not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against the +oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done. Like +them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence may send +us—always after our own best exertions to amend it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there peep forth the devil’s claws!” muttered +Hutchinson, who well understood the nature of Puritan submission. “This +matter shall be expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every +corner and a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may +venture to walk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob in this remote +province of the realm? The king is my master, and England is my country; upheld +by their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble and defy them.” +</p> + +<p> +He snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to the paper that lay on +the table, when the captain of Castle William placed his hand upon his +shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious respect +which was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, +and in none more than in the lieutenant-governor himself. Looking angrily up, +he perceived that his young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite +wall. Hutchinson’s eye followed the signal, and he saw what had hitherto +been unobserved—that a black silk curtain was suspended before the +mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts immediately +recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon, and in his surprise, confused +by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency in +this phenomenon, he called loudly upon her: +</p> + +<p> +“Alice! Come hither, Alice!” +</p> + +<p> +No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and, pressing +one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain that +concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise burst from every beholder, +but the lieutenant-governor’s voice had a tone of horror. +</p> + +<p> +“By Heaven!” said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather to +himself than to those around him; “if the spirit of Edward Randolph were +to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the +terrors of hell upon his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“For some wise end,” said the aged selectman, solemnly, “hath +Providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful +effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold.” +</p> + +<p> +Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste of canvas +now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, +but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a half-length figure of a gentleman +in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff +and a beard, and wearing a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. +Beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. The +whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the +effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and +awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any words can convey an +idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt and exposed to +the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast surrounding +multitude. There was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by +the crushing weight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had come forth upon +the countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of +immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and +darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen +over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was the +portrait of Edward Randolph as he appeared when a people’s curse had +wrought its influence upon his nature. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twould drive me mad, that awful face,” said Hutchinson, who +seemed fascinated by the contemplation of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Be warned, then,” whispered Alice. “He trampled on a +people’s rights. Behold his punishment, and avoid a crime like +his.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, but, exerting his +energy—which was not, however, his most characteristic feature—he +strove to shake off the spell of Randolph’s countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Girl,” cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, +“have you brought hither your painter’s art, your Italian spirit of +intrigue, your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of +rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? See +here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatched +the pen; “for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented +soul, Your Honor is that man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Away!” answered Hutchinson, fiercely. “Though yonder +senseless picture cried ‘Forbear!rsquo; it should not move me!” +</p> + +<p> +Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face—which seemed at that +moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look—he +scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, +the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that +signature had granted away his salvation. +</p> + +<p> +“It is done,” said he, and placed his hand upon his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“May Heaven forgive the deed!” said the soft, sad accents of Alice +Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away. +</p> + +<p> +When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household, and +spreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture had started +from the wall and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson. If +such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind; for +within the antique frame nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud +which had covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, +indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and +hidden itself behind a century’s obscurity. The truth probably was that +Alice Vane’s secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely +effected a temporary renovation. But those who in that brief interval had +beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph desired no second glance, and ever +afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had +appeared visibly among them. And, as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, +his dying-hour drew on, he gasped for breath and complained that he was choking +with the blood of the Boston Massacre, and Francis Lincoln, the former captain +of Castle William, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his +frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel at that +dread hour the tremendous burden of a people’s curse? +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine host whether the +picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but Mr. Tiffany informed +me that it had long since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden in some +out-of-the-way corner of the New England Museum. Perchance some curious +antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the +picture-cleaner, may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the +facts here set down. +</p> + +<p> +During the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad and raging +and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province House that it +seemed as if all the old governors and great men were running riot above stairs +while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below. In the course of generations, +when many people have lived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of the +wind through its crannies and the creaking of its beams and rafters become +strangely like the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy +footsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a +century were revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in +our ears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside of the Province +House and, plunging down the doorsteps, fought my way homeward against a +drifting snow-storm. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a> +III.<br/> +LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE</h2> + +<p> +Mine excellent friend the landlord of the Province House was pleased the other +evening to invite Mr. Tiffany and myself to an oyster-supper. This slight mark +of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed, was far less than the +ingenious tale-teller, and I, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had +fairly earned by the public notice which our joint lucubrations had attracted +to his establishment. Many a cigar had been smoked within his premises, many a +glass of wine or more potent <i>aqua vitæ</i> had been quaffed, many a +dinner had been eaten, by curious strangers who, save for the fortunate +conjunction of Mr. Tiffany and me, would never have ventured through that +darksome avenue which gives access to the historic precincts of the Province +House. In short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas +Waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into public +view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and dry-good +stores which hides its aristocratic front from Washington street. It may be +unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom of the house, +lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult to renew the lease on so favorable +terms as heretofore. +</p> + +<p> +Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself felt any +scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set before us. If +the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled walls had witnessed in +a bygone century; if mine host presided with somewhat less of state than might +have befitted a successor of the royal governors; if the guests made a less +imposing show than the bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who +erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table and now sleep within their armorial +tombs on Copp’s Hill or round King’s Chapel,—yet never, I may +boldly say, did a more comfortable little party assemble in the province-house +from Queen Anne’s days to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered more +interesting by the presence of a venerable personage whose own actual +reminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and Howe, and even supplied him +with a doubtful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one of that small, and +now all but extinguished, class whose attachment to royalty, and to the +colonial institutions and customs that were connected with it, had never +yielded to the democratic heresies of after-times. The young queen of Britain +has not a more loyal subject in her realm—perhaps not one who would kneel +before her throne with such reverential love—as this old grandsire whose +head has whitened beneath the mild sway of the republic which still in his +mellower moments he terms a usurpation. Yet prejudices so obstinate have not +made him an ungentle or impracticable companion. If the truth must be told, the +life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled +character—he has had so little choice of friends and been so often +destitute of any—that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness +with either Oliver Cromwell or John Hancock, to say nothing of any democrat now +upon the stage. In another paper of this series I may perhaps give the reader a +closer glimpse of his portrait. +</p> + +<p> +Our host in due season uncorked a bottle of Madeira of such exquisite perfume +and admirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in an ancient bin +down deep beneath the deepest cellar where some jolly old butler stored away +the governor’s choicest wine and forgot to reveal the secret on his +death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost and a libation to his memory! This +precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. Tiffany with peculiar zest, and after +sipping the third glass it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest +legends which he had yet raked from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. +With some suitable adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government of Massachusetts +Bay—now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago—a young lady of rank +and fortune arrived from England to claim his protection as her guardian. He +was her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the gradual +extinction of her family; so that no more eligible shelter could be found for +the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe than within the province-house +of a Transatlantic colony. The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, had been as +a mother to her childhood, and was now anxious to receive her in the hope that +a beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from the +primitive society of New England than amid the artifices and corruptions of a +court. If either the governor or his lady had especially consulted their own +comfort, they would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other +hands, since with some noble and splendid traits of character Lady Eleanore was +remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her +hereditary and personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control. +Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly less +than a monomania; or if the acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, +it seemed due from Providence that pride so sinful should be followed by as +severe a retribution. That tinge of the marvellous which is thrown over so many +of these half-forgotten legends has probably imparted an additional wildness to +the strange story of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. +</p> + +<p> +The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whence Lady +Eleanore was conveyed to Boston in the governor’s coach, attended by a +small escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous equipage, with its four +black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through Cornhill surrounded +by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers with swords dangling to their +stirrups and pistols at their holsters. Through the large glass windows of the +coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the figure of Lady +Eleanore, strangely combining an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and +beauty of a maiden in her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among the +ladies of the province that their fair rival was indebted for much of the +irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress—an +embroidered mantle—which had been wrought by the most skilful artist in +London, and possessed even magical properties of adornment. On the present +occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, being clad in a +riding-habit of velvet which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any +other form. +</p> + +<p> +The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade came to a +pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced the province-house +from the public street. It was an awkward coincidence that the bell of the Old +South was just then tolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome peal +with which it was customary to announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, +Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had +come embodied in her beautiful person. +</p> + +<p> +“A very great disrespect!” exclaimed Captain Langford, an English +officer who had recently brought despatches to Governor Shute. “The +funeral should have been deferred lest Lady Eleanore’s spirits be +affected by such a dismal welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“With your pardon, sir,” replied Dr. Clarke, a physician and a +famous champion of the popular party, “whatever the heralds may pretend, +a dead beggar must have precedence of a living queen. King Death confers high +privileges.” +</p> + +<p> +These remarks-were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage through the +crowd which had gathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an open avenue to +the portal of the province-house. A black slave in livery now leaped from +behind the coach and threw open the door, while at the same moment Governor +Shute descended the flight of steps from his mansion to assist Lady Eleanore in +alighting. But the governor’s stately approach was anticipated in a +manner that excited general astonishment. A pale young man with his black hair +all in disorder rushed from the throng and prostrated himself beside the coach, +thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe to tread +upon. She held back an instant, yet with an expression as if doubting whether +the young man were worthy to bear the weight of her footstep rather than +dissatisfied to receive such awful reverence from a fellow-mortal. +</p> + +<p> +“Up, sir!” said the governor, sternly, at the same time lifting his +cane over the intruder. “What means the Bedlamite by this freak?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” answered Lady Eleanore, playfully, but with more scorn than +pity in her tone; “Your Excellency shall not strike him. When men seek +only to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily +granted—and so well deserved!” Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam +on a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form and extended her hand to +meet that of the governor. +</p> + +<p> +There was a brief interval during which Lady Eleanore retained this attitude, +and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary +pride trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature than these two +figures presented at that moment. Yet the spectators were so smitten with her +beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the existence of such a creature, +that they gave a simultaneous acclamation of applause. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this insolent young fellow?” inquired Captain Langford, who +still remained beside Dr. Clarke. “If he be in his senses, his +impertinence demands the bastinado; if mad, Lady Eleanore should be secured +from further inconvenience by his confinement.” +</p> + +<p> +“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the doctor—“a +youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages save the mind and soul that +nature gave him; and, being secretary to our colonial agent in London, it was +his misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her, and her +scorn has driven him mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English officer. +</p> + +<p> +“It may be so,” said Dr. Clarke, frowning as he spoke; “but I +tell you, sir, I could wellnigh doubt the justice of the Heaven above us if no +signal humiliation overtake this lady who now treads so haughtily into yonder +mansion. She seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our common nature, +which envelops all human souls; see if that nature do not assert its claim over +her in some mode that shall bring her level with the lowest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried Captain Langford, indignantly—“neither +in life nor when they lay her with her ancestors.” +</p> + +<p> +Not many days afterward the governor gave a ball in honor of Lady Eleanore +Rochcliffe. The principal gentry of the colony received invitations, which were +distributed to their residences far and near by messengers on horseback bearing +missives sealed with all the formality of official despatches. In obedience to +the summons, there was a general gathering of rank, wealth and beauty, and the +wide door of the province-house had seldom given admittance to more numerous +and honorable guests than on the evening of Lady Eleanore’s ball. Without +much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid, for, +according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and +satins outspread over wide-projecting hoops, and the gentlemen glittered in +gold embroidery laid unsparingly upon the purple or scarlet or sky-blue velvet +which was the material of their coats and waistcoats. The latter article of +dress was of great importance, since it enveloped the wearer’s body +nearly to the knees and was perhaps bedizened with the amount of his whole +year’s income in golden flowers and foliage. The altered taste of the +present day—a taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole system of +society—would look upon almost any of those gorgeous figures as +ridiculous, although that evening the guests sought their reflections in the +pier-glasses and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. +What a pity that one of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the +scene which by the very traits that were so transitory might have taught us +much that would be worth knowing and remembering! +</p> + +<p> +Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some faint +idea of a garment already noticed in this legend—the Lady +Eleanore’s embroidered mantle, which the gossips whispered was invested +with magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her figure each +time that she put it on! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has thrown +an awe around my image of her, partly from its fabled virtues and partly +because it was the handiwork of a dying woman, and perchance owed the fantastic +grace of its conception to the delirium of approaching death. +</p> + +<p> +After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe stood +apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself within a small and +distinguished circle to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than to the +general throng. The waxen torches threw their radiance vividly over the scene, +bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief, but she gazed carelessly, +and with now and then an expression of weariness or scorn tempered with such +feminine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity of +which it was the utterance. She beheld the spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, +as disdaining to be pleased with the provincial mockery of a court-festival, +but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to +participate in the enjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the +recollections of those who saw her that evening were influenced by the strange +events with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure +ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural, although +at the time the general whisper was of her exceeding beauty and of the +indescribable charm which her mantle threw around her. Some close observers, +indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate paleness of countenance, with a +corresponding flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and +helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the point of sinking to the +ground. Then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies, and +threw some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation. +There was so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments that it +astonished every right-minded listener, till, looking in her face, a lurking +and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them with doubts both as to her +seriousness and sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe’s circle grew +smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in it. These were Captain Langford, +the English officer before mentioned; a Virginian planter who had come to +Massachusetts on some political errand; a young Episcopal clergyman, the +grandson of a British earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of Governor +Shute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance from Lady Eleanore. +</p> + +<p> +At different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the province-house +passed among the guests bearing huge trays of refreshments and French and +Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, who refused to wet her beautiful lips +even with a bubble of champagne, had sunk back into a large damask chair, +apparently overwearied either with the excitement of the scene or its tedium; +and while, for an instant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a +young man stole forward and knelt down at her feet. He bore a salver in his +hand on which was a chased silver goblet filled to the brim with wine, which he +offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen—or, rather, with the awful +devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that some one +touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, +wild features and dishevelled hair of Jervase Helwyse. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you haunt me thus?” said she, in a languid tone, but with a +kindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted herself to express. “They +tell me that I have done you harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven knows if that be so,” replied the young man, solemnly. +“But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of that harm, if such there be, and for +your own earthly and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of this holy +wine and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. And this shall be a +symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the chain of human +sympathies, which whoso would shake off must keep company with fallen +angels.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental vessel?” +exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +This question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which was +recognized as appertaining to the communion-plate of the Old South Church, and, +for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with the consecrated wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is poisoned,” half whispered the governor’s +secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“Pour it down the villain’s throat!” cried the Virginian, +fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn him out of the house!” cried Captain Langford, seizing +Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the sacramental cup was +overturned and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore’s mantle. +“Whether knave, fool or Bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow +should go at large.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,” said Lady Eleanore, +with a faint and weary smile. “Take him out of my sight, if such be your +pleasure, for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him, whereas, +in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for the mischief I +have wrought.” +</p> + +<p> +But while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the unfortunate young man +he broke from them and with a wild, impassioned earnestness offered a new and +equally strange petition to Lady Eleanore. It was no other than that she should +throw off the mantle, which while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon her +she had drawn more closely around her form, so as almost to shroud herself +within it. +</p> + +<p> +“Cast it from you,” exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, clasping his hands +in an agony of entreaty. “It may not yet be too late. Give the accursed +garment to the flames.” +</p> + +<p> +But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the +embroidered mantle over her head in such a fashion as to give a completely new +aspect to her beautiful face, which, half hidden, half revealed, seemed to +belong to some being of mysterious character and purposes. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, Jervase Helwyse!” said she. “Keep my image in your +remembrance as you behold it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, lady!” he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a +funeral-bell; “we must meet shortly when your face may wear another +aspect, and that shall be the image that must abide within me.” He made +no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants who +almost dragged him out of the apartment and dismissed him roughly from the iron +gate of the province-house. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Langford, who had been very active in this affair, was returning to the +presence of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, Dr. +Clarke, with whom he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival. The +doctor stood apart, separated from Lady Eleanore by the width of the room, but +eying her with such keen sagacity that Captain Langford involuntarily gave him +credit for the discovery of some deep secret. +</p> + +<p> +“You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly +maiden,” said he, hoping thus to draw forth the physician’s hidden +knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” answered Dr. Clarke, with a grave smile; “and +if you be wise, you will put up the same prayer for yourself. Woe to those who +shall be smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder stands the +governor, and I have a word or two for his private ear. Good-night!” He +accordingly advanced to Governor Shute and addressed him in so low a tone that +none of the bystanders could catch a word of what he said, although the sudden +change of His Excellency’s hitherto cheerful visage betokened that the +communication could be of no agreeable import. A very few moments afterward it +was announced to the guests that an unforeseen circumstance rendered it +necessary to put a premature close to the festival. +</p> + +<p> +The ball at the province-house supplied a topic of conversation for the +colonial metropolis for some days after its occurrence, and might still longer +have been the general theme, only that a subject of all-engrossing interest +thrust it for a time from the public recollection. This was the appearance of a +dreadful epidemic which in that age, and long before and afterward, was wont to +slay its hundreds and thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion +of which we speak it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch that +it has left its traces—its pitmarks, to use an appropriate +figure—on the history of the country, the affairs of which were thrown +into confusion by its ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the +disease seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting +its victims from among the proud, the well-born and the wealthy, entering +unabashed into stately chambers and lying down with the slumberers in silken +beds. Some of the most distinguished guests of the province-house—even +those whom the haughty Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy of her +favor—were stricken by this fatal scourge. It was noticed with an +ungenerous bitterness of feeling that the four gentlemen—the Virginian, +the British officer, the young clergyman and the governor’s +secretary—who had been her most devoted attendants on the evening of the +ball were the foremost on whom the plague-stroke fell. But the disease, +pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a prerogative of +aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer conferred like a noble’s star or +an order of knighthood. It threaded its way through the narrow and crooked +streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome dwellings and laid its hand of +death upon the artisans and laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich and +poor to feel themselves brethren then, and stalking to and fro across the Three +Hills with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there was that +mighty conqueror—that scourge and horror of our forefathers—the +small-pox. +</p> + +<p> +We cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore by +contemplating it as the fangless monster of the present day. We must remember, +rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of the Asiatic cholera +striding from shore to shore of the Atlantic and marching like Destiny upon +cities far remote which flight had already half depopulated. There is no other +fear so horrible and unhumanizing as that which makes man dread to breathe +heaven’s vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother +or friend lest the grip of the pestilence should clutch him. Such was the +dismay that now followed in the track of the disease or ran before it +throughout the town. Graves were hastily dug and the pestilential relics as +hastily covered, because the dead were enemies of the living and strove to draw +them headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. The public councils were +suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices now that an +unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler’s mansion. Had an +enemy’s fleet been hovering on the coast or his armies trampling on our +soil, the people would probably have committed their defence to that same +direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity and would permit no +interference with his sway. This conqueror had a symbol of his triumphs: it was +a blood-red flag that fluttered in the tainted air over the door of every +dwelling into which the small-pox had entered. +</p> + +<p> +Such a banner was long since waving over the portal of the province-house, for +thence, as was proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this dreadful +mischief issued. It had been traced back to a lady’s luxurious chamber, +to the proudest of the proud, to her that was so delicate and hardly owned +herself of earthly mould, to the haughty one who took her stand above human +sympathies—to Lady Eleanore. There remained no room for doubt that the +contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle which threw so strange a grace +around her at the festival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the +delirious brain of a woman on her death-bed and was the last toil of her +stiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with its golden +threads. This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and wide. The +people raved against the Lady Eleanore and cried out that her pride and scorn +had evoked a fiend, and that between them both this monstrous evil had been +born. At times their rage and despair took the semblance of grinning mirth; and +whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted over another and yet +another door, they clapped their hands and shouted through the streets in +bitter mockery: “Behold a new triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” +</p> + +<p> +One day in the midst of these dismal times a wild figure approached the portal +of the province-house, and, folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet +banner, which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to fling abroad the +contagion that it typified. At length, climbing one of the pillars by means of +the iron balustrade, he took down the flag, and entered the mansion waving it +above his head. At the foot of the staircase he met the governor, booted and +spurred, with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting +forth upon a journey. +</p> + +<p> +“Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?” exclaimed Shute, +extending his cane to guard himself from contact. “There is nothing here +but Death; back, or you will meet him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the pestilence,” +cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. “Death and the +pestilence, who wears the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through the +streets to-night, and I must march before them with this banner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do I waste words on the fellow?” muttered the governor, +drawing his cloak across his mouth. “What matters his miserable life, +when none of us are sure of twelve hours’ breath?—On, fool, to your +own destruction!” +</p> + +<p> +He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately ascended the staircase, but on +the first landing-place was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon his +shoulder. Looking fiercely up with a madman’s impulse to struggle with +and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stern +eye which possessed the mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. +The person whom he had now encountered was the physician, Dr. Clarke, the +duties of whose sad profession had led him to the province-house, where he was +an infrequent guest in more prosperous times. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man, what is your purpose?” demanded he. +</p> + +<p> +“I seek the Lady Eleanore,” answered Jervase Helwyse, submissively. +</p> + +<p> +“All have fled from her,” said the physician. “Why do you +seek her now? I tell you, youth, her nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold +of that fatal chamber. Know ye not that never came such a curse to our shores +as this lovely Lady Eleanore, that her breath has filled the air with poison, +that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land from the folds of her +accursed mantle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me look upon her,” rejoined the mad youth, more wildly. +“Let me behold her in her awful beauty, clad in the regal garments of the +pestilence. She and Death sit on a throne together; let me kneel down before +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor youth!” said Dr. Clarke, and, moved by a deep sense of human +weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. “Wilt thou +still worship the destroyer and surround her image with fantasies the more +magnificent the more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants. +Approach, then. Madness, as I have noted, has that good efficacy that it will +guard you from contagion, and perhaps its own cure may be found in yonder +chamber.” Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door and +signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should enter. +</p> + +<p> +The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty +mistress sat in state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence which as +by enchantment she scattered round about her. He dreamed, no doubt, that her +beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. With such +anticipations he stole reverentially to the door at which the physician stood, +but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened +chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the Lady Eleanore?” whispered he. +</p> + +<p> +“Call her,” replied the physician. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Eleanore! princess! queen of Death!” cried Jervase Helwyse, +advancing three steps into the chamber. “She is not here. There, on +yonder table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore upon her +bosom. There”—and he shuddered—“there hangs her mantle, +on which a dead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where is the +Lady Eleanore?” +</p> + +<p> +Something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed and a low moan +was uttered, which, listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distinguish as +a woman’s voice complaining dolefully of thirst. He fancied, even, that +he recognized its tones. +</p> + +<p> +“My throat! My throat is scorched,” murmured the voice. “A +drop of water!” +</p> + +<p> +“What thing art thou?” said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near +the bed and tearing asunder its curtains. “Whose voice hast thou stolen +for thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be conscious +of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my +lady’s chamber?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jervase Helwyse,” said the voice—and as it spoke the +figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face—“look +not now on the woman you once loved. The curse of Heaven hath stricken me +because I would not call man my brother nor woman sister. I wrapped myself in +pride as in a mantle and scorned the sympathies of nature, and therefore has +Nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful sympathy. You are +avenged, they are all avenged, Nature is avenged; for I am Eleanore +Rochcliffe.” +</p> + +<p> +The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom of his +heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life and love that had been +paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase Helwyse. He shook his +finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed +were shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment. +</p> + +<p> +“Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” he cried. “All have +been her victims; who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?” +Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal +mantle and rushed from the chamber and the house. +</p> + +<p> +That night a procession passed by torchlight through the streets, bearing in +the midst the figure of a woman enveloped with a richly-embroidered mantle, +while in advance stalked Jervase Helwyse waving the red flag of the pestilence. +Arriving opposite the province-house, the mob burned the effigy, and a strong +wind came and swept away the ashes. It was said that from that very hour the +pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the +first plague-stroke to the last, with Lady Elcanore’s mantle. A +remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady’s fate. There is a +belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this mansion a female form may +sometimes be duskily discerned shrinking into the darkest corner and muffling +her face within an embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can this be +other than the once proud Lady Eleanore? +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no little Warmth of applause upon +this narrative, in which we had all been deeply interested; for the reader can +scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such a tale is heightened when, +as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him +who tells it. For my own part, knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle +the foundation of his facts, I could not have believed him one whit the more +faithfully had he professed himself an eyewitness of the doings and sufferings +of poor Lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary +evidence, or even require him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting +that—Heaven be praised!—it was consumed to ashes. +</p> + +<p> +But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to +talk, in his turn, about the traditions of the Province House, and hinted that +he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary stock. +Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him to +favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course, were urged to the same +effect; and our venerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited +only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who had been summoned forth to provide +accommodations for several new arrivals. Perchance the public—but be this +as its own caprice and ours shall settle the matter—may read the result +in another tale of the Province House. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a> +IV.<br/> +OLD ESTHER DUDLEY</h2> + +<p> +Our host having resumed the chair, he as well as Mr. Tiffany and myself +expressed much eagerness to be made acquainted with the story to which the +loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw lit to moisten his +throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his face toward our +coal-fire, looked steadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its cheerful +glow. Finally he poured forth a great fluency of speech. The generous liquid +that he had imbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off +the chill from his heart and mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel +which we could hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore +winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable than those of a +younger man—or, at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by +more visible effects than if his judgment and will had possessed the potency of +meridian life. At the pathetic passages of his narrative he readily melted into +tears. When a breath of indignation swept across his spirit, the blood flushed +his withered visage even to the roots of his white hair, and he shook his +clinched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in +those who felt very kindly toward the desolate old soul. But ever and anon, +sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person’s +intellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of the matter in hand and +groping for it amid misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh +and express a doubt whether his wits—for by that phrase it pleased our +ancient friend to signify his mental powers—were not getting a little the +worse for wear. +</p> + +<p> +Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist’s story required more +revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series which +have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone of the +affair may have undergone some slight—or perchance more than +slight—metamorphosis in its transmission to the reader through the medium +of a thoroughgoing democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch with no +involution of plot nor any great interest of events, yet possessing, if I have +rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over the mind which the shadow of +the old Province House flings upon the loiterer in its court-yard. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The hour had come—the hour of defeat and humiliation—when Sir +William Howe was to pass over the threshold of the province-house and embark, +with no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised himself, on board the +British fleet. He bade his servants and military attendants go before him, and +lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion to quell the fierce emotions +that struggled in his bosom as with a death-throb. Preferable then would he +have deemed his fate had a warrior’s death left him a claim to the narrow +territory of a grave within the soil which the king had given him to defend. +With an ominous perception that as his departing footsteps echoed adown the +staircase the sway of Britain was passing for ever from New England, he smote +his clenched hand on his brow and cursed the destiny that had flung the shame +of a dismembered empire upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Would to God,” cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, +“that the rebels were even now at the doorstep! A blood-stain upon the +floor should then bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful to +his trust.” +</p> + +<p> +The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven’s cause and the king’s are one,” it said. +“Go forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven to bring back a royal +governor in triumph.” +</p> + +<p> +Subduing at once the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith that it +was unwitnessed, Sir William Howe became conscious that an aged woman leaning +on a gold-headed staff was standing betwixt him and the door. It was old Esther +Dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, until her +presence seemed as inseparable from it as the recollections of its history. She +was the daughter of an ancient and once eminent family which had fallen into +poverty and decay and left its last descendant no resource save the bounty of +the king, nor any shelter except within the walls of the province-house. An +office in the household with merely nominal duties had been assigned to her as +a pretext for the payment of a small pension, the greater part of which she +expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of attire. The claims +of Esther Dudley’s gentle blood were acknowledged by all the successive +governors, and they treated her with the punctilious courtesy which it was her +foible to demand, not always with success, from a neglectful world. The only +actual share which she assumed in the business of the mansion was to glide +through its passages and public chambers late at night to see that the servants +had dropped no fire from their flaring torches nor left embers crackling and +blazing on the hearths. Perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her +rounds in the hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to +invest the old woman with attributes of awe and mystery, fabling that she had +entered the portal of the province-house—none knew whence—in the +train of the first royal governor, and that it was her fate to dwell there till +the last should have departed. +</p> + +<p> +But Sir William Howe, if he ever heard this legend, had forgotten it. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?” asked he, with some +severity of tone. “It is my pleasure to be the last in this mansion of +the king.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so, if it please Your Excellency,” answered the time-stricken +woman. “This roof has sheltered me long; I will not pass from it until +they bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is there for old +Esther Dudley save the province-house or the grave?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Heaven forgive me!” said Sir William Howe to himself. +“I was about to leave this wretched old creature to starve or +beg.—Take this, good Mistress Dudley,” he added, putting a purse +into her hands. “King George’s head on these golden guineas is +sterling yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, even should the rebels crown +John Hancock their king. That purse will buy a better shelter than the +province-house can now afford.” +</p> + +<p> +“While the burden of life remains upon me I will have no other shelter +than this roof,” persisted Esther Dudley, striking her staff upon the +floor with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve; “and when Your +Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter into the porch to welcome +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor old friend!” answered the British general, and all his +manly and martial pride could no longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. +“This is an evil hour for you and me. The province which the king +entrusted to my charge is lost. I go hence in misfortune—perchance in +disgrace—to return no more. And you, whose present being is incorporated +with the past, who have seen governor after governor in stately pageantry +ascend these steps, whose whole life has been an observance of majestic +ceremonies and a worship of the king,—how will you endure the change? +Come with us; bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its allegiance, and +live still under a royal government at Halifax.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! never!” said the pertinacious old dame. “Here will I +abide, and King George shall still have one true subject in his disloyal +province.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beshrew the old fool!” muttered Sir William Howe, growing +impatient of her obstinacy and ashamed of the emotion into which he had been +betrayed. “She is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could +exist nowhere but in this musty edifice.—Well, then, Mistress Dudley, +since you will needs tarry, I give the province-house in charge to you. Take +this key, and keep it safe until myself or some other royal governor shall +demand it of you.” Smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy +key of the province-house, and, delivering it into the old lady’s hands, +drew his cloak around him for departure. +</p> + +<p> +As the general glanced back at Esther Dudley’s antique figure he deemed +her well fitted for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative of the +decayed past—of an age gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith and +feelings all fallen into oblivion or scorn, of what had once been a reality, +but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. Then Sir William Howe strode +forth, smiting his clenched hands together in the fierce anguish of his spirit, +and old Esther Dudley was left to keep watch in the lonely province-house, +dwelling there with Memory; and if Hope ever seemed to flit around her, still +it was Memory in disguise. +</p> + +<p> +The total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the British troops +did not drive the venerable lady from her stronghold. There was not for many +years afterward a governor of Massachusetts, and the magistrates who had charge +of such matters saw no objection to Esther Dudley’s residence in the +province-house, especially as they must otherwise have paid a hireling for +taking care of the premises, which with her was a labor of love; and so they +left her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. Many and strange +were the fables which the gossips whispered about her in all the +chimney-corners of the town. +</p> + +<p> +Among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been left in the mansion, +there was a tall antique mirror which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and +perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The gold of its heavily-wrought +frame was tarnished, and its surface so blurred that the old woman’s +figure, whenever she paused before it, looked indistinct and ghostlike. But it +was the general belief that Esther could cause the governors of the overthrown +dynasty, with the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the +Indian chiefs who had come up to the province-house to hold council or swear +allegiance, the grim provincial warriors, the severe clergymen—in short, +all the pageantry of gone days, all the figures that ever swept across the +broad-plate of glass in former times,—she could cause the whole to +reappear and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows of old life. +Such legends as these, together with the singularity of her isolated existence, +her age and the infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made Mistress +Dudley the object both of fear and pity, and it was partly the result of either +sentiment that, amid all the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor +insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, there was so much +haughtiness in her demeanor toward intruders—among whom she reckoned all +persons acting under the new authorities—that it was really an affair of +no small nerve to look her in the face. And, to do the people justice, stern +republicans as they had now become, they were well content that the old +gentlewoman, in her hoop-petticoat and faded embroidery, should still haunt the +palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed system, +embodying a history in her person. So Esther Dudley dwelt year after year in +the province-house, still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still +faithful to her king, who, so long as the venerable dame yet held her post, +might be said to retain one true subject in New England and one spot of the +empire that had been wrested from him. +</p> + +<p> +And did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor said, “Not so.” +Whenever her chill and withered heart desired warmth, she was wont to summon a +black slave of Governor Shirley’s from the blurred mirror and send him in +search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those deserted chambers. +Forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine gleaming +through him, and did his errand in the burial-grounds, knocking at the iron +doors of tombs or upon the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to +those within, “My mistress, old Esther Dudley, bids you to the +province-house at midnight;” and punctually as the clock of the Old South +told twelve came the shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the +Dudleys—all the grandees of a bygone generation—gliding beneath the +portal into the well-known mansion, where Esther mingled with them as if she +likewise were a shade. Without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is +certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch though +crestfallen old Tories who had lingered in the rebel town during those days of +wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed bottle containing liquor that a royal +governor might have smacked his lips over they quaffed healths to the king and +babbled treason to the republic, feeling as if the protecting shadow of the +throne were still flung around them. But, draining the last drops of their +liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered not again if the rude mob +reviled them in the street. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Esther Dudley’s most frequent and favored guests were the children of +the town. Toward them she was never stern. A kindly and loving nature hindered +elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky prejudices lavished itself +upon these little ones. By bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped +with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy +portal of the province-house, and would often beguile them to spend a whole +play-day there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop-petticoat, +greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. And when these little boys +and girls stole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, they went +bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had long ago forgotten, +rubbing their eyes at the world around them as if they had gone astray into +ancient times and become children of the past. At home, when their parents +asked where they had loitered such a weary while and with whom they had been at +play, the children would talk of all the departed worthies of the province as +far back as Governor Belcher and the haughty dame of Sir William Phipps. It +would seem as though they had been sitting on the knees of these famous +personages, whom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed with +the embroidery of their rich waistcoats or roguishly pulled the long curls of +their flowing wigs. “But Governor Belcher has been dead this many a +year,” would the mother say to her little boy. “And did you really +see him at the province-house?”—“Oh yes, dear +mother—yes!” the half-dreaming child would answer. “But when +old Esther had done speaking about him, he faded away out of his chair.” +Thus, without affrighting her little guests, she led them by the hand into the +chambers of her own desolate heart and made childhood’s fancy discern the +ghosts that haunted there. +</p> + +<p> +Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating her mind +by a proper reference to present things, Esther Dudley appears to have grown +partially crazed. It was found that she had no right sense of the progress and +true state of the Revolutionary war, but held a constant faith that the armies +of Britain were victorious on every field and destined to be ultimately +triumphant. Whenever the town rejoiced for a battle won by Washington or Gates +or Morgan or Greene, the news, in passing through the door of the +province-house as through the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a +strange tale of the prowess of Howe, Clinton or Cornwallis. Sooner or later, it +was her invincible belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of +the king. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was already the +case. On one occasion she startled the townspeople by a brilliant illumination +of the province-house with candles at every pane of glass and a transparency of +the king’s initials and a crown of light in the great balcony-window. The +figure of the aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and +brocades was seen passing from casement to casement, until she paused before +the balcony and flourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled visage +actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal lamp. +</p> + +<p> +“What means this blaze of light? What does old Esther’s joy +portend?” whispered a spectator. “It is frightful to see her +gliding about the chambers and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her +company.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! It is no such mystery,” observed an old man, after some +brief exercise of memory. “Mistress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the +king of England’s birthday.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the blazing +transparency of the king’s crown and initials, only that they pitied the +poor old dame who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck and ruin of the +system to which she appertained. +</p> + +<p> +Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound upward to +the cupola, and thence strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, +watching for a British fleet or for the march of a grand procession with the +king’s banner floating over it. The passengers in the street below would +discern her anxious visage and send up a shout: “When the golden Indian +on the province-house shall shoot his arrow, and when the cock on the Old South +spire shall crow, then look for a royal governor again!” for this had +grown a by-word through the town. And at last, after long, long years, old +Esther Dudley knew—or perchance she only dreamed—that a royal +governor was on the eve of returning to the province-house to receive the heavy +key which Sir William Howe had committed to her charge. Now, it was the fact +that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to Esther’s version of it +was current among the townspeople. She set the mansion in the best order that +her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished gold, stood +long before the blurred mirror to admire her own magnificence. As she gazed the +gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud, talking to +shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to the +household friends of memory, and bidding them rejoice with her and come forth +to meet the governor. And while absorbed in this communion Mistress Dudley +heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, and, looking out at the +window, beheld what she construed as the royal governor’s arrival. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, happy day! Oh, blessed, blessed hour!” she exclaimed. +“Let me but bid him welcome within the portal, and my task in the +province-house and on earth is done.” Then, with tottering feet which age +and tremulous joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand staircase, +her silks sweeping and rustling as she went; so that the sound was as if a +train of special courtiers were thronging from the dim mirror. +</p> + +<p> +And Esther Dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should be flung open +all the pomp and splendor of bygone times would pace majestically into the +province-house and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the +sunshine of the present. She turned the key, withdrew it from the lock, +unclosed the door and stepped across the threshold. Advancing up the court-yard +appeared a person of most dignified mien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted +them, of gentle blood, high rank and long-accustomed authority even in his walk +and every gesture. He was richly dressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which, +however, did not lessen the stateliness of his gait. Around and behind him were +people in plain civic dresses and two or three war-worn +veterans—evidently officers of rank—arrayed in a uniform of blue +and buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots +about her heart, beheld only the principal personage, and never doubted that +this was the long-looked-for governor to whom she was to surrender up her +charge. As he approached she involuntarily sank down on her knees and +tremblingly held forth the heavy key. +</p> + +<p> +“Receive my trust! Take it quickly,” cried she, “for methinks +Death is striving to snatch away my triumph. But he comes too late. Thank +Heaven for this blessed hour! God save King George!” +</p> + +<p> +“That, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a +moment,” replied the unknown guest of the province-house, and, +courteously removing his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. +“Yet, in reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, Heaven forbid +that any here should say you nay. Over the realms which still acknowledge his +sceptre, God save King George!” +</p> + +<p> +Esther Dudley started to her feet, and, hastily clutching back the key, gazed +with fearful earnestness at the stranger, and dimly and doubtfully, as if +suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes half recognized his face. +Years ago she had known him among the gentry of the province, but the ban of +the king had fallen upon him. How, then, came the doomed victim here? +Proscribed, excluded from mercy, the monarch’s most dreaded and hated +foe, this New England merchant had stood triumphantly against a kingdom’s +strength, and his foot now trod upon humbled royalty as he ascended the steps +of the province-house, the people’s chosen governor of Massachusetts. +</p> + +<p> +“Wretch, wretch that I am!” muttered the old woman, with such a +heartbroken expression that the tears gushed from the stranger’s eyes. +“Have I bidden a traitor welcome?—Come, Death! come quickly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, venerable lady!” said Governor Hancock, lending her his +support with all the reverence that a courtier would have shown to a queen, +“your life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you. You +have treasured up all that time has rendered worthless—the principles, +feelings, manners, modes of being and acting which another generation has flung +aside—and you are a symbol of the past. And I and these around +me—we represent a new race of men, living no longer in the past, scarcely +in the present, but projecting our lives forward into the future. Ceasing to +model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and principle to +press onward—onward.—Yet,” continued he, turning to his +attendants, “let us reverence for the last time the stately and gorgeous +prejudices of the tottering past.” +</p> + +<p> +While the republican governor spoke he had continued to support the helpless +form of Esther Dudley; her weight grew heavier against his arm, but at last, +with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman sank down beside one of +the pillars of the portal. The key of the province-house fell from her grasp +and clanked against the stone. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been faithful unto death,” murmured she. “God save +the king!” +</p> + +<p> +“She hath done her office,” said Hancock, solemnly. “We will +follow her reverently to the tomb of her ancestors, and then, my +fellow-citizens, onward—onward. We are no longer children of the +past.” +</p> + +<p> +As the old loyalist concluded his narrative the enthusiasm which had been +fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes and quivering across his wrinkled +visage faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were extinguished. +Just then, too, a lamp upon the mantelpiece threw out a dying gleam, which +vanished as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to grope for one +another’s features by the dim glow of the hearth. With such a lingering +fire, methought, with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient system +vanished from the province-house when the spirit of old Esther Dudley took its +flight. And now, again, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of ages on +the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the past, crying out far and wide +through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky +chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In that same mansion—in +that very chamber—what a volume of history had been told off into hours +by the same voice that was now trembling in the air! Many a governor had heard +those midnight accents and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber. +And, as for mine host and Mr. Bela Tiffany and the old loyalist and me, we had +babbled about dreams of the past until we almost fancied that the clock was +still striking in a bygone century. Neither of us would have wondered had a +hoop-petticoated phantom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking +her rounds in the hush of midnight as of yore, and motioned us to quench the +fading embers of the fire and leave the historic precincts to herself and her +kindred shades. But, as no such vision was vouchsafed, I retired unbidden, and +would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being resolved not to +show my face in the Province House for a good while hence—if ever. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a> +THE HAUNTED MIND</h2> + +<p> +What a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to +recollect yourself, after starting from midnight slumber! By unclosing your +eyes so suddenly you seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in +full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at them before they +can flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you find yourself for a +single instant wide awake in that realm of illusions whither sleep has been the +passport, and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery with a +perception of their strangeness such as you never attain while the dream is +undisturbed. The distant sound of a church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. +You question with yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your +waking ear from some gray tower that stood within the precincts of your dream. +While yet in suspense another clock flings its heavy clang over the slumbering +town with so full and distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the +neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed from the steeple at the +nearest corner; You count the strokes—one, two; and there they cease with +a booming sound like the gathering of a third stroke within the bell. +</p> + +<p> +If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it would be +this. Since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take off +the pressure of yesterday’s fatigue, while before you, till the sun comes +from “Far Cathay” to brighten your window, there is almost the +space of a summer night—one hour to be spent in thought with the +mind’s eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, and two in that +strangest of enjoyments the forgetfulness alike of joy and woe. The moment of +rising belongs to another period of time, and appears so distant that the +plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty air cannot yet be anticipated with +dismay. Yesterday has already vanished among the shadows of the past; to-morrow +has not yet emerged from the future. You have found an intermediate space where +the business of life does not intrude, where the passing moment lingers and +becomes truly the present; a spot where Father Time, when he thinks nobody is +watching him, sits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh that he would fall +asleep and let mortals live on without growing older! +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest motion would +dissipate the fragments of your slumber. Now, being irrevocably awake, you peep +through the half-drawn window-curtain, and observe that the glass is ornamented +with fanciful devices in frost-work, and that each pane presents something like +a frozen dream. There will be time enough to trace out the analogy while +waiting the summons to breakfast. Seen through the clear portion of the glass +where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frost-scenery do not ascend, the most +conspicuous object is the steeple, the white spire of which directs you to the +wintry lustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish the figures on the +clock that has just told the hour. Such a frosty sky and the snow-covered roofs +and the long vista of the frozen street, all white, and the distant water +hardened into rock, might make you shiver even under four blankets and a +woollen comforter. Yet look at that one glorious star! Its beams are +distinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the shadow of the casement +on the bed with a radiance of deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate +an outline. +</p> + +<p> +You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shivering all the while, but +less from bodily chill than the bare idea of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold +even for the thoughts to venture abroad. You speculate on the luxury of wearing +out a whole existence in bed like an oyster in its shell, content with the +sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of nothing but delicious +warmth such as you now feel again. Ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in +its train. You think how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow +coffins through the drear winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy +that they neither shrink nor shiver when the snow is drifting over their little +hillocks and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb. That gloomy +thought will collect a gloomy multitude and throw its complexion over your +wakeful hour. +</p> + +<p> +In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, +the music and revelry, above may cause us to forget their existence and the +buried ones or prisoners whom they hide. But sometimes, and oftenest at +midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open. In an hour like this, +when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength—when the +imagination is a mirror imparting vividness to all ideas without the power of +selecting or controlling them—then pray that your griefs may slumber and +the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. It is too late. A funeral +train comes gliding by your bed in which passion and feeling assume bodily +shape and things of the mind become dim spectres to the eye. There is your +earliest sorrow, a pale young mourner wearing a sister’s likeness to +first love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melancholy +features and grace in the flow of her sable robe. Next appears a shade of +ruined loveliness with dust among her golden hair and her bright garments all +faded and defaced, stealing from your glance with drooping head, as fearful of +reproach: she was your fondest hope, but a delusive one; so call her +Disappointment now. A sterner form succeeds, with a brow of wrinkles, a look +and gesture of iron authority; there is no name for him unless it be +Fatality—an emblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes, a +demon to whom you subjected yourself by some error at the outset of life, and +were bound his slave for ever by once obeying him. See those fiendish +lineaments graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of +that living eye, the pointed finger touching the sore place in your heart! Do +you remember any act of enormous folly at which you would blush even in the +remotest cavern of the earth? Then recognize your shame. +</p> + +<p> +Pass, wretched band! Well for the wakeful one if, riotously miserable, a +fiercer tribe do not surround him—the devils of a guilty heart that holds +its hell within itself. What if Remorse should assume the features of an +injured friend? What if the fiend should come in woman’s garments with a +pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your side? What if he +should stand at your bed’s foot in the likeness of a corpse with a bloody +stain upon the shroud? Sufficient without such guilt is this nightmare of the +soul, this heavy, heavy sinking of the spirits, this wintry gloom about the +heart, this indistinct horror of the mind blending itself with the darkness of +the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +By a desperate effort you start upright, breaking from a sort of conscious +sleep and gazing wildly round the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in +your haunted mind. At the same moment the slumbering embers on the hearth send +forth a gleam which palely illuminates the whole outer room and flickers +through the door of the bedchamber, but cannot quite dispel its obscurity. Your +eye searches for whatever may remind you of the living world. With eager +minuteness you take note of the table near the fireplace, the book with an +ivory knife between its leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat and the fallen +glove. Soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole scene is gone, though its +image remains an instant in your mind’s eye when darkness has swallowed +the reality. Throughout the chamber there is the same obscurity as before, but +not the same gloom within your breast. +</p> + +<p> +As your head falls back upon the pillow you think—in a whisper be it +spoken—how pleasant in these night solitudes would be the rise and fall +of a softer breathing than your own, the slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, +the quiet throb of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your troubled +one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream. Her influence is +over you, though she have no existence but in that momentary image. You sink +down in a flowery spot on the borders of sleep and wakefulness, while your +thoughts rise before you in pictures, all disconnected, yet all assimilated by +a pervading gladsomeness and beauty. The wheeling of gorgeous squadrons that +glitter in the sun is succeeded by the merriment of children round the door of +a schoolhouse beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees at the corner of a +rustic lane. You stand in the sunny rain of a summer shower, and wander among +the sunny trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the brightest of all +rainbows overarching the unbroken sheet of snow on the American side of +Niagara. Your mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing radiance round the +hearth of a young man and his recent bride and the twittering flight of birds +in spring about their new-made nest. You feel the merry bounding of a ship +before the breeze, and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls as they twine their +last and merriest dance in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the +brilliant circle of a crowded theatre as the curtain falls over a light and +airy scene. +</p> + +<p> +With an involuntary start you seize hold on consciousness, and prove yourself +but half awake by running a doubtful parallel between human life and the hour +which has now elapsed. In both you emerge from mystery, pass through a +vicissitude that you can but imperfectly control, and are borne onward to +another mystery. Now comes the peal of the distant clock with fainter and +fainter strokes as you plunge farther into the wilderness of sleep. It is the +knell of a temporary death. Your spirit has departed, and strays like a free +citizen among the people of a shadowy world, beholding strange sights, yet +without wonder or dismay. So calm, perhaps, will be the final change—so +undisturbed, as if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to its +eternal home. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a> +THE VILLAGE UNCLE</h2> + +<h4>AN IMAGINARY RETROSPECT</h4> + +<p> +Come! another log upon the hearth. True, our little parlor is comfortable, +especially here where the old man sits in his old arm-chair; but on +Thanksgiving-night the blaze should dance higher up the chimney and send a +shower of sparks into the outer darkness. Toss on an armful of those dry oak +chips, the last relicts of the Mermaid’s knee-timbers—the bones of +your namesake, Susan. Higher yet, and clearer, be the blaze, till our cottage +windows glow the ruddiest in the village and the light of our household mirth +flash far across the bay to Nahant. +</p> + +<p> +And now come, Susan; come, my children. Draw your chairs round me, all of you. +There is a dimness over your figures. You sit quivering indistinctly with each +motion of the blaze, which eddies about you like a flood; so that you all have +the look of visions or people that dwell only in the firelight, and will vanish +from existence as completely as your own shadows when the flame shall sink +among the embers. +</p> + +<p> +Hark! let me listen for the swell of the surf; it should be audible a mile +inland on a night like this. Yes; there I catch the sound, but only an +uncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the beach, though by the almanac +it is high tide at eight o’clock, and the billows must now be dashing +within thirty yards of our door. Ah! the old man’s ears are failing him, +and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his mind, else you would not all be so +shadowy in the blaze of his Thanksgiving fire. +</p> + +<p> +How strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders of the present! To judge +by my recollections, it is but a few moments since I sat in another room. +Yonder model of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest of drawers, nor +Susan’s profile and mine in that gilt frame—nothing, in short, +except this same fire, which glimmered on books, papers and a picture, and half +discovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. But it was paler than my +rugged old self, and younger, too, by almost half a century. +</p> + +<p> +Speak to me, Susan; speak, my beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering on my +sight again, and as it brightens you fade away. Oh, I should be loth to lose my +treasure of past happiness and become once more what I was then—a hermit +in the depths of my own mind, sometimes yawning over drowsy volumes and anon a +scribbler of wearier trash than what I read; a man who had wandered out of the +real world and got into its shadow, where his troubles, joys and vicissitudes +were of such slight stuff that he hardly knew whether he lived or only dreamed +of living. Thank Heaven I am an old man now and have done with all such +vanities! +</p> + +<p> +Still this dimness of mine eyes!—Come nearer, Susan, and stand before the +fullest blaze of the hearth. Now I behold you illuminated from head to foot, in +your clean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray hair across your +forehead and a quiet smile about your mouth, while the eyes alone are concealed +by the red gleam of the fire upon your spectacles. There! you made me tremble +again. When the flame quivered, my sweet Susan, you quivered with it and grew +indistinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my last glimpse of you +might be as visionary as the first was, full many a year since. Do you remember +it? You stood on the little bridge over the brook that runs across King’s +Beach into the sea. It was twilight, the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping +by, the crimson clouds fading in the west and the silver moon brightening above +the hill; and on the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird +that might skim away at your pleasure. You seemed a daughter of the viewless +wind, a creature of the ocean-foam and the crimson light, whose merry life was +spent in dancing on the crests of the billows that threw up their spray to +support your footsteps. As I drew nearer I fancied you akin to the race of +mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the +quiet coves in the shadow of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of +the purest sand, and, when our Northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the +islands, green and lonely, far amid summer seas. And yet it gladdened me, after +all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty young girl sadly perplexed +with the rude behavior of the wind about your petticoats. Thus I did with Susan +as with most other things in my earlier days, dipping her image into my mind +and coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues before I could see her as she +really was. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Susan, for a sober picture of our village. It was a small collection of +dwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea with the rock-weed and +marine plants that it vomits after a storm, or to have come ashore among the +pipe-staves and other lumber which had been washed from the deck of an Eastern +schooner. There was just space for the narrow and sandy street between the +beach in front and a precipitous hill that lifted its rocky forehead in the +rear among a waste of juniper-bushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. +The village was picturesque in the variety of its edifices, though all were +rude. Here stood a little old hovel, built, perhaps, of driftwood, there a row +of boat-houses, and beyond them a two-story dwelling of dark and weatherbeaten +aspect, the whole intermixed with one or two snug cottages painted white, a +sufficiency of pig-styes and a shoemaker’s shop. Two grocery stores stood +opposite each other in the centre of the village. These were the places of +resort at their idle hours of a hardy throng of fishermen in red baize shirts, +oilcloth trousers and boots of brown leather covering the whole leg—true +seven-league boots, but fitter to wade the ocean than walk the earth. The +wearers seemed amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water to sun +themselves; nor would it have been wonderful to see their lower limbs covered +with clusters of little shellfish such as cling to rocks and old ship-timber +over which the tide ebbs and flows. When their fleet of boats was +weather-bound, the butchers raised their price, and the spit was busier than +the frying-pan; for this was a place of fish, and known as such to all the +country round about. The very air was fishy, being perfumed with dead sculpins, +hard-heads and dogfish strewn plentifully on the beach.—You see, +children, the village is but little changed since your mother and I were young. +</p> + +<p> +How like a dream it was when I bent over a pool of water one pleasant morning +and saw that the ocean had dashed its spray over me and made me a fisherman! +There was the tarpaulin, the baize shirt, the oilcloth trousers and +seven-league boots, and there my own features, but so reddened with sunburn and +sea-breezes that methought I had another face, and on other shoulders too. The +seagulls and the loons and I had now all one trade: we skimmed the crested +waves and sought our prey beneath them, the man with as keen enjoyment as the +birds. Always when the east grew purple I launched my dory, my little +flat-bottomed skiff, and rowed cross-handed to Point Ledge, the Middle Ledge, +or perhaps beyond Egg Rock; often, too, did I anchor off Dread Ledge—a +spot of peril to ships unpiloted—and sometimes spread an adventurous sail +and tracked across the bay to South Shore, casting my lines in sight of +Scituate. Ere nightfall I hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, laden with +red rock-cod or the white-bellied ones of deep water, haddock bearing the black +marks of St. Peter’s fingers near the gills, the long-bearded hake whose +liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp, and now and then a mighty halibut +with a back broad as my boat. In the autumn I toled and caught those lovely +fish the mackerel. When the wind was high, when the whale-boats anchored off +the Point nodded their slender masts at each other and the dories pitched and +tossed in the surf, when Nahant Beach was thundering three miles off and the +spray broke a hundred feet in the air round the distant base of Egg Rock, when +the brimful and boisterous sea threatened to tumble over the street of our +village,—then I made a holiday on shore. +</p> + +<p> +Many such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett’s store, attentive to +the yarns of Uncle Parker—uncle to the whole village by right of +seniority, but of Southern blood, with no kindred in New England. His figure is +before me now enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel—a lean old man of great +height, but bent with years and twisted into an uncouth shape by seven broken +limbs; furrowed, also, and weatherworn, as if every gale for the better part of +a century had caught him somewhere on the sea. He looked like a harbinger of +tempest—a shipmate of the Flying Dutchman. After innumerable voyages +aboard men-of-war and merchantmen, fishing-schooners and chebacco-boats, the +old salt had become master of a hand-cart, which he daily trundled about the +vicinity, and sometimes blew his fish-horn through the streets of Salem. One of +Uncle Parker’s eyes had been blown out with gunpowder, and the other did +but glimmer in its socket. Turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to +tell of cruises against the French and battles with his own shipmates, when he +and an antagonist used to be seated astride of a sailor’s chest, each +fastened down by a spike-nail through his trousers, and there to fight it out. +Sometimes he expatiated on the delicious flavor of the hagden, a greasy and +goose-like fowl which the sailors catch with hook and line on the Grand Banks. +He dwelt with rapture on an interminable winter at the Isle of Sables, where he +had gladdened himself amid polar snows with the rum and sugar saved from the +wreck of a West India schooner. And wrathfully did he shake his fist as he +related how a party of Cape Cod men had robbed him and his companions of their +lawful spoils and sailed away with every keg of old Jamaica, leaving him not a +drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they were, and of that wicked brotherhood +who are said to tie lanterns to horses’ tails to mislead the mariner +along the dangerous shores of the Cape. +</p> + +<p> +Even now I seem to see the group of fishermen with that old salt in the midst. +One fellow sits on the counter, a second bestrides an oil-barrel, a third lolls +at his length on a parcel of new cod-lines, and another has planted the tarry +seat of his trousers on a heap of salt which will shortly be sprinkled over a +lot of fish. They are a likely set of men. Some have voyaged to the East Indies +or the Pacific, and most of them have sailed in Marblehead schooners to +Newfoundland; a few have been no farther than the Middle Banks, and one or two +have always fished along the shore; but, as Uncle Parker used to say, they have +all been christened in salt water and know more than men ever learn in the +bushes. A curious figure, by way of contrast, is a fish-dealer from far +up-country listening with eyes wide open to narratives that might startle +Sinbad the Sailor.—Be it well with you, my brethren! Ye are all +gone—some to your graves ashore and others to the depths of +ocean—but my faith is strong that ye are happy; for whenever I behold +your forms, whether in dream or vision, each departed friend is puffing his +long nine, and a mug of the right blackstrap goes round from lip to lip. +</p> + +<p> +But where was the mermaid in those delightful times? At a certain window near +the centre of the village appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men and +horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugarplums +and brass thimbles—articles on which the young fishermen used to expend +their money from pure gallantry. What a picture was Susan behind the counter! A +slender maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all +waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale except +when the sea-breeze flushed it. A few freckles became beauty-spots beneath her +eyelids.—How was it, Susan, that you talked and acted so carelessly, yet +always for the best, doing whatever was right in your own eyes, and never once +doing wrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till +now? And whence had you that happiest gift of brightening every topic with an +unsought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your +sunshine and did not shrink from it? Nature wrought the charm. She made you a +frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible and mirthful girl. Obeying Nature, you +did free things without indelicacy, displayed a maiden’s thoughts to +every eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve.—It was beautiful +to observe how her simple and happy nature mingled itself with mine. She +kindled a domestic fire within my heart and took up her dwelling there, even in +that chill and lonesome cavern hung round with glittering icicles of fancy. She +gave me warmth of feeling, while the influence of my mind made her +contemplative. I taught her to love the moonlight hour, when the expanse of the +encircled bay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a transparent shadow, +while beyond Nahant the wind rippled the dim ocean into a dreamy brightness +which grew faint afar off without becoming gloomier. I held her hand and +pointed to the long surf-wave as it rolled calmly on the beach in an unbroken +line of silver; we were silent together till its deep and peaceful murmur had +swept by us. When the Sabbath sun shone down into the recesses of the cliffs, I +led the mermaid thither and told her that those huge gray, shattered rocks, and +her native sea that raged for ever like a storm against them, and her own +slender beauty in so stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of poetry. +But on the Sabbath-eve, when her mother had gone early to bed and her gentle +sister had smiled and left us, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth with +household things around, it was her turn to make me feel that here was a deeper +poetry, and that this was the dearest hour of all. Thus went on our wooing, +till I had shot wild-fowl enough to feather our bridal-bed, and the daughter of +the sea was mine. +</p> + +<p> +I built a cottage for Susan and myself, and made a gateway in the form of a +Gothic arch by setting up a whale’s jaw-bones. We bought a heifer with +her first calf, and had a little garden on the hillside to supply us with +potatoes and green sauce for our fish. Our parlor, small and neat, was +ornamented with our two profiles in one gilt frame, and with shells and pretty +pebbles on the mantelpiece, selected from the sea’s treasury of such +things on Nahant Beach. On the desk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the Bible, +which I had begun to read aloud at the book of Genesis, and the singing-book +that Susan used for her evening psalm. Except the almanac, we had no other +literature. All that I heard of books was when an Indian history or tale of +shipwreck was sold by a pedler or wandering subscription-man to some one in the +village, and read through its owner’s nose to a slumbrous auditory. +</p> + +<p> +Like my brother-fishermen, I grew into the belief that all human erudition was +collected in our pedagogue, whose green spectacles and solemn phiz as he passed +to his little schoolhouse amid a waste of sand might have gained him a diploma +from any college in New England. In truth, I dreaded him.—When our +children were old enough to claim his care, you remember, Susan, how I frowned, +though you were pleased at this learned man’s encomiums on their +proficiency. I feared to trust them even with the alphabet: it was the key to a +fatal treasure. But I loved to lead them by their little hands along the beach +and point to nature in the vast and the minute—the sky, the sea, the +green earth, the pebbles and the shells. Then did I discourse of the mighty +works and coextensive goodness of the Deity with the simple wisdom of a man +whose mind had profited by lonely days upon the deep and his heart by the +strong and pure affections of his evening home. Sometimes my voice lost itself +in a tremulous depth, for I felt his eye upon me as I spoke. Once, while my +wife and all of us were gazing at ourselves in the mirror left by the tide in a +hollow of the sand, I pointed to the pictured heaven below and bade her observe +how religion was strewn everywhere in our path, since even a casual pool of +water recalled the idea of that home whither we were travelling to rest for +ever with our children. Suddenly your image, Susan, and all the little faces +made up of yours and mine, seemed to fade away and vanish around me, leaving a +pale visage like my own of former days within the frame of a large +looking-glass. Strange illusion! +</p> + +<p> +My life glided on, the past appearing to mingle with the present and absorb the +future, till the whole lies before me at a glance. My manhood has long been +waning with a stanch decay; my earlier contemporaries, after lives of unbroken +health, are all at rest without having known the weariness of later age; and +now with a wrinkled forehead and thin white hair as badges of my dignity I have +become the patriarch—the uncle—of the village. I love that name: it +widens the circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youthful to my household +in the kindred of affection. +</p> + +<p> +Like Uncle Parker, whose rheumatic bones were dashed against Egg Rock full +forty years ago, I am a spinner of long yarns. Seated on the gunnel of a dory +or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the warmth is grateful to my limbs, +or by my own hearth when a friend or two are there, I overflow with talk, and +yet am never tedious. With a broken voice I give utterance to much wisdom. +Such, Heaven be praised! is the vigor of my faculties that many a forgotten +usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and early adventures of myself or +others hitherto effaced by things more recent, acquire new distinctness in my +memory. I remember the happy days when the haddock were more numerous on all +the fishing-grounds than sculpins in the surf—when the deep-water cod +swam close in-shore, and the dogfish, with his poisonous horn, had not learnt +to take the hook. I can number every equinoctial storm in which the sea has +overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the village and hissed upon our +kitchen hearth. I give the history of the great whale that was landed on Whale +Beach, and whose jaws, being now my gateway, will last for ages after my coffin +shall have passed beneath them. Thence it is an easy digression to the +halibut—scarcely smaller than the whale—which ran out six codlines +and hauled my dory to the mouth of Boston harbor before I could touch him with +the gaff. +</p> + +<p> +If melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation, I tell how a friend of +mine was taken out of his boat by an enormous shark, and the sad, true tale of +a young man on the eve of marriage who had been nine days missing, when his +drowned body floated into the very pathway on Marble-head Neck that had often +led him to the dwelling of his bride, as if the dripping corpse would have come +where the mourner was. With such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil +his vows! Another favorite story is of a crazy maiden who conversed with angels +and had the gift of prophecy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though +she went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhorting to repentance and +foretelling our destruction by flood or earthquake. If the young men boast +their knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, I speak of pilots who knew the +wind by its scent and the wave by its taste, and could have steered blindfold +to any port between Boston and Mount Desert guided only by the rote of the +shore—the peculiar sound of the surf on each island, beach and line of +rocks along the coast. Thus do I talk, and all my auditors grow wise while they +deem it pastime. +</p> + +<p> +I recollect no happier portion of my life than this my calm old age. It is like +the sunny and sheltered slope of a valley where late in the autumn the grass is +greener than in August, and intermixed with golden dandelions that had not been +seen till now since the first warmth of the year. But with me the verdure and +the flowers are not frost-bitten in the midst of winter. A playfulness has +revisited my mind—a sympathy with the young and gay, an unpainful +interest in the business of others, a light and wandering +curiosity—arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil on earth is ended +and the brief hour till bedtime may be spent in play. Still, I have fancied +that there is a depth of feeling and reflection under this superficial levity +peculiar to one who has lived long and is soon to die. +</p> + +<p> +Show me anything that would make an infant smile, and you shall behold a gleam +of mirth over the hoary ruin of my visage. I can spend a pleasant hour in the +sun watching the sports of the village children on the edge of the surf. Now +they chase the retreating wave far down over the wet sand; now it steals softly +up to kiss their naked feet; now it comes onward with threatening front, and +roars after the laughing crew as they scamper beyond its reach. Why should not +an old man be merry too, when the great sea is at play with those little +children? I delight, also, to follow in the wake of a pleasure-party of young +men and girls strolling along the beach after an early supper at the Point. +Here, with handkerchiefs at nose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass entangled +in which is a dead skate so oddly accoutred with two legs and a long tail that +they mistake him for a drowned animal. A few steps farther the ladies scream, +and the gentlemen make ready to protect them against a young shark of the +dogfish kind rolling with a lifelike motion in the tide that has thrown him up. +Next they are smit with wonder at the black shells of a wagon-load of live +lobsters packed in rock-weed for the country-market. And when they reach the +fleet of dories just hauled ashore after the day’s fishing, how do I +laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes roar outright, at the simplicity of these +young folks and the sly humor of the fishermen! In winter, when our village is +thrown into a bustle by the arrival of perhaps a score of country dealers +bargaining for frozen fish to be transported hundreds of miles and eaten fresh +in Vermont or Canada, I am a pleased but idle spectator in the throng. For I +launch my boat no more. +</p> + +<p> +When the shore was solitary, I have found a pleasure that seemed even to exalt +my mind in observing the sports or contentions of two gulls as they wheeled and +hovered about each other with hoarse screams, one moment flapping on the foam +of the wave, and then soaring aloft till their white bosoms melted into the +upper sunshine. In the calm of the summer sunset I drag my aged limbs with a +little ostentation of activity, because I am so old, up to the rocky brow of +the hill. There I see the white sails of many a vessel outward bound or +homeward from afar, and the black trail of a vapor behind the Eastern +steamboat; there, too, is the sun, going down, but not in gloom, and there the +illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, to remind me of eternity. +</p> + +<p> +But sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing and pleasant talk that comes +between the dusk and the lighted candle by my glowing fireside. And never, even +on the first Thanksgiving-night, when Susan and I sat alone with our hopes, nor +the second, when a stranger had been sent to gladden us and be the visible +image of our affection, did I feel such joy as now. All that belongs to me are +here: Death has taken none, nor Disease kept them away, nor Strife divided them +from their parents or each other; with neither poverty nor riches to disturb +them, nor the misery of desires beyond their lot, they have kept New +England’s festival round the patriarch’s board. For I am a +patriarch. Here I sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair and immemorial +corner, while the firelight throws an appropriate glory round my venerable +frame.—Susan! My children! Something whispers me that this happiest hour +must be the final one, and that nothing remains but to bless you all and depart +with a treasure of recollected joys to heaven. Will you meet me there? Alas! +your figures grow indistinct, fading into pictures on the air, and now to +fainter outlines, while the fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, +and shows the book that I flung down and the sheet that I left half written +some fifty years ago. I lift my eyes to the looking-glass, and perceive myself +alone, unless those be the mermaid’s features retiring into the depths of +the mirror with a tender and melancholy smile. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! One feels a chilliness—not bodily, but about the heart—and, +moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind him, after these pastimes. I can +imagine precisely how a magician would sit down in gloom and terror after +dismissing the shadows that had personated dead or distant people and stripping +his cavern of the unreal splendor which had changed it to a palace. +</p> + +<p> +And now for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that, since fancy can create so +bright a dream of happiness, it were better to dream on from youth to age than +to awake and strive doubtfully for something real? Oh, the slight tissue of a +dream can no more preserve us from the stern reality of misfortune than a robe +of cobweb could repel the wintry blast. Be this the moral, then: In chaste and +warm affections, humble wishes and honest toil for some useful end there is +health for the mind and quiet for the heart, the prospect of a happy life and +the fairest hope of heaven. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a> +THE AMBITIOUS GUEST</h2> + +<p> +One September night a family had gathered round their hearth and piled it high +with the driftwood of mountain-streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the +splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. Up +the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The +faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed. The +eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen, and the aged +grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness +grown old. They had found the “herb heart’s-ease” in the +bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the Notch of the +White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year and pitilessly cold +in the winter, giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it +descended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous +one, for a mountain towered above their heads so steep that the stones would +often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. +</p> + +<p> +The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, +when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage, +rattling the door with a sound of wailing and lamentation before it passed into +the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in +the tones. But the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch +was lifted by some traveller whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary +blast which heralded his approach and wailed as he was entering and went +moaning away from the door. +</p> + +<p> +Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the +world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery through which the +life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing between Maine on one +side and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. +The stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer +with no companion but his staff paused here to exchange a word, that the sense +of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the +cleft of the mountain or reach the first house in the valley. And here the +teamster on his way to Portland market would put up for the night, and, if a +bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and steal a kiss from the +mountain-maid at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns where the +traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness +beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer +door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children and +all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was +linked with theirs. +</p> + +<p> +The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy +expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road at +nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of +his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old +woman who wiped a chair with her apron to the little child that held out its +arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent +familiarity with the eldest daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! this fire is the right thing,” cried he, “especially +when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed, for the +Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible +blast in my face all the way from Bartlett.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are going toward Vermont?” said the master of the house +as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. “I +meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night, but a pedestrian lingers +along such a road as this. It is no matter; for when I saw this good fire and +all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me and +were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you and make myself at +home.” +</p> + +<p> +The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when something +like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the +mountain as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the +cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, +because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct. +</p> + +<p> +“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we should forget +him,” said the landlord, recovering himself. “He sometimes nods his +head and threatens to come down, but we are old neighbors, and agree together +pretty well, upon the whole. Besides, we have a sure place of refuge hard by if +he should be coming in good earnest.” +</p> + +<p> +Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear’s +meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have placed himself on a footing +of kindness with the whole family; so that they talked as freely together as if +he belonged to their mountain-brood. He was of a proud yet gentle spirit, +haughty and reserved among the rich and great, but ever ready to stoop his head +to the lowly cottage door and be like a brother or a son at the poor +man’s fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and +simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry +of native growth which they had gathered when they little thought of it from +the mountain-peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and +dangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had +been a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept +himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. The +family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity +among themselves and separation from the world at large which in every domestic +circle should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude. But this +evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour +out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer +him with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the +kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth? +</p> + +<p> +The secret of the young man’s character was a high and abstracted +ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be +forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope, and hope, +long cherished, had become like certainty that, obscurely as he journeyed now, +a glory was to beam on all his pathway, though not, perhaps, while he was +treading it. But when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now +the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as +meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle +to his tomb with none to recognize him. +</p> + +<p> +“As yet,” cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye +flashing with enthusiasm—“as yet I have done nothing. Were I to +vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as +you—that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the +Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch +by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, ‘Who was he? +Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have achieved my +destiny. Then let Death come: I shall have built my monument.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid abstracted +reverie which enabled the family to understand this young man’s +sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick sensibility of the +ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed. +</p> + +<p> +“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand +and laughing himself. “You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were +to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington only that people might +spy at me from the country roundabout. And truly that would be a noble pedestal +for a man’s statue.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, +blushing, “and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks about +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, “there +is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned +that way, I might have felt just the same.—It is strange, wife, how his +talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to +pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “Is the man thinking +what he will do when he is a widower?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. +“When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But I was +wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett or Bethlehem or Littleton, or some other +township round the White Mountains, but not where they could tumble on our +heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called squire and +sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much +good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an +old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and +leave you all crying around me. A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a +marble one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to +let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, now!” exclaimed the stranger; “it is our nature to +desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious +memory in the universal heart of man.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re in a strange way to-night,” said the wife, with tears +in her eyes. “They say it’s a sign of something when folks’ +minds go a-wandering so. Hark to the children!” +</p> + +<p> +They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in another +room, but with an open door between; so that they could be heard talking busily +among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the infection from the +fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes and childish +projects of what they would do when they came to be men and women. At length a +little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he: “I want +you and father and grandma’m, and all of us, and the stranger too, to +start right away and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume.” +</p> + +<p> +Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leaving a warm bed +and dragging them from a cheerful fire to visit the basin of the Flume—a +brook which tumbles over the precipice deep within the Notch. +</p> + +<p> +The boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the road and stopped a +moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or three men who were +cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song which resounded in broken +notes between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their +journey or put up here for the night. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” said the girl, “they are calling you by +name.” +</p> + +<p> +But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwilling +to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his +house. He therefore did not hurry to the door, and, the lash being soon +applied, the travellers plunged into the Notch, still singing and laughing, +though their music and mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain. +</p> + +<p> +“There, mother!” cried the boy, again; “they’d have +given us a ride to the Flume.” +</p> + +<p> +Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy for a night-ramble. +But it happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter’s spirit; she +looked gravely into the fire and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It +forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then, starting and +blushing, she looked quickly around the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse +into her bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile; “only I felt +lonesome just then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people’s +hearts,” said he, half seriously. “Shall I tell the secrets of +yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth and +complains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I put these +feelings into words?” +</p> + +<p> +“They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they could be +put into words,” replied the mountain-nymph, laughing, but avoiding his +eye. +</p> + +<p> +All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts +so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on +earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and the proud, +contemplative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. +But while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the +lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of a maiden’s nature, the wind +through the Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful +stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast who in old +Indian times had their dwelling among these mountains and made their heights +and recesses a sacred region. There was a wail along the road as if a funeral +were passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine-branches on their +fire till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a +scene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly and +caressed them all. There were the little faces of the children peeping from +their bed apart, and here the father’s frame of strength, the +mother’s subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding +girl and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. +</p> + +<p> +The aged woman looked up from her task, and with fingers ever busy was the next +to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Old folks have their notions,” said she, “as well as young +ones. You’ve been wishing and planning and letting your heads run on one +thing and another till you’ve set my mind a-wandering too. Now, what +should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she +comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, mother?” cried the husband and wife at once. +</p> + +<p> +Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round +the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes some years +before—a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a +finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-day. But this evening an old +superstition had strangely recurred to her. It used to be said in her younger +days that if anything were amiss with a corpse—if only the ruff were not +smooth or the cap did not set right—the corpse, in the coffin and beneath +the clods, would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare +thought made her nervous. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk so, grandmother,” said the girl, shuddering. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet +smiling strangely at her own folly, “I want one of you, my children, when +your mother is dressed and in the coffin,—I want one of you to hold a +looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself and +see whether all’s right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,” murmured the +stranger-youth. “I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking and +they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean, that +wide and nameless sepulchre?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment the old woman’s ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of +her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, +had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group were conscious of it. +The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be +shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old +exchanged one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, without +utterance or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all +their lips: +</p> + +<p> +“The slide! The slide!” +</p> + +<p> +The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of +the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage and sought refuge in +what they deemed a safer spot, where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a +sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security and fled +right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain +in a cataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house the stream broke into +two branches, shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, +blocked up the road and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere +the thunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the mountains the +mortal agony had been endured and the victims were at peace. Their bodies were +never found. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up +the mountain-side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the +chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view +the devastation of the slide and would shortly return to thank Heaven for their +miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens by which those who had known +the family were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The +story has been told far and wide, and will for ever be a legend of these +mountains. Poets have sung their fate. +</p> + +<p> +There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been +received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe +of all its inmates; others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a +conjecture. Woe for the high-souled youth with his dream of earthly +immortality! His name and person utterly unknown, his history, his way of life, +his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a +doubt,—whose was the agony of that death-moment? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a> +THE SISTER-YEARS</h2> + +<p> +Last night, between eleven and twelve o’clock, when the Old Year was +leaving her final footprints on the borders of Time’s empire, she found +herself in possession of a few spare moments, and sat down—of all places +in the world—on the steps of our new city-hall. The wintry moonlight +showed that she looked weary of body and sad of heart, like many another +wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been exposed to much foul weather and +rough usage, were in very ill condition, and, as the hurry of her journey had +never before allowed her to take an instant’s rest, her shoes were so +worn as to be scarcely worth the mending. But after trudging only a little +distance farther this poor Old Year was destined to enjoy a long, long sleep. I +forgot to mention that when she seated herself on the steps she deposited by +her side a very capacious bandbox in which, as is the custom among travellers +of her sex, she carried a great deal of valuable property. Besides this +luggage, there was a folio book under her arm very much resembling the annual +volume of a newspaper. Placing this volume across her knees and resting her +elbows upon it, with her forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, +world-worn Old Year heaved a heavy sigh and appeared to be taking no very +pleasant retrospect of her past existence. +</p> + +<p> +While she thus awaited the midnight knell that was to summon her to the +innumerable sisterhood of departed years, there came a young maiden treading +lightsomely on tip-toe along the street from the direction of the railroad +dépôt. She was evidently a stranger, and perhaps had come to town +by the evening train of cars. There was a smiling cheerfulness in this fair +maiden’s face which bespoke her fully confident of a kind reception from +the multitude of people with whom she was soon to form acquaintance. Her dress +was rather too airy for the season, and was bedizened with fluttering ribbons +and other vanities which were likely soon to be rent away by the fierce storms +or to fade in the hot sunshine amid which she was to pursue her changeful +course. But still she was a wonderfully pleasant-looking figure, and had so +much promise and such an indescribable hopefulness in her aspect that hardly +anybody could meet her without anticipating some very desirable thing—the +consummation of some long-sought good—from her kind offices. A few dismal +characters there may be here and there about the world who have so often been +trifled with by young maidens as promising as she that they have now ceased to +pin any faith upon the skirts of the New Year. But, for my own part, I have +great faith in her, and, should I live to see fifty more such, still from each +of those successive sisters I shall reckon upon receiving something that will +be worth living for. +</p> + +<p> +The New Year—for this young maiden was no less a personage—carried +all her goods and chattels in a basket of no great size or weight, which hung +upon her arm. She greeted the disconsolate Old Year with great affection, and +sat down beside her on the steps of the city-hall, waiting for the signal to +begin her rambles through the world. The two were own sisters, being both +granddaughters of Time, and, though one looked so much older than the other, it +was rather owing to hardships and trouble than to age, since there was but a +twelvemonth’s difference between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear sister,” said the New Year, after the first +salutations, “you look almost tired to death. What have you been about +during your sojourn in this part of infinite space?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles,” +answered the Old Year, in a heavy tone. “There is nothing that would +amuse you, and you will soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters from your +own personal experience. It is but tiresome reading.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio and glanced at them by +the light of the moon, feeling an irresistible spell of interest in her own +biography, although its incidents were remembered without pleasure. The volume, +though she termed it her book of chronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less +than the Salem <i>Gazette</i> for 1838; in the accuracy of which journal this +sagacious Old Year had so much confidence that she deemed it needless to record +her history with her own pen. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you been doing in the political way?” asked the New +Year. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my course here in the United States,” said the Old +Year—“though perhaps I ought to blush at the confession—my +political course, I must acknowledge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes +inclining toward the Whigs, then causing the administration party to shout for +triumph, and now again uplifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of the +opposition; so that historians will hardly know what to make of me in this +respect. But the Loco-Focos—” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like these party nicknames,” interrupted her sister, who +seemed remarkably touchy about some points. “Perhaps we shall part in +better humor if we avoid any political discussion.” +</p> + +<p> +“With all my heart,” replied the Old Year, who had already been +tormented half to death with squabbles of this kind. “I care not if the +name of Whig or Tory, with their interminable brawls about banks and the +sub-treasury, abolition, Texas, the Florida war, and a million of other topics +which you will learn soon enough for your own comfort,—I care not, I say, +if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my ears again. Yet they have +occupied so large a share of my attention that I scarcely know what else to +tell you. There has, indeed been a curious sort of war on the Canada border, +where blood has streamed in the names of liberty and patriotism; but it must +remain for some future, perhaps far-distant, year to tell whether or no those +holy names have been rightfully invoked. Nothing so much depresses me in my +view of mortal affairs as to see high energies wasted and human life and +happiness thrown away for ends that appear oftentimes unwise, and still oftener +remain unaccomplished. But the wisest people and the best keep a steadfast +faith that the progress of mankind is onward and upward, and that the toil and +anguish of the path serve to wear away the imperfections of the immortal +pilgrim, and will be felt no more when they have done their office.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” cried the hopeful New Year—“perhaps I shall +see that happy day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt whether it be so close at hand,” answered the Old Year, +gravely smiling. “You will soon grow weary of looking for that blessed +consummation, and will turn for amusement—as has frequently been my own +practice—to the affairs of some sober little city like this of Salem. +Here we sit on the steps of the new city-hall which has been completed under my +administration, and it would make you laugh to see how the game of politics of +which the Capitol at Washington is the great chess-board is here played in +miniature. Burning Ambition finds its fuel here; here patriotism speaks boldly +in the people’s behalf and virtuous economy demands retrenchment in the +emoluments of a lamplighter; here the aldermen range their senatorial dignity +around the mayor’s chair of state and the common council feel that they +have liberty in charge. In short, human weakness and strength, passion and +policy, man’s tendencies, his aims and modes of pursuing them, his +individual character and his character in the mass, may be studied almost as +well here as on the theatre of nations, and with this great +advantage—that, be the lesson ever so disastrous, its Liliputian scope +still makes the beholder smile.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you done much for the improvement of the city?” asked the New +Year. “Judging from what little I have seen, it appears to be ancient and +time-worn.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have opened the railroad,” said the elder Year, “and half +a dozen times a day you will hear the bell which once summoned the monks of a +Spanish convent to their devotions announcing the arrival or departure of the +cars. Old Salem now wears a much livelier expression than when I first beheld +her. Strangers rumble down from Boston by hundreds at a time. New faces throng +in Essex street. Railroad-hacks and omnibuses rattle over the pavements. There +is a perceptible increase of oyster-shops and other establishments for the +accommodation of a transitory diurnal multitude. But a more important change +awaits the venerable town. An immense accumulation of musty prejudices will be +carried off by the free circulation of society. A peculiarity of character of +which the inhabitants themselves are hardly sensible will be rubbed down and +worn away by the attrition of foreign substances. Much of the result will be +good; there will likewise be a few things not so good. Whether for better or +worse, there will be a probable diminution of the moral influence of wealth, +and the sway of an aristocratic class which from an era far beyond my memory +has held firmer dominion here than in any other New England town.” +</p> + +<p> +The Old Year, having talked away nearly all of her little remaining breath, now +closed her book of chronicles, and was about to take her departure, but her +sister detained her a while longer by inquiring the contents of the huge +bandbox which she was so painfully lugging along with her. +</p> + +<p> +“These are merely a few trifles,” replied the Old Year, +“which I have picked up in my rambles and am going to deposit in the +receptacle of things past and forgotten. We sisterhood of years never carry +anything really valuable out of the world with us. Here are patterns of most of +the fashions which I brought into vogue, and which have already lived out their +allotted term; you will supply their place with others equally ephemeral. Here, +put up in little china pots, like rouge, is a considerable lot of beautiful +women’s bloom which the disconsolate fair ones owe me a bitter grudge for +stealing. I have likewise a quantity of men’s dark hair, instead of which +I have left gray locks or none at all. The tears of widows and other afflicted +mortals who have received comfort during the last twelve months are preserved +in some dozens of essence-bottles well corked and sealed. I have several +bundles of love-letters eloquently breathing an eternity of burning passion +which grew cold and perished almost before the ink was dry. Moreover, here is +an assortment of many thousand broken promises and other broken ware, all very +light and packed into little space. The heaviest articles in my possession are +a large parcel of disappointed hopes which a little while ago were buoyant +enough to have inflated Mr. Lauriat’s balloon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,” remarked the New +Year. “They are a sweet-smelling flower—a species of rose.” +</p> + +<p> +“They soon lose their perfume,” replied the sombre Old Year. +“What else have you brought to insure a welcome from the discontented +race of mortals?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,” said her sister, +with a smile, “save a few new <i>Annuals</i> and almanacs, and some New +Year’s gifts for the children. But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, +and mean to do all I can for their improvement and happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a good resolution,” rejoined the Old Year. “And, by +the way, I have a plentiful assortment of good resolutions which have now grown +so stale and musty that I am ashamed to carry them any farther. Only for fear +that the city authorities would send Constable Mansfield with a warrant after +me, I should toss them into the street at once. Many other matters go to make +up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole lot would not fetch a single bid +even at an auction of worn-out furniture; and as they are worth nothing either +to you or anybody else, I need not trouble you with a longer catalogue.” +</p> + +<p> +“And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in my travels?” +asked the New Year. +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly, and well if you have no heavier load to bear,” +replied the other. “And now, my dear sister, I must bid you farewell, +earnestly advising and exhorting you to expect no gratitude nor good-will from +this peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, ill-intending and worse-behaving +world. However warmly its inhabitants may seem to welcome you, yet, do what you +may and lavish on them what means of happiness you please, they will still be +complaining, still craving what it is not in your power to give, still looking +forward to some other year for the accomplishment of projects which ought never +to have been formed, and which, if successful, would only provide new occasions +of discontent. If these ridiculous people ever see anything tolerable in you, +it will be after you are gone for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I,” cried the fresh-hearted New Year—“I shall try +to leave men wiser than I find them. I will offer them freely whatever good +gifts Providence permits me to distribute, and will tell them to be thankful +for what they have and humbly hopeful for more; and surely, if they are not +absolute fools, they will condescend to be happy, and will allow me to be a +happy year. For my happiness must depend on them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas for you, then, my poor sister!” said the Old Year, sighing, +as she uplifted her burden. “We grandchildren of Time are born to +trouble. Happiness, they say, dwells in the mansions of eternity, but we can +only lead mortals thither step by step with reluctant murmurings, and ourselves +must perish on the threshold. But hark! my task is done.” +</p> + +<p> +The clock in the tall steeple of Dr. Emerson’s church struck twelve; +there was a response from Dr. Flint’s, in the opposite quarter of the +city; and while the strokes were yet dropping into the air the Old Year either +flitted or faded away, and not the wisdom and might of angels, to say nothing +of the remorseful yearnings of the millions who had used her ill, could have +prevailed with that departed year to return one step. But she, in the company +of Time and all her kindred, must hereafter hold a reckoning with mankind. So +shall it be, likewise, with the maidenly New Year, who, as the clock ceased to +strike, arose from the steps of the city-hall and set out rather timorously on +her earthly course. +</p> + +<p> +“A happy New Year!” cried a watchman, eying her figure very +questionably, but without the least suspicion that he was addressing the New +Year in person. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you kindly,” said the New Year; and she gave the watchman +one of the roses of hope from her basket. “May this flower keep a sweet +smell long after I have bidden you good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she stepped on more briskly through the silent streets, and such as were +awake at the moment heard her footfall and said, “The New Year is +come!” Wherever there was a knot of midnight roisterers, they quaffed her +health. She sighed, however, to perceive that the air was tainted—as the +atmosphere of this world must continually be—with the dying breaths of +mortals who had lingered just long enough for her to bury them. But there were +millions left alive to rejoice at her coming, and so she pursued her way with +confidence, strewing emblematic flowers on the doorstep of almost every +dwelling, which some persons will gather up and wear in their bosoms, and +others will trample under foot. The carrier-boy can only say further that early +this morning she filled his basket with New Year’s addresses, assuring +him that the whole city, with our new mayor and the aldermen and common council +at its head, would make a general rush to secure copies. Kind patrons, will not +you redeem the pledge of the New Year? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a> +SNOWFLAKES</h2> + +<p> +There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning, and through the +partially-frosted window-panes I love to watch the gradual beginning of the +storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely through the air and hover +downward with uncertain flight, now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled +again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. These are not the big flakes +heavy with moisture which melt as they touch the ground and are portentous of a +soaking rain. It is to be in good earnest a wintry storm. The two or three +people visible on the sidewalks have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, +frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless +and blustering day. By nightfall—or, at least, before the sun sheds +another glimmering smile upon us—the street and our little garden will be +heaped with mountain snowdrifts. The soil, already frozen for weeks past, is +prepared to sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it, and to a Northern eye +the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty of its +own when Mother Earth, like her children, shall have put on the fleecy garb of +her winter’s wear. The cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle. +As yet, indeed, there is barely a rime like hoar-frost over the brown surface +of the street; the withered green of the grass-plat is still discernible, and +the slated roofs of the houses do but begin to look gray instead of black. All +the snow that has yet fallen within the circumference of my view, were it +heaped up together, would hardly equal the hillock of a grave. Thus gradually +by silent and stealthy influences are great changes wrought. These little +snow-particles which the storm-spirit flings by handfuls through the air will +bury the great Earth under their accumulated mass, nor permit her to behold her +sister Sky again for dreary months. We likewise shall lose sight of our +mother’s familiar visage, and must content ourselves with looking +heavenward the oftener. +</p> + +<p> +Now, leaving the Storm to do his appointed office, let us sit down, pen in +hand, by our fireside. Gloomy as it may seem, there is an influence productive +of cheerfulness and favorable to imaginative thought in the atmosphere of a +snowy day. The native of a Southern clime may woo the Muse beneath the heavy +shade of summer foliage reclining on banks of turf, while the sound of +singing-birds and warbling rivulets chimes in with the music of his soul. In +our brief summer I do not think, but only exist in the vague enjoyment of a +dream. My hour of inspiration—if that hour ever comes—is when the +green log hisses upon the hearth, and the bright flame, brighter for the gloom +of the chamber, rustles high up the chimney, and the coals drop tinkling down +among the growing heaps of ashes. When the casement rattles in the gust and the +snowflakes or the sleety raindrops pelt hard against the window-panes, then I +spread out my sheet of paper with the certainty that thoughts and fancies will +gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight or like violets in May, perhaps to +fade as soon. However transitory their glow, they at least shine amid the +darksome shadow which the clouds of the outward sky fling through the room. +Blessed, therefore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born son, be New +England’s winter, which makes us one and all the nurslings of the storm +and sings a familiar lullaby even in the wildest shriek of the December blast. +Now look we forth again and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done. +</p> + +<p> +Slow and sure! He has the day—perchance the week—before him, and +may take his own time to accomplish Nature’s burial in snow. A smooth +mantle is scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-plat, and the dry stalks +of annuals still thrust themselves through the white surface in all parts of +the garden. The leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a shallow snowdrift, +looking, poor things! as disconsolate as if they possessed a human +consciousness of the dreary scene. This is a sad time for the shrubs that do +not perish with the summer. They neither live nor die; what they retain of life +seems but the chilling sense of death. Very sad are the flower-shrubs in +midwinter. The roofs of the houses are now all white, save where the eddying +wind has kept them bare at the bleak corners. To discern the real intensity of +the storm, we must fix upon some distant object—as yonder spire—and +observe how the riotous gust fights with the descending snow throughout the +intervening space. Sometimes the entire prospect is obscured; then, again, we +have a distinct but transient glimpse of the tall steeple, like a giant’s +ghost; and now the dense wreaths sweep between, as if demons were flinging +snowdrifts at each other in mid-air. Look next into the street, where we have +an amusing parallel to the combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions. +It is a snow-battle of schoolboys. What a pretty satire on war and military +glory might be written in the form of a child’s story by describing the +snow-ball fights of two rival schools, the alternate defeats and victories of +each, and the final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither! What pitched +battles worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains! What storming of fortresses +built all of massive snow-blocks! What feats of individual prowess and embodied +onsets of martial enthusiasm! And when some well-contested and decisive victory +had put a period to the war, both armies should unite to build a lofty monument +of snow upon the battlefield and crown it with the victor’s statue hewn +of the same frozen marble. In a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by +would observe a shapeless mound upon the level common, and, unmindful of the +famous victory, would ask, “How came it there? Who reared it? And what +means it?” The shattered pedestal of many a battle-monument has provoked +these questions when none could answer. +</p> + +<p> +Turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there, lending our ears to the +wind till perhaps it shall seem like an articulate voice and dictate wild and +airy matter for the pen. Would it might inspire me to sketch out the +personification of a New England winter! And that idea, if I can seize the +snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of the next +page. +</p> + +<p> +How does Winter herald his approach? By the shrieking blast of latter autumn +which is Nature’s cry of lamentation as the destroyer rushes among the +shivering groves where she has lingered and scatters the sear leaves upon the +tempest. When that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks and shake +their heads disconsolately, saying, “Winter is at hand.” Then the +axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest; then the +coal-merchants rejoice because each shriek of Nature in her agony adds +something to the price of coal per ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its +aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere. A few days more, and at eventide the +children look out of the window and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy +mantle in the air. It is stern Winter’s vesture. They crowd around the +hearth and cling to their mother’s gown or press between their +father’s knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice that bellows adown +the wide flue of the chimney. +</p> + +<p> +It is the voice of Winter; and when parents and children hear it, they shudder +and exclaim, “Winter is come. Cold Winter has begun his reign +already.” Now throughout New England each hearth becomes an altar sending +up the smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyrannizes +over forest, country-side and town. Wrapped in his white mantle, his staff a +huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed snowdrift, he travels over the +land in the midst of the northern blast, and woe to the homeless wanderer whom +he finds upon his path! There he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on +the spot where Winter overtook him. On strides the tyrant over the rushing +rivers and broad lakes, which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary +empire is established; all around stretches the desolation of the pole. Yet not +ungrateful be his New England children (for Winter is our sire, though a stern +and rough one)—not ungrateful even for the severities which have +nourished our unyielding strength of character. And let us thank him, too, for +the sleigh-rides cheered by the music of merry bells; for the crackling and +rustling hearth when the ruddy firelight gleams on hardy manhood and the +blooming cheek of woman: for all the home-enjoyments and the kindred virtues +which flourish in a frozen soil. Not that we grieve when, after some seven +months of storm and bitter frost, Spring, in the guise of a flower-crowned +virgin, is seen driving away the hoary despot, pelting him with violets by the +handful and strewing green grass on the path behind him. Often ere he will give +up his empire old Winter rushes fiercely buck and hurls a snowdrift at the +shrinking form of Spring, yet step by step he is compelled to retreat +northward, and spends the summer month within the Arctic circle. +</p> + +<p> +Such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, have made the +winter’s day pass pleasantly. Meanwhile, the storm has raged without +abatement, and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing denser volumes +to and fro about the atmosphere. On the window-sill there is a layer of snow +reaching halfway up the lowest pane of glass. The garden is one unbroken bed. +Along the street are two or three spots of uncovered earth where the gust has +whirled away the snow, heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops or piling huge +banks against the doors of houses. A solitary passenger is seen, now striding +mid-leg deep across a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, while his cloak +is swollen with the wind. And now the jingling of bells—a sluggish sound +responsive to the horse’s toilsome progress through the unbroken +drifts—announces the passage of a sleigh with a boy clinging behind and +ducking his head to escape detection by the driver. Next comes a sledge laden +with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper whom winter has surprised at a cold +hearth. But what dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street? A sable +hearse bestrewn with snow is bearing a dead man through the storm to his frozen +bed. Oh how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of Mother Earth has no +warmth for her poor child! +</p> + +<p> +Evening—the early eve of December—begins to spread its deepening +veil over the comfortless scene. The firelight gradually brightens and throws +my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the chamber, but still the +storm rages and rattles against the windows. Alas! I shiver and think it time +to be disconsolate, but, taking a farewell glance at dead Nature in her shroud, +I perceive a flock of snowbirds skimming lightsomely through the tempest and +flitting from drift to drift as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime +of summer. Whence come they? Where do they build their nests and seek their +food? Why, having airy wings, do they not follow summer around the earth, +instead of making themselves the playmates of the storm and fluttering on the +dreary verge of the winter’s eve? I know not whence they come, nor why; +yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a> +THE SEVEN VAGABONDS</h2> + +<p> +Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year, I came +one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three directions. Straight +before me the main road extended its dusty length to Boston; on the left a +branch went toward the sea, and would have lengthened my journey a trifle of +twenty or thirty miles, while by the right-hand path I might have gone over +hills and lakes to Canada, visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. +On a level spot of grass at the foot of the guide-post appeared an object +which, though locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of +Gulliver’s portable mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge covered +wagon—or, more properly, a small house on wheels—with a door on one +side and a window shaded by green blinds on the other. Two horses munching +provender out of the baskets which muzzled them were fastened near the vehicle. +A delectable sound of music proceeded from the interior, and I immediately +conjectured that this was some itinerant show halting at the confluence of the +roads to intercept such idle travellers as myself. A shower had long been +climbing up the western sky, and now hung so blackly over my onward path that +it was a point of wisdom to seek shelter here. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloo! Who stands guard here? Is the doorkeeper asleep?” cried I, +approaching a ladder of two or three steps which was let down from the wagon. +</p> + +<p> +The music ceased at my summons, and there appeared at the door, not the sort of +figure that I had mentally assigned to the wandering showman, but a most +respectable old personage whom I was sorry to have addressed in so free a +style. He wore a snuff-colored coat and small-clothes, with white top-boots, +and exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and manner which may often be noticed +in aged schoolmasters, and sometimes in deacons, selectmen or other potentates +of that kind. A small piece of silver was my passport within his premises, +where I found only one other person, hereafter to be described. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a dull day for business,” said the old gentleman as he +ushered me in; “but I merely tarry here to refresh the cattle, being +bound for the camp-meeting at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still peregrinating New England, +and may enable the reader to test the accuracy of my description. The +spectacle—for I will not use the unworthy term of +“puppet-show”—consisted of a multitude of little people +assembled on a miniature stage. Among them were artisans of every kind in the +attitudes of their toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen standing +ready for the dance; a company of foot-soldiers formed a line across the stage, +looking stern, grim and terrible enough to make it a pleasant consideration +that they were but three inches high; and conspicuous above the whole was seen +a Merry Andrew in the pointed cap and motley coat of his profession. All the +inhabitants of this mimic world were motionless, like the figures in a picture, +or like that people who one moment were alive in the midst of their business +and delights and the next were transformed to statues, preserving an eternal +semblance of labor that was ended and pleasure that could be felt no more. +Anon, however, the old gentleman turned the handle of a barrel-organ, the first +note of which produced a most enlivening effect upon the figures and awoke them +all to their proper occupations and amusements. By the selfsame impulse the +tailor plied his needle, the blacksmith’s hammer descended upon the anvil +and the dancers whirled away on feathery tiptoes; the company of soldiers broke +into platoons, retreated from the stage, and were succeeded by a troop of +horse, who came prancing onward with such a sound of trumpets and trampling of +hoofs as might have startled Don Quixote himself; while an old toper of +inveterate ill-habits uplifted his black bottle and took off a hearty swig. +Meantime, the Merry Andrew began to caper and turn somersets, shaking his +sides, nodding his head and winking his eyes in as lifelike a manner as if he +were ridiculing the nonsense of all human affairs and making fun of the whole +multitude beneath him. At length the old magician (for I compared the showman +to Prospero entertaining his guests with a masque of shadows) paused that I +might give utterance to my wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“What an admirable piece of work is this!” exclaimed I, lifting up +my hands in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, I liked the spectacle and was tickled with the old man’s gravity +as he presided at it, for I had none of that foolish wisdom which reproves +every occupation that is not useful in this world of vanities. If there be a +faculty which I possess more perfectly than most men, it is that of throwing +myself mentally into situations foreign to my own and detecting with a cheerful +eye the desirable circumstances of each. I could have envied the life of this +gray-headed showman, spent as it had been in a course of safe and pleasurable +adventure in driving his huge vehicle sometimes through the sands of Cape Cod +and sometimes over the rough forest-roads of the north and east, and halting +now on the green before a village meeting-house and now in a paved square of +the metropolis. How often must his heart have been gladdened by the delight of +children as they viewed these animated figures, or his pride indulged by +haranguing learnedly to grown men on the mechanical powers which produced such +wonderful effects, or his gallantry brought into play—for this is an +attribute which such grave men do not lack—by the visits of pretty +maidens! And then with how fresh a feeling must he return at intervals to his +own peculiar home! “I would I were assured of as happy a life as +his,” thought I. +</p> + +<p> +Though the showman’s wagon might have accommodated fifteen or twenty +spectators, it now contained only himself and me and a third person, at whom I +threw a glance on entering. He was a neat and trim young man of two or three +and twenty; his drab hat and green frock-coat with velvet collar were smart, +though no longer new, while a pair of green spectacles that seemed needless to +his brisk little eyes gave him something of a scholar-like and literary air. +After allowing me a sufficient time to inspect the puppets, he advanced with a +bow and drew my attention to some books in a corner of the wagon. These he +forthwith began to extol with an amazing volubility of well-sounding words and +an ingenuity of praise that won him my heart as being myself one of the most +merciful of critics. Indeed, his stock required some considerable powers of +commendation in the salesman. There were several ancient friends of +mine—the novels of those happy days when my affections wavered between +the <i>Scottish Chiefs</i> and <i>Thomas Thumb</i>—besides a few of later +date whose merits had not been acknowledged by the public. I was glad to find +that dear little venerable volume the <i>New England Primer</i>, looking as +antique as ever, though in its thousandth new edition; a bundle of +superannuated gilt picture-books made such a child of me that, partly for the +glittering covers and partly for the fairy-tales within, I bought the whole, +and an assortment of ballads and popular theatrical songs drew largely on my +purse. To balance these expenditures, I meddled neither with sermons nor +science nor morality, though volumes of each were there, nor with a <i>Life of +Franklin</i> in the coarsest of paper, but so showily bound that it was +emblematical of the doctor himself in the court-dress which he refused to wear +at Paris, nor with Webster’s spelling-book, nor some of Byron’s +minor poems, nor half a dozen little Testaments at twenty-five cents each. Thus +far the collection might have been swept from some great bookstore or picked up +at an evening auction-room, but there was one small blue-covered pamphlet which +the pedler handed me with so peculiar an air that I purchased it immediately at +his own price; and then for the first time the thought struck me that I had +spoken face to face with the veritable author of a printed book. +</p> + +<p> +The literary-man now evinced a great kindness for me, and I ventured to inquire +which way he was travelling. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said he, “I keep company with this old gentlemen here, +and we are moving now toward the camp-meeting at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +He then explained to me that for the present season he had rented a corner of +the wagon as a book-store, which, as he wittily observed, was a true +circulating library, since there were few parts of the country where it had not +gone its rounds. I approved of the plan exceedingly, and began to sum up within +my mind the many uncommon felicities in the life of a book-pedler, especially +when his character resembled that of the individual before me. At a high rate +was to be reckoned the daily and hourly enjoyment of such interviews as the +present, in which he seized upon the admiration of a passing stranger and made +him aware that a man of literary taste, and even of literary achievement, was +travelling the country in a showman’s wagon. A more valuable yet not +infrequent triumph might be won in his conversations with some elderly +clergyman long vegetating in a rocky, woody, watery back-settlement of New +England, who as he recruited his library from the pedler’s stock of +sermons would exhort him to seek a college education and become the first +scholar in his class. Sweeter and prouder yet would be his sensations when, +talking poetry while he sold spelling-books, he should charm the mind, and +haply touch the heart, of a fair country schoolmistress, herself an unhonored +poetess, a wearer of blue stockings which none but himself took pains to look +at. But the scene of his completest glory would be when the wagon had halted +for the night and his stock of books was transferred to some crowded bar-room. +Then would he recommend to the multifarious company, whether traveller from the +city, or teamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or the landlord +himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited to each particular taste and +capacity, proving, all the while, by acute criticism and profound remark, that +the lore in his books was even exceeded by that in his brain. Thus happily +would he traverse the land, sometimes a herald before the march of Mind, +sometimes walking arm in arm with awful Literature, and reaping everywhere a +harvest of real and sensible popularity which the secluded bookworms by whose +toil he lived could never hope for. +</p> + +<p> +“If ever I meddle with literature,” thought I, fixing myself in +adamantine resolution, “it shall be as a travelling bookseller.” +</p> + +<p> +Though it was still mid-afternoon, the air had now grown dark about us, and a +few drops of rain came down upon the roof of our vehicle, pattering like the +feet of birds that had flown thither to rest. A sound of pleasant voices made +us listen, and there soon appeared halfway up the ladder the pretty person of a +young damsel whose rosy face was so cheerful that even amid the gloomy light it +seemed as if the sunbeams were peeping under her bonnet. We next saw the dark +and handsome features of a young man who, with easier gallantry than might have +been expected in the heart of Yankee-land, was assisting her into the wagon. It +became immediately evident to us, when the two strangers stood within the door, +that they were of a profession kindred to those of my companions, and I was +delighted with the more than hospitable—the even paternal—kindness +of the old showman’s manner as he welcomed them, while the man of +literature hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a seat on the long bench. +</p> + +<p> +“You are housed but just in time, my young friends,” said the +master of the wagon; “the sky would have been down upon you within five +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man’s reply marked him as a foreigner—not by any +variation from the idiom and accent of good English, but because he spoke with +more caution and accuracy than if perfectly familiar with the language. +</p> + +<p> +“We knew that a shower was hanging over us,” said he, “and +consulted whether it were best to enter the house on the top of yonder hill, +but, seeing your wagon in the road—” +</p> + +<p> +“We agreed to come hither,” interrupted the girl, with a smile, +“because we should be more at home in a wandering house like this.” +</p> + +<p> +I, meanwhile, with many a wild and undetermined fantasy was narrowly inspecting +these two doves that had flown into our ark. The young man, tall, agile and +athletic, wore a mass of black shining curls clustering round a dark and +vivacious countenance which, if it had not greater expression, was at least +more active and attracted readier notice, than the quiet faces of our +countrymen. At his first appearance he had been laden with a neat mahogany box +of about two feet square, but very light in proportion to its size, which he +had immediately unstrapped from his shoulders and deposited on the floor of the +wagon. +</p> + +<p> +The girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our own beauties, and a brighter +one than most of them; the lightness of her figure, which seemed calculated to +traverse the whole world without weariness, suited well with the glowing +cheerfulness of her face, and her gay attire, combining the rainbow hues of +crimson, green and a deep orange, was as proper to her lightsome aspect as if +she had been born in it. This gay stranger was appropriately burdened with that +mirth-inspiring instrument the fiddle, which her companion took from her hands, +and shortly began the process of tuning. Neither of us the previous company of +the wagon needed to inquire their trade, for this could be no mystery to +frequenters of brigade-musters, ordinations, cattle-shows, commencements, and +other festal meetings in our sober land; and there is a dear friend of mine who +will smile when this page recalls to his memory a chivalrous deed performed by +us in rescuing the show-box of such a couple from a mob of great double-fisted +countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said I to the damsel of gay attire; “shall we visit +all the wonders of the world together?” +</p> + +<p> +She understood the metaphor at once, though, indeed, it would not much have +troubled me if she had assented to the literal meaning of my words. The +mahogany box was placed in a proper position, and I peeped in through its small +round magnifying-window while the girl sat by my side and gave short +descriptive sketches as one after another the pictures were unfolded to my +view. We visited together—at least, our imaginations did—full many +a famous city in the streets of which I had long yearned to tread. Once, I +remember, we were in the harbor of Barcelona, gazing townward; next, she bore +me through the air to Sicily and bade me look up at blazing Ætna; then we +took wing to Venice and sat in a gondola beneath the arch of the Rialto, and +anon she set me down among the thronged spectators at the coronation of +Napoleon. But there was one scene—its locality she could not +tell—which charmed my attention longer than all those gorgeous palaces +and churches, because the fancy haunted me that I myself the preceding summer +had beheld just such a humble meeting-house, in just such a pine-surrounded +nook, among our own green mountains. All these pictures were tolerably +executed, though far inferior to the girl’s touches of description; nor +was it easy to comprehend how in so few sentences, and these, as I supposed, in +a language foreign to her, she contrived to present an airy copy of each varied +scene. +</p> + +<p> +When we had travelled through the vast extent of the mahogany box, I looked +into my guide’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’” inquired I, in +the words of an old song. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the gay damsel; “you might as well ask where the +summer wind is going. We are wanderers here and there and everywhere. Wherever +there is mirth our merry hearts are drawn to it. To-day, indeed, the people +have told us of a great frolic and festival in these parts; so perhaps we may +be needed at what you call the camp-meeting at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, in my happy youth, and while her pleasant voice yet sounded in my ears, I +sighed; for none but myself, I thought, should have been her companion in a +life which seemed to realize my own wild fancies cherished all through +visionary boyhood to that hour. To these two strangers the world was in its +Golden Age—not that, indeed, it was less dark and sad than ever, but +because its weariness and sorrow had no community with their ethereal nature. +Wherever they might appear in their pilgrimage of bliss, Youth would echo back +their gladness, care-stricken Maturity would rest a moment from its toil, and +Age, tottering among the graves, would smile in withered joy for their sakes. +The lonely cot, the narrow and gloomy street, the sombre shade, would catch a +passing gleam like that now shining on ourselves as these bright spirits +wandered by. Blessed pair, whose happy home was throughout all the earth! I +looked at my shoulders, and thought them broad enough to sustain those pictured +towns and mountains; mine, too, was an elastic foot as tireless as the wing of +the bird of Paradise; mine was then an untroubled heart that would have gone +singing on its delightful way. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, maiden,” said I aloud, “why did you not come hither +alone?” +</p> + +<p> +While the merry girl and myself were busy with the show-box the unceasing rain +had driven another wayfarer into the wagon. He seemed pretty nearly of the old +showman’s age, but much smaller, leaner and more withered than he, and +less respectably clad in a patched suit of gray; withal, he had a thin, shrewd +countenance and a pair of diminutive gray eyes, which peeped rather too keenly +out of their puckered sockets. This old fellow had been joking with the showman +in a manner which intimated previous acquaintance, but, perceiving that the +damsel and I had terminated our affairs, he drew forth a folded document and +presented it to me. As I had anticipated, it proved to be a circular, written +in a very fair and legible hand and signed by several distinguished gentlemen +whom I had never heard of, stating that the bearer had encountered every +variety of misfortune and recommending him to the notice of all charitable +people. Previous disbursements had left me no more than a five-dollar bill, out +of which, however, I offered to make the beggar a donation provided he would +give me change for it. The object of my beneficence looked keenly in my face, +and discerned that I had none of that abominable spirit, characteristic though +it be, of a full-blooded Yankee, which takes pleasure in detecting every little +harmless piece of knavery. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, perhaps,” said the ragged old mendicant, “if the bank +is in good standing, I can’t say but I may have enough about me to change +your bill.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a bill of the Suffolk Bank,” said I, “and better than +the specie.” +</p> + +<p> +As the beggar had nothing to object, he now produced a small buff leather bag +tied up carefully with a shoe-string. When this was opened, there appeared a +very comfortable treasure of silver coins of all sorts and sizes, and I even +fancied that I saw gleaming among them the golden plumage of that rare bird in +our currency the American eagle. In this precious heap was my bank-note +deposited, the rate of exchange being considerably against me. +</p> + +<p> +His wants being thus relieved, the destitute man pulled out of his pocket an +old pack of greasy cards which had probably contributed to fill the buff +leather bag in more ways than one. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” said he; “I spy a rare fortune in your face, and for +twenty-five cents more I’ll tell you what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +I never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity; so, after shuffling the cards +and when the fair damsel had cut them, I dealt a portion to the prophetic +beggar. Like others of his profession, before predicting the shadowy events +that were moving on to meet me he gave proof of his preternatural science by +describing scenes through which I had already passed. +</p> + +<p> +Here let me have credit for a sober fact. When the old man had read a page in +his book of fate, he bent his keen gray eyes on mine and proceeded to relate in +all its minute particulars what was then the most singular event of my life. It +was one which I had no purpose to disclose till the general unfolding of all +secrets, nor would it be a much stranger instance of inscrutable knowledge or +fortunate conjecture if the beggar were to meet me in the street today and +repeat word for word the page which I have here written. +</p> + +<p> +The fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny which time seems loth to make +good, put up his cards, secreted his treasure-bag and began to converse with +the other occupants of the wagon. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, old friend,” said the showman, “you have not yet told +us which way your face is turned this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am taking a trip northward this warm weather,” replied the +conjurer, “across the Connecticut first, and then up through Vermont, and +maybe into Canada before the fall. But I must stop and see the breaking up of +the camp-meeting at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +I began to think that all the vagrants in New England were converging to the +camp-meeting and had made this wagon, their rendezvous by the way. +</p> + +<p> +The showman now proposed that when the shower was over they should pursue the +road to Stamford together, it being sometimes the policy of these people to +form a sort of league and confederacy. +</p> + +<p> +“And the young lady too,” observed the gallant bibliopolist, bowing +to her profoundly, “and this foreign gentleman, as I understand, are on a +jaunt of pleasure to the same spot. It would add incalculably to my own +enjoyment, and I presume to that of my colleague and his friend, if they could +be prevailed upon to join our party.” +</p> + +<p> +This arrangement met with approbation on all hands, nor were any of those +concerned more sensible of its advantages than myself, who had no title to be +included in it. +</p> + +<p> +Having already satisfied myself as to the several modes in which the four +others attained felicity, I next set my mind at work to discover what +enjoyments were peculiar to the old “straggler,” as the people of +the country would have termed the wandering mendicant and prophet. As he +pretended to familiarity with the devil, so I fancied that he was fitted to +pursue and take delight in his way of life by possessing some of the mental and +moral characteristics—the lighter and more comic ones—of the devil +in popular stories. Among them might be reckoned a love of deception for its +own sake, a shrewd eye and keen relish for human weakness and ridiculous +infirmity, and the talent of petty fraud. Thus to this old man there would be +pleasure even in the consciousness—so insupportable to some +minds—that his whole life was a cheat upon the world, and that, so far as +he was concerned with the public, his little cunning had the upper hand of its +united wisdom. Every day would furnish him with a succession of minute and +pungent triumphs—as when, for instance, his importunity wrung a pittance +out of the heart of a miser, or when my silly good-nature transferred a part of +my slender purse to his plump leather bag, or when some ostentatious gentleman +should throw a coin to the ragged beggar who was richer than himself, or +when—though he would not always be so decidedly diabolical—his +pretended wants should make him a sharer in the scanty living of real +indigence. And then what an inexhaustible field of enjoyment, both as enabling +him to discern so much folly and achieve such quantities of minor mischief, was +opened to his sneering spirit by his pretensions to prophetic knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +All this was a sort of happiness which I could conceive of, though I had little +sympathy with it. Perhaps, had I been then inclined to admit it, I might have +found that the roving life was more proper to him than to either of his +companions; for Satan, to whom I had compared the poor man, has delighted, ever +since the time of Job, in “wandering up and down upon the earth,” +and, indeed, a crafty disposition which operates not in deep-laid plans, but in +disconnected tricks, could not have an adequate scope, unless naturally +impelled to a continual change of scene and society. +</p> + +<p> +My reflections were here interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“Another visitor!” exclaimed the old showman. +</p> + +<p> +The door of the wagon had been closed against the tempest, which was roaring +and blustering with prodigious fury and commotion and beating violently against +our shelter, as if it claimed all those homeless people for its lawful prey, +while we, caring little for the displeasure of the elements, sat comfortably +talking. There was now an attempt to open the door, succeeded by a voice +uttering some strange, unintelligible gibberish which my companions mistook for +Greek and I suspected to be thieves’ Latin. However, the showman stepped +forward and gave admittance to a figure which made me imagine either that our +wagon had rolled back two hundred years into past ages or that the forest and +its old inhabitants had sprung up around us by enchantment. It was a red Indian +armed with his bow and arrow. His dress was a sort of cap adorned with a single +feather of some wild bird, and a frock of blue cotton girded tight about him; +on his breast, like orders of knighthood, hung a crescent and a circle and +other ornaments of silver, while a small crucifix betokened that our father the +pope had interposed between the Indian and the Great Spirit whom he had +worshipped in his simplicity. This son of the wilderness and pilgrim of the +storm took his place silently in the midst of us. When the first surprise was +over, I rightly conjectured him to be one of the Penobscot tribe, parties of +which I had often seen in their summer excursions down our Eastern rivers. +There they paddle their birch canoes among the coasting-schooners, and build +their wigwam beside some roaring mill-dam, and drive a little trade in +basket-work where their fathers hunted deer. Our new visitor was probably +wandering through the country toward Boston, subsisting on the careless charity +of the people while he turned his archery to profitable account by shooting at +cents which were to be the prize of his successful aim. +</p> + +<p> +The Indian had not long been seated ere our merry damsel sought to draw him +into conversation. She, indeed, seemed all made up of sunshine in the month of +May, for there was nothing so dark and dismal that her pleasant mind could not +cast a glow over it; and the wild man, like a fir tree in his native forest, +soon began to brighten into a sort of sombre cheerfulness. At length she +inquired whether his journey had any particular end or purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“I go shoot at the camp-meeting at Stamford,” replied the Indian. +</p> + +<p> +“And here are five more,” said the girl, “all aiming at the +camp-meeting too. You shall be one of us, for we travel with light hearts; and, +as for me, I sing merry songs and tell merry tales and am full of merry +thoughts, and I dance merrily along the road, so that there is never any +sadness among them that keep me company. But oh, you would find it very dull +indeed to go all the way to Stamford alone.” +</p> + +<p> +My ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear that the Indian would +prefer his own solitary musings to the gay society thus offered him; on the +contrary, the girl’s proposal met with immediate acceptance and seemed to +animate him with a misty expectation of enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +I now gave myself up to a course of thought which, whether it flowed naturally +from this combination of events or was drawn forth by a wayward fancy, caused +my mind to thrill as if I were listening to deep music. I saw mankind in this +weary old age of the world either enduring a sluggish existence amid the smoke +and dust of cities, or, if they breathed a purer air, still lying down at night +with no hope but to wear out to-morrow, and all the to-morrows which make up +life, among the same dull scenes and in the same wretched toil that had +darkened the sunshine of today. But there were some full of the primeval +instinct who preserved the freshness of youth to their latest years by the +continual excitement of new objects, new pursuits and new associates, and cared +little, though their birthplace might have been here in New England, if the +grave should close over them in Central Asia. Fate was summoning a parliament +of these free spirits; unconscious of the impulse which directed them to a +common centre, they had come hither from far and near, and last of all appeared +the representatives of those mighty vagrants who had chased the deer during +thousands of years, and were chasing it now in the spirit-land. Wandering down +through the waste of ages, the woods had vanished around his path; his arm had +lost somewhat of its strength, his foot of its fleetness, his mien of its wild +regality, his heart and mind of their savage virtue and uncultured force, but +here, untamable to the routine of artificial life, roving now along the dusty +road as of old over the forest-leaves,—here was the Indian still. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the old showman, in the midst of my meditations, +“here is an honest company of us—one, two, three, four, five, +six—all going to the camp-meeting at Stamford. Now, hoping no offence, I +should like to know where this young gentleman may be going?” +</p> + +<p> +I started. How came I among these wanderers? The free mind that preferred its +own folly to another’s wisdom, the open spirit that found companions +everywhere—above all, the restless impulse that had so often made me +wretched in the midst of enjoyments,—these were my claims to be of their +society. +</p> + +<p> +“My friends,” cried I, stepping into the centre of the wagon, +“I am going with you to the camp-meeting at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +“But in what capacity?” asked the old showman, after a +moment’s silence. “All of us here can get our bread in some +creditable way. Every honest man should have his livelihood. You, sir, as I +take it, are a mere strolling gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +I proceeded to inform the company that when Nature gave me a propensity to +their way of life she had not left me altogether destitute of qualifications +for it, though I could not deny that my talent was less respectable, and might +be less profitable, than the meanest of theirs. My design, in short, was to +imitate the story-tellers of whom Oriental travellers have told us, and become +an itinerant novelist, reciting my own extemporaneous fictions to such +audiences as I could collect. +</p> + +<p> +“Either this,” said I, “is my vocation, or I have been born +in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +The fortune-teller, with a sly wink to the company, proposed to take me as an +apprentice to one or other of his professions, either of which undoubtedly +would have given full scope to whatever inventive talent I might possess. The +bibliopolist spoke a few words in opposition to my plan—influenced +partly, I suspect, by the jealousy of authorship, and partly by an apprehension +that the <i>vivâ-voce</i> practice would become general among novelists, +to the infinite detriment of the book trade. +</p> + +<p> +Dreading a rejection, I solicited the interest of the merry damsel. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mirth,’” cried I, most aptly appropriating the words +of L’Allegro, “‘to thee I sue! Mirth, admit me of thy +crew!rsquo;” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us indulge the poor youth,” said Mirth, with a kindness which +made me love her dearly, though I was no such coxcomb as to misinterpret her +motives. “I have espied much promise in him. True, a shadow sometimes +flits across his brow, but the sunshine is sure to follow in a moment. He is +never guilty of a sad thought but a merry one is twin-born with it. We will +take him with us, and you shall see that he will set us all a-laughing before +we reach the camp-meeting at Stamford.” Her voice silenced the scruples +of the rest and gained me admittance into the league; according to the terms of +which, without a community of goods or profits, we were to lend each other all +the aid and avert all the harm that might be in our power. +</p> + +<p> +This affair settled, a marvellous jollity entered into the whole tribe of us, +manifesting itself characteristically in each individual. The old showman, +sitting down to his barrel-organ, stirred up the souls of the pigmy people with +one of the quickest tunes in the music-book; tailors, blacksmiths, gentlemen +and ladies all seemed to share in the spirit of the occasion, and the Merry +Andrew played his part more facetiously than ever, nodding and winking +particularly at me. The young foreigner flourished his fiddle-bow with a +master’s hand, and gave an inspiring echo to the showman’s melody. +The bookish man and the merry damsel started up simultaneously to dance, the +former enacting the double shuffle in a style which everybody must have +witnessed ere election week was blotted out of time, while the girl, setting +her arms akimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed such light +rapidity of foot and harmony of varying attitude and motion that I could not +conceive how she ever was to stop, imagining at the moment that Nature had made +her, as the old showman had made his puppets, for no earthly purpose but to +dance jigs. The Indian bellowed forth a succession of most hideous outcries, +somewhat affrighting us till we interpreted them as the war-song with which, in +imitation of his ancestors, he was prefacing the assault on Stamford. The +conjurer, meanwhile, sat demurely in a corner extracting a sly enjoyment from +the whole scene, and, like the facetious Merry Andrew, directing his queer +glance particularly at me. As for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, I +began to arrange and color the incidents of a tale wherewith I proposed to +amuse an audience that very evening; for I saw that my associates were a little +ashamed of me, and that no time was to be lost in obtaining a public +acknowledgment of my abilities. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, fellow-laborers,” at last said the old showman, whom we had +elected president; “the shower is over, and we must be doing our duty by +these poor souls at Stamford.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll come among them in procession, with music and +dancing,” cried the merry damsel. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly—for it must be understood that our pilgrimage was to be +performed on foot—we sallied joyously out of the wagon, each of us, even +the old gentleman in his white top-boots, giving a great skip as we came down +the ladder. Above our heads there was such a glory of sunshine and splendor of +clouds, and such brightness of verdure below, that, as I modestly remarked at +the time, Nature seemed to have washed her face and put on the best of her +jewelry and a fresh green gown in honor of our confederation. Casting our eyes +northward, we beheld a horseman approaching leisurely and splashing through the +little puddle on the Stamford road. Onward he came, sticking up in his saddle +with rigid perpendicularity, a tall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the +showman and the conjurer shortly recognized to be what his aspect sufficiently +indicated—a travelling preacher of great fame among the Methodists. What +puzzled us was the fact that his face appeared turned from, instead of to, the +camp-meeting at Stamford. However, as this new votary of the wandering life +drew near the little green space where the guide-post and our wagon were +situated, my six fellow-vagabonds and myself rushed forward and surrounded him, +crying out with united voices, “What news? What news from the +camp-meeting at Stamford?” +</p> + +<p> +The missionary looked down in surprise at as singular a knot of people as could +have been selected from all his heterogeneous auditors. Indeed, considering +that we might all be classified under the general head of Vagabond, there was +great diversity of character among the grave old showman, the sly, prophetic +beggar, the fiddling foreigner and his merry damsel, the smart bibliopolist, +the sombre Indian and myself, the itinerant novelist, a slender youth of +eighteen. I even fancied that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the iron +gravity of the preacher’s mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Good people,” answered he, “the camp-meeting is broke +up.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, the Methodist minister switched his steed and rode westward. Our +union being thus nullified by the removal of its object, we were sundered at +once to the four winds of heaven. The fortune-teller, giving a nod to all and a +peculiar wink to me, departed on his Northern tour, chuckling within himself as +he took the Stamford road. The old showman and his literary coadjutor were +already tackling their horses to the wagon with a design to peregrinate +south-west along the sea-coast. The foreigner and the merry damsel took their +laughing leave and pursued the eastern road, which I had that day trodden; as +they passed away the young man played a lively strain and the girl’s +happy spirit broke into a dance, and, thus dissolving, as it were, into +sunbeams and gay music, that pleasant pair departed from my view. Finally, with +a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet emulous of the light philosophy of +my late companions, I joined myself to the Penobscot Indian and set forth +toward the distant city. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a> +THE WHITE OLD MAID</h2> + +<p> +The moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows and showed a spacious +chamber richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice the shadow of +the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light through the +other slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains and +illuminating the face of a young man. But how quietly the slumberer lay! how +pale his features! And how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame! +Yes, it was a corpse in its burial-clothes. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the fixed features seemed to move with dark emotion. Strange fantasy! +It was but the shadow of the fringed curtain waving betwixt the dead face and +the moonlight as the door of the chamber opened and a girl stole softly to the +bedside. Was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture and her eye +betray a gleam of triumph as she bent over the pale corpse, pale as itself, and +pressed her living lips to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from +that long kiss her features writhed as if a proud heart were fighting with its +anguish. Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved responsive +to her own. Still an illusion. The silken curtains had waved a second time +betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as another fair young girl unclosed the +door and glided ghostlike to the bedside. There the two maidens stood, both +beautiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between them. But she who had first +entered was proud and stately, and the other a soft and fragile thing. +</p> + +<p> +“Away!” cried the lofty one. “Thou hadst him living; the dead +is mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thine!” returned the other, shuddering. “Well hast thou +spoken; the dead is thine.” +</p> + +<p> +The proud girl started and stared into her face with a ghastly look, but a +wild-and mournful expression passed across the features of the gentle one, and, +weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed beside that of +the corpse and her hair mingling with his dark locks. A creature of hope and +joy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith!” cried her rival. +</p> + +<p> +Edith groaned as with a sudden compression of the heart, and, removing her +cheek from the dead youth’s pillow, she stood upright, fearfully +encountering the eyes of the lofty girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Wilt thou betray me?” said the latter, calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Till the dead bid me speak I will be silent,” answered Edith. +“Leave us alone together. Go and live many years, and then return and +tell me of thy life. He too will be here. Then, if thou tellest of sufferings +more than death, we will both forgive thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what shall be the token?” asked the proud girl, as if her +heart acknowledged a meaning in these wild words. +</p> + +<p> +“This lock of hair,” said Edith, lifting one of the dark clustering +curls that lay heavily on the dead man’s brow. +</p> + +<p> +The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom of the corpse and appointed a +day and hour far, far in time to come for their next meeting in that chamber. +The statelier girl gave one deep look at the motionless countenance and +departed, yet turned again and trembled ere she closed the door, almost +believing that her dead lover frowned upon her. And Edith, too! Was not her +white form fading into the moonlight? Scorning her own weakness, she went forth +and perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the passage with a waxlight, +which he held between her face and his own and regarded her, as she thought, +with an ugly expression of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slave +lighted her down the staircase and undid the portal of the mansion. The young +clergyman of the town had just ascended the steps, and, bowing to the lady, +passed in without a word. +</p> + +<p> +Years—many years—rolled on. The world seemed new again, so much +older was it grown since the night when those pale girls had clasped their +hands across the bosom of the corpse. In the interval a lonely woman had passed +from youth to extreme age, and was known by all the town as the “Old Maid +in the Winding-Sheet.” A taint of insanity had affected her whole life, +but so quiet, sad and gentle, so utterly free from violence, that she was +suffered to pursue her harmless fantasies unmolested by the world with whose +business or pleasures she had naught to do. She dwelt alone, and never came +into the daylight except to follow funerals. Whenever a corpse was borne along +the street, in sunshine, rain or snow, whether a pompous train of the rich and +proud thronged after it or few and humble were the mourners, behind them came +the lonely woman in a long white garment which the people called her shroud. +She took no place among the kindred or the friends, but stood at the door to +hear the funeral prayer, and walked in the rear of the procession as one whose +earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning and be the shadow of +affliction and see that the dead were duly buried. So long had this been her +custom that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a part of every funeral, as +much as the coffin-pall or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the +sinner’s destiny unless the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet came gliding +like a ghost behind. Once, it is said, she affrighted a bridal-party with her +pale presence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall just as the priest +was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man before her lover had been dead a +year. Evil was the omen to that marriage. Sometimes she stole forth by +moonlight and visited the graves of venerable integrity and wedded love and +virgin innocence, and every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful heart +were mouldering. Over the hillocks of those favored dead would she stretch out +her arms with a gesture as if she were scattering seeds, and many believed that +she brought them from the garden of Paradise, for the graves which she had +visited were green beneath the snow and covered with sweet flowers from April +to November. Her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the tombstone. Thus +wore away her long, sad, peaceful and fantastic life till few were so old as +she, and the people of later generations wondered how the dead had ever been +buried or mourners had endured their grief without the Old Maid in the +Winding-Sheet. Still years went on, and still she followed funerals and was not +yet summoned to her own festival of death. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon the great street of the town was all alive with business and +bustle, though the sun now gilded only the upper half of the church-spire, +having left the housetops and loftiest trees in shadow. The scene was cheerful +and animated in spite of the sombre shade between the high brick buildings. +Here were pompous merchants in white wigs and laced velvet, the bronzed faces +of sea-captains, the foreign garb and air of Spanish Creoles, and the +disdainful port of natives of Old England, all contrasted with the rough aspect +of one or two back-settlers negotiating sales of timber from forests where axe +had never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly forth in an +embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes and courtesying +with lofty grace to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen. The life of +the town seemed to have its very centre not far from an old mansion that stood +somewhat back from the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, with a strange +air of loneliness rather deepened than dispelled by the throng so near it. Its +site would have been suitably occupied by a magnificent Exchange or a brick +block lettered all over with various signs, or the large house itself might +have made a noble tavern with the “King’s Arms” swinging +before it and guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. But, +owing to some dispute about the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long +without a tenant, decaying from year to year and throwing the stately gloom of +its shadow over the busiest part of the town. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the scene, and such the time, when a figure unlike any that have been +described was observed at a distance down the street. +</p> + +<p> +“I espy a strange sail yonder,” remarked a Liverpool +captain—“that woman in the long white garment.” +</p> + +<p> +The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as were several others who at the +same moment caught a glimpse of the figure that had attracted his notice. +Almost immediately the various topics of conversation gave place to +speculations in an undertone on this unwonted occurrence. +</p> + +<p> +“Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon?” inquired some. +</p> + +<p> +They looked for the signs of death at every door—the sexton, the hearse, +the assemblage of black-clad relatives, all that makes up the woeful pomp of +funerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt spire of the church, +and wondered that no clang proceeded from its bell, which had always tolled +till now when this figure appeared in the light of day. But none had heard that +a corpse was to be borne to its home that afternoon, nor was there any token of +a funeral except the apparition of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“What may this portend?” asked each man of his neighbor. +</p> + +<p> +All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain trouble in their eyes, +as if pestilence, or some other wide calamity, were prognosticated by the +untimely intrusion among the living of one whose presence had always been +associated with death and woe. What a comet is to the earth was that sad woman +to the town. Still she moved on, while the hum of surprise was hushed at her +approach, and the proud and the humble stood aside that her white garment might +not wave against them. It was a long, loose robe of spotless purity. Its wearer +appeared very old, pale, emaciated and feeble, yet glided onward without the +unsteady pace of extreme age. At one point of her course a little rosy boy +burst forth from a door and ran with open arms toward the ghostly woman, +seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She made a slight pause, +fixing her eye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness, so that the +child shivered and stood awestruck rather than affrighted while the Old Maid +passed on. Perhaps her garment might have been polluted even by an +infant’s touch; perhaps her kiss would have been death to the sweet boy +within the year. +</p> + +<p> +“She is but a shadow,” whispered the superstitious. “The +child put forth his arms and could not grasp her robe.” +</p> + +<p> +The wonder was increased when the Old Maid passed beneath the porch of the +deserted mansion, ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker and +gave three raps. The people could only conjecture that some old remembrance, +troubling her bewildered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to visit the +friends of her youth—all gone from their home long since and for ever +unless their ghosts still haunted it, fit company for the Old Maid in the +Winding-Sheet. +</p> + +<p> +An elderly man approached the steps, and, reverently uncovering his gray locks, +essayed to explain the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“None, madam,” said he, “have dwelt in this house these +fifteen years agone—no, not since the death of old Colonel Fenwicke, +whose funeral you may remember to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed +among themselves, have let the mansion-house go to ruin.” +</p> + +<p> +The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight gesture of one hand and a finger +of the other upon her lip, appearing more shadow-like than ever in the +obscurity of the porch. But again she lifted the hammer, and gave, this time, a +single rap. Could it be that a footstep was now heard coming down the staircase +of the old mansion which all conceived to have been so long untenanted? Slowly, +feebly, yet heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step +approached, more distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the portal. +The bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. One upward glance toward the +church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last that the people +saw of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“Who undid the door?” asked many. +</p> + +<p> +This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one could +satisfactorily answer. Two or three aged men, while protesting against an +inference which might be drawn, affirmed that the person within was a negro and +bore a singular resemblance to old Cæsar, formerly a slave in the house, +but freed by death some thirty years before. +</p> + +<p> +“Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family,” said one, +half seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us wait here,” replied another; “more guests will knock +at the door anon. But the gate of the graveyard should be thrown open.” +</p> + +<p> +Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd began to separate or the +comments on this incident were exhausted. One after another was wending his way +homeward, when a coach—no common spectacle in those days—drove +slowly into the street. It was an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the +ground, with arms on the panels, a footman behind and a grave, corpulent +coachman seated high in front, the whole giving an idea of solemn state and +dignity. There was something awful in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. +</p> + +<p> +The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted +mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Whose grand coach is this?” asked a very inquisitive body. +</p> + +<p> +The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house, gave three +taps with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach door. An old man +possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day examined the shield of +arms on the panel. +</p> + +<p> +“Azure, a lion’s head erased, between three flowers de luce,” +said he, then whispered the name of the family to whom these bearings belonged. +The last inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long residence amid +the splendor of the British court, where his birth and wealth had given him no +mean station. “He left no child,” continued the herald, “and +these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach appertains to his +widow.” +</p> + +<p> +Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made had not the speaker been +suddenly struck dumb by the stern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her +head from the coach, preparing to descend. As she emerged the people saw that +her dress was magnificent, and her figure dignified in spite of age and +infirmity—a stately ruin, but with a look at once of pride and +wretchedness. Her strong and rigid features had an awe about them unlike that +of the white Old Maid, but as of something evil. She passed up the steps, +leaning on a gold-headed cane. The door swung open as she ascended, and the +light of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress and gleamed on the +pillars of the porch. After a momentary pause, a glance backward and then a +desperate effort, she went in. +</p> + +<p> +The decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured up the lower step, and, +shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, affirmed that the torch was +held by the very image of old Cæsar. +</p> + +<p> +“But such a hideous grin,” added he, “was never seen on the +face of mortal man, black or white. It will haunt me till my dying-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, the coach had wheeled round with a prodigious clatter on the pavement +and rumbled up the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear still +tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone when the people began to question +whether the coach and attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old +Cæsar and the Old Maid herself were not all a strangely-combined delusion +with some dark purport in its mystery. The whole town was astir, so that, +instead of dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stood gazing up at +the windows of the mansion, now silvered by the brightening moon. The elders, +glad to indulge the narrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded +splendor of the family, the entertainments they had given and the guests, the +greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones from abroad, who had +passed beneath that portal. These graphic reminiscences seemed to call up the +ghosts of those to whom they referred. So strong was the impression on some of +the more imaginative hearers that two or three were seized with trembling fits +at one and the same moment, protesting that they had distinctly heard three +other raps of the iron knocker. +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” exclaimed others. “See! The moon shines beneath +the porch, and shows every part of it except in the narrow shade of that +pillar. There is no one there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did not the door open?” whispered one of these fanciful persons. +</p> + +<p> +“Didst thou see it too?” said his companion, in a startled tone. +</p> + +<p> +But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea that a third visitant had +made application at the door of the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to +this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam like that of a torch had +shone through the great front window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up +the staircase. This too was pronounced a mere fantasy. +</p> + +<p> +But at once the whole multitude started, and each man beheld his own terror +painted in the faces of all the rest. +</p> + +<p> +“What an awful thing is this!” cried they. +</p> + +<p> +A shriek too fearfully distinct for doubt had been heard within the mansion, +breaking forth suddenly and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had +burst in giving it utterance. The people knew not whether to fly from the very +sight of the house or to rush trembling in and search out the strange mystery. +Amid their confusion and affright they were somewhat reassured by the +appearance of their clergyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who +had taught them and their fathers the way to heaven for more than the space of +an ordinary lifetime. He was a reverend figure with long white hair upon his +shoulders, a white beard upon his breast and a back so bent over his staff that +he seemed to be looking downward continually, as if to choose a proper grave +for his weary frame. It was some time before the good old man, being deaf and +of impaired intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions of the affair +as were comprehensible at all. But when possessed of the facts, his energies +assumed unexpected vigor. +</p> + +<p> +“Verily,” said the old gentleman, “it will be fitting that I +enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel Fenwicke, lest any harm should +have befallen that true Christian woman whom ye call the ‘Old Maid in the +Winding-Sheet.’” +</p> + +<p> +Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the steps of the mansion with a +torch-bearer behind him. It was the elderly man who had spoken to the Old Maid, +and the same who had afterward explained the shield of arms and recognized the +features of the negro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps with the +iron hammer. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Cæsar cometh not,” observed the priest. “Well, I +wot he no longer doth service in this mansion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly, then, it was something worse in old Cæsar’s +likeness,” said the other adventurer. +</p> + +<p> +“Be it as God wills,” answered the clergyman. “See! my +strength, though it be much decayed, hath sufficed to open this heavy door. Let +us enter and pass up the staircase.” +</p> + +<p> +Here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamy state of a very old +man’s mind. As they ascended the wide flight of stairs the aged clergyman +appeared to move with caution, occasionally standing aside, and oftener bending +his head, as it were in salutation, thus practising all the gestures of one who +makes his way through a throng. Reaching the head of the staircase, he looked +around with sad and solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary +locks, and was evidently on the point of commencing a prayer. +</p> + +<p> +“Reverend sir,” said his attendant, who conceived this a very +suitable prelude to their further search, “would it not be well that the +people join with us in prayer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well-a-day!” cried the old clergyman, staring strangely around +him. “Art thou here with me, and none other? Verily, past times were +present to me, and I deemed that I was to make a funeral prayer, as many a time +heretofore, from the head of this staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shades of +many that are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, one after another, and +the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet hath seen them to their graves.” +</p> + +<p> +Being now more thoroughly awake to their present purpose, he took his staff and +struck forcibly on the floor, till there came an echo from each deserted +chamber, but no menial to answer their summons. They therefore walked along the +passage, and again paused, opposite to the great front window, through which +was seen the crowd in the shadow and partial moonlight of the street beneath. +On their right hand was the open door of a chamber, and a closed one on their +left. +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panel of the latter. +</p> + +<p> +“Within that chamber,” observed he, “a whole lifetime since, +did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly young man who, being now at the last +gasp—” Apparently, there was some powerful excitement in the ideas +which had now flashed across his mind. He snatched the torch from his +companion’s hand, and threw open the door with such sudden violence that +the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other light than the moonbeams +which fell through two windows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient to +discover all that could be known. In a high-backed oaken arm-chair, upright, +with her hands clasped across her breast and her head thrown back, sat the Old +Maid in the Winding-Sheet. The stately dame had fallen on her knees with her +forehead on the holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor and the +other pressed convulsively against her heart. It clutched a lock of +hair—once sable, now discolored with a greenish mould. +</p> + +<p> +As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber the Old Maid’s +features assumed such a semblance of shifting expression that they trusted to +hear the whole mystery explained by a single word. But it was only the shadow +of a tattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +“Both dead!” said the venerable man. “Then who shall divulge +the secret? Methinks it glimmers to and fro in my mind like the light and +shadow across the Old Maid’s face. And now ’tis gone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a> +PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE</h2> + +<p> +“And so, Peter, you won’t even consider of the business?” +said Mr. John Brown, buttoning his surtout over the snug rotundity of his +person and drawing on his gloves. “You positively refuse to let me have +this crazy old house, and the land under and adjoining, at the price +named?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither at that, nor treble the sum,” responded the gaunt, +grizzled and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. “The fact is, Mr. Brown, you +must find another site for your brick block and be content to leave my estate +with the present owner. Next summer I intend to put a splendid new mansion over +the cellar of the old house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pho, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown as he opened the kitchen door; +“content yourself with building castles in the air, where house-lots are +cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such +foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while this underneath us is +just the thing for mine; and so we may both be suited. What say you, +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown,” answered Peter +Goldthwaite. “And, as for castles in the air, mine may not be as +magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. +Brown, as the very respectable brick block with dry-goods stores, +tailors’ shops and banking-rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers’ +offices in the second story, which you are so anxious to substitute.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the cost, Peter? Eh?” said Mr. Brown as he withdrew in +something of a pet. “That, I suppose, will be provided for off-hand by +drawing a check on Bubble Bank?” +</p> + +<p> +John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly known to the commercial world +between twenty and thirty years before under the firm of Goldthwaite & +Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily dissolved by the natural +incongruity of its constituent parts. Since that event, John Brown, with +exactly the qualities of a thousand other John Browns, and by just such +plodding methods as they used, had prospered wonderfully and become one of the +wealthiest John Browns on earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the contrary, after +innumerable schemes which ought to have collected all the coin and paper +currency of the country into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore +a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between him and his former partner may be +briefly marked, for Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it, while +Peter made luck the main condition of his projects, and always missed it. While +the means held out his speculations had been magnificent, but were chiefly +confined of late years to such small business as adventures in the lottery. +Once he had gone on a gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the South, and +ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more thoroughly than ever, while +others, doubtless, were filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More +recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of dollars in purchasing +Mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor of a province; which, however, +so far as Peter could find out, was situated where he might have had an empire +for the same money—in the clouds. From a search after this valuable real +estate Peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that on reaching New England the +scarecrows in the corn-fields beckoned to him as he passed by. “They did +but flutter in the wind,” quoth Peter Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they +beckoned, for the scarecrows knew their brother. +</p> + +<p> +At the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid the tax +of the old mansion in which we find him. It was one of those rusty, moss-grown, +many-peaked wooden houses which are scattered about the streets of our elder +towns, with a beetle-browed second story projecting over the foundation, as if +it frowned at the novelty around it. This old paternal edifice, needy as he +was, and though, being centrally situated on the principal street of the town, +it would have brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious Peter had his own +reasons for never parting with, either by auction or private sale. There +seemed, indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his birthplace; for, +often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing there even now, he had +not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled him to surrender +the house to his creditors. So here he dwelt with bad luck till good should +come. +</p> + +<p> +Here, then, in his kitchen—the only room where a spark of fire took off +the chill of a November evening—poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been +visited by his rich old partner. At the close of their interview, Peter, with +rather a mortified look, glanced downward at his dress, parts of which appeared +as ancient as the days of Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper garment was a +mixed surtout, woefully faded, and patched with newer stuff on each elbow; +beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of which +had been replaced with others of a different pattern; and, lastly, though he +lacked not a pair of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been +partially turned brown by the frequent toasting of Peter’s shins before a +scanty fire. Peter’s person was in keeping with his goodly apparel. +Gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked and lean-bodied, he was the perfect +picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and empty hopes till he could +neither live on such unwholesome trash nor stomach more substantial food. But, +withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack-brained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, +might have cut a very brilliant figure in the world had he employed his +imagination in the airy business of poetry instead of making it a demon of +mischief in mercantile pursuits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as +harmless as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman +which Nature meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed circumstances +will permit any man to be. +</p> + +<p> +As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth looking round at the +disconsolate old kitchen his eyes began to kindle with the illumination of an +enthusiasm that never long deserted him. He raised his hand, clenched it and +smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +“The time is come,” said he; “with such a treasure at +command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer. Tomorrow morning I will +begin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down.” +</p> + +<p> +Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little old +woman mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite +kept his toes from being frost-bitten. As the feet were ragged past all +darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel petticoat to make new +soles. Tabitha Porter was an old maid upward of sixty years of age, fifty-five +of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time +since Peter’s grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She had no +friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have +a shelter for his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter hers, or, being +homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him to her +native home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, she loved him well +enough to feed him with her last morsel and clothe him with her +under-petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected +with Peter’s flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and +follies that she viewed them all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to +tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her work. +</p> + +<p> +“Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“The sooner we have it all down, the better,” said Peter +Goldthwaite. “I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, +smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. I shall feel like a younger man +when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall by this +time next autumn. You shall have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, finished +and furnished as best may suit your own notions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,” +answered Tabitha. “It will never be like home to me till the +chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this, and that won’t be these +hundred years. How much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. Peter?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that to the purpose?” exclaimed Peter, loftily. “Did +not my great-grand-uncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and +whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, threading +her needle. +</p> + +<p> +Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immense hoard of the +precious metals which was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or +under the floors, or in some concealed closet or other out-of-the-way nook of +the old house. This wealth, according to tradition, had been accumulated by a +former Peter Goldthwaite whose character seems to have borne a remarkable +similitude to that of the Peter of our story. Like him, he was a wild +projector, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the cart-load instead of +scraping it together coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects had +almost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the final +one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt +and grizzled person. Reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate +speculation, one intimating that the ancient Peter had made the gold by +alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out of people’s pockets by the +black art; and a third—still more unaccountable—that the devil had +given him free access to the old provincial treasury. It was affirmed, however, +that some secret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches, +and that he had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or, at any rate, +had died without disclosing the place of deposit. The present Peter’s +father had faith enough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter +himself chose to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and amid his +many troubles had this one consolation—that, should all other resources +fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house down. Yet, unless he +felt a lurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account for his +permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the +moment when his predecessor’s treasure would not have found plenty of +room in his own strong-box. But now was the crisis. Should he delay the search +a little longer, the house would pass from the lineal heir, and with it the +vast heap of gold, to remain in its burial-place till the ruin of the aged +walls should discover it to strangers of a future generation. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” cried Peter Goldthwaite, again; “to-morrow I will set +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +The deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain of success grew Peter. His +spirits were naturally so elastic that even now, in the blasted autumn of his +age, he could often compete with the springtime gayety of other people. +Enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen +like a hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs and gesticulations +of his starved features. Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both +of Tabitha’s hands and danced the old lady across the floor till the +oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was +echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were laughing +in every one. Finally, he bounded upward, almost out of sight, into the smoke +that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, +endeavored to resume his customary gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, at sunrise,” he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to +bed, “I’ll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the +garret.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, as we’re out of wood, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, puffing +and panting with her late gymnastics, “as fast as you tear the house down +I’ll make a fire with the pieces.” +</p> + +<p> +Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite. At one time he was +turning a ponderous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but +which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with gold coin as plentifully +as golden corn in a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and tureens, +salvers, dinner-dishes and dish-covers of gold or silver-gilt, besides chains +and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished with the damps of the +vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost to man, whether buried +in the earth or sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one +treasure-place. Anon he had returned to the old house as poor as ever, and was +received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of a man whom he might +have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder fashion. +But the house, without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace +of the precious metals. The floors, walls and ceilings were of burnished +silver; the doors, the window-frames, the cornices, the balustrades and the +steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the +chairs, and gold, standing on silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and +silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold and sheets of silver tissue. +The house had evidently been transmuted by a single touch, for it retained all +the marks that Peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead of wood, and the +initials of his name—which when a boy he had cut in the wooden +door-post—remained as deep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have +been Peter Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception which, whenever he +glanced backward, caused the house to darken from its glittering magnificence +into the sordid gloom of yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +Up betimes rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer and saw which he had placed by his +bedside, and hied him to the garret. It was but scantily lighted up as yet by +the frosty fragments of a sunbeam which began to glimmer through the almost +opaque bull-eyes of the window. A moralizer might find abundant themes for his +speculative and impracticable wisdom in a garret. There is the limbo of +departed fashions, aged trifles of a day and whatever was valuable only to one +generation of men, and which passed to the garret when that generation passed +to the grave—not for safekeeping, but to be out of the way. Peter saw +piles of yellow and musty account-books in parchment covers, wherein creditors +long dead and buried had written the names of dead and buried debtors in ink +now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were more legible. He found old +moth-eaten garments, all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have put them on. +Here was a naked and rusty sword—not a sword of service, but a +gentleman’s small French rapier—which had never left its scabbard +till it lost it. Here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no gold-headed +ones, and shoebuckles of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set +with precious stones. Here was a large box full of shoes with high heels and +peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials half filled with old +apothecary’s stuff which, when the other half had done its business on +Peter’s ancestors, had been brought hither from the death-chamber. +Here—not to give a longer inventory of articles that will never be put up +at auction—was the fragment of a full-length looking-glass which by the +dust and dimness of its surface made the picture of these old things look older +than the reality. When Peter, not knowing that there was a mirror there, caught +the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former Peter +Goldthwaite had come back either to assist or impede his search for the hidden +wealth. And at that moment a strange notion glimmered through his brain that he +was the identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought to know +whereabout it lay. This, however, he had unaccountably forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Peter!” cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs. “Have +you torn the house down enough to heat the teakettle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet, old Tabby,” answered Peter, “but that’s soon +done, as you shall see.” With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, +and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and in +a twinkling the old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall get our winter’s wood cheap,” quoth Tabitha. +</p> + +<p> +The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down all before him, smiting and +hewing at the joints and timbers, unclenching spike-nails, ripping and tearing +away boards, with a tremendous racket from morning till night. He took care, +however, to leave the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the +neighbors might not suspect what was going on. +</p> + +<p> +Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy while it lasted, +had Peter been happier than now. Perhaps, after all, there was something in +Peter Goldthwaite’s turn of mind which brought him an inward recompense +for all the external evil that it caused. If he were poor, ill-clad, even +hungry and exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of +impending ruin, yet only his body remained in these miserable circumstances, +while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. It was his +nature to be always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. +Gray hairs were nothing—no, nor wrinkles nor infirmity; he might look +old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old figure +much the worse for wear, but the true, the essential Peter was a young man of +high hopes just entering on the world. At the kindling of each new fire his +burnt-out youth rose afresh from the old embers and ashes. It rose exulting +now. Having lived thus long—not too long, but just to the right +age—a susceptible bachelor with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so +soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing and win the love +of the fairest maid in town. What heart could resist him? Happy Peter +Goldthwaite! +</p> + +<p> +Every evening—as Peter had long absented himself from his former +lounging-places at insurance offices, news-rooms, and book-stores, and as the +honor of his company was seldom requested in private circles—he and +Tabitha used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. This was always heaped +plentifully with the rubbish of his day’s labor. As the foundation of the +fire there would be a goodly-sized back-log of red oak, which after being +sheltered from rain or damp above a century still hissed with the heat and +distilled streams of water from each end, as if the tree had been cut down +within a week or two. Next there were large sticks, sound, black and heavy, +which had lost the principle of decay and were indestructible except by fire, +wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. On this solid basis Tabitha +would rear a lighter structure, composed of the splinters of door-panels, +ornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like straw and +threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides +visible almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gloom of the old kitchen would +be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the dusky cross-beams +overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while Peter smiled like a +gladsome man and Tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. All this, of +course, was but an emblem of the bright fortune which the destruction of the +house would shed upon its occupants. +</p> + +<p> +While the dry pine was flaming and crackling like an irregular discharge of +fairy-musketry, Peter sat looking and listening in a pleasant state of +excitement; but when the brief blaze and uproar were succeeded by the dark-red +glow, the substantial heat and the deep singing sound which were to last +throughout the evening, his humor became talkative. One night—the +hundredth time—he teased Tabitha to tell him something new about his +great-granduncle. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years, old +Tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him,” said Peter. +“Did not you tell me that when you first came to the house there was an +old woman sitting where you sit now who had been housekeeper to the famous +Peter Goldthwaite?” +</p> + +<p> +“So there was, Mr. Peter,” answered Tabitha, “and she was +near about a hundred years old. She used to say that she and old Peter +Goldthwaite had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen fire—pretty +much as you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one,” +said Peter, complacently, “or he never would have grown so rich. But +methinks he might have invested the money better than he did. No interest! +nothing but good security! and the house to be torn down to come at it! What +made him hide it so snug, Tabby?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha, “for as often +as he went to unlock the chest the Old Scratch came behind and caught his arm. +The money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse, and he wanted Peter to +give him a deed of this house and land, which Peter swore he would not +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” remarked Peter. +“But this is all nonsense, Tabby; I don’t believe the story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha, “for some +folks say that Peter did make over the house to the Old Scratch, and +that’s the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. +And as soon as Peter had given him the deed the chest flew open, and Peter +caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and behold! there was nothing in his +fist but a parcel of old rags.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!” cried Peter, in great +wrath. “They were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies of the +king of England. It seems as if I could recollect the whole circumstance, and +how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and +drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old rags indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +But it was not an old woman’s legend that would discourage Peter +Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at +daylight with a joyous throb of the heart which few are fortunate enough to +feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored hard without wasting a +moment except at meal-times, when Tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, +or such other sustenance as she had picked up or Providence had sent them. +Being a truly pious man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing—if the food +were none of the best, then so much the more earnestly, as it was more +needed—nor to return thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the +good appetite which was better than a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he +hurry back to his toil, and in a moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust +from the old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the clatter +which he raised in the midst of it. +</p> + +<p> +How enviable is the consciousness of being usefully employed! Nothing troubled +Peter, or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem like vague +recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. He often paused with +his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself, “Peter Goldthwaite, did +you never strike this blow before?” or “Peter, what need of tearing +the whole house down? Think a little while, and you will remember where the +gold is hidden.” Days and weeks passed on, however, without any +remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean gray rat peeped forth at the +lean gray man, wondering what devil had got into the old house, which had +always been so peaceable till now. And occasionally Peter sympathized with the +sorrows of a female mouse who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and +delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by its +ruin. But as yet no treasure. +</p> + +<p> +By this time, Peter, being as determined as fate and as diligent as time, had +made an end with the uppermost regions and got down to the second story, where +he was busy in one of the front chambers. It had formerly been the +state-bedchamber, and was honored by tradition as the sleeping-apartment of +Governor Dudley and many other eminent guests. The furniture was gone. There +were remnants of faded and tattered paper-hangings, but larger spaces of bare +wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, chiefly of people’s heads in +profile. These being specimens of Peter’s youthful genius, it went more +to his heart to obliterate them than if they had been pictures on a church wall +by Michael Angelo. One sketch, however, and that the best one, affected him +differently. It represented a ragged man partly supporting himself on a spade +and bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended to +grasp something that he had found. But close behind him, with a fiendish laugh +on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail and a cloven hoof. +</p> + +<p> +“Avaunt, Satan!” cried Peter. “The man shall have his +gold.” Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the +head as not only demolished him, but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the +whole scene to vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite through the +plaster and laths and discovered a cavity. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy on us, Mr. Peter! Are you quarrelling with the Old Scratch?” +said Tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under the dinner-pot. +</p> + +<p> +Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down a further space of the wall, +and laid open a small closet or cupboard on one side of the fireplace, about +breast-high from the ground. It contained nothing but a brass lamp covered with +verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment. While Peter inspected the latter, +Tabitha seized the lamp and began to rub it with her apron. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,” said Peter. “It is +not Aladdin’s lamp, though I take it to be a token of as much luck. Look +here, Tabby!” +</p> + +<p> +Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was saddled +with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. But no sooner had she begun to puzzle +over it than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both her hands against +her sides. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t make a fool of the old woman,” cried she. +“This is your own handwriting, Mr. Peter, the same as in the letter you +sent me from Mexico.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is certainly a considerable resemblance,” said Peter, again +examining the parchment. “But you know yourself, Tabby, that this closet +must have been plastered up before you came to the house or I came into the +world. No; this is old Peter Goldthwaite’s writing. These columns of +pounds, shillings and pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the +treasure, and this, at the bottom, is doubtless a reference to the place of +concealment. But the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is +absolutely illegible. What a pity!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, this lamp is as good as new. That’s some comfort,” +said Tabitha. +</p> + +<p> +“A lamp!” thought Peter. “That indicates light on my +researches.” +</p> + +<p> +For the present Peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery than to +resume his labors. After Tabitha had gone down stairs he stood poring over the +parchment at one of the front windows, which was so obscured with dust that the +sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the floor. +Peter forced it open and looked out upon the great street of the town, while +the sun looked in at his old house. The air, though mild, and even warm, +thrilled Peter as with a dash of water. +</p> + +<p> +It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow lay deep upon the housetops, +but was rapidly dissolving into millions of water-drops, which sparkled +downward through the sunshine with the noise of a summer shower beneath the +eaves. Along the street the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of +white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the spring-like temperature. But +when Peter thrust forth his head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, +were already thawed out by this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter +weather. It gladdened him—a gladness with a sigh breathing through +it—to see the stream of ladies gliding along the slippery sidewalks with +their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods, boas and sable capes like roses +amidst a new kind of foliage. The sleigh bells jingled to and fro continually, +sometimes announcing the arrival of a sleigh from Vermont laden with the frozen +bodies of porkers or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes, of a regular +marketman with chickens, geese and turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a +barn-yard; and sometimes, of a farmer and his dame who had come to town partly +for the ride, partly to go a-shopping and partly for the sale of some eggs and +butter. This couple rode in an old-fashioned square sleigh which had served +them twenty winters and stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. Now +a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car shaped somewhat like a +cockle-shell; now a stage-sleigh with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit +the sun dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out among the vehicles +that obstructed its passage; now came round a corner the similitude of +Noah’s ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh with seats for fifty +people and drawn by a dozen horses. This spacious receptacle was populous with +merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys and merry old folks, all +alive with fun and grinning to the full width of their mouths. They kept up a +buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, +joyous shout which the spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of +roguish boys let drive their snow-balls right among the pleasure-party. The +sleigh passed on, and when concealed by a bend of the street was still audible +by a distant cry of merriment. +</p> + +<p> +Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by all these +accessories—the bright sun, the flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, +the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles and the jingle-jangle of +merry bells which made the heart dance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be +seen except that peaked piece of antiquity Peter Goldthwaite’s house, +which might well look sad externally, since such a terrible consumption was +preying on its insides. And Peter’s gaunt figure, half visible in the +projecting second story, was worthy of his house. +</p> + +<p> +“Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?” cried a voice across the street +as Peter was drawing in his head. “Look out here, Peter!” +</p> + +<p> +Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, on the opposite +sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing +a handsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed the attention of the whole +town to Peter Goldthwaite’s window, and to the dusty scarecrow which +appeared at it. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown, again; “what the devil are +you about there, that I hear such a racket whenever I pass by? You are +repairing the old house, I suppose, making a new one of it? Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown,” replied Peter. +“If I make it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar +upward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had not you better let me take the job?” said Mr. Brown, +significantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” answered Peter, hastily shutting the window; for ever +since he had been in search of the treasure he hated to have people stare at +him. +</p> + +<p> +As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the secret wealth +within his grasp, a haughty smile shone out on Peter’s visage with +precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. He endeavored +to assume such a mien as his ancestor had probably worn when he gloried in the +building of a strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity. But +the chamber was very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal, too, in +contrast with the living scene that he had just looked upon. His brief glimpse +into the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which the +world kept itself cheerful and prosperous by social pleasures and an +intercourse of business, while he in seclusion was pursuing an object that +might possibly be a phantasm by a method which most people would call madness. +It is one great advantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person +rectifies his mind by other minds and squares his conduct to that of his +neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had +exposed himself to this influence by merely looking out of the window. For a +while he doubted whether there were any hidden chest of gold, and in that case +whether it was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down only to be convinced +of its non-existence. +</p> + +<p> +But this was momentary. Peter the Destroyer resumed the task which Fate had +assigned him, nor faltered again till it was accomplished. In the course of his +search he met with many things that are usually found in the ruins of an old +house, and also with some that are not. What seemed most to the purpose was a +rusty key which had been thrust into a chink of the wall, with a wooden label +appended to the handle, bearing the initials “P.G.” Another +singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine walled up in an old oven. A +tradition ran in the family that Peter’s grandfather, a jovial officer in +the old French war, had set aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the +benefit of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, +and therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. Many half-pence did he pick +up that had been lost through the cracks of the floor, and some few Spanish +coins, and the half of a broken sixpence which had doubtless been a love-token. +There was likewise a silver coronation medal of George III. But old Peter +Goldthwaite’s strong-box fled from one dark corner to another, or +otherwise eluded the second Peter’s clutches till, should he seek much +farther, he must burrow into the earth. +</p> + +<p> +We will not follow him in his triumphant progress step by step. Suffice it that +Peter worked like a steam-engine and finished in that one winter the job which +all the former inhabitants of the house, with time and the elements to aid +them, had only half done in a century. Except the kitchen, every room and +chamber was now gutted. The house was nothing but a shell, the apparition of a +house, as unreal as the painted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect +rind of a great cheese in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled till it was a +cheese no more. And Peter was the mouse. +</p> + +<p> +What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burnt up, for she wisely considered that +without a house they should need no wood to warm it, and therefore economy was +nonsense. Thus the whole house might be said to have dissolved in smoke and +flown up among the clouds through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. +It was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who jumped down his own +throat. +</p> + +<p> +On the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring every chink +and cranny had been ransacked except within the precincts of the kitchen. This +fated evening was an ugly one. A snow-storm had set in some hours before, and +was still driven and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane which +fought against the house as if the prince of the air in person were putting the +final stroke to Peter’s labors. The framework being so much weakened and +the inward props removed, it would have been no marvel if in some stronger +wrestle of the blast the rotten walls of the edifice and all the peaked roofs +had come crashing down upon the owner’s head. He, however, was careless +of the peril, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or as the flame +that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind. +</p> + +<p> +“The wine, Tabitha,” he cried—“my grandfather’s +rich old wine! We will drink it now.” +</p> + +<p> +Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner and placed +the bottle before Peter, close beside the old brass lamp which had likewise +been the prize of his researches. Peter held it before his eyes, and, looking +through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden glory +which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded her silver hair and converted her mean +garments into robes of queenly splendor. It reminded him of his golden dream. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “must the wine be drunk before +the money is found?” +</p> + +<p> +“The money <i>is</i> found!” exclaimed Peter, with a sort of +fierceness. “The chest is within my reach; I will not sleep till I have +turned this key in the rusty lock. But first of all let us drink.” +</p> + +<p> +There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old +Peter Goldthwaite’s rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a +single blow. He then filled two little china teacups which Tabitha had brought +from the cupboard. So clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone +within the cups and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers at the bottom of each +more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there. Its rich and +delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“Drink, Tabitha!” cried Peter. “Blessings on the honest old +fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me! And here’s to Peter +Goldthwaite’s memory!” +</p> + +<p> +“And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth Tabitha as she +drank. +</p> + +<p> +How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity, had +that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such +boon-companions! A portion of the happiness of a former age had been kept for +them, and was now set free in a crowd of rejoicing visions to sport amid the +storm and desolation of the present time. Until they have finished the bottle +we must turn our eyes elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +It so chanced that on this stormy night Mr. John Brown found himself ill at +ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair by the glowing grate of anthracite which +heated his handsome parlor. He was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and +pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through +the padded vest of his own prosperity. This evening he had thought much about +his old partner, Peter Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries and continual +ill-luck, the poverty of his dwelling at Mr. Brown’s last visit, and +Peter’s crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the +window. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow!” thought Mr. John Brown. “Poor crack-brained +Peter Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance’ sake I ought to have taken care +that he was comfortable this rough winter.” These feelings grew so +powerful that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter +Goldthwaite immediately. +</p> + +<p> +The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek of the blast +seemed a summons, or would have seemed so had Mr. Brown been accustomed to hear +the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. Much amazed at such active +benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his throat and ears in +comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the +tempest. But the powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. Mr. Brown +was just weathering the corner by Peter Goldthwaite’s house when the +hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow-bank +and proceeded to bury his protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed +little hope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the same moment +his hat was snatched away and whirled aloft into some far-distant region whence +no tidings have as yet returned. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through the snow-drift, +and with his bare head bent against the storm floundered onward to +Peter’s door. There was such a creaking and groaning and rattling, and +such an ominous shaking, throughout the crazy edifice that the loudest rap +would have been inaudible to those within. He therefore entered without +ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. His intrusion even there was +unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping over +a large chest which apparently they had just dragged from a cavity or concealed +closet on the left side of the chimney. By the lamp in the old woman’s +hand Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped with iron, +strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit +receptacle in which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up for the wants +of another. +</p> + +<p> +Peter Goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Tabitha,” cried he, with tremulous rapture, “how shall I +endure the effulgence? The gold!—the bright, bright gold! Methinks I can +remember my last glance at it just as the iron-plated lid fell down. And ever +since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret and gathering its +splendor against this glorious moment. It will flash upon us like the noonday +sun.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!” said Tabitha, with somewhat less +patience than usual. “But, for mercy’s sake, do turn the +key!” +</p> + +<p> +And with a strong effort of both hands Peter did force the rusty key through +the intricacies of the rusty lock. Mr. Brown, in the mean time, had drawn near +and thrust his eager visage between those of the other two at the instant that +Peter threw up the lid. No sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s here?” exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles +and holding the lamp over the open chest. “Old Peter Goldthwaite’s +hoard of old rags!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty much so, Tabby,” said Mr. Brown, lifting a handful of the +treasure. +</p> + +<p> +Oh what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaite raised to scare +himself out of his scanty wits withal! Here was the semblance of an +incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town and build every street +anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man would have given a solid sixpence +for. What, then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest? +Why, here were old provincial bills of credit and treasury notes and bills of +land-banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue—above +a century and a half ago—down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a +thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than +they. +</p> + +<p> +“And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure!” said +John Brown. “Your namesake, Peter, was something like yourself; and when +the provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent, he +bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard my grandfather say that old +Peter gave his father a mortgage of this very house and land to raise cash for +his silly project. But the currency kept sinking till nobody would take it as a +gift, and there was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter the second, with +thousands in his strong-box and hardly a coat to his back. He went mad upon the +strength of it. But never mind, Peter; it is just the sort of capital for +building castles in the air.” +</p> + +<p> +“The house will be down about our ears,” cried Tabitha as the wind +shook it with increasing violence. +</p> + +<p> +“Let it fall,” said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself +upon the chest. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, my old friend Peter!” said John Brown. “I have +house-room for you and Tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure. +To-morrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house; +real estate is well up, and I could afford you a pretty handsome price.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, +“have a plan for laying out the cash to great advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, as to that,” muttered John Brown to himself, “we must +apply to the next court for a guardian to take care of the solid cash; and if +Peter insists upon speculating, he may do it to his heart’s content with +old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a> +CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL</h2> + +<p> +Passing a summer several years since at Edgartown, on the island of +Martha’s Vineyard, I became acquainted with a certain carver of +tombstones who had travelled and voyaged thither from the interior of +Massachusetts in search of professional employment. The speculation had turned +out so successful that my friend expected to transmute slate and marble into +silver and gold to the amount of at least a thousand dollars during the few +months of his sojourn at Nantucket and the Vineyard. The secluded life and the +simple and primitive spirit which still characterizes the inhabitants of those +islands, especially of Martha’s Vineyard, insure their dead friends a +longer and dearer remembrance than the daily novelty and revolving bustle of +the world can elsewhere afford to beings of the past. Yet, while every family +is anxious to erect a memorial to its departed members, the untainted breath of +Ocean bestows such health and length of days upon the people of the isles as +would cause a melancholy dearth of business to a resident artist in that line. +His own monument, recording his decease by starvation, would probably be an +early specimen of his skill. Gravestones, therefore, have generally been an +article of imported merchandise. +</p> + +<p> +In my walks through the burial-ground of Edgartown—where the dead have +lain so long that the soil, once enriched by their decay, has returned to its +original barrenness—in that ancient burial-ground I noticed much variety +of monumental sculpture. The elder stones, dated a century back or more, have +borders elaborately carved with flowers and are adorned with a multiplicity of +death’s-heads, crossbones, scythes, hour-glasses, and other lugubrious +emblems of mortality, with here and there a winged cherub to direct the +mourner’s spirit upward. These productions of Gothic taste must have been +quite beyond the colonial skill of the day, and were probably carved in London +and brought across the ocean to commemorate the defunct worthies of this lonely +isle. The more recent monuments are mere slabs of slate in the ordinary style, +without any superfluous flourishes to set off the bald inscriptions. But +others—and those far the most impressive both to my taste and +feelings—were roughly hewn from the gray rocks of the island, evidently +by the unskilled hands of surviving friends and relatives. On some there were +merely the initials of a name; some were inscribed with misspelt prose or +rhyme, in deep letters which the moss and wintry rain of many years had not +been able to obliterate. These, these were graves where loved ones slept. It is +an old theme of satire, the falsehood and vanity of monumental eulogies; but +when affection and sorrow grave the letters with their own painful labor, then +we may be sure that they copy from the record on their hearts. +</p> + +<p> +My acquaintance the sculptor—he may share that title with Greenough, +since the dauber of signs is a painter as well as Raphael—had found a +ready market for all his blank slabs of marble and full occupation in lettering +and ornamenting them. He was an elderly man, a descendant of the old Puritan +family of Wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and singleness both of heart +and mind which, methinks, is more rarely found among us Yankees than in any +other community of people. In spite of his gray head and wrinkled brow, he was +quite like a child in all matters save what had some reference to his own +business; he seemed, unless my fancy misled me, to view mankind in no other +relation than as people in want of tombstones, and his literary attainments +evidently comprehended very little either of prose or poetry which had not at +one time or other been inscribed on slate or marble. His sole task and office +among the immortal pilgrims of the tomb—the duty for which Providence had +sent the old man into the world, as it were with a chisel in his hand—was +to label the dead bodies, lest their names should be forgotten at the +resurrection. Yet he had not failed, within a narrow scope, to gather a few +sprigs of earthly, and more than earthly, wisdom—the harvest of many a +grave. And, lugubrious as his calling might appear, he was as cheerful an old +soul as health and integrity and lack of care could make him, and used to set +to work upon one sorrowful inscription or another with that sort of spirit +which impels a man to sing at his labor. On the whole, I found Mr. Wigglesworth +an entertaining, and often instructive, if not an interesting, character; and, +partly for the charm of his society, and still more because his work has an +invariable attraction for “man that is born of woman,” I was +accustomed to spend some hours a day at his workshop. The quaintness of his +remarks and their not infrequent truth—a truth condensed and pointed by +the limited sphere of his view—gave a raciness to his talk which mere +worldliness and general cultivation would at once have destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes we would discuss the respective merits of the various qualities of +marble, numerous slabs of which were resting against the walls of the shop, or +sometimes an hour or two would pass quietly without a word on either side while +I watched how neatly his chisel struck out letter after letter of the names of +the Nortons, the Mayhews, the Luces, the Daggets, and other immemorial families +of the Vineyard. Often with an artist’s pride the good old sculptor would +speak of favorite productions of his skill which were scattered throughout the +village graveyards of New England. But my chief and most instructive amusement +was to witness his interviews with his customers, who held interminable +consultations about the form and fashion of the desired monuments, the buried +excellence to be commemorated, the anguish to be expressed, and finally the +lowest price in dollars and cents for which a marble transcript of their +feelings might be obtained. Really, my mind received many fresh ideas which +perhaps may remain in it even longer than Mr. Wigglesworth’s hardest +marble will retain the deepest strokes of his chisel. +</p> + +<p> +An elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for her first love, who had been +killed by a whale in the Pacific Ocean no less than forty years before. It was +singular that so strong an impression of early feeling should have survived +through the changes of her subsequent life, in the course of which she had been +a wife and a mother, and, so far as I could judge, a comfortable and happy +woman. Reflecting within myself, it appeared to me that this lifelong +sorrow—as, in all good faith, she deemed it—was one of the most +fortunate circumstances of her history. It had given an ideality to her mind; +it had kept her purer and less earthy than she would otherwise have been by +drawing a portion of her sympathies apart from earth. Amid the throng of +enjoyments and the pressure of worldly care and all the warm materialism of +this life she had communed with a vision, and had been the better for such +intercourse. Faithful to the husband of her maturity, and loving him with a far +more real affection than she ever could have felt for this dream of her +girlhood, there had still been an imaginative faith to the ocean-buried; so +that an ordinary character had thus been elevated and refined. Her sighs had +been the breath of Heaven to her soul. The good lady earnestly desired that the +proposed monument should be ornamented with a carved border of marine plants +interwined with twisted sea-shells, such as were probably waving over her +lover’s skeleton or strewn around it in the far depths of the Pacific. +But, Mr. Wigglesworth’s chisel being inadequate to the task, she was +forced to content herself with a rose hanging its head from a broken stem. +</p> + +<p> +After her departure I remarked that the symbol was none of the most apt. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” said my friend the sculptor, embodying in this image the +thoughts that had been passing through my own mind, “that broken rose has +shed its sweet smell through forty years of the good woman’s life.” +</p> + +<p> +It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food for contemplation as in the +above instance. None of the applicants, I think, affected me more disagreeably +than an old man who came, with his fourth wife hanging on his arm, to bespeak +gravestones for the three former occupants of his marriage-bed. I watched with +some anxiety to see whether his remembrance of either were more affectionate +than of the other two, but could discover no symptom of the kind. The three +monuments were all to be of the same material and form, and each decorated in +bas-relief with two weeping willows, one of these sympathetic trees bending +over its fellow, which was to be broken in the midst and rest upon a sepulchral +urn. This, indeed, was Mr. Wigglesworth’s standing emblem of conjugal +bereavement. I shuddered at the gray polygamist who had so utterly lost the +holy sense of individuality in wedlock that methought he was fain to reckon +upon his fingers how many women who had once slept by his side were now +sleeping in their graves. There was even—if I wrong him, it is no great +matter—a glance sidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to +drive a thriftier bargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot. +</p> + +<p> +I was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captain who gave directions for a +broad marble slab divided into two compartments, one of which was to contain an +epitaph on his deceased wife and the other to be left vacant till death should +engrave his own name there. As is frequently the case among the whalers of +Martha’s Vineyard, so much of this storm-beaten widower’s life had +been tossed away on distant seas that out of twenty years of matrimony he had +spent scarce three, and those at scattered intervals, beneath his own roof. +Thus the wife of his youth, though she died in his and her declining age, +retained the bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory. +</p> + +<p> +My observations gave me the idea, and Mr. Wigglesworth confirmed it, that +husbands were more faithful in setting up memorials to their dead wives than +widows to their dead husbands. I was not ill-natured enough to fancy that women +less than men feel so sure of their own constancy as to be willing to give a +pledge of it in marble. It is more probably the fact that, while men are able +to reflect upon their lost companions as remembrances apart from themselves, +women, on the other hand, are conscious that a portion of their being has gone +with the departed whithersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul, the living +dust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave; and by the very strength of +that sympathy the wife of the dead shrinks the more sensitively from reminding +the world of its existence. The link is already strong enough; it needs no +visible symbol. And, though a shadow walks ever by her side and the touch of a +chill hand is on her bosom, yet life, and perchance its natural yearnings, may +still be warm within her and inspire her with new hopes of happiness. Then +would she mark out the grave the scent of which would be perceptible on the +pillow of the second bridal? No, but rather level its green mound with the +surrounding earth, as if, when she dug up again her buried heart, the spot had +ceased to be a grave. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, in spite of these sentimentalities, I was prodigiously amused by an +incident of which I had not the good-fortune to be a witness, but which Mr. +Wigglesworth related with considerable humor. A gentlewoman of the town, +receiving news of her husband’s loss at sea, had bespoken a handsome slab +of marble, and came daily to watch the progress of my friend’s chisel. +One afternoon, when the good lady and the sculptor were in the very midst of +the epitaph—which the departed spirit might have been greatly comforted +to read—who should walk into the workshop but the deceased himself, in +substance as well as spirit! He had been picked up at sea, and stood in no +present need of tombstone or epitaph. +</p> + +<p> +“And how,” inquired I, “did his wife bear the shock of joyful +surprise?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said the old man, deepening the grin of a death’s-head +on which his chisel was just then employed, “I really felt for the poor +woman; it was one of my best pieces of marble—and to be thrown away on a +living man!” +</p> + +<p> +A comely woman with a pretty rosebud of a daughter came to select a gravestone +for a twin-daughter, who had died a month before. I was impressed with the +different nature of their feelings for the dead. The mother was calm and +woefully resigned, fully conscious of her loss, as of a treasure which she had +not always possessed, and therefore had been aware that it might be taken from +her; but the daughter evidently had no real knowledge of what Death’s +doings were. Her thoughts knew, but not her heart. It seemed to me that by the +print and pressure which the dead sister had left upon the survivor’s +spirit her feelings were almost the same as if she still stood side by side and +arm in arm with the departed, looking at the slabs of marble, and once or twice +she glanced around with a sunny smile, which, as its sister-smile had faded for +ever, soon grew confusedly overshadowed. Perchance her consciousness was truer +than her reflection; perchance her dead sister was a closer companion than in +life. +</p> + +<p> +The mother and daughter talked a long while with Mr. Wigglesworth about a +suitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary verse of ill-matched rhymes +which had already been inscribed upon innumerable tombstones. But when we +ridicule the triteness of monumental verses, we forget that Sorrow reads far +deeper in them than we can, and finds a profound and individual purport in what +seems so vague and inexpressive unless interpreted by her. She makes the +epitaph anew, though the selfsame words may have served for a thousand graves. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” said I afterward to Mr. Wigglesworth, “they might +have made a better choice than this. While you were discussing the subject I +was struck by at least a dozen simple and natural expressions from the lips of +both mother and daughter. One of these would have formed an inscription equally +original and appropriate.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” replied the sculptor, shaking his head; “there is a +good deal of comfort to be gathered from these little old scraps of poetry, and +so I always recommend them in preference to any new-fangled ones. And somehow +they seem to stretch to suit a great grief and shrink to fit a small +one.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited by what took place between +Mr. Wigglesworth and his customers. A shrewd gentlewoman who kept a tavern in +the town was anxious to obtain two or three gravestones for the deceased +members of her family, and to pay for these solemn commodities by taking the +sculptor to board. Hereupon a fantasy arose in my mind of good Mr. Wigglesworth +sitting down to dinner at a broad, flat tombstone carving one of his own plump +little marble cherubs, gnawing a pair of crossbones and drinking out of a +hollow death’s-head or perhaps a lachrymatory vase or sepulchral urn, +while his hostess’s dead children waited on him at the ghastly banquet. +On communicating this nonsensical picture to the old man he laughed heartily +and pronounced my humor to be of the right sort. +</p> + +<p> +“I have lived at such a table all my days,” said he, “and +eaten no small quantity of slate and marble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hard fare,” rejoined I, smiling, “but you seemed to have +found it excellent of digestion, too.” +</p> + +<p> +A man of fifty or thereabouts with a harsh, unpleasant countenance ordered a +stone for the grave of his bitter enemy, with whom he had waged warfare half a +lifetime, to their mutual misery and ruin. The secret of this phenomenon was +that hatred had become the sustenance and enjoyment of the poor wretch’s +soul; it had supplied the place of all kindly affections; it had been really a +bond of sympathy between himself and the man who shared the passion; and when +its object died, the unappeasable foe was the only mourner for the dead. He +expressed a purpose of being buried side by side with his enemy. +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt whether their dust will mingle,” remarked the old sculptor +to me; for often there was an earthliness in his conceptions. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” replied I, who had mused long upon the incident; +“and when they rise again, these bitter foes may find themselves dear +friends. Methinks what they mistook for hatred was but love under a +mask.” +</p> + +<p> +A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a memorial for an Indian of +Chabbiquidick—one of the few of untainted blood remaining in that region, +and said to be a hereditary chieftain descended from the sachem who welcomed +Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr. Wiggles-worth exerted his best skill to +carve a broken bow and scattered sheaf of arrows in memory of the hunters and +warriors whose race was ended here, but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to +denote that the poor Indian had shared the Christian’s hope of +immortality. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” observed I, taking a perverse view of the winged boy and the +bow and arrows, “it looks more like Cupid’s tomb than an Indian +chief’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk nonsense,” said the sculptor, with the offended pride of +art. He then added with his usual good-nature, “How can Cupid die when +there are such pretty maidens in the Vineyard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true,” answered I; and for the rest of the day I thought of +other matters than tombstones. +</p> + +<p> +At our next meeting I found him chiselling an open book upon a marble +headstone, and concluded that it was meant to express the erudition of some +black-letter clergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It turned out, however, to +be emblematical of the scriptural knowledge of an old woman who had never read +anything but her Bible, and the monument was a tribute to her piety and good +works from the orthodox church of which she had been a member. In strange +contrast with this Christian woman’s memorial was that of an infidel +whose gravestone, by his own direction, bore an avowal of his belief that the +spirit within him would be extinguished like a flame, and that the nothingness +whence he sprang would receive him again. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety of enabling a dead +man’s dust to utter this dreadful creed. +</p> + +<p> +“If I thought,” said he, “that a single mortal would read the +inscription without a shudder, my chisel should never cut a letter of it. But +when the grave speaks such falsehoods, the soul of man will know the truth by +its own horror.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it will,” said I, struck by the idea. “The poor infidel +may strive to preach blasphemies from his grave, but it will be only another +method of impressing the soul with a consciousness of immortality.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an old man by the name of Norton, noted throughout the island for his +great wealth, which he had accumulated by the exercise of strong and shrewd +faculties combined with a most penurious disposition. This wretched miser, +conscious that he had not a friend to be mindful of him in his grave, had +himself taken the needful precautions for posthumous remembrance by bespeaking +an immense slab of white marble with a long epitaph in raised letters, the +whole to be as magnificent as Mr. Wigglesworth’s skill could make it. +There was something very characteristic in this contrivance to have his +money’s worth even from his own tombstone, which, indeed, afforded him +more enjoyment in the few months that he lived thereafter than it probably will +in a whole century, now that it is laid over his bones. +</p> + +<p> +This incident reminds me of a young girl—a pale, slender, feeble creature +most unlike the other rosy and healthful damsels of the Vineyard, amid whose +brightness she was fading away. Day after day did the poor maiden come to the +sculptor’s shop and pass from one piece of marble to another, till at +last she pencilled her name upon a slender slab which, I think, was of a more +spotless white than all the rest. I saw her no more, but soon afterward found +Mr. Wigglesworth cutting her virgin-name into the stone which she had chosen. +</p> + +<p> +“She is dead, poor girl!” said he, interrupting the tune which he +was whistling, “and she chose a good piece of stuff for her headstone. +Now, which of these slabs would you like best to see your own name upon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, to tell you the truth, my good Mr. Wigglesworth,” replied I, +after a moment’s pause, for the abruptness of the question had somewhat +startled me—“to be quite sincere with you, I care little or nothing +about a stone for my own grave, and am somewhat inclined to scepticism as to +the propriety of erecting monuments at all over the dust that once was human. +The weight of these heavy marbles, though unfelt by the dead corpse or the +enfranchised soul, presses drearily upon the spirit of the survivor and causes +him to connect the idea of death with the dungeon-like imprisonment of the +tomb, instead of with the freedom of the skies. Every gravestone that you ever +made is the visible symbol of a mistaken system. Our thoughts should soar +upward with the butterfly, not linger with the exuviæ that confined him. +In truth and reason, neither those whom we call the living, and still less the +departed, have anything to do with the grave.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard anything so heathenish,” said Mr. Wigglesworth, +perplexed and displeased at sentiments which controverted all his notions and +feelings and implied the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life’s +labor. “Would you forget your dead friends the moment they are under the +sod?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are not under the sod,” I rejoined; “then why should I +mark the spot where there is no treasure hidden? Forget them? No; but, to +remember them aright, I would forget what they have cast off. And to gain the +truer conception of death I would forget the grave.” +</p> + +<p> +But still the good old sculptor murmured, and stumbled, as it were, over the +gravestones amid which he had walked through life. Whether he were right or +wrong, I had grown the wiser from our companionship and from my observations of +nature and character as displayed by those who came, with their old griefs or +their new ones, to get them recorded upon his slabs of marble. And yet with my +gain of wisdom I had likewise gained perplexity; for there was a strange doubt +in my mind whether the dark shadowing of this life, the sorrows and regrets, +have not as much real comfort in them—leaving religious influences out of +the question—as what we term life’s joys. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a> +THE SHAKER BRIDAL</h2> + +<p> +One day, in the sick-chamber of Father Ephraim, who had been forty years the +presiding elder over the Shaker settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage +of several of the chief men of the sect. Individuals had come from the rich +establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury, Harvard and Alfred, and from all the +other localities where this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of +New England by their systematic industry. An elder was likewise there who had +made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful in +Kentucky to visit his spiritual kindred the children of the sainted Mother Ann. +He had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, had quaffed the +far-famed Shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred dance every step of which +is believed to alienate the enthusiast from earth and bear him onward to +heavenly purity and bliss. His brethren of the North had now courteously +invited him to be present on an occasion when the concurrence of every eminent +member of their community was peculiarly desirable. +</p> + +<p> +The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not only hoary-headed and +infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering disease which it was evident +would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to other hands. At his footstool +stood a man and woman, both clad in the Shaker garb. +</p> + +<p> +“My brethren,” said Father Ephraim to the surrounding elders, +feebly exerting himself to utter these few words, “here are the son and +daughter to whom I would commit the trust of which Providence is about to +lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and say whether the +inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choice aright.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most scrutinizing +gaze. The man—whose name was Adam Colburn—had a face sunburnt with +labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful and traced with cares enough +for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached middle age. There was +something severe in his aspect and a rigidity throughout his +person—characteristics that caused him generally to be taken for a +schoolmaster; which vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several +years. The woman, Martha Pierson, was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as +a Shaker sister almost invariably is, and not entirely free from that +corpse-like appearance which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated +to impart. +</p> + +<p> +“This pair are still in the summer of their years,” observed the +elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. “I would like better to see the +hoar-frost of autumn on their heads. Methinks, also, they will be exposed to +peculiar temptations on account of the carnal desires which have heretofore +subsisted between them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, brother,” said the elder from Canterbury; “the +hoar-frost and the black frost hath done its work on Brother Adam and Sister +Martha, even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields while they +are yet green. And why should we question the wisdom of our venerable +Father’s purpose, although this pair in their early youth have loved one +another as the world’s people love? Are there not many brethren and +sisters among us who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our +faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?” +</p> + +<p> +Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had rendered it inexpedient +that they should now preside together over a Shaker village, it was certainly +most singular that such should be the final result of many warm and tender +hopes. Children of neighboring families, their affection was older even than +their school-days; it seemed an innate principle interfused among all their +sentiments and feelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance as connected +with their whole volume of remembrances. But just as they reached a proper age +for their union misfortunes had fallen heavily on both and made it necessary +that they should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. Even under +these circumstances Martha Pierson would probably have consented to unite her +fate with Adam Colburn’s, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love, would +patiently have awaited the less important gifts of Fortune. But Adam, being of +a calm and cautious character, was loth to relinquish the advantages which a +single man possesses for raising himself in the world. Year after year, +therefore, their marriage had been deferred. +</p> + +<p> +Adam Colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far and seen much of +the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread sometimes as a sempstress, +sometimes as help to a farmer’s wife, sometimes as schoolmistress of the +village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the sick, thus acquiring a +varied experience the ultimate use of which she little anticipated. But nothing +had gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would +matrimony have been so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in the +opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. Still, they had held fast +their mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man who sat among the +senators of his native State, and Adam could have won the hand, as he had +unintentionally won the heart, of a rich and comely widow. But neither of them +desired good-fortune save to share it with the other. +</p> + +<p> +At length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhat stubborn +character and yields to no second spring of hope settled down on the spirit of +Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha and proposed that they should +join the Society of Shakers. The converts of this sect are oftener driven +within its hospitable gates by worldly misfortune than drawn thither by +fanaticism, and are received without inquisition as to their motives. Martha, +faithful still, had placed her hand in that of her lover and accompanied him to +the Shaker village. Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and +strengthened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them +an important rank in the society, whose members are generally below the +ordinary standard of intelligence. Their faith and feelings had in some degree +become assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. Adam Colburn gradually +acquired reputation not only in the management of the temporal affairs of the +society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. Martha was +not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. Finally, when the +infirmities of Father Ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in his +patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed to renew in +their persons the primitive form of Shaker government as established by Mother +Ann. They were to be the father and mother of the village. The simple ceremony +which would constitute them such was now to be performed. +</p> + +<p> +“Son Adam and daughter Martha,” said the venerable Father Ephraim, +fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, “if ye can conscientiously +undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your +fitness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his +character, “I came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the +world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil +fortune, as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes of worldly success were +almost dead within me. I came hither as a man might come to a tomb willing to +lie down in its gloom and coldness for the sake of its peace and quiet. There +was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my +youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be my sister in our new +abode. We are brother and sister, nor would I have it otherwise. And in this +peaceful village I have found all that I hope for—all that I desire. I +will strive with my best strength for the spiritual and temporal good of our +community. My conscience is not doubtful in this matter. I am ready to receive +the trust.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,” said the father. “God will +bless thee in the office which I am about to resign.” +</p> + +<p> +“But our sister,” observed the elder from Harvard. “Hath she +not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?” +</p> + +<p> +Martha started and moved her lips as if she would have made a formal reply to +this appeal. But, had she attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the +long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth and womanhood, might have gushed +from her heart in words that it would have been profanation to utter there. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam has spoken,” said she, hurriedly; “his sentiments are +likewise mine.” +</p> + +<p> +But while speaking these few words Martha grew so pale that she looked fitter +to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and +the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful or horrible +in her situation and destiny. It required, indeed, a more than feminine +strength of nerve to sustain the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous +throughout the sect as these were. They had overcome their natural sympathy +with human frailties and affections. One, when he joined the society, had +brought with him his wife and children, but never from that hour had spoken a +fond word to the former or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. Another, +whose family refused to follow him, had been enabled—such was his gift of +holy fortitude—to leave them to the mercy of the world. The youngest of +the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a Shaker +village, and was said never to have clasped a woman’s hand in his own, +and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the +sect. Old Father Ephraim was the most awful character of all. In his youth he +had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by Mother Ann herself, and +had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered +at the firesides of the village that Mother Ann had been compelled to sear his +heart of flesh with a red-hot iron before it could be purified from earthly +passions. +</p> + +<p> +However that might be, poor Martha had a woman’s heart, and a tender one, +and it quailed within her as she looked round at those strange old men, and +from them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But, perceiving that the elders +eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath and again spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“With what strength is left me by my many troubles,” said she, +“I am ready to undertake this charge, and to do my best in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“My children, join your hands,” said Father Ephraim. +</p> + +<p> +They did so. The elders stood up around, and the father feebly raised himself +to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his great chair. +</p> + +<p> +“I have bidden you to join your hands,” said he, “not in +earthly affection, for ye have cast off its chains for ever, but as brother and +sister in spiritual love and helpers of one another in your allotted task. +Teach unto others the faith which ye have received. Open wide your +gates—I deliver you the keys thereof—open them wide to all who will +give up the iniquities of the world and come hither to lead lives of purity and +peace. Receive the weary ones who have known the vanity of earth; receive the +little children, that they may never learn that miserable lesson. And a +blessing be upon your labors; so that the time may hasten on when the mission +of Mother Ann shall have wrought its full effect, when children shall no more +be born and die, and the last survivor of mortal race—some old and weary +man like me—shall see the sun go down nevermore to rise on a world of sin +and sorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The aged father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed, with +good reason, that the hour was come when the new heads of the village must +enter on their patriarchal duties. In their attention to Father Ephraim their +eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed even +by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers and folded his +arms with a sense of satisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Martha by his +side, till, like a corpse in its burial-clothes, she sank down at the feet of +her early lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure +the weight of its desolate agony no longer. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a> +NIGHT-SKETCHES,</h2> + +<h4>BENEATH AN UMBRELLA</h4> + +<p> +Pleasant is a rainy winter’s day within-doors. The best study for such a +day—or the best amusement: call it what you will—is a book of +travels describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which is mistily +presented through the windows. I have experienced that Fancy is then most +successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects which +the author has spread upon his page, and that his words become magic spells to +summon up a thousand varied pictures. Strange landscapes glimmer through the +familiar walls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost +within the sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has space +enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an Arabian desert, its +parched sands tracked by the long line of a caravan with the camels patiently +journeying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceiling be not lofty, yet I +can pile up the mountains of Central Asia beneath it till their summits shine +far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And with my humble means—a +wealth that is not taxable—I can transport hither the magnificent +merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from distant +countries to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on +all sides. True it is, however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever +else may seem to be going on around me, the raindrops will occasionally be +heard to patter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the +quietest streets in a New England town. After a time, too, the visions vanish, +and will not appear again at my bidding. Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy +sense of unreality depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out before +the clock shall strike bedtime to satisfy myself that the world is not entirely +made up of such shadowy materials as have busied me throughout the day. A +dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies that the things without him will seem +as unreal as those within. +</p> + +<p> +When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightly buttoning my +shaggy overcoat and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately +resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible raindrops. Pausing on the +lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside +with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. +Now come fearful auguries innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my manhood +cry shame upon me, I should turn back within-doors, resume my elbow-chair, my +slippers and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has +been, and go to bed inglorious. The same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has +quelled for a moment the adventurous spirit of many a traveller when his feet, +which were destined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracks +in the home-paths. +</p> + +<p> +In my own case poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. I look upward +and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, +impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were blotted from +the system of the universe. It is as if Nature were dead and the world had put +on black and the clouds were weeping for her. With their tears upon my cheek I +turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here below. A lamp is +burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along the +street to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and +difficulties which beset my path. Yonder dingily-white remnant of a huge +snowbank, which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter days of March, +over or through that wintry waste must I stride onward. Beyond lies a certain +Slough of Despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, +neck-deep—in a word, of unknown bottom—on which the lamplight does +not even glimmer, but which I have occasionally watched in the gradual growth +of its horrors from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder into its depths, +farewell to upper earth! And hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream +the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp, +but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest gloom! Oh, should I be swept +away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent, the coroner will have a job +with an unfortunate gentleman who would fain end his troubles anywhere but in a +mud-puddle. +</p> + +<p> +Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm’s-length from these dim +terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable the longer I delay to grapple +with them. Now for the onset, and, lo! with little damage save a dash of rain +in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up the pantaloons and the left +boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner of the street. The lamp +throws down a circle of red light around me, and twinkling onward from corner +to corner I discern other beacons, marshalling my way to a brighter scene. But +this is a lonesome and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to +the storm with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a +spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! The +puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at +once. I have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place for +those winds which have no work to do upon the deep dashing ships against our +iron-bound shores, nor in the forest tearing up the sylvan giants with half a +rood of soil at their vast roots. Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks +of mischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is +passing just within the verge of the lamplight! One blast struggles for her +umbrella and turns it wrong side outward, another whisks the cape of her cloak +across her eyes, while a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with the +lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure +of rotundity and fleshly substance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl +her aloft like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the +filthiest kennel hereabout. +</p> + +<p> +From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town. Here there +is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won +either on the battlefield or at the polls. Two rows of shops with windows down +nearly to the ground cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs +overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. +The wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. The raindrops glitter +as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks the +scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw around their +footsteps in the moral world, thus bedazzling themselves till they forget the +impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by +radiance from above. +</p> + +<p> +And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers in it. +Here comes one who has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he +takes the bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, +“How fare ye, brother?” He is a retired sea-captain wrapped in some +nameless garment of the pea-jacket order, and is now laying his course toward +the marine-insurance office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck with a +crew of old seadogs like himself. The blast will put in its word among their +hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. Next I meet an unhappy +slipshod gentleman with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a +race with boisterous winds and striving to glide between the drops of rain. +Some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm +fireside in quest of a doctor. See that little vagabond! How carelessly he has +taken his stand right underneath a spout while staring at some object of +curiosity in a shop-window! Surely the rain is his native element; he must have +fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a picture, and a pretty one—a young man and a girl, both +enveloped in cloaks and huddled beneath the scanty protection of a cotton +umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes, but he is in his dancing-pumps, and they +are on their way no doubt, to some cotillon-party or subscription-ball at a +dollar a head, refreshments included. Thus they struggle against the gloomy +tempest, lured onward by a vision of festal splendor. But ah! a most lamentable +disaster! Bewildered by the red, blue and yellow meteors in an +apothecary’s window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, +and are precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two +streets. Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be other than a looker-on in +life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that may not be, I vow, should you be +drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate as shall call forth tears +enough to drown you both anew. Do ye touch bottom, my young friends? Yes; they +emerge like a water-nymph and a river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the +depths of the dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, +but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. They have stood a test +which proves too strong for many. Faithful though over head and ears in +trouble! +</p> + +<p> +Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of +mortal affairs even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows or is +blackened by an interval of darkness. Not that mine is altogether a chameleon +spirit with no hue of its own. Now I pass into a more retired street where the +dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of +strongly-contrasted pictures. Here, too, may be found the golden mean. Through +yonder casement I discern a family circle—the grandmother, the parents +and the children—all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a +wood-fire.—Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against the +window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.—Surely my +fate is hard that I should be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom night +and storm and solitude instead of wife and children. Peace, murmurer! Doubt not +that darker guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm blaze hides +all but blissful images. +</p> + +<p> +Well, here is still a brighter scene—a stately mansion illuminated for a +ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room, and sunny +landscapes hanging round the walls. See! a coach has stopped, whence emerges a +slender beauty who, canopied by two umbrellas, glides within the portal and +vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. Will she ever feel the night-wind and +the rain? Perhaps—perhaps! And will Death and Sorrow ever enter that +proud mansion? As surely as the dancers will be gay within its halls to-night. +Such thoughts sadden yet satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man +in this mean, weatherbeaten hovel, without a fire to cheer him, may call the +rich his brother—brethren by Sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their +households; brethren by Death, who will lead them both to other homes. +</p> + +<p> +Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached the utmost +limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness like +the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space. It is +strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source. Such +are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract where the mighty +stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate and is seen no +more on earth. Listen a while to its voice of mystery, and Fancy will magnify +it till you start and smile at the illusion. And now another sound—the +rumbling of wheels as the mail-coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the +pavements and splashes through the mud and water of the road. All night long +the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled +sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds and awake to find themselves +still jolting onward. Happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my +familiar room and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing and fitfully +dozing and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see. But first let +me gaze at this solitary figure who comes hitherward with a tin lantern which +throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. He +passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow him. +</p> + +<p> +This figure shall supply me with a moral wherewith, for lack of a more +appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to tread the dreary path +before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, +will light him back to that same fireside again. And thus we, night-wanderers +through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the lamp of Faith enkindled at a +celestial fire, it will surely lead us home to that heaven whence its radiance +was borrowed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a> +ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS</h2> + +<p> +At noon of an autumnal day more than two centuries ago the English colors were +displayed by the standard bearer of the Salem train-band, which had mustered +for martial exercise under the orders of John Endicott. It was a period when +the religious exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor and +practise the handling of their weapons of war. Since the first settlement of +New England its prospects had never been so dismal. The dissensions between +Charles I. and his subjects were then, and for several years afterward, +confined to the floor of Parliament. The measures of the king and ministry were +rendered more tyrannically violent by an opposition which had not yet acquired +sufficient confidence in its own strength to resist royal injustice with the +sword. The bigoted and haughty primate Laud, archbishop of Canterbury, +controlled the religious affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested +with powers which might have wrought the utter ruin of the two Puritan +colonies, Plymouth and Massachusetts. There is evidence on record that our +forefathers perceived their danger, but were resolved that their infant country +should not fall without a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the +king’s right arm. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the English banner with the +red cross in its field were flung out over a company of Puritans. Their leader, +the famous Endicott, was a man of stern and resolute countenance, the effect of +which was heightened by a grizzled beard that swept the upper portion of his +breastplate. This piece of armor was so highly polished that the whole +surrounding scene had its image in the glittering steel. The central object in +the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble architecture with neither steeple +nor bell to proclaim it—what, nevertheless, it was—the house of +prayer. A token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the grim head of a +wolf which had just been slain within the precincts of the town, and, according +to the regular mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch of the +meeting-house. The blood was still plashing on the doorstep. There happened to +be visible at the same noontide hour so many other characteristics of the times +and manners of the Puritans that we must endeavor to represent them in a +sketch, though far less vividly than they were reflected in the polished +breastplate of John Endicott. +</p> + +<p> +In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that important engine of +Puritanic authority the whipping-post, with the soil around it well trodden by +the feet of evil-doers who had there been disciplined. At one corner of the +meeting-house was the pillory and at the other the stocks, and, by a singular +good fortune for our sketch, the head of an Episcopalian and suspected Catholic +was grotesquely encased in the former machine, while a fellow-criminal who had +boisterously quaffed a health to the king was confined by the legs in the +latter. Side by side on the meeting-house steps stood a male and a female +figure. The man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, +bearing on his breast this label, “A WANTON GOSPELLER,” which +betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ unsanctioned +by the infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect showed +no lack of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies even at the stake. The woman wore +a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate retribution for having wagged that +unruly member against the elders of the church, and her countenance and +gestures gave much cause to apprehend that the moment the stick should be +removed a repetition of the offence would demand new ingenuity in chastising +it. +</p> + +<p> +The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various +modes of ignominy for the space of one hour at noonday. But among the crowd +were several whose punishment would be lifelong—some whose ears had been +cropped like those of puppy-dogs, others whose cheeks had been branded with the +initials of their misdemeanors; one with his nostrils slit and seared, and +another with a halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off +or to conceal beneath his garments. Methinks he must have been grievously +tempted to affix the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. +There was likewise a young woman with no mean share of beauty whose doom it was +to wear the letter A on the breast of her gown in the eyes of all the world and +her own children. And even her own children knew what that initial signified. +Sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the +fatal token in scarlet cloth with golden thread and the nicest art of +needlework; so that the capital A might have been thought to mean +“Admirable,” or anything rather than “Adulteress.” +</p> + +<p> +Let not the reader argue from any of these evidences of iniquity that the times +of the Puritans were more vicious than our own, when as we pass along the very +street of this sketch we discern no badge of infamy on man or woman. It was the +policy of our ancestors to search out even the most secret sins and expose them +to shame, without fear or favor, in the broadest light of the noonday sun. Were +such the custom now, perchance we might find materials for a no less piquant +sketch than the above. +</p> + +<p> +Except the malefactors whom we have described and the diseased or infirm +persons, the whole male population of the town, between sixteen years and sixty +were seen in the ranks of the train-band. A few stately savages in all the pomp +and dignity of the primeval Indian stood gazing at the spectacle. Their +flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons, compared with the matchlocks of +the Puritans, and would have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps and +hammered iron breastplates which enclosed each soldier in an individual +fortress. The valiant John Endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy +followers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of the day. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my stout hearts!” quoth he, drawing his sword. “Let us +show these poor heathen that we can handle our weapons like men of might. Well +for them if they put us not to prove it in earnest!” +</p> + +<p> +The iron-breasted company straightened their line, and each man drew the heavy +butt of his matchlock close to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the +captain. But as Endicott glanced right and left along the front he discovered a +personage at some little distance with whom it behoved him to hold a parley. It +was an elderly gentleman wearing a black cloak and band and a high-crowned hat +beneath which was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb of a Puritan +minister. This reverend person bore a staff which seemed to have been recently +cut in the forest, and his shoes were bemired, as if he had been travelling on +foot through the swamps of the wilderness. His aspect was perfectly that of a +pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic dignity. Just as Endicott perceived +him he laid aside his staff and stooped to drink at a bubbling fountain which +gushed into the sunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the +meeting-house. But ere the good man drank he turned his face heavenward in +thankfulness, and then, holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped +up his simple draught in the hollow of the other. +</p> + +<p> +“What ho, good Mr. Williams!” shouted Endicott. “You are +welcome back again to our town of peace. How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? +And what news from Boston?” +</p> + +<p> +“The governor hath his health, worshipful sir,” answered Roger +Williams, now resuming his staff and drawing near. “And, for the news, +here is a letter which, knowing I was to travel hitherward to-day, His +Excellency committed to my charge. Belike it contains tidings of much import, +for a ship arrived yesterday from England.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem, and of course known to all the spectators, +had now reached the spot where Endicott was standing under the banner of his +company, and put the governor’s epistle into his hand. The broad seal was +impressed with Winthrop’s coat-of-arms. Endicott hastily unclosed the +letter and began to read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a wrathful +change came over his manly countenance. The blood glowed through it till it +seemed to be kindling with an internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose +that his breastplate would likewise become red hot with the angry fire of the +bosom which it covered. Arriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter +fiercely in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,” said he; “blacker never +came to New England. Doubtless you know their purport?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, truly,” replied Roger Williams, “for the governor +consulted respecting this matter with my brethren in the ministry at Boston, +and my opinion was likewise asked. And His Excellency entreats you by me that +the news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be stirred up unto some +outbreak, and thereby give the king and the archbishop a handle against +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“The governor is a wise man—a wise man, and a meek and +moderate,” said Endicott, setting his teeth grimly. “Nevertheless, +I must do according to my own best judgment. There is neither man, woman nor +child in New England but has a concern as dear as life in these tidings; and if +John Endicott’s voice be loud enough, man, woman and child shall hear +them.—Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square.—Ho, good people! Here +are news for one and all of you.” +</p> + +<p> +The soldiers closed in around their captain, and he and Roger Williams stood +together under the banner of the red cross, while the women and the aged men +pressed forward and the mothers held up their children to look Endicott in the +face. A few taps of the drum gave signal for silence and attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Fellow-soldiers, fellow-exiles,” began Endicott, speaking under +strong excitement, yet powerfully restraining it, “wherefore did ye leave +your native country? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green and fertile +fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were born and +bred, the churchyards where our forefathers lie buried? Wherefore have we come +hither to set up our own tombstones in a wilderness? A howling wilderness it +is. The wolf and the bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. The savage +lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the woods. The stubborn roots of +the trees break our ploughshares when we would till the earth. Our children cry +for bread, and we must dig in the sands of the seashore to satisfy them. +Wherefore, I say again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil and wintry +sky? Was it not for the enjoyment of our civil rights? Was it not for liberty +to worship God according to our conscience?” +</p> + +<p> +“Call you this liberty of conscience?” interrupted a voice on the +steps of the meeting-house. +</p> + +<p> +It was the wanton gospeller. A sad and quiet smile flitted across the mild +visage of Roger Williams, but Endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook +his sword wrathfully at the culprit—an ominous gesture from a man like +him. +</p> + +<p> +“What hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?” cried he. +“I said liberty to worship God, not license to profane and ridicule him. +Break not in upon my speech, or I will lay thee neck and heels till this time +to-morrow.—Hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapsodist. As +I was saying, we have sacrificed all things, and have come to a land whereof +the Old World hath scarcely heard, that we might make a new world unto +ourselves and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven. But what think ye +now? This son of a Scotch tyrant—this grandson of a papistical and +adulterous Scotch woman whose death proved that a golden crown doth not always +save an anointed head from the block—” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, brother, nay,” interposed Mr. Williams; “thy words are +not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a public street.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!” answered Endicott, imperiously. +“My spirit is wiser than thine for the business now in hand.—I tell +ye, fellow-exiles, that Charles of England and Laud, our bitterest persecutor, +arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even hither. They are +taking counsel, saith this letter, to send over a governor-general in whose +breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the land. They are minded, +also, to establish the idolatrous forms of English episcopacy; so that when +Laud shall kiss the pope’s toe as cardinal of Rome he may deliver New +England, bound hand and foot, into the power of his master.” +</p> + +<p> +A deep groan from the auditors—a sound of wrath as well as fear and +sorrow—responded to this intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +“Look ye to it, brethren,” resumed Endicott, with increasing +energy. “If this king and this arch-prelate have their will, we shall +briefly behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, +and a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at +noon-day. We shall hear the sacring-bell and the voices of the Romish priests +saying the mass. But think ye, Christian men, that these abominations may be +suffered without a sword drawn, without a shot fired, without blood +spilt—yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit? No! Be ye strong of hand and +stout of heart. Here we stand on our own soil, which we have bought with our +goods, which we have won with our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, +which we have tilled with the sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with +our prayers to the God that brought us hither! Who shall enslave us here? What +have we to do with this mitred prelate—with this crowned king? What have +we to do with England?” +</p> + +<p> +Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now full of his +own spirit, and then turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood close +behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“Officer, lower your banner,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +The officer obeyed, and, brandishing his sword, Endicott thrust it through the +cloth and with his left hand rent the red cross completely out of the banner. +He then waved the tattered ensign above his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Sacrilegious wretch!” cried the high-churchman in the pillory, +unable longer to restrain himself; “thou hast rejected the symbol of our +holy religion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Treason! treason!” roared the royalist in the stocks. “He +hath defaced the king’s banner!” +</p> + +<p> +“Before God and man I will avouch the deed,” answered +Endicott.—“Beat a flourish, drummer—shout, soldiers and +people—in honor of the ensign of New England. Neither pope nor tyrant +hath part in it now.” +</p> + +<p> +With a cry of triumph the people gave their sanction to one of the boldest +exploits which our history records. And for ever honored be the name of +Endicott! We look back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the rending +of the red cross from New England’s banner the first omen of that +deliverance which our fathers consummated after the bones of the stern Puritan +had lain more than a century in the dust. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a> +THE LILY’S QUEST</h2> + +<h4>AN APOLOGUE</h4> + +<p> +Two lovers once upon a time had planned a little summer-house in the form of an +antique temple which it was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of +refined and innocent enjoyments. There they would hold pleasant intercourse +with one another and the circle of their familiar friends; there they would +give festivals of delicious fruit; there they would hear lightsome music +intermingled with the strains of pathos which make joy more sweet; there they +would read poetry and fiction and permit their own minds to flit away in +day-dreams and romance; there, in short—for why should we shape out the +vague sunshine of their hopes?—there all pure delights were to cluster +like roses among the pillars of the edifice and blossom ever new and +spontaneously. +</p> + +<p> +So one breezy and cloudless afternoon Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set out +upon a ramble over the wide estate which they were to possess together, seeking +a proper site for their temple of happiness. They were themselves a fair and +happy spectacle, fit priest and priestess for such a shrine, although, making +poetry of the pretty name of Lilias, Adam Forrester was wont to call her +“Lily” because her form was as fragile and her cheek almost as +pale. As they passed hand in hand down the avenue of drooping elms that led +from the portal of Lilias Fay’s paternal mansion they seemed to glance +like winged creatures through the strips of sunshine, and to scatter brightness +where the deep shadows fell. +</p> + +<p> +But, setting forth at the same time with this youthful pair, there was a dismal +figure wrapped in a black velvet cloak that might have been made of a +coffin-pall, and with a sombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its broad +brim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, the lovers well knew who it +was that followed, but wished from their hearts that he had been elsewhere, as +being a companion so strangely unsuited to their joyous errand. It was a near +relative of Lilias Fay, an old man by the name of Walter Gascoigne, who had +long labored under the burden of a melancholy spirit which was sometimes +maddened into absolute insanity and always had a tinge of it. What a contrast +between the young pilgrims of bliss and their unbidden associate! They looked +as if moulded of heaven’s sunshine and he of earth’s gloomiest +shade; they flitted along like Hope and Joy roaming hand in hand through life, +while his darksome figure stalked behind, a type of all the woeful influences +which life could fling upon them. +</p> + +<p> +But the three had not gone far when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle +Lily, and she paused. +</p> + +<p> +“What sweeter place shall we find than this?” said she. “Why +should we seek farther for the site of our temple?” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though undistinguished by any very +prominent beauties, being merely a nook in the shelter of a hill, with the +prospect of a distant lake in one direction and of a church-spire in another. +There were vistas and pathways leading onward and onward into the green +woodlands and vanishing away in the glimmering shade. The temple, if erected +here, would look toward the west; so that the lovers could shape all sorts of +magnificent dreams out of the purple, violet and gold of the sunset sky, and +few of their anticipated pleasures were dearer than this sport of fantasy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam Forrester; “we might seek all day and find +no lovelier spot. We will build our temple here.” +</p> + +<p> +But their sad old companion, who had taken his stand on the very site which +they proposed to cover with a marble floor, shook his head and frowned, and the +young man and the Lily deemed it almost enough to blight the spot and desecrate +it for their airy temple that his dismal figure had thrown its shadow there. He +pointed to some scattered stones, the remnants of a former structure, and to +flowers such as young girls delight to nurse in their gardens, but which had +now relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature. +</p> + +<p> +“Not here,” cried old Walter Gascoigne. “Here, long ago, +other mortals built their temple of happiness; seek another site for +yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” exclaimed Lilias Fay. “Have any ever planned such a +temple save ourselves?” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor child!” said her gloomy kinsman. “In one shape or other +every mortal has dreamed your dream.” Then he told the lovers, +how—not, indeed, an antique temple, but a dwelling—had once stood +there, and that a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting for ever +at the fireside and poisoning all their household mirth. +</p> + +<p> +Under this type Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that the old man spake of sorrow. +He told of nothing that might not be recorded in the history of almost every +household, and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine ought to fall upon a spot +where human grief had left so deep a stain—or, at least, that no joyous +temple should be built there. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very sad,” said the Lily, sighing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there are lovelier spots than this,” said Adam Forrester, +soothingly—“spots which sorrow has not blighted.” +</p> + +<p> +So they hastened away, and the melancholy Gascoigne followed them, looking as +if he had gathered up all the gloom of the deserted spot and was bearing it as +a burden of inestimable treasure. But still they rambled on, and soon found +themselves in a rocky dell through the midst of which ran a streamlet with +ripple and foam and a continual voice of inarticulate joy. It was a wild +retreat walled on either side with gray precipices which would have frowned +somewhat too sternly had not a profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into +their crevices and wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows. But the +chief joy of the dell was in the little stream which seemed like the presence +of a blissful child with nothing earthly to do save to babble merrily and +disport itself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and throw the sunny +gleams of its spirit upon all. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, here is the spot!” cried the two lovers, with one voice, as +they reached a level space on the brink of a small cascade. “This glen +was made on purpose for our temple.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the glad song of the brook will be always in our ears,” said +Lilias Fay. +</p> + +<p> +“And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime,” said +Adam Forrester. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye must build no temple here,” murmured their dismal companion. +</p> + +<p> +And there again was the old lunatic standing just on the spot where they meant +to rear their lightsome dome, and looking like the embodied symbol of some +great woe that in forgotten days had happened there. And, alas! there had been +woe, nor that alone. A young man more than a hundred years before had lured +hither a girl that loved him, and on this spot had murdered her and washed his +bloody hands in the stream which sang so merrily, and ever since the +victim’s death-shrieks were often heard to echo between the cliffs. +</p> + +<p> +“And see!” cried old Gascoigne; “is the stream yet pure from +the stain of the murderer’s hands?” +</p> + +<p> +“Methinks it has a tinge of blood,” faintly answered the Lily; and, +being as slight as the gossamer, she trembled and clung to her lover’s +arm, whispering, “Let us flee from this dreadful vale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then,” said Adam Forrester as cheerily as he could; +“we shall soon find a happier spot.” +</p> + +<p> +They set forth again, young pilgrims on that quest which millions—which +every child of earth—has tried in turn. +</p> + +<p> +And were the Lily and her lover to be more fortunate than all those millions? +For a long time it seemed not so. The dismal shape of the old lunatic still +glided behind them, and for every spot that looked lovely in their eyes he had +some legend of human wrong or suffering so miserably sad that his auditors +could never afterward connect the idea of joy with the place where it had +happened. Here a heartbroken woman kneeling to her child had been spurned from +his feet; here a desolate old creature had prayed to the evil one, and had +received a fiendish malignity of soul in answer to her prayer; here a new-born +infant, sweet blossom of life, had been found dead with the impress of its +mother’s fingers round its throat; and here, under a shattered oak, two +lovers had been stricken by lightning and fell blackened corpses in each +other’s arms. The dreary Gascoigne had a gift to know whatever evil and +lamentable thing had stained the bosom of Mother Earth; and when his funereal +voice had told the tale, it appeared like a prophecy of future woe as well as a +tradition of the past. And now, by their sad demeanor, you would have fancied +that the pilgrim-lovers were seeking, not a temple of earthly joy, but a tomb +for themselves and their posterity. +</p> + +<p> +“Where in this world,” exclaimed Adam Forrester, despondingly, +“shall we build our temple of happiness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where in this world, indeed?” repeated Lilias Fay; and, being +faint and weary—the more so by the heaviness of her heart—the Lily +drooped her head and sat down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, “Where +in this world shall we build our temple?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! have you already asked yourselves that question?” said their +companion, his shaded features growing even gloomier with the smile that dwelt +on them. “Yet there is a place even in this world where ye may build +it.” +</p> + +<p> +While the old man spoke Adam Forrester and Lilias had carelessly thrown their +eyes around, and perceived that the spot where they had chanced to pause +possessed a quiet charm which was well enough adapted to their present mood of +mind. It was a small rise of ground with a certain regularity of shape that had +perhaps been bestowed by art, and a group of trees which almost surrounded it +threw their pensive shadows across and far beyond, although some softened glory +of the sunshine found its way there. The ancestral mansion wherein the lovers +would dwell together appeared on one side, and the ivied church where they were +to worship on another. Happening to cast their eyes on the ground, they smiled, +yet with a sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was growing at their feet. +</p> + +<p> +“We will build our temple here,” said they, simultaneously, and +with an indescribable conviction that they had at last found the very spot. +</p> + +<p> +Yet while they uttered this exclamation the young man and the Lily turned an +apprehensive glance at their dreary associate, deeming it hardly possible that +some tale of earthly affliction should not make those precincts loathsome, as +in every former case. The old man stood just behind them, so as to form the +chief figure in the group, with his sable cloak muffling the lower part of his +visage and his sombre hat overshadowing his brows. But he gave no word of +dissent from their purpose, and an inscrutable smile was accepted by the lovers +as a token that here had been no footprint of guilt or sorrow to desecrate the +site of their temple of happiness. +</p> + +<p> +In a little time longer, while summer was still in its prime, the +fairy-structure of the temple arose on the summit of the knoll amid the solemn +shadows of the trees, yet often gladdened with bright sunshine. It was built of +white marble, with slender and graceful pillars supporting a vaulted dome, and +beneath the centre of this dome, upon a pedestal, was a slab of dark-veined +marble on which books and music might be strewn. But there was a fantasy among +the people of the neighborhood that the edifice was planned after an ancient +mausoleum and was intended for a tomb, and that the central slab of dark-veined +marble was to be inscribed with the names of buried ones. They doubted, too, +whether the form of Lilias Fay could appertain to a creature of this earth, +being so very delicate and growing every day more fragile, so that she looked +as if the summer breeze should snatch her up and waft her heavenward. But still +she watched the daily growth of the temple, and so did old Walter Gascoigne, +who now made that spot his continual haunt, leaning whole hours together on his +staff and giving as deep attention to the work as though it had been indeed a +tomb. In due time it was finished and a day appointed for a simple rite of +dedication. +</p> + +<p> +On the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester had taken leave of his mistress, +he looked back toward the portal of her dwelling and felt a strange thrill of +fear, for he imagined that as the setting sunbeams faded from her figure she +was exhaling away, and that something of her ethereal substance was withdrawn +with each lessening gleam of light. With his farewell glance a shadow had +fallen over the portal, and Lilias was invisible. His foreboding spirit deemed +it an omen at the time, and so it proved; for the sweet earthly form by which +the Lily had been manifested to the world was found lifeless the next morning +in the temple with her head resting on her arms, which were folded upon the +slab of dark-veined marble. The chill winds of the earth had long since +breathed a blight into this beautiful flower; so that a loving hand had now +transplanted it to blossom brightly in the garden of Paradise. +</p> + +<p> +But alas for the temple of happiness! In his unutterable grief Adam Forrester +had no purpose more at heart than to convert this temple of many delightful +hopes into a tomb and bury his dead mistress there. And, lo! a wonder! Digging +a grave beneath the temple’s marble floor, the sexton found no virgin +earth such as was meet to receive the maiden’s dust, but an ancient +sepulchre in which were treasured up the bones of generations that had died +long ago. Among those forgotten ancestors was the Lily to be laid; and when the +funeral procession brought Lilias thither in her coffin, they beheld old Walter +Gascoigne standing beneath the dome of the temple with his cloak of pall and +face of darkest gloom, and wherever that figure might take its stand the spot +would seem a sepulchre. He watched the mourners as they lowered the coffin +down. +</p> + +<p> +“And so,” said he to Adam Forrester, with the strange smile in +which his insanity was wont to gleam forth, “you have found no better +foundation for your happiness than on a grave?” +</p> + +<p> +But as the shadow of Affliction spoke a vision of hope and joy had its birth in +Adam’s mind even from the old man’s taunting words, for then he +knew what was betokened by the parable in which the Lily and himself had acted, +and the mystery of life and death was opened to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Joy! joy!” he cried, throwing his arms toward heaven. “On a +grave be the site of our temple, and now our happiness is for eternity.” +</p> + +<p> +With those words a ray of sunshine broke through the dismal sky and glimmered +down into the sepulchre, while at the same moment the shape of old Walter +Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his gloom, symbolic of all earthly +sorrow, might no longer abide there now that the darkest riddle of humanity was +read. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a> +FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE</h2> + +<p> +It must be a spirit much unlike my own which can keep itself in health and +vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine of the world to +plunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, and not infrequent ones, +the forest and the ocean summon me—one with the roar of its waves, the +other with the murmur of its boughs—forth from the haunts of men. But I +must wander many a mile ere I could stand beneath the shadow of even one +primeval tree, much less be lost among the multitude of hoary trunks and hidden +from the earth and sky by the mystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is within my +daily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some +suburban farmhouse. When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a +necessity within me, I am drawn to the seashore which extends its line of rude +rocks and seldom-trodden sands for leagues around our bay. Setting forth at my +last ramble on a September morning, I bound myself with a hermit’s vow to +interchange no thoughts with man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but to +derive all that day’s enjoyment from shore and sea and sky, from my +soul’s communion with these, and from fantasies and recollections or +anticipated realities. Surely here is enough to feed a human spirit for a +single day.—Farewell, then, busy world! Till your evening lights shall +shine along the street—till they gleam upon my sea-flushed face as I +tread homeward—free me from your ties and let me be a peaceful outlaw. +</p> + +<p> +Highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, clambering down a crag, I +find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does the spirit leap +forth and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad +blue, sunny deep! A greeting and a homage to the sea! I descend over its margin +and dip my hand into the wave that meets me, and bathe my brow. That +far-resounding roar is Ocean’s voice of welcome. His salt breath brings a +blessing along with it. Now let us pace together—the reader’s fancy +arm in arm with mine—this noble beach, which extends a mile or more from +that craggy promontory to yonder rampart of broken rocks. In front, the sea; in +the rear, a precipitous bank the grassy verge of which is breaking away year +after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure upon the barrenness below. The +beach itself is a broad space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly any +pebbles intermixed. Near the water’s edge there is a wet margin which +glistens brightly in the sunshine and reflects objects like a mirror, and as we +tread along the glistening border a dry spot flashes around each footstep, but +grows moist again as we lift our feet. In some spots the sand receives a +complete impression of the sole, square toe and all; elsewhere it is of such +marble firmness that we must stamp heavily to leave a print even of the +iron-shod heel. Along the whole of this extensive beach gambols the surf-wave. +Now it makes a feint of dashing onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek +murmur and does but kiss the strand; now, after many such abortive efforts, it +rears itself up in an unbroken line, heightening as it advances, without a +speck of foam on its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings itself +forward and rushes far up the beach! +</p> + +<p> +As I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I remember that I was startled, +as Robinson Crusoe might have been, by the sense that human life was within the +magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in the remote distance of the beach, +appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier things such as might tread upon the +feathery spray, was a group of girls. Hardly had I beheld them, when they +passed into the shadow of the rocks and vanished. To comfort myself—for +truly I would fain have gazed a while longer—I made acquaintance with a +flock of beach-birds. These little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by +about a stone’s-throw along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for food upon +its margin. Yet, with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they +drew a continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. The sea was each +little bird’s great playmate. They chased it downward as it swept back, +and again ran up swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes overtook +them and bore them off their feet. But they floated as lightly as one of their +own feathers on the breaking crest. In their airy flutterings they seemed to +rest on the evanescent spray. Their images—long-legged little figures +with gray backs and snowy bosoms—were seen as distinctly as the realities +in the mirror of the glistening strand. As I advanced they flew a score or two +of yards, and, again alighting, recommenced their dalliance with the surf-wave; +and thus they bore me company along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies, +till at its extremity they took wing over the ocean and were gone. After +forming a friendship with these small surf-spirits, it is really worth a sigh +to find no memorial of them save their multitudinous little tracks in the sand. +</p> + +<p> +When we have paced the length of the beach, it is pleasant and not unprofitable +to retrace our steps and recall the whole mood and occupation of the mind +during the former passage. Our tracks, being all discernible, will guide us +with an observing consciousness through every unconscious wandering of thought +and fancy. Here we followed the surf in its reflux to pick up a shell which the +sea seemed loth to relinquish. Here we found a seaweed with an immense brown +leaf, and trailed it behind us by its long snake-like stalk. Here we seized a +live horseshoe by the tail, and counted the many claws of that queer monster. +Here we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped them upon the surface of the +water. Here we wet our feet while examining a jelly-fish which the waves, +having just tossed it up, now sought to snatch away again. Here we trod along +the brink of a fresh-water brooklet which flows across the beach, becoming +shallower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the sand and perishes in +the effort to bear its little tribute to the main. Here some vagary appears to +have bewildered us, for our tracks go round and round and are confusedly +intermingled, as if we had found a labyrinth upon the level beach. And here +amid our idle pastime we sat down upon almost the only stone that breaks the +surface of the sand, and were lost in an unlooked-for and overpowering +conception of the majesty and awfulness of the great deep. Thus by tracking our +footprints in the sand we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal +a glance upon it when it never dreams of being so observed. Such glances always +make us wiser. +</p> + +<p> +This extensive beach affords room for another pleasant pastime. With your staff +you may write verses—love-verses if they please you best—and +consecrate them with a woman’s name. Here, too, may be inscribed +thoughts, feelings, desires, warm outgushings from the heart’s secret +places, which you would not pour upon the sand without the certainty that +almost ere the sky has looked upon them the sea will wash them out. Stir not +hence till the record be effaced. Now (for there is room enough on your canvas) +draw huge faces—huge as that of the Sphynx on Egyptian sands—and +fit them with bodies of corresponding immensity and legs which might stride +halfway to yonder island. Child’s-play becomes magnificent on so grand a +scale. But, after all, the most fascinating employment is simply to write your +name in the sand. Draw the letters gigantic, so that two strides may barely +measure them, and three for the long strokes; cut deep, that the record may be +permanent. Statesmen and warriors and poets have spent their strength in no +better cause than this. Is it accomplished? Return, then, in an hour or two, +and seek for this mighty record of a name. The sea will have swept over it, +even as time rolls its effacing waves over the names of statesmen and warriors +and poets. Hark! the surf-wave laughs at you. +</p> + +<p> +Passing from the beach, I begin to clamber over the crags, making my difficult +way among the ruins of a rampart shattered and broken by the assaults of a +fierce enemy. The rocks rise in every variety of attitude. Some of them have +their feet in the foam and are shagged halfway upward with seaweed; some have +been hollowed almost into caverns by the unwearied toil of the sea, which can +afford to spend centuries in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a pebble. +One huge rock ascends in monumental shape, with a face like a giant’s +tombstone, on which the veins resemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. +We will fancy them the forgotten characters of an antediluvian race, or else +that Nature’s own hand has here recorded a mystery which, could I read +her language, would make mankind the wiser and the happier. How many a thing +has troubled me with that same idea! Pass on and leave it unexplained. Here is +a narrow avenue which might seem to have been hewn through the very heart of an +enormous crag, affording passage for the rising sea to thunder back and forth, +filling it with tumultuous foam and then leaving its floor of black pebbles +bare and glistening. In this chasm there was once an intersecting vein of +softer stone, which the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while the granite +walls remain entire on either side. How sharply and with what harsh clamor does +the sea rake back the pebbles as it momentarily withdraws into its own depths! +At intervals the floor of the chasm is left nearly dry, but anon, at the +outlet, two or three great waves are seen struggling to get in at once; two hit +the walls athwart, while one rushes straight through, and all three thunder as +if with rage and triumph. They heap the chasm with a snow-drift of foam and +spray. While watching this scene I can never rid myself of the idea that a +monster endowed with life and fierce energy is striving to burst his way +through the narrow pass. And what a contrast to look through the stormy chasm +and catch a glimpse of the calm bright sea beyond! +</p> + +<p> +Many interesting discoveries may be made among these broken cliffs. Once, for +example, I found a dead seal which a recent tempest had tossed into the nook of +the rocks, where his shaggy carcase lay rolled in a heap of eel-grass as if the +sea-monster sought to hide himself from my eye. Another time a shark seemed on +the point of leaping from the surf to swallow me, nor did I wholly without +dread approach near enough to ascertain that the man-eater had already met his +own death from some fisherman in the bay. In the same ramble I encountered a +bird—a large gray bird—but whether a loon or a wild goose or the +identical albatross of the Ancient Mariner was beyond my ornithology to decide. +It reposed so naturally on a bed of dry seaweed, with its head beside its wing, +that I almost fancied it alive, and trod softly lest it should suddenly spread +its wings skyward. But the sea-bird would soar among the clouds no more, nor +ride upon its native waves; so I drew near and pulled out one of its mottled +tail-feathers for a remembrance. Another day I discovered an immense bone +wedged into a chasm of the rocks; it was at least ten feet long, curved like a +scymitar, bejewelled with barnacles and small shellfish and partly covered with +a growth of seaweed. Some leviathan of former ages had used this ponderous mass +as a jaw-bone. Curiosities of a minuter order may be observed in a deep +reservoir which is replenished with water at every tide, but becomes a lake +among the crags save when the sea is at its height. At the bottom of this rocky +basin grow marine plants, some of which tower high beneath the water and cast a +shadow in the sunshine. Small fishes dart to and fro and hide themselves among +the seaweed; there is also a solitary crab who appears to lead the life of a +hermit, communing with none of the other denizens of the place, and likewise +several five-fingers; for I know no other name than that which children give +them. If your imagination be at all accustomed to such freaks, you may look +down into the depths of this pool and fancy it the mysterious depth of ocean. +But where are the hulks and scattered timbers of sunken ships? where the +treasures that old Ocean hoards? where the corroded cannon? where the corpses +and skeletons of seamen who went down in storm and battle? +</p> + +<p> +On the day of my last ramble—it was a September day, yet as warm as +summer—what should I behold as I approached the above-described basin but +three girls sitting on its margin and—yes, it is veritably +so—laving their snowy feet in the sunny water? These, these are the warm +realities of those three visionary shapes that flitted from me on the beach. +Hark their merry voices as they toss up the water with their feet! They have +not seen me. I must shrink behind this rock and steal away again. +</p> + +<p> +In honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there is something in this +encounter that makes the heart flutter with a strangely pleasant sensation. I +know these girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, glancing at them so +briefly, they mingle like kindred creatures with the ideal beings of my mind. +It is pleasant, likewise, to gaze down from some high crag and watch a group of +children gathering pebbles and pearly shells and playing with the surf as with +old Ocean’s hoary beard. Nor does it infringe upon my seclusion to see +yonder boat at anchor off the shore swinging dreamily to and fro and rising and +sinking with the alternate swell, while the crew—four gentlemen in +roundabout jackets—are busy with their fishing-lines. But with an inward +antipathy and a headlong flight do I eschew the presence of any meditative +stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim-staff, his sauntering step, his shy +demeanor, his observant yet abstracted eye. +</p> + +<p> +From such a man as if another self had scared me I scramble hastily over the +rocks, and take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour has given me a right +to call my own. I would do battle for it even with the churl that should +produce the title-deeds. Have not my musings melted into its rocky walls and +sandy floor and made them a portion of myself? It is a recess in the line of +cliffs, walled round by a rough, high precipice which almost encircles and +shuts in a little space of sand. In front the sea appears as between the +pillars of a portal; in the rear the precipice is broken and intermixed with +earth which gives nourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs, but to +trees that grip the rock with their naked roots and seem to struggle hard for +footing and for soil enough to live upon. These are fir trees, but oaks hang +their heavy branches from above, and throw down acorns on the beach, and shed +their withering foliage upon the waves. At this autumnal season the precipice +is decked with variegated splendor. Trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the +summit downward; tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs and rose-bushes, with their +reddened leaves and glossy seed-berries, sprout from each crevice; at every +glance I detect some new light or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the +stern gray rock. A rill of water trickles down the cliff and fills a little +cistern near the base. I drain it at a draught, and find it fresh and pure. +This recess shall be my dining-hall. And what the feast? A few biscuits made +savory by soaking them in sea-water, a tuft of samphire gathered from the +beach, and an apple for the dessert. By this time the little rill has filled +its reservoir again, and as I quaff it I thank God more heartily than for a +civic banquet that he gives me the healthful appetite to make a feast of bread +and water. +</p> + +<p> +Dinner being over, I throw myself at length upon the sand and, basking in the +sunshine, let my mind disport itself at will. The walls of this my hermitage +have no tongue to tell my follies, though I sometimes fancy that they have ears +to hear them and a soul to sympathize. There is a magic in this spot. Dreams +haunt its precincts and flit around me in broad sunlight, nor require that +sleep shall blindfold me to real objects ere these be visible. Here can I frame +a story of two lovers, and make their shadows live before me and be mirrored in +the tranquil water as they tread along the sand, leaving no footprints. Here, +should I will it, I can summon up a single shade and be myself her +lover.—Yes, dreamer, but your lonely heart will be the colder for such +fancies.—Sometimes, too, the Past comes back, and finds me here, and in +her train come faces which were gladsome when I knew them, yet seem not +gladsome now. Would that my hiding-place were lonelier, so that the Past might +not find me!—Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen to the +murmur of the sea—a melancholy voice, but less sad than yours. Of what +mysteries is it telling? Of sunken ships and whereabouts they lie? Of islands +afar and undiscovered whose tawny children are unconscious of other islands and +of continents, and deem the stars of heaven their nearest neighbors? Nothing of +all this. What, then? Has it talked for so many ages and meant nothing all the +while? No; for those ages find utterance in the sea’s unchanging voice, +and warn the listener to withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes and let +the infinite idea of eternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom, and therefore +will I spend the next half-hour in shaping little boats of driftwood and +launching them on voyages across the cove, with the feather of a sea-gull for a +sail. If the voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an occupation as to +build ships of five hundred tons and launch them forth upon the main, bound to +“Far Cathay.” Yet how would the merchant sneer at me! +</p> + +<p> +And, after all, can such philosophy be true? Methinks I could find a thousand +arguments against it. Well, then, let yonder shaggy rock mid-deep in the +surf—see! he is somewhat wrathful: he rages and roars and +foams,—let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me exercise my +oratory like him of Athens who bandied words with an angry sea and got the +victory. My maiden-speech is a triumphant one, for the gentleman in seaweed has +nothing to offer in reply save an immitigable roaring. His voice, indeed, will +be heard a long while after mine is hushed. Once more I shout and the cliffs +reverberate the sound. Oh what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary +that he may lift his voice to its highest pitch without hazard of a +listener!—But hush! Be silent, my good friend! Whence comes that stifled +laughter? It was musical, but how should there be such music in my solitude? +Looking upward, I catch a glimpse of three faces peeping from the summit of the +cliff like angels between me and their native sky.—Ah, fair girls! you +may make yourself merry at my eloquence, but it was my turn to smile when I saw +your white feet in the pool. Let us keep each other’s secrets. +</p> + +<p> +The sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, except a gleam upon the sand +just where it meets the sea. A crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and haunt me +if I tarry longer here in the darkening twilight of these gray rocks. This is a +dismal place in some moods of the mind. Climb we, therefore, the precipice, and +pause a moment on the brink gazing down into that hollow chamber by the deep +where we have been what few can be—sufficient to our own pastime. Yes, +say the word outright: self-sufficient to our own happiness. How lonesome looks +the recess now, and dreary too, like all other spots where happiness has been! +There lies my shadow in the departing sunshine with its head upon the sea. I +will pelt it with pebbles. A hit! a hit! I clap my hands in triumph, and see my +shadow clapping its unreal hands and claiming the triumph for itself. What a +simpleton must I have been all day, since my own shadow makes a mock of my +fooleries! +</p> + +<p> +Homeward! homeward! It is time to hasten home. It is time—it is time; for +as the sun sinks over the western wave the sea grows melancholy and the surf +has a saddened tone. The distant sails appear astray and not of earth in their +remoteness amid the desolate waste. My spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no +resting-place and comes shivering back. It is time that I were hence. But +grudge me not the day that has been spent in seclusion which yet was not +solitude, since the great sea has been my companion, and the little sea-birds +my friends, and the wind has told me his secrets, and airy shapes have flitted +around me in my hermitage. Such companionship works an effect upon a +man’s character as if he had been admitted to the society of creatures +that are not mortal. And when, at noontide, I tread the crowded streets, the +influence of this day will still be felt; so that I shall walk among men kindly +and as a brother, with affection and sympathy, but yet shall not melt into the +indistinguishable mass of humankind. I shall think my own thoughts and feel my +own emotions and possess my individuality unviolated. +</p> + +<p> +But it is good at the eve of such a day to feel and know that there are men and +women in the world. That feeling and that knowledge are mine at this moment, +for on the shore, far below me, the fishing-party have landed from their skiff +and are cooking their scaly prey by a fire of driftwood kindled in the angle of +two rude rocks. The three visionary girls are likewise there. In the deepening +twilight, while the surf is dashing near their hearth, the ruddy gleam of the +fire throws a strange air of comfort over the wild cove, bestrewn as it is with +pebbles and seaweed and exposed to the “melancholy main.” Moreover, +as the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings with it a savory smell from a +pan of fried fish and a black kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner +was nothing but bread and water and a tuft of samphire and an apple. Methinks +the party might find room for another guest at that flat rock which serves them +for a table; and if spoons be scarce, I could pick up a clam-shell on the +beach. They see me now; and—the blessing of a hungry man upon +him!—one of them sends up a hospitable shout: “Halloo, Sir +Solitary! Come down and sup with us!” The ladies wave their +handkerchiefs. Can I decline? No; and be it owned, after all my solitary joys, +that this is the sweetest moment of a day by the seashore. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a> +EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD</h2> + +<p> +There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy than, while gazing at a +figure of melancholy age, to recreate its youth, and without entirely +obliterating the identity of form and features to restore those graces which +Time has snatched away. Some old people—especially women—so +age-worn and woeful are they, seem never to have been young and gay. It is +easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were sent into the world as +withered and decrepit as we behold them now, with sympathies only for pain and +grief, to watch at death-beds and weep at funerals. Even the sable garments of +their widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes +combine to render them darksome shadows creeping strangely amid the sunshine of +human life. Yet it is no unprofitable task to take one of these doleful +creatures and set Fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye, and darken +the silvery locks, and paint the ashen cheek with rose-color, and repair the +shrunken and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old +matron’s elbow-chair. The miracle being wrought, then let the years roll +back again, each sadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow +settle down upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and furrows, the handwriting of +Time, may thus be deciphered and found to contain deep lessons of thought and +feeling. +</p> + +<p> +Such profit might be derived by a skilful observer from my much-respected +friend the Widow Toothaker, a nurse of great repute who has breathed the +atmosphere of sick-chambers and dying-breaths these forty years. See! she sits +cowering over her lonesome hearth with her gown and upper petticoat drawn +upward, gathering thriftily into her person the whole warmth of the fire which +now at nightfall begins to dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The +blaze quivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest +chasms of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the +outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse Toothaker holds a teaspoon in her +right hand with which to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence +steams a vapory fragrance abhorred of temperance societies. Now she sips, now +stirs, now sips again. Her sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich +infusion of Geneva which is mixed half and half with hot water in the tumbler. +All day long she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her +home only when the spirit of her patient left the clay and went homeward too. +But now are her melancholy meditations cheered and her torpid blood warmed and +her shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years by a draught from +the true fountain of youth in a case-bottle. It is strange that men should deem +that fount a fable, when its liquor fills more bottles than the +Congress-water.—Sip it again, good nurse, and see whether a second +draught will not take off another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and +show us in your high-backed chair the blooming damsel who plighted troths with +Edward Fane.—Get you gone, Age and Widowhood!—Come back, unwedded +Youth!—But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite of Fancy’s most +potent spell, I can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a picture of +decay and desolation, while the November blast roars at her in the chimney and +fitful showers rush suddenly against the window. +</p> + +<p> +Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton—such was the pretty maiden-name of +Nurse Toothaker—possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim and +dismal chamber as with sunshine. It won for her the heart of Edward Fane, who +has since made so great a figure in the world and is now a grand old gentleman +with powdered hair and as gouty as a lord. These early lovers thought to have +walked hand in hand through life. They had wept together for Edward’s +little sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her sickness—partly because she +was the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of him. She +was but three years old. Being such an infant, Death could not embody his +terrors in her little corpse; nor did Rose fear to touch the dead child’s +brow, though chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to take her +tiny hand and clasp a flower within its fingers. Afterward, when she looked +through the pane of glass in the coffin-lid and beheld Mary’s face, it +seemed not so much like death or life as like a wax-work wrought into the +perfect image of a child asleep and dreaming of its mother’s smile. Rose +thought her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an +angel did not snatch up little Mary’s coffin and bear the slumbering babe +to heaven and bid her wake immortal. But when the sods were laid on little +Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered at the fantasy that in +grasping the child’s cold fingers her virgin hand had exchanged a first +greeting with mortality and could never lose the earthy taint. How many a +greeting since! But as yet she was a fair young girl with the dewdrops of fresh +feeling in her bosom, and, instead of “Rose”—which seemed too +mature a name for her half-opened beauty—her lover called her +“Rosebud.” +</p> + +<p> +The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Edward Fane. His mother was a rich +and haughty dame with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. She +scorned Rose Grafton’s humble parentage and caused her son to break his +faith, though, had she let him choose, he would have prized his Rosebud above +the richest diamond. The lovers parted, and have seldom met again. Both may +have visited the same mansions, but not at the same time, for one was bidden to +the festal hall and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of Pleasure +and Prosperity, and she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was long +secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Toothaker, whom she married with the +revengeful hope of breaking her false lover’s heart. She went to her +bridegroom’s arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young girls ought +to shed at the threshold of the bridal-chamber. Yet, though her husband’s +head was getting gray and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal frost, +Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own conjugal affection. He was +all she had to love; there were no children. +</p> + +<p> +In a year or two poor Mr. Toothaker was visited with a wearisome infirmity +which settled in his joints and made him weaker than a child. He crept forth +about his business, and came home at dinner-time and eventide, not with the +manly tread that gladdens a wife’s heart, but slowly, feebly, jotting +down each dull footstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. We must pardon his +pretty wife if she sometimes blushed to own him. Her visitors, when they heard +him coming, looked for the appearance of some old, old man, but he dragged his +nerveless limbs into the parlor—and there was Mr. Toothaker! The disease +increasing, he never went into the sunshine save with a staff in his right hand +and his left on his wife’s shoulder, bearing heavily downward like a dead +man’s hand. Thus, a slender woman still looking maiden-like, she +supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the pathway of their little +garden, and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly +as to an infant. His mind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was +peevishness. In a few months more she helped him up the staircase with a pause +at every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, and a heavy glance +behind as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. He knew, poor man! that the +precincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his world—his world, +his home, his tomb, at once a dwelling-and a burial-place—till he were +borne to a darker and a narrower one. But Rose was with him in the tomb. He +leaned upon her in his daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, +and back again from the weary chair to the joyless bed—his bed and hers, +their marriage-bed—till even this short journey ceased and his head lay +all day upon the pillow and hers all night beside it. How long poor Mr. +Toothaker was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw near the door, and often to +lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the chamber, +nodding to Rose and pointing at her husband, but still delayed to enter. +“This bedridden wretch cannot escape me,” quoth Death. “I +will go forth and run a race with the swift and fight a battle with the strong, +and come back for Toothaker at my leisure.” Oh, when the deliverer came +so near, in the dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies did she never long to +cry, “Death, come in”? +</p> + +<p> +But no; we have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend Rose. She never +failed in a wife’s duty to her poor sick husband. She murmured not though +a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him, nor answered peevishly +though his complaining accents roused her from sweetest dream only to share his +wretchedness. He knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when +the slow disease had chilled all his heart save one lukewarm spot which +Death’s frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were, +“What would my Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true +and kind to a sick old man like me?” And then his poor soul crept away +and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for years before, and +Rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding-night that widowed her. She +felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. Toothaker was buried, because his corpse +had retained such a likeness to the man half alive that she hearkened for the +sad murmur of his voice bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the next +winter, though the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling +from that cold bed, “Rose, Rose! Come put a blanket on my feet!” +</p> + +<p> +So now the Rosebud was the widow Toothaker. Her troubles had come early, and, +tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled. She was still +fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or with a widow’s cheerful gravity +she might have won a widower, stealing into his heart in the very guise of his +dead wife. But the widow Toothaker had no such projects. By her watchings and +continual cares her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy +which changed its very nature and made her love him for his infirmities, and +infirmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even her early lover +could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in a sick-chamber and been the +companion of a half-dead wretch till she could scarcely breathe in a free air +and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. She missed the fragrance +of the doctor’s stuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. +If visitors came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled +and shocked by their loud voices. Often in the lonesome evening she looked +timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of recognizing a +ghastly face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts sadly to her +husband’s grave. If one impatient throb had wronged him in his lifetime, +if she had secretly repined because her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his +torpid age, if ever while slumbering beside him a treacherous dream had +admitted another into her heart,—yet the sick man had been preparing a +revenge which the dead now claimed. On his painful pillow he had cast a spell +around her; his groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than +gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance Disease itself had won the Rosebud +for a bride, nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. By that indissoluble +bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else; there were +her brethren and sisters; thither her husband summoned her with that voice +which had seemed to issue from the grave of Toothaker. At length she recognized +her destiny. +</p> + +<p> +We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see her in a +separate and insulated character: she was in all her attributes Nurse +Toothaker. And Nurse Toothaker alone, with her own shrivelled lips, could make +known her experience in that capacity. What a history might she record of the +great sicknesses in which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating +angel! She remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red banner on almost every +house along the street. She has witnessed when the typhus fever swept off a +whole household, young and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked to +follow her last loved one. Where would be Death’s triumph if none lived +to weep? She can speak of strange maladies that have broken out as if +spontaneously, but were found to have been imported from foreign lands with +rich silks and other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, +she recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence, till +the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl who thus caused many +deaths a hundred years after her own burial. Strange that such black mischief +should lurk in a maiden’s grave! She loves to tell how strong men fight +with fiery fevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath, and how +consumptive virgins fade out of the world, scarcely reluctant, as if their +lovers were wooing them to a far country.—Tell us, thou fearful woman; +tell us the death-secrets. Fain would I search out the meaning of words faintly +gasped with intermingled sobs and broken sentences half-audibly spoken between +earth and the judgment-seat. +</p> + +<p> +An awful woman! She is the patron-saint of young physicians and the +bosom-friend of old ones. In the mansions where she enters the inmates provide +themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows her, and the bell tolls as +she comes away from the threshold. Death himself has met her at so many a +bedside that he puts forth his bony hand to greet Nurse Toothaker. She is an +awful woman. And oh, is it conceivable that this handmaid of human infirmity +and affliction—so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that is +saddest in the doom of mortals—can ever again be bright and gladsome even +though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? By her long communion with woe has +she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal joy? Does any germ of bliss +survive within her? +</p> + +<p> +Hark! an eager knocking st Nurse Toothaker’s door. She starts from her +drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp at +the dim embers of the fire. “Rap, rap, rap!” again, and she hurries +adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends can be at death’s +door now, since there is such an earnest messenger at Nurse Toothaker’s. +Again the peal resounds just as her hand is on the lock. “Be quick, Nurse +Toothaker!” cries a man on the doorstep. “Old General Fane is taken +with the gout in his stomach and has sent for you to watch by his death-bed. +Make haste, for there is no time to lose.”—“Fane! Edward +Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am ready. I will get on my cloak and +begone. So,” adds the sable-gowned, ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, +“Edward Fane remembers his Rosebud.” +</p> + +<p> +Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her long-hoarded +constancy, her memory of the bliss that was remaining amid the gloom of her +after-life like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin, is a symbol that all may +be renewed. In some happier clime the Rosebud may revive again with all the +dewdrops in its bosom. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a> +THE THREEFOLD DESTINY</h2> + +<h4>A FAËRY LEGEND</h4> + +<p> +I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far as my +own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents in which the spirit +and mechanism of the faëry legend should be combined with the characters +and manners of familiar life. In the little tale which follows a subdued tinge +of the wild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of New England personages and +scenery, yet, it is hoped, without entirely obliterating the sober hues of +nature. Rather than a story of events claiming to be real, it may be considered +as an allegory such as the writers of the last century would have expressed in +the shape of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to give a more +lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fanciful productions. +</p> + +<p> +In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over which long and remote +travel had thrown an outlandish aspect was entering a village not in +“faëry londe,” but within our own familiar boundaries. The +staff on which this traveller leaned had been his companion from the spot where +it grew in the jungles of Hindostan; the hat that overshadowed his sombre brow, +had shielded him from the suns of Spain; but his cheek had been blackened by +the red-hot wind of an Arabian desert and had felt the frozen breath of an +Arctic region. Long sojourning amid wild and dangerous men, he still wore +beneath his vest the ataghan which he had once struck into the throat of a +Turkish robber. In every foreign clime he had lost something of his New England +characteristics, and perhaps from every people he had unconsciously borrowed a +new peculiarity; so that when the world-wanderer again trod the street of his +native village it is no wonder that he passed unrecognized, though exciting the +gaze and curiosity of all. Yet, as his arm casually touched that of a young +woman who was wending her way to an evening lecture, she started and almost +uttered a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Ralph Cranfield!” was the name that she half articulated. +</p> + +<p> +“Can that be my old playmate Faith Egerton?” thought the traveller, +looking round at her figure, but without pausing. +</p> + +<p> +Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself marked out for a high +destiny. He had imbibed the idea—we say not whether it were revealed to +him by witchcraft or in a dream of prophecy, or that his brooding fancy had +palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a sybil, but he had imbibed +the idea, and held it firmest among his articles of faith—that three +marvellous events of his life were to be confirmed to him by three signs. +</p> + +<p> +The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on which his youthful +imagination had dwelt most fondly, was the discovery of the maid who alone of +all the maids on earth could make him happy by her love. He was to roam around +the world till he should meet a beautiful woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in +the shape of a heart—whether of pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle or +a changeful opal, or perhaps a priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, +so long as it were a heart of one peculiar shape. On encountering this lovely +stranger he was bound to address her thus: “Maiden, I have brought you a +heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you?” And if she were his fated +bride—if their kindred souls were destined to form a union here below +which all eternity should only bind more closely—she would reply, with +her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, “This token which I have worn so +long is the assurance that you may.” +</p> + +<p> +And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that there was a mighty +treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of which the burial-place would be +revealed to none but him. When his feet should press upon the mysterious spot, +there would be a hand before him pointing downward—whether carved of +marble or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of a rocky precipice, or +perchance a hand of flame in empty air, he could not tell, but at least he +would discern a hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath it the +Latin word “<i>Effode</i>”—“Dig!” And, digging +thereabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, or of whatever +else the treasure might consist, would be certain to reward his toil. +</p> + +<p> +The third and last of the miraculous events in the life of this high-destined +man was to be the attainment of extensive influence and sway over his +fellow-creatures. Whether he were to be a king and founder of a hereditary +throne, or the victorious leader of a people contending for their freedom, or +the apostle of a purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity to show. +As messengers of the sign by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize the summons, +three venerable men were to claim audience of him. The chief among them—a +dignified and majestic person arrayed, it may be supposed, in the flowing +garments of an ancient sage—would be the bearer of a wand or +prophet’s rod. With this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage would +trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make known his +Heaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must lead to glorious results. +</p> + +<p> +With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his imaginative youth Ralph +Cranfield had set forth to seek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage +with his gift of extended empire. And had he found them? Alas! it was not with +the aspect of a triumphant man who had achieved a nobler destiny than all his +fellows, but rather with the gloom of one struggling against peculiar and +continual adversity, that he now passed homeward to his mother’s cottage. +He had come back, but only for a time, to lay aside the pilgrim’s staff, +trusting that his weary manhood would regain somewhat of the elasticity of +youth in the spot where his threefold fate had been foreshown him. There had +been few changes in the village, for it was not one of those thriving places +where a year’s prosperity makes more than the havoc of a century’s +decay, but, like a gray hair in a young man’s head, an antiquated little +town full of old maids and aged elms and moss-grown dwellings. Few seemed to be +the changes here. The drooping elms, indeed, had a more majestic spread, the +weather-blackened houses were adorned with a denser thatch of verdant moss, and +doubtless there were a few more gravestones in the burial-ground inscribed with +names that had once been familiar in the village street; yet, summing up all +the mischief that ten years had wrought, it seemed scarcely more than if Ralph +Cranfield had gone forth that very morning and dreamed a day-dream till the +twilight, and then turned back again. But his heart grew cold because the +village did not remember him as he remembered the village. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the change,” sighed he, striking his hand upon his breast. +“Who is this man of thought and care, weary with world-wandering and +heavy with disappointed hopes? The youth returns not who went forth so +joyously.” +</p> + +<p> +And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother’s gate, in front of the small +house where the old lady, with slender but sufficient means, had kept herself +comfortable during her son’s long absence. Admitting himself within the +enclosure, he leaned against a great old tree, trifling with his own impatience +as people often do in those intervals when years are summed into a moment. He +took a minute survey of the dwelling—its windows brightened with the +sky-gleam, its doorway with the half of a millstone for a step, and the +faintly-traced path waving thence to the gate. He made friends again with his +childhood’s friend—the old tree against which he leaned—and, +glancing his eye down its trunk, beheld something that excited a melancholy +smile. It was a half-obliterated inscription—the Latin word +“<i>Effode</i>”—which he remembered to have carved in the +bark of the tree with a whole day’s toil when he had first begun to muse +about his exalted destiny. It might be accounted a rather singular coincidence +that the bark just above the inscription had put forth an excrescence shaped +not unlike a hand, with the forefinger pointing obliquely at the word of fate. +Such, at least, was its appearance in the dusky light. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, a credulous man,” said Ralph Cranfield, carelessly, to +himself, “might suppose that the treasure which I have sought round the +world lies buried, after all, at the very door of my mother’s dwelling. +That would be a jest indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +More he thought not about the matter, for now the door was opened and an +elderly woman appeared on the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who +it might be that had intruded on her premises and was standing in the shadow of +her tree. It was Ralph Cranfield’s mother. Pass we over their greeting, +and leave the one to her joy and the other to his rest—if quiet rest he +found. +</p> + +<p> +But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled brow, for his sleep and his +wakefulness had alike been full of dreams. All the fervor was rekindled with +which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold mystery of his fate. The +crowd of his early visions seemed to have awaited him beneath his +mother’s roof and thronged riotously around to welcome his return. In the +well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where his infancy had slumbered, he had +passed a wilder night than ever in an Arab tent or when he had reposed his head +in the ghastly shades of a haunted forest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his +bedside and laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of flame had +glowed amid the darkness, pointing downward to a mystery within the earth; a +hoary sage had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer onward to a +chair of state. The same phantoms, though fainter in the daylight, still +flitted about the cottage and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that +were drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cranfield’s return to bid him +welcome for his mother’s sake. There they found him, a tall, dark, +stately man of foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of speech, yet +with an abstracted eye which seemed often to snatch a glance at the invisible. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, the widow Cranfield went bustling about the house full of joy that +she again had somebody to love and be careful of, and for whom she might vex +and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. It was nearly noon +when she looked forth from the door and descried three personages of note +coming along the street through the hot sunshine and the masses of elm-tree +shade. At length they reached her gate and undid the latch. +</p> + +<p> +“See, Ralph!” exclaimed she, with maternal pride; “here is +Squire Hawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you. Now, +do tell them a good long story about what you have seen in foreign +parts.” +</p> + +<p> +The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, was a very pompous but +excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in all the affairs of the +village, and universally acknowledged to be one of the sagest men on earth. He +wore, according to a fashion even then becoming antiquated, a three-cornered +hat, and carried a silver-headed cane the use of which seemed to be rather for +flourishing in the air than for assisting the progress of his legs. His two +companions were elderly and respectable yeomen who, retaining an +ante-Revolutionary reverence for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in +the squire’s rear. +</p> + +<p> +As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfield sat in an oaken +elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at the three visitors and enveloping +their homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded his mental world. +“Here,” thought he, smiling at the conceit—“here come +three elderly personages, and the first of the three is a venerable sage with a +staff. What if this embassy should bring me the message of my fate?” +</p> + +<p> +While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, Ralph rose from his seat and +advanced a few steps to receive them, and his stately figure and dark +countenance as he bent courteously toward his guests had a natural dignity +contrasting well with the bustling importance of the squire. The old gentleman, +according to invariable custom, gave an elaborate preliminary flourish with his +cane in the air, then removed his three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, +and finally proceeded to make known his errand. +</p> + +<p> +“My colleagues and myself,” began the squire, “are burdened +with momentous duties, being jointly selectmen of this village. Our minds for +the space of three days past have been laboriously bent on the selection of a +suitable person to fill a most important office and take upon himself a charge +and rule which, wisely considered, may be ranked no lower than those of kings +and potentates. And whereas you, our native townsman, are of good natural +intellect and well cultivated by foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and +fantasies of your youth are doubtless long ago corrected,—taking all +these matters, I say, into due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence +hath sent you hither at this juncture for our very purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if he beheld +something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the +squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage instead of a +square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet breeches and silk stockings. Nor +was his wonder without sufficient cause, for the flourish of the squire’s +staff, marvellous to relate, had described precisely the signal in the air +which was to ratify the message of the prophetic sage whom Cranfield had sought +around the world. +</p> + +<p> +“And what,” inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in his +voice—“what may this office be which is to equal me with kings and +potentates?” +</p> + +<p> +“No less than instructor of our village school,” answered Squire +Hawkwood, “the office being now vacant by the death of the venerable +Master Whitaker after a fifty years’ incumbency.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will consider of your proposal,” replied Ralph Cranfield, +hurriedly, “and will make known my decision within three days.” +</p> + +<p> +After a few more words the village dignitary and his companions took their +leave. But to Cranfield’s fancy their images were still present, and +became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures which had first +appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown themselves in his waking +moments, assuming homely aspects among familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the +features of the squire till they grew confused with those of the visionary sage +and one appeared but the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, +had looked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form had +beckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figure had +mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the Great Geyser. At +every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the dreamy messenger of +destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little-great man of the +village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely +hearing and vaguely answering his mother’s thousand questions about his +travels and adventures. At sunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, +passing the aged elm tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand +pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription. +</p> + +<p> +As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams threw his +shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow walked among distant +objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking in advance of him throughout +his life. And when he drew near each object over which his tall shadow had +preceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his +infancy and youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more +transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone days. A +company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him with +their fragrant breath. “It is sweeter,” thought he, “than the +perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice Islands.” The round +little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and lay laughing almost beneath +Cranfield’s feet. The dark and stately man stooped down, and, lifting the +infant, restored him to his mother’s arms. “The children,” +said he to himself, and sighed and smiled—“the children are to be +my charge.” And while a flow of natural feeling gushed like a well-spring +in his heart he came to a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. A +sweet voice which seemed to come from a deep and tender soul was warbling a +plaintive little air within. He bent his head and passed through the lowly +door. As his foot sounded upon the threshold a young woman advanced from the +dusky interior of the house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain +step, till they met face to face. There was a singular contrast in their two +figures—he dark and picturesque, one who had battled with the world, whom +all suns had shone upon and whom all winds had blown on a varied course; she +neat, comely and quiet—quiet even in her agitation—as if all her +emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. Yet their faces, +all unlike as they were, had an expression that seemed not so alien—a +glow of kindred feeling flashing upward anew from half-extinguished embers. +</p> + +<p> +“You are welcome home,” said Faith Egerton. +</p> + +<p> +But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caught by an +ornament in the shape of a heart which Faith wore as a brooch upon her bosom. +The material was the ordinary white quartz, and he recollected having himself +shaped it out of one of those Indian arrowheads which are so often found in the +ancient haunts of the red men. It was precisely on the pattern of that worn by +the visionary maid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had +bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting gift to Faith Egerton. +</p> + +<p> +“So, Faith, you have kept the heart?” said he, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said she, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, “And what +else have you brought me from beyond the sea?” +</p> + +<p> +“Faith,” replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated words by an +uncontrollable impulse, “I have brought you nothing but a heavy heart. +May I rest its weight on you?” +</p> + +<p> +“This token which I have worn so long,” said Faith, laying her +tremulous finger on the heart, “is the assurance that you may.” +</p> + +<p> +“Faith, Faith!” cried Cranfield, clasping her in his arms; +“you have interpreted my wild and weary dream!” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the mysterious treasure he was +to till the earth around his mother’s dwelling and reap its products; +instead of warlike command or regal or religious sway, he was to rule over the +village children; and now the visionary maid had faded from his fancy, and in +her place he saw the playmate of his childhood. +</p> + +<p> +Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, they would +oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness, within those +precincts and in that station where Providence itself has cast their lot. Happy +they who read the riddle without a weary world-search or a lifetime spent in +vain! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="noindent"> +Footnotes: +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, Maine, who died +about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that +is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. In his case, however, the symbol +had a different import. In early life he had accidentally killed a beloved +friend, and from that day till the hour of his own death he hid his face from +men. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a> +Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a mistake here. +The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is not known to have been an +immoral man. We rather doubt his identity with the priest of Merry Mount. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a> +Essex and Washington streets, Salem. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a> +The Indian tradition on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded is both +too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. Sullivan, in +his history of Maine, written since the Revolution, remarks that even then the +existence of the Great Carbuncle was not entirely discredited. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a> +This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart related in Dunlap’s +<i>History of the Arts of Designs</i>—a most entertaining book to the +general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we should think, to the artist. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13707 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + |