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diff --git a/513-h/513-h.htm b/513-h/513-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c9f644 --- /dev/null +++ b/513-h/513-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8843 @@ +<!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 The Snow-Image, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<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.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow-Image, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Snow-Image<br /> + and Other Twice-Told Tales</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May, 1996 [eBook #513]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 22, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Keller</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOW-IMAGE ***</div> + +<h1>The Snow-Image</h1> + +<h3>and Other Twice-Told Tales</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Nathaniel Hawthorne</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">The Snow-Image: A Childish Miracle</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">The Great Stone Face</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">Main Street</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">Ethan Brand</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">A Bell’s Biography</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Sylph Etherege</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">The Canterbury Pilgrims</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">Old News</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">The Man of Adamant: An Apologue</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">The Devil in Manuscript</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">John Inglefield’s Thanksgiving</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">Old Ticonderoga: A Picture of The Past</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">The Wives of The Dead</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">Little Daffydowndilly</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">My Kinsman, Major Molineux</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p class="center"> +TO HORATIO BRIDGE, ESQ., U. S. N. +</p> + +<p> +MY DEAR BRIDGE:—Some of the more crabbed of my critics, I understand, +have pronounced your friend egotistical, indiscreet, and even impertinent, on +account of the Prefaces and Introductions with which, on several occasions, he +has seen fit to pave the reader’s way into the interior edifice of a +book. In the justice of this censure I do not exactly concur, for the reasons, +on the one hand, that the public generally has negatived the idea of undue +freedom on the author’s part, by evincing, it seems to me, rather more +interest in those aforesaid Introductions than in the stories which followed; +and that, on the other hand, with whatever appearance of confidential intimacy, +I have been especially careful to make no disclosures respecting myself which +the most indifferent observer might not have been acquainted with, and which I +was not perfectly willing that my worst enemy should know. I might further +justify myself, on the plea that, ever since my youth, I have been addressing a +very limited circle of friendly readers, without much danger of being overheard +by the public at large; and that the habits thus acquired might pardonably +continue, although strangers may have begun to mingle with my audience. +</p> + +<p> +But the charge, I am bold to say, is not a reasonable one, in any view which we +can fairly take of it. There is no harm, but, on the contrary, good, in +arraying some of the ordinary facts of life in a slightly idealized and +artistic guise. I have taken facts which relate to myself, because they chance +to be nearest at hand, and likewise are my own property. And, as for egotism, a +person, who has been burrowing, to his utmost ability, into the depths of our +common nature, for the purposes of psychological romance,—and who pursues +his researches in that dusky region, as he needs must, as well by the tact of +sympathy as by the light of observation,—will smile at incurring such an +imputation in virtue of a little preliminary talk about his external habits, +his abode, his casual associates, and other matters entirely upon the surface. +These things hide the man, instead of displaying him. You must make quite +another kind of inquest, and look through the whole range of his fictitious +characters, good and evil, in order to detect any of his essential traits. +</p> + +<p> +Be all this as it may, there can be no question as to the propriety of my +inscribing this volume of earlier and later sketches to you, and pausing here, +a few moments, to speak of them, as friend speaks to friend; still being +cautious, however, that the public and the critics shall overhear nothing which +we care about concealing. On you, if on no other person, I am entitled to rely, +to sustain the position of my Dedicatee. If anybody is responsible for my being +at this day an author, it is yourself. I know not whence your faith came; but, +while we were lads together at a country college,—gathering blueberries, +in study-hours, under those tall academic pines; or watching the great logs, as +they tumbled along the current of the Androscoggin; or shooting pigeons and +gray squirrels in the woods; or bat-fowling in the summer twilight; or catching +trouts in that shadowy little stream which, I suppose, is still wandering +riverward through the forest,—though you and I will never cast a line in +it again,—two idle lads, in short (as we need not fear to acknowledge +now), doing a hundred things that the Faculty never heard of, or else it had +been the worse for us,—still it was your prognostic of your +friend’s destiny, that he was to be a writer of fiction. +</p> + +<p> +And a fiction-monger, in due season, he became. But was there ever such a weary +delay in obtaining the slightest recognition from the public, as in my case? I +sat down by the wayside of life, like a man under enchantment, and a shrubbery +sprung up around me, and the bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplings +became trees, until no exit appeared possible, through the entangling depths of +my obscurity. And there, perhaps, I should be sitting at this moment, with the +moss on the imprisoning tree-trunks, and the yellow leaves of more than a score +of autumns piled above me, if it had not been for you. For it was through your +interposition—and that, moreover, unknown to himself—that your +early friend was brought before the public, somewhat more prominently than +theretofore, in the first volume of Twice-told Tales. Not a publisher in +America, I presume, would have thought well enough of my forgotten or +never-noticed stories to risk the expense of print and paper; nor do I say this +with any purpose of casting odium on the respectable fraternity of booksellers, +for their blindness to my wonderful merit. To confess the truth, I doubted of +the public recognition quite as much as they could do. So much the more +generous was your confidence; and knowing, as I do, that it was founded on old +friendship rather than cold criticism, I value it only the more for that. +</p> + +<p> +So, now, when I turn back upon my path, lighted by a transitory gleam of public +favor, to pick up a few articles which were left out of my former collections, +I take pleasure in making them the memorial of our very long and unbroken +connection. Some of these sketches were among the earliest that I wrote, and, +after lying for years in manuscript, they at last skulked into the Annuals or +Magazines, and have hidden themselves there ever since. Others were the +productions of a later period; others, again, were written recently. The +comparison of these various trifles—the indices of intellectual condition +at far separate epochs—affects me with a singular complexity of regrets. +I am disposed to quarrel with the earlier sketches, both because a mature +judgment discerns so many faults, and still more because they come so nearly up +to the standard of the best that I can achieve now. The ripened autumnal fruit +tastes but little better than the early windfalls. It would, indeed, be +mortifying to believe that the summer-time of life has passed away, without any +greater progress and improvement than is indicated here. But—at least, so +I would fain hope—these things are scarcely to be depended upon, as +measures of the intellectual and moral man. In youth, men are apt to write more +wisely than they really know or feel; and the remainder of life may be not idly +spent in realizing and convincing themselves of the wisdom which they uttered +long ago. The truth that was only in the fancy then may have since become a +substance in the mind and heart. +</p> + +<p> +I have nothing further, I think, to say; unless it be that the public need not +dread my again trespassing on its kindness, with any more of these musty and +mouse-nibbled leaves of old periodicals, transformed, by the magic arts of my +friendly publishers, into a new book. These are the last. Or, if a few still +remain, they are either such as no paternal partiality could induce the author +to think worth preserving, or else they have got into some very dark and dusty +hiding-place, quite out of my own remembrance and whence no researches can +avail to unearth them. So there let them rest. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Very sincerely yours, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +N. H. +</p> + +<p> +L<small>ENOX</small>, November 1, 1851. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE SNOW-IMAGE:<br/> +A CHILDISH MIRACLE</h2> + +<p> +One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with +chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother +to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child was a little girl, +whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be +very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used +to call Violet. But her brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on +account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made +everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. The father of these two +children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent but +exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily +accustomed to take what is called the common-sense view of all matters that +came under his consideration. With a heart about as tender as other +people’s, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, +as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. +The mother’s character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, +a trait of unworldly beauty,—a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that +had survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the +dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood. +</p> + +<p> +So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother to let them +run out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary and +dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, +now that the sun was shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had no +wider play-place than a little garden before the house, divided by a white +fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees +overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the parlor-windows. The +trees and shrubs, however, were now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in +the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a +pendent icicle for the fruit. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Violet,—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother, +“you may go out and play in the new snow.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jackets and +wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of striped +gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their hands, and +gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forth +sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once +into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a +snow-bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full +bloom. Then what a merry time had they! To look at them, frolicking in the +wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been +sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; +and that they themselves had been created, as the snow-birds were, to take +delight only in the tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over the +earth. +</p> + +<p> +At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, +Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was struck with +a new idea. +</p> + +<p> +“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if +your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out +of snow,—an image of a little girl,—and it shall be our sister, and +shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won’t it be +nice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes!” cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but +a little boy. “That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. +But she must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little +snow-sister will not love the warmth.” +</p> + +<p> +And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image +that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at the window and +overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which +they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be no +difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. And, to say +the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands +to the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in +which Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much as knowing +that it was a miracle. So thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the +new snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material to make new +beings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at the children a moment +longer, delighting to watch their little figures,—the girl, tall for her +age, graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked like a +cheerful thought more than a physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth +rather than height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as +substantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed +her work. What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for +Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony’s short legs. +Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help turning her +head to the window to see how the children got on with their snow-image. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little souls at +their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and +skilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and told +Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the +nicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by +the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and +prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longer +she looked, the more and more surprised she grew. +</p> + +<p> +“What remarkable children mine are!” thought she, smiling with a +mother’s pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them. +“What other children could have made anything so like a little +girl’s figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I must finish +Peony’s new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and I want +the little fellow to look handsome.” +</p> + +<p> +So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with her needle +as the two children with their snow-image. But still, as the needle travelled +hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the mother made her toil +light and happy by listening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept +talking to one another all the time, their tongues being quite as active as +their feet and hands. Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear what +was said, but had merely a sweet impression that they were in a most loving +mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making the +snow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet and Peony +happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had been +spoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. Oh how delightfully those words +echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonderful, +after all! +</p> + +<p> +But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than with her ears; +and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other +people can hear nothing of the kind. +</p> + +<p> +“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to +another part of the garden, “bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, +from the very farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it to +shape our little snow-sister’s bosom with. You know that part must be +quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is, Violet!” answered Peony, in his bluff tone,—but +a very sweet tone, too,—as he came floundering through the half-trodden +drifts. “Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, how beau-ti-ful +she begins to look!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; “our +snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could +make such a sweet little girl as this.” +</p> + +<p> +The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident it +would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were to come from +paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to make their +snow-image, giving it the features of celestial babyhood! Violet and Peony +would not be aware of their immortal playmates,—only they would see that +the image grew very beautiful while they worked at it, and would think that +they themselves had done it all. +</p> + +<p> +“My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever +did!” said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own +motherly pride. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon, she +took a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming that she might see the +golden-haired children of paradise sporting with her own golden-haired Violet +and bright-cheeked Peony. +</p> + +<p> +Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct hum of the +two children’s voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with one +happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while Peony acted +rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the +little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too! +</p> + +<p> +“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her brother was again at the +other side of the garden. “Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have +rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the +snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets +for our snow-sister’s head!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care +you do not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does she not look sweetly?” said Violet, with a very satisfied +tone; “and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to make the +brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very +beautiful she is; but papa will say, ‘Tush! nonsense!—come in out +of the cold!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us call mamma to look out,” said Peony; and then he shouted +lustily, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice +’ittle girl we are making!” +</p> + +<p> +The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the window. But +it so happened that the sun—for this was one of the shortest days of the +whole year—had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that his setting +shine came obliquely into the lady’s eyes. So she was dazzled, you must +understand, and could not very distinctly observe what was in the garden. +Still, however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new +snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that seemed to have a +wonderful deal of human likeness about it. And she saw Violet and +Peony,—indeed, she looked more at them than at the image,—she saw +the two children still at work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying +it to the figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. +Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to herself +that never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor ever such a +dear little girl and boy to make it. +</p> + +<p> +“They do everything better than other children,” said she, very +complacently. “No wonder they make better snow-images!” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as possible; +because twilight would soon come, and Peony’s frock was not yet finished, +and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the morning. Faster +and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept +busily at work in the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she could +catch a word. She was amused to observe how their little imaginations had got +mixed up with what they were doing, and carried away by it. They seemed +positively to think that the snow-child would run about and play with them. +</p> + +<p> +“What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!” said +Violet. “I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! +Sha’n’t you love her dearly, Peony?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug her, and she shall sit +down close by me and drink some of my warm milk!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, Peony!” answered Violet, with grave wisdom. “That +will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. +Little snow people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we must +not give her anything warm to drink!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were never +weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. All of a +sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,—“Look here, Peony! +Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-colored +cloud! and the color does not go away! Is not that beautiful!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three +syllables with deliberate accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her hair! It +is all like gold!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh certainly,” said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very +much a matter of course. “That color, you know, comes from the golden +clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her +lips must be made very red,—redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it +will make them red if we both kiss them!” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her children +were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did not seem to +make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the snow-child should +be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony. +</p> + +<p> +“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips +are very red. And she blushed a little, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony. +</p> + +<p> +Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweeping through the +garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the +mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon +the two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice. The tone +was not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal excited; +it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at some event that had +now happened, but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned upon all +along. +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is +running about the garden with us!” +</p> + +<p> +“What imaginative little beings my children are!” thought the +mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it +is strange, too that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves +are! I can hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come to +life!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out and see what a +sweet playmate we have!” +</p> + +<p> +The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the +window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich +inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make +the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam or +dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look +all over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it. And what do you +think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children. +Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there +was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and +ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children! A +stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with +Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates +during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it +must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet +and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them. +So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into +her comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the +atmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold. +</p> + +<p> +But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, +hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should +even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child +after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and +thither about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind. There was certainly +something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the +children of the neighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its +pure white, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the +forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and +fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a +little girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth of winter. It made this +kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing +in the world on them, except a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, +airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest +inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips +of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just +keep pace with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind. +</p> + +<p> +Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself between +Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they +along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony pulled away his little fist, +and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while Violet +also released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it +was better not to take hold of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a word, +but danced about, just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not choose +to play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and cold +west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties +with her, that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. All this +while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could +look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very +like a little girl. +</p> + +<p> +She called Violet, and whispered to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Violet my darling, what is this child’s name?” asked she. +“Does she live near us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her +mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little +snow-sister whom we have just been making!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking +up simply into her face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice +’ittle child?” +</p> + +<p> +At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. As was +very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But—and this looked +strange—they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly +about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as an old +acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see these little +birds, old Winter’s grandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed +them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to alight +on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another off, +with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. One dear little bird nestled +tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, +all the while, and seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them +when sporting with a snow-storm. +</p> + +<p> +Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed the +merry time which their new playmate was having with these small-winged +visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it. +</p> + +<p> +“Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, “tell me the +truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her +mother’s face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further +explanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our little +snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well +as I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimson +little phiz; “this is ’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? +But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!” +</p> + +<p> +While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was +thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a +pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of +gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet +a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy +all the day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes +brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help +uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding the whole family in the open +air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset too. He soon perceived the little +white stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, +and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, what little girl may that be?” inquired this very sensible +man. “Surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in such bitter +weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin +slippers!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear husband,” said his wife, “I know no more about the +little thing than you do. Some neighbor’s child, I suppose. Our Violet +and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a +story, “insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been +busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the +children’s snow-image had been made. What was her surprise, on perceiving +that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!—no image at +all!—no piled up heap of snow!—nothing whatever, save the prints of +little footsteps around a vacant space! +</p> + +<p> +“This is very strange!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet. “Dear father, +do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made, +because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “This be our ’ittle +snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poh, nonsense, children!” cried their good, honest father, who, as +we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at +matters. “Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; +this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We +will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread +and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquire +among the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, +to give notice of a lost child.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little +white damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each +seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come +in. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear father,” cried Violet, putting herself before him, “it +is true what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and she +cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. Do not make +her come into the hot room!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father,” shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily +was he in earnest, “this be nothing but our ’ittle snow-child! She +will not love the hot fire!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!” cried the father, half +vexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. “Run +into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now. I must +take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her +death-a-cold!” +</p> + +<p> +“Husband! dear husband!” said his wife, in a low voice,—for +she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than +ever,—“there is something very singular in all this. You will think +me foolish,—but—but—may it not be that some invisible angel +has been attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children set +about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of his immortality in +playing with those dear little souls? and so the result is what we call a +miracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what a foolish thought it is!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear wife,” replied the husband, laughing heartily, “you +are as much a child as Violet and Peony.” +</p> + +<p> +And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her heart full +of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and, +looking at all matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes saw +truths so profound that other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity. +</p> + +<p> +But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from his two +children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let +the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind. As he approached, +the snow-birds took to flight. The little white damsel, also, fled backward, +shaking her head, as if to say, “Pray, do not touch me!” and +roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. Once, +the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, so that, gathering +himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he +looked as white and wintry as a snow-image of the largest size. Some of the +neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, wondered what could +possess poor Mr. Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a +snow-drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length, +after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into a corner, +where she could not possibly escape him. His wife had been looking on, and, it +being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed +and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her; and when +driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star! It was a frosty +kind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife +thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the +snow-child’s appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you odd little thing!” cried the honest man, seizing her by +the hand, “I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in +spite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your +frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. +Your poor white nose, I am afraid, is actually frost-bitten. But we will make +it all right. Come along in.” +</p> + +<p> +And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all purple as it +was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the +hand and led her towards the house. She followed him, droopingly and reluctant; +for all the glow and sparkle was gone out of her figure; and whereas just +before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson +gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw. As +kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into +his face,—their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run +down their cheeks,—and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image +into the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man. “Why, you +are crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold, +already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. +Would you have her freeze to death?” +</p> + +<p> +His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest, +almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether +it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate +print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. It looked just as +if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with +her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, husband,” said the mother, recurring to her idea that +the angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and Peony as she +herself was,—“after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! +I do believe she is made of snow!” +</p> + +<p> +A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled +like a star. +</p> + +<p> +“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over +his hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half +frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to +rights!” +</p> + +<p> +Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, this highly +benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little white +damsel—drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more out of the frosty air, +and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove, filled to the brim with +intensely burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass +of its iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fume and bubble +with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diffused throughout the room. A +thermometer on the wall farthest from the stove stood at eighty degrees. The +parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked +just as warm as it felt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the +cold, wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla +to the hottest part of India, or from the North Pole into an oven. Oh, this was +a fine place for the little white stranger! +</p> + +<p> +The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, right in front +of the hissing and fuming stove. +</p> + +<p> +“Now she will be comfortable!” cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands +and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. “Make +yourself at home, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she stood on the +hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a +pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully toward the windows, and caught a +glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars +glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The +bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. +But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove! +</p> + +<p> +But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. +</p> + +<p> +“Come wife,” said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings +and a woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm +supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little +friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. +For my part, I will go around among the neighbors, and find out where she +belongs.” +</p> + +<p> +The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings; for her +own view of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it +always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband. Without heeding the +remonstrances of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little +snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, +shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of his +sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the +street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the +rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor window. +</p> + +<p> +“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken +face through the window-panes. “There is no need of going for the +child’s parents!” +</p> + +<p> +“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet and Peony, as he +re-entered the parlor. “You would bring her in; and now our +poor—dear-beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!” +</p> + +<p> +And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that their +father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this every-day world, +felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too! In the +utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only +reply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, she +found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap +of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the +hearth-rug. +</p> + +<p> +“And there you see all that is left of it!” added she, pointing to +a pool of water in front of the stove. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father,” said Violet looking reproachfully at him, through +her tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little +snow-sister!” +</p> + +<p> +“Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I +shudder to say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. +“We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?” +</p> + +<p> +And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at +good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which it +had done! +</p> + +<p> +This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet will +occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. The remarkable +story of the snow-image, though to that sagacious class of people to whom good +Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, +capable of being moralized in various methods, greatly for their edification. +One of its lessons, for instance, might be, that it behooves men, and +especially men of benevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, +before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they +comprehend the nature and all the relations of the business in hand. What has +been established as an element of good to one being may prove absolute mischief +to another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper enough for children of +flesh and blood, like Violet and Peony,—though by no means very +wholesome, even for them,—but involved nothing short of annihilation to +the unfortunate snow-image. +</p> + +<p> +But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good Mr. +Lindsey’s stamp. They know everything,—oh, to be +sure!—everything that has been, and everything that is, and everything +that, by any future possibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of nature +or providence transcend their system, they will not recognize it, even if it +come to pass under their very noses. +</p> + +<p> +“Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, “see what a +quantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet! It has made quite +a puddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and mop it +up!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>THE GREAT STONE FACE</h2> + +<p> +One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at +the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to +lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with +the sunshine brightening all its features. +</p> + +<p> +And what was the Great Stone Face? +</p> + +<p> +Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious +that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt in +log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult +hill-sides. Others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses, and cultivated +the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, +again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland +rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had +been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of +cotton-factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and +of many modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind +of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of +distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their +neighbors. +</p> + +<p> +The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic +playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense +rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a +proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. +It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness +on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in +height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could +have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley +to the other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost +the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous +and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his +steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he +withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity +intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds +and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face +seemed positively to be alive. +</p> + +<p> +It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the +Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the +expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm +heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. It +was an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many people, +the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was +continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing its +tenderness into the sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage-door, +gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The child’s name +was Ernest. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, “I +wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs +be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him +dearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, +“we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. +“Pray tell me about it!” +</p> + +<p> +So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she +herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, +but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the +Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their +forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountain +streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The purport was, that, +at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined to +become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, +in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. Not a few +old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, +still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But others, who had +seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and had +beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or +nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all +events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“O mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his +head, “I do hope that I shall live to see him!” +</p> + +<p> +His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was +wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only said +to him, “Perhaps you may.” +</p> + +<p> +And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in +his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood +in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and +helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and +more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive +child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with +labor in the fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is +seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no +teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil +of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine +that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and +encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not take upon +us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more +kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret was that the +boy’s tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could +not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar +portion. +</p> + +<p> +About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great man, +foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone +Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a young man had +migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting +together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name—but I +could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out +of his habits and success in life—was Gathergold. Being shrewd and +active, and endowed by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops +itself in what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, +and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the +globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to +the mountainous accumulation of this one man’s wealth. The cold regions +of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him +their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands +of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of +the forests; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, +and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. The +ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that +Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit of it. Be the original +commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, +as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately +glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal, or, +which suited him still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had +become so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count +his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back +thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent +a skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of +his vast wealth to live in. +</p> + +<p> +As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr. +Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly +looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude of +the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this must +needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by +enchantment, on the site of his father’s old weatherbeaten farm-house. +The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the +whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which +Mr. Gathergold, in his young play-days, before his fingers were gifted with the +touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had a richly +ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, +studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been +brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each +stately apartment, were composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of +glass, so transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even +the vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of +this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far +more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in +other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold’s bedchamber, +especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary man would have +been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was +now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless +where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids. +</p> + +<p> +In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with +magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the +harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to +arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the +idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages +of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, boy +as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his +vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a +control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the Great +Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the people +said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those +wondrous features on the mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the +valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his +gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching +swiftly along the winding road. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he comes!” cried a group of people who were assembled to +witness the arrival. “Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!” +</p> + +<p> +A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, +thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with +a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low +forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very +thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together. +</p> + +<p> +“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people. +“Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man +come, at last!” +</p> + +<p> +And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here +was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be an +old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off +region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up +their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yellow +claw—the very same that had clawed together so much wealth—poked +itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the ground; so +that, though the great man’s name seems to have been Gathergold, he might +just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with +an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people +bellowed, “He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!” +</p> + +<p> +But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage, and +gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, +he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed +themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips +seem to say? +</p> + +<p> +“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!” +</p> + +<p> +The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young +man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; +for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life save that, when the labor of +the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the +Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter, it was a folly, +indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious, kind, and +neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this idle habit. +They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that +the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man’s +heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They +knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from +books, and a better life than could be moulded on the defaced example of other +human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which +came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and wherever he +communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared +with him. A simple soul,—simple as when his mother first taught him the +old prophecy,—he beheld the marvellous features beaming adown the valley, +and still wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of +the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his +existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a +living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled yellow skin. Since the melting +away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no such +striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined +merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So the people ceased to +honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after +his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in +connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long +ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of +whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the Great +Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade, +the man of prophecy was yet to come. +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had +enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become +an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in +camps and on the battle-field under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This +war-worn veteran being now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil +of a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, +that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of +returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to +have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children, +were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a +public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, +at last, the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An +aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, travelling through the valley, was said +to have been struck with the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and early +acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best +of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the +majestic image, even when a boy, only the idea had never occurred to them at +that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley; and +many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for +years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing +exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. +</p> + +<p> +On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of the +valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was +prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was +heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on the +distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tables +were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding +trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the +Great Stone Face. Over the general’s chair, which was a relic from the +home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel +profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country’s banner, beneath +which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his +tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a +mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to +catch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer +company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any +particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusive +character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of +Old Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on +the battle-field. To console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, +which, like a faithful and long remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon +him through the vista of the forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the +remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero +with the face on the distant mountain-side. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man, cutting a +caper for joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” responded another. +</p> + +<p> +“Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous +looking-glass!” cried a third. “And why not? He’s the +greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated +electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that +went reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have supposed +that the Great Stone Face had poured its thunderbreath into the cry. All these +comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to interest our friend; nor +did he think of questioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had found +its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had imagined that this +long-looked-for personage would appear in the character of a man of peace, +uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. But, taking an +habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he contended that Providence +should choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could conceive that this +great end might be effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should +inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so. +</p> + +<p> +“The general! the general!” was now the cry. “Hush! silence! +Old Blood-and-Thunder’s going to make a speech.” +</p> + +<p> +Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general’s health had been +drunk, amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the +company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from +the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of +green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade +his brow! And there, too, visible in the same glance, through the vista of the +forest, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed, such a +resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He +beheld a war-worn and weatherbeaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive +of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, +were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage; and even if +the Great Stone Face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits +would still have tempered it. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest to himself, as he +made his way out of the throng. “And must the world wait longer +yet?” +</p> + +<p> +The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were seen +the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as +if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself in a +cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but +that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, +although without motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western +sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him +and the object that he gazed at. But—as it always did—the aspect of +his marvellous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain. +</p> + +<p> +“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were +whispering him,—“fear not, Ernest; he will come.” +</p> + +<p> +More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native +valley, and was now a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had +become known among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, +and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought +and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to +unworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had +been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom +unawares. It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his +daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all along +its course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because this +man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yet +would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily too, he had +become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one +of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from +his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon and +moulded the lives of those who heard him. His auditors, it may be, never +suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an +ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as +the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human +lips had spoken. +</p> + +<p> +When the people’s minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready +enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between General +Blood-and-Thunder’s truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on the +mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the +newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared +upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. +Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left +it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of +the rich man’s wealth and the warrior’s sword, he had but a tongue, +and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he, that +whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; +wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he +could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the +natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes +it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. It +was the blast of war, the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in it, +when there was no such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when +his tongue had acquired him all other imaginable success,—when it had +been heard in halls of state, and in the courts of princes and +potentates,—after it had made him known all over the world, even as a +voice crying from shore to shore,—it finally persuaded his countrymen to +select him for the Presidency. Before this time,—indeed, as soon as he +began to grow celebrated,—his admirers had found out the resemblance +between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it, that +throughout the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of +Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect +to his political prospects; for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, +nobody ever becomes President without taking a name other than his own. +</p> + +<p> +While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz, +as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of +course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens and +neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the +country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made to +receive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet +him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people left their business +and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though +more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and +confiding nature, that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed +beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure to +catch the blessing from on high when it should come. So now again, as buoyantly +as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face. +</p> + +<p> +The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs +and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of +the mountain-side was completely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. All the great +men of the neighborhood were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; +the member of Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; +and many a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat +upon his back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there +were numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were +gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, +smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were to +be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvellous. We +must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the +echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of its +strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the +heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, +to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the +far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face +itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at +length, the man of prophecy was come. +</p> + +<p> +All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with +enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise +threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, “Huzza for the +great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!” But as yet he had not seen him. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he is, now!” cried those who stood near Ernest. “There! +There! Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see +if they are not as like as two twin-brothers!” +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four +white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the +illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neighbors to him, +“the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!” +</p> + +<p> +Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was +bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a +resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side. The +brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, +were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic, of a +Titanic model. But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of a +divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized its +ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. +Something had been originally left out, or had departed. And therefore the +marvellously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns of +his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man of mighty +faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances, was +vague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality. +</p> + +<p> +Still, Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and +pressing him for an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the +Mountain?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Ernest bluntly, “I see little or no +likeness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!” answered his +neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz. +</p> + +<p> +But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent: for this was the +saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the +prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, +the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the +rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealed +again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries. +</p> + +<p> +“Lo, here I am, Ernest!” the benign lips seemed to say. “I +have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will +come.” +</p> + +<p> +The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another’s heels. +And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of +Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his +cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the +white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and +furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had written +legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernest had +ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many +seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the valley in +which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors, and even the active men of +cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report had gone +abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those of other men, not +gained from books, but of a higher tone,—a tranquil and familiar majesty, +as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Whether it were +sage, statesman, or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the +gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with +them of whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. +While they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon +them, as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, +his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused to +look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its likeness in a +human countenance, but could not remember where. +</p> + +<p> +While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had +granted a new poet to this earth. He likewise, was a native of the valley, but +had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, +pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, +did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their +snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great +Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand +enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of genius, we +may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a +mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its +breast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme +were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam +forever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of +its dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the +song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the +poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him, as the last +best touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till the poet came +to interpret, and so complete it. +</p> + +<p> +The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the +subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, +who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were +glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden +links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he +brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made them worthy of +such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness of their +judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of the natural world +existed only in the poet’s fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who +undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature with a contemptuous +bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the +swine were made. As respects all things else, the poet’s ideal was the +truest truth. +</p> + +<p> +The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his +customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such a +length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the Great +Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within +him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“O majestic friend,” he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, +“is not this man worthy to resemble thee?” +</p> + +<p> +The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. +</p> + +<p> +Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard +of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed nothing +so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand +with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took +passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from +the cars at no great distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, +which had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but +the poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, +and was resolved to be accepted as his guest. +</p> + +<p> +Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his +hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, +looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening,” said the poet. “Can you give a traveller a +night’s lodging?” +</p> + +<p> +“Willingly,” answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, +“Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a +stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together. +Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never +before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such +a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple +utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought +with him at his labor in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the +fireside; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the +sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of +household words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved +and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind, and +which peopled all the air about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both +gay and pensive. The sympathies of these two men instructed them with a +profounder sense than either could have attained alone. Their minds accorded +into one strain, and made delightful music which neither of them could have +claimed as all his own, nor distinguished his own share from the other’s. +They led one another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so +remote, and hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so +beautiful that they desired to be there always. +</p> + +<p> +As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was +bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s glowing +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading. +</p> + +<p> +“You have read these poems,” said he. “You know me, +then,—for I wrote them.” +</p> + +<p> +Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet’s +features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an +uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, +and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet. +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” replied Ernest, “all through life I have awaited +the fulfilment of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it +might be fulfilled in you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in +me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly +with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, +Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and +record another failure of your hopes. For—in shame and sadness do I speak +it, Ernest—I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic +image.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are not +those thoughts divine?” +</p> + +<p> +“They have a strain of the Divinity,” replied the poet. “You +can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, +has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have +been only dreams, because I have lived—and that, too, by my own +choice—among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even—shall I dare +to say it?—I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, +which my own words are said to have made more evident in nature and in human +life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find +me, in yonder image of the divine?” +</p> + +<p> +The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were +those of Ernest. +</p> + +<p> +At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to +discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He +and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded +to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, +the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping +plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons from +all its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich +framework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human +figure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest +thought and genuine emotion. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and +threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, +or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine +falling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the +solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which the +golden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the Great +Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its +benignant aspect. +</p> + +<p> +Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind. +His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts +had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had +always lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were the +words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them. +Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this precious draught. The poet, +as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a nobler +strain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he +gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never +was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, +thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a +distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting +sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white +hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to +embrace the world. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the +face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with benevolence, +that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft and shouted, +“Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone +Face!” +</p> + +<p> +Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was +true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had to +say, took the poet’s arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that +some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing a +resemblance to the G<small>REAT</small> S<small>TONE</small> +F<small>ACE</small>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>MAIN STREET</h2> + +<p> +A respectable-looking individual makes his bow and addresses the public. In my +daily walks along the principal street of my native town, it has often occurred +to me, that, if its growth from infancy upward, and the vicissitude of +characteristic scenes that have passed along this thoroughfare during the more +than two centuries of its existence, could be presented to the eye in a +shifting panorama, it would be an exceedingly effective method of illustrating +the march of time. Acting on this idea, I have contrived a certain pictorial +exhibition, somewhat in the nature of a puppet-show, by means of which I +propose to call up the multiform and many-colored Past before the spectator, +and show him the ghosts of his forefathers, amid a succession of historic +incidents, with no greater trouble than the turning of a crank. Be pleased, +therefore, my indulgent patrons, to walk into the show-room, and take your +seats before yonder mysterious curtain. The little wheels and springs of my +machinery have been well oiled; a multitude of puppets are dressed in +character, representing all varieties of fashion, from the Puritan cloak and +jerkin to the latest Oak Hall coat; the lamps are trimmed, and shall brighten +into noontide sunshine, or fade away in moonlight, or muffle their brilliancy +in a November cloud, as the nature of the scene may require; and, in short, the +exhibition is just ready to commence. Unless something should go +wrong,—as, for instance, the misplacing of a picture, whereby the people +and events of one century might be thrust into the middle of another; or the +breaking of a wire, which would bring the course of time to a sudden +period,—barring, I say, the casualties to which such a complicated piece +of mechanism is liable,—I flatter myself, ladies and +gentlemen,—that the performance will elicit your generous approbation. +</p> + +<p> +Ting-a-ting-ting! goes the bell; the curtain rises; and we behold—not, +indeed, the Main Street—but the track of leaf-strewn forest-land over +which its dusty pavement is hereafter to extend. +</p> + +<p> +You perceive, at a glance, that this is the ancient and primitive +wood,—the ever-youthful and venerably old,—verdant with new twigs, +yet hoary, as it were, with the snowfall of innumerable years, that have +accumulated upon its intermingled branches. The white man’s axe has never +smitten a single tree; his footstep has never crumpled a single one of the +withered leaves, which all the autumns since the flood have been harvesting +beneath. Yet, see! along through the vista of impending boughs, there is +already a faintly traced path, running nearly east and west, as if a prophecy +or foreboding of the future street had stolen into the heart of the solemn old +wood. Onward goes this hardly perceptible track, now ascending over a natural +swell of land, now subsiding gently into a hollow; traversed here by a little +streamlet, which glitters like a snake through the gleam of sunshine, and +quickly hides itself among the underbrush, in its quest for the neighboring +cove; and impeded there by the massy corpse of a giant of the forest, which had +lived out its incalculable term of life, and been overthrown by mere old age, +and lies buried in the new vegetation that is born of its decay. What footsteps +can have worn this half-seen path? Hark! Do we not hear them now rustling +softly over the leaves? We discern an Indian woman,—a majestic and +queenly woman, or else her spectral image does not represent her +truly,—for this is the great Squaw Sachem, whose rule, with that of her +sons, extends from Mystic to Agawam. That red chief, who stalks by her side, is +Wappacowet, her second husband, the priest and magician, whose incantations +shall hereafter affright the pale-faced settlers with grisly phantoms, dancing +and shrieking in the woods, at midnight. But greater would be the affright of +the Indian necromancer, if, mirrored in the pool of water at his feet, he could +catch a prophetic glimpse of the noonday marvels which the white man is +destined to achieve; if he could see, as in a dream, the stone front of the +stately hall, which will cast its shadow over this very spot; if he could be +aware that the future edifice will contain a noble Museum, where, among +countless curiosities of earth and sea, a few Indian arrow-heads shall be +treasured up as memorials of a vanished race! +</p> + +<p> +No such forebodings disturb the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet. They pass on, +beneath the tangled shade, holding high talk on matters of state and religion, +and imagine, doubtless, that their own system of affairs will endure forever. +Meanwhile, how full of its own proper life is the scene that lies around them! +The gray squirrel runs up the trees, and rustles among the upper branches. Was +not that the leap of a deer? And there is the whirr of a partridge! Methinks, +too, I catch the cruel and stealthy eye of a wolf, as he draws back into yonder +impervious density of underbrush. So, there, amid the murmur of boughs, go the +Indian queen and the Indian priest; while the gloom of the broad wilderness +impends over them, and its sombre mystery invests them as with something +preternatural; and only momentary streaks of quivering sunlight, once in a +great while, find their way down, and glimmer among the feathers in their dusky +hair. Can it be that the thronged street of a city will ever pass into this +twilight solitude,—over those soft heaps of the decaying tree-trunks, and +through the swampy places, green with water-moss, and penetrate that hopeless +entanglement of great trees, which have been uprooted and tossed together by a +whirlwind? It has been a wilderness from the creation. Must it not be a +wilderness forever? +</p> + +<p> +Here an acidulous-looking gentleman in blue glasses, with bows of Berlin steel, +who has taken a seat at the extremity of the front row, begins, at this early +stage of the exhibition, to criticise. +</p> + +<p> +“The whole affair is a manifest catchpenny!” observes he, scarcely +under his breath. “The trees look more like weeds in a garden than a +primitive forest; the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet are stiff in their pasteboard +joints; and the squirrels, the deer, and the wolf move with all the grace of a +child’s wooden monkey, sliding up and down a stick.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to you, sir, for the candor of your remarks,” replies +the showman, with a bow. “Perhaps they are just. Human art has its +limits, and we must now and then ask a little aid from the spectator’s +imagination.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will get no such aid from mine,” responds the critic. “I +make it a point to see things precisely as they are. But come! go ahead! the +stage is waiting!” +</p> + +<p> +The showman proceeds. +</p> + +<p> +Casting our eyes again over the scene, we perceive that strangers have found +their way into the solitary place. In more than one spot, among the trees, an +upheaved axe is glittering in the sunshine. Roger Conant, the first settler in +Naumkeag, has built his dwelling, months ago, on the border of the forest-path; +and at this moment he comes eastward through the vista of woods, with his gun +over his shoulder, bringing home the choice portions of a deer. His stalwart +figure, clad in a leathern jerkin and breeches of the same, strides sturdily +onward, with such an air of physical force and energy that we might almost +expect the very trees to stand aside, and give him room to pass. And so, +indeed, they must; for, humble as is his name in history, Roger Conant still is +of that class of men who do not merely find, but make, their place in the +system of human affairs; a man of thoughtful strength, he has planted the germ +of a city. There stands his habitation, showing in its rough architecture some +features of the Indian wigwam, and some of the log-cabin, and somewhat, too, of +the straw-thatched cottage in Old England, where this good yeoman had his birth +and breeding. The dwelling is surrounded by a cleared space of a few acres, +where Indian corn grows thrivingly among the stumps of the trees; while the +dark forest hems it in, and scenes to gaze silently and solemnly, as if +wondering at the breadth of sunshine which the white man spreads around him. An +Indian, half hidden in the dusky shade, is gazing and wondering too. +</p> + +<p> +Within the door of the cottage you discern the wife, with her ruddy English +cheek. She is singing, doubtless, a psalm tune, at her household work; or, +perhaps she sighs at the remembrance of the cheerful gossip, and all the merry +social life, of her native village beyond the vast and melancholy sea. Yet the +next moment she laughs, with sympathetic glee, at the sports of her little +tribe of children; and soon turns round, with the home-look in her face, as her +husband’s foot is heard approaching the rough-hewn threshold. How sweet +must it be for those who have an Eden in their hearts, like Roger Conant and +his wife, to find a new world to project it into, as they have, instead of +dwelling among old haunts of men, where so many household fires have been +kindled and burnt out, that the very glow of happiness has something dreary in +it! Not that this pair are alone in their wild Eden, for here comes Goodwife +Massey, the young spouse of Jeffrey Massey, from her home hard by, with an +infant at her breast. Dame Conant has another of like age; and it shall +hereafter be one of the disputed points of history which of these two babies +was the first town-born child. +</p> + +<p> +But see! Roger Conant has other neighbors within view. Peter Palfrey likewise +has built himself a house, and so has Balch, and Norman, and Woodbury. Their +dwellings, indeed,—such is the ingenious contrivance of this piece of +pictorial mechanism,—seem to have arisen, at various points of the scene, +even while we have been looking at it. The forest-track, trodden more and more +by the hobnailed shoes of these sturdy and ponderous Englishmen, has now a +distinctness which it never could have acquired from the light tread of a +hundred times as many Indian moccasins. It will be a street, anon! As we +observe it now, it goes onward from one clearing to another, here plunging into +a shadowy strip of woods, there open to the sunshine, but everywhere showing a +decided line, along which human interests have begun to hold their career. Over +yonder swampy spot, two trees have been felled, and laid side by side to make a +causeway. In another place, the axe has cleared away a confused intricacy of +fallen trees and clustered boughs, which had been tossed together by a +hurricane. So now the little children, just beginning to run alone, may trip +along the path, and not often stumble over an impediment, unless they stray +from it to gather wood-berries beneath the trees. And, besides the feet of +grown people and children, there are the cloven hoofs of a small herd of cows, +who seek their subsistence from the native grasses, and help to deepen the +track of the future thoroughfare. Goats also browse along it, and nibble at the +twigs that thrust themselves across the way. Not seldom, in its more secluded +portions, where the black shadow of the forest strives to hide the trace of +human-footsteps, stalks a gaunt wolf, on the watch for a kid or a young calf; +or fixes his hungry gaze on the group of children gathering berries, and can +hardly forbear to rush upon them. And the Indians, coming from their distant +wigwams to view the white man’s settlement, marvel at the deep track +which he makes, and perhaps are saddened by a flitting presentiment that this +heavy tread will find its way over all the land; and that the wild-woods, the +wild wolf, and the wild Indian will alike be trampled beneath it. Even so shall +it be. The pavements of the Main Street must be laid over the red man’s +grave. +</p> + +<p> +Behold! here is a spectacle which should be ushered in by the peal of trumpets, +if Naumkeag had ever yet heard that cheery music, and by the roar of cannon, +echoing among the woods. A procession,—for, by its dignity, as marking an +epoch in the history of the street, it deserves that name,—a procession +advances along the pathway. The good ship Abigail has arrived from England, +bringing wares and merchandise, for the comfort of the inhabitants, and traffic +with the Indians; bringing passengers too, and, more important than all, a +governor for the new settlement. Roger Conant and Peter Palfrey, with their +companions, have been to the shore to welcome him; and now, with such honor and +triumph as their rude way of life permits, are escorting the sea-flushed +voyagers to their habitations. At the point where Endicott enters upon the +scene, two venerable trees unite their branches high above his head; thus +forming a triumphal arch of living verdure, beneath which he pauses, with his +wife leaning on his arm, to catch the first impression of their new-found home. +The old settlers gaze not less earnestly at him, than he at the hoary woods and +the rough surface of the clearings. They like his bearded face, under the +shadow of the broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned Puritan hat;—a visage +resolute, grave, and thoughtful, yet apt to kindle with that glow of a cheerful +spirit by which men of strong character are enabled to go joyfully on their +proper tasks. His form, too, as you see it, in a doublet and hose of +sad-colored cloth, is of a manly make, fit for toil and hardship, and fit to +wield the heavy sword that hangs from his leathern belt. His aspect is a better +warrant for the ruler’s office than the parchment commission which he +bears, however fortified it may be with the broad seal of the London council. +Peter Palfrey nods to Roger Conant. “The worshipful Court of Assistants +have done wisely,” say they between themselves. “They have chosen +for our governor a man out of a thousand.” Then they toss up their +hats,—they, and all the uncouth figures of their company, most of whom +are clad in skins, inasmuch as their old kersey and linsey-woolsey garments +have been torn and tattered by many a long month’s wear,—they all +toss up their hats, and salute their new governor and captain with a hearty +English shout of welcome. We seem to hear it with our own ears, so perfectly is +the action represented in this life-like, this almost magic picture! +</p> + +<p> +But have you observed the lady who leans upon the arm of Endicott?—-a +rose of beauty from an English garden, now to be transplanted to a fresher +soil. It may be that, long years—centuries indeed—after this fair +flower shall have decayed, other flowers of the same race will appear in the +same soil, and gladden other generations with hereditary beauty. Does not the +vision haunt us yet? Has not Nature kept the mould unbroken, deeming it a pity +that the idea should vanish from mortal sight forever, after only once assuming +earthly substance? Do we not recognize, in that fair woman’s face, a +model of features which still beam, at happy moments, on what was then the +woodland pathway, but has long since grown into a busy street? +</p> + +<p> +“This is too ridiculous!—positively insufferable!” mutters +the same critic who had before expressed his disapprobation. “Here is a +pasteboard figure, such as a child would cut out of a card, with a pair of very +dull scissors; and the fellow modestly requests us to see in it the prototype +of hereditary beauty!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sir, you have not the proper point of view,” remarks the +showman. “You sit altogether too near to get the best effect of my +pictorial exhibition. Pray, oblige me by removing to this other bench, and I +venture to assure you the proper light and shadow will transform the spectacle +into quite another thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw!” replies the critic; “I want no other light and +shade. I have already told you that it is my business to see things just as +they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would suggest to the author of this ingenious exhibition,” +observes a gentlemanly person, who has shown signs of being much +interested,—“I would suggest that Anna Gower, the first wife of +Governor Endicott, and who came with him from England, left no posterity; and +that, consequently, we cannot be indebted to that honorable lady for any +specimens of feminine loveliness now extant among us.” +</p> + +<p> +Having nothing to allege against this genealogical objection, the showman +points again to the scene. +</p> + +<p> +During this little interruption, you perceive that the Anglo-Saxon +energy—as the phrase now goes—has been at work in the spectacle +before us. So many chimneys now send up their smoke, that it begins to have the +aspect of a village street; although everything is so inartificial and +inceptive, that it seems as if one returning wave of the wild nature might +overwhelm it all. But the one edifice which gives the pledge of permanence to +this bold enterprise is seen at the central point of the picture. There stands +the meeting-house, a small structure, low-roofed, without a spire, and built of +rough timber, newly hewn, with the sap still in the logs, and here and there a +strip of bark adhering to them. A meaner temple was never consecrated to the +worship of the Deity. With the alternative of kneeling beneath the awful vault +of the firmament, it is strange that men should creep into this pent-up nook, +and expect God’s presence there. Such, at least, one would imagine, might +be the feeling of these forest-settlers, accustomed, as they had been, to stand +under the dim arches of vast cathedrals, and to offer up their hereditary +worship in the old ivy-covered churches of rural England, around which lay the +bones of many generations of their forefathers. How could they dispense with +the carved altar-work?—how, with the pictured windows, where the light of +common day was hallowed by being transmitted through the glorified figures of +saints?—how, with the lofty roof, imbued, as it must have been, with the +prayers that had gone upward for centuries?—how, with the rich peal of +the solemn organ, rolling along the aisles, pervading the whole church, and +sweeping the soul away on a flood of audible religion? They needed nothing of +all this. Their house of worship, like their ceremonial, was naked, simple, and +severe. But the zeal of a recovered faith burned like a lamp within their +hearts, enriching everything around them with its radiance; making of these new +walls, and this narrow compass, its own cathedral; and being, in itself, that +spiritual mystery and experience, of which sacred architecture, pictured +windows, and the organ’s grand solemnity are remote and imperfect +symbols. All was well, so long as their lamps were freshly kindled at heavenly +flame. After a while, however, whether in their time or their children’s, +these lamps began to burn more dimly, or with a less genuine lustre; and then +it might be seen how hard, cold, and confined was their system,—how like +an iron cage was that which they called Liberty. +</p> + +<p> +Too much of this. Look again at the picture, and observe how the aforesaid +Anglo-Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, and raising a positive +cloud of dust beneath its sturdy footsteps. For there the carpenters are +building a new house, the frame of which was hewn and fitted in England, of +English oak, and sent hither on shipboard; and here a blacksmith makes huge +slang and clatter on his anvil, shaping out tools and weapons; and yonder a +wheelwright, who boasts himself a London workman, regularly bred to his +handicraft, is fashioning a set of wagon-wheels, the track of which shall soon +be visible. The wild forest is shrinking back; the street has lost the aromatic +odor of the pine-trees, and of the sweet-fern that grew beneath them. The +tender and modest wild-flowers, those gentle children of savage nature that +grew pale beneath the ever-brooding shade, have shrank away and disappeared, +like stars that vanish in the breadth of light. Gardens are fenced in, and +display pumpkin-beds and rows of cabbages and beans; and, though the governor +and the minister both view them with a disapproving eye, plants of broad-leaved +tobacco, which the cultivators are enjoined to use privily, or not at all. No +wolf, for a year past, has been heard to bark, or known to range among the +dwellings, except that single one, whose grisly head, with a plash of blood +beneath it, is now affixed to the portal of the meeting-house. The partridge +has ceased to run across the too-frequented path. Of all the wild life that +used to throng here, only the Indians still come into the settlement, bringing +the skins of beaver and otter, bear and elk, which they sell to Endicott for +the wares of England. And there is little John Massey, the son of Jeffrey +Massey and first-born of Naumkeag, playing beside his father’s threshold, +a child of six or seven years old. Which is the better-grown infant,—the +town or the boy? +</p> + +<p> +The red men have become aware that the street is no longer free to them, save +by the sufferance and permission of the settlers. Often, to impress them with +an awe of English power, there is a muster and training of the town-forces, and +a stately march of the mail-clad band, like this which we now see advancing up +the street. There they come, fifty of them, or more; all with their iron +breastplates and steel caps well burnished, and glimmering bravely against the +sun; their ponderous muskets on their shoulders, their bandaliers about their +waists, their lighted matches in their hands, and the drum and fife playing +cheerily before them. See! do they not step like martial men? Do they not +manœuvre like soldiers who have seen stricken fields? And well they may; for +this band is composed of precisely such materials as those with which Cromwell +is preparing to beat down the strength of a kingdom; and his famous regiment of +Ironsides might be recruited from just such men. In everything, at this period, +New England was the essential spirit and flower of that which was about to +become uppermost in the mother-country. Many a bold and wise man lost the fame +which would have accrued to him in English history, by crossing the Atlantic +with our forefathers. Many a valiant captain, who might have been foremost at +Marston Moor or Naseby, exhausted his martial ardor in the command of a +log-built fortress, like that which you observe on the gently rising ground at +the right of the pathway,—its banner fluttering in the breeze, and the +culverins and sakers showing their deadly muzzles over the rampart. +</p> + +<p> +A multitude of people were now thronging to New England: some, because the +ancient and ponderous framework of Church and State threatened to crumble down +upon their heads; others, because they despaired of such a downfall. Among +those who came to Naumkeag were men of history and legend, whose feet leave a +track of brightness along any pathway which they have trodden. You shall behold +their life-like images—their spectres, if you choose so to call +them—passing, encountering with a familiar nod, stopping to converse +together, praying, bearing weapons, laboring or resting from their labors, in +the Main Street. Here, now, comes Hugh Peters, an earnest, restless man, +walking swiftly, as being impelled by that fiery activity of nature which shall +hereafter thrust him into the conflict of dangerous affairs, make him the +chaplain and counsellor of Cromwell, and finally bring him to a bloody end. He +pauses, by the meetinghouse, to exchange a greeting with Roger Williams, whose +face indicates, methinks, a gentler spirit, kinder and more expansive, than +that of Peters; yet not less active for what he discerns to be the will of God, +or the welfare of mankind. And look! here is a guest for Endicott, coming forth +out of the forest, through which he has been journeying from Boston, and which, +with its rude branches, has caught hold of his attire, and has wet his feet +with its swamps and streams. Still there is something in his mild and +venerable, though not aged presence—a propriety, an equilibrium, in +Governor Winthrop’s nature—that causes the disarray of his costume +to be unnoticed, and gives us the same impression as if he were clad in such +rave and rich attire as we may suppose him to have worn in the Council Chamber +of the colony. Is not this characteristic wonderfully perceptible in our +spectral representative of his person? But what dignitary is this crossing from +the other side to greet the governor? A stately personage, in a dark velvet +cloak, with a hoary beard, and a gold chain across his breast; he has the +authoritative port of one who has filled the highest civic station in the first +of cities. Of all men in the world, we should least expect to meet the Lord +Mayor of London—as Sir Richard Saltonstall has been, once and +again—in a forest-bordered settlement of the western wilderness. +</p> + +<p> +Farther down the street, we see Emanuel Downing, a grave and worthy citizen, +with his son George, a stripling who has a career before him; his shrewd and +quick capacity and pliant conscience shall not only exalt him high, but secure +him from a downfall. Here is another figure, on whose characteristic make and +expressive action I will stake the credit of my pictorial puppet-show. +</p> + +<p> +Have you not already detected a quaint, sly humor in that face,—an +eccentricity in the manner,—a certain indescribable +waywardness,—all the marks, in short, of an original man, unmistakably +impressed, yet kept down by a sense of clerical restraint? That is Nathaniel +Ward, the minister of Ipswich, but better remembered as the simple cobbler of +Agawam. He hammered his sole so faithfully, and stitched his upper-leather so +well, that the shoe is hardly yet worn out, though thrown aside for some two +centuries past. And next, among these Puritans and Roundheads, we observe the +very model of a Cavalier, with the curling lovelock, the fantastically trimmed +beard, the embroidery, the ornamented rapier, the gilded dagger, and all other +foppishnesses that distinguished the wild gallants who rode headlong to their +overthrow in the cause of King Charles. This is Morton of Merry Mount, who has +come hither to hold a council with Endicott, but will shortly be his prisoner. +Yonder pale, decaying figure of a white-robed woman, who glides slowly along +the street, is the Lady Arabella, looking for her own grave in the virgin soil. +That other female form, who seems to be talking—we might almost say +preaching or expounding—in the centre of a group of profoundly attentive +auditors, is Ann Hutchinson. And here comes Vane— +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear sir,” interrupts the same gentleman who before +questioned the showman’s genealogical accuracy, “allow me to +observe that these historical personages could not possibly have met together +in the Main Street. They might, and probably did, all visit our old town, at +one time or another, but not simultaneously; and you have fallen into +anachronisms that I positively shudder to think of!” +</p> + +<p> +“The fellow,” adds the scarcely civil critic, “has learned a +bead-roll of historic names, whom he lugs into his pictorial puppet-show, as he +calls it, helter-skelter, without caring whether they were contemporaries or +not,—and sets them all by the ears together. But was there ever such a +fund of impudence? To hear his running commentary, you would suppose that these +miserable slips of painted pasteboard, with hardly the remotest outlines of the +human figure, had all the character and expression of Michael Angelo’s +pictures. Well! go on, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, you break the illusion of the scene,” mildly remonstrates the +showman. +</p> + +<p> +“Illusion! What illusion?” rejoins the critic, with a contemptuous +snort. “On the word of a gentleman, I see nothing illusive in the +wretchedly bedaubed sheet of canvas that forms your background, or in these +pasteboard slips that hitch and jerk along the front. The only illusion, permit +me to say, is in the puppet-showman’s tongue,—and that but a +wretched one, into the bargain!” +</p> + +<p> +“We public men,” replies the showman, meekly, “must lay our +account, sometimes, to meet an uncandid severity of criticism. But—merely +for your own pleasure, sir—let me entreat you to take another point of +view. Sit farther back, by that young lady, in whose face I have watched the +reflection of every changing scene; only oblige me by sitting there; and, take +my word for it, the slips of pasteboard shall assume spiritual life, and the +bedaubed canvas become an airy and changeable reflex of what it purports to +represent.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know better,” retorts the critic, settling himself in his seat, +with sullen but self-complacent immovableness. “And, as for my own +pleasure, I shall best consult it by remaining precisely where I am.” +</p> + +<p> +The showman bows, and waves his hand; and, at the signal, as if time and +vicissitude had been awaiting his permission to move onward, the mimic street +becomes alive again. +</p> + +<p> +Years have rolled over our scene, and converted the forest-track into a dusty +thoroughfare, which, being intersected with lanes and cross-paths, may fairly +be designated as the Main Street. On the ground-sites of many of the log-built +sheds, into which the first settlers crept for shelter, houses of quaint +architecture have now risen. These later edifices are built, as you see, in one +generally accordant style, though with such subordinate variety as keeps the +beholder’s curiosity excited, and causes each structure, like its +owner’s character, to produce its own peculiar impression. Most of them +have a huge chimney in the centre, with flues so vast that it must have been +easy for the witches to fly out of them as they were wont to do, when bound on +an aerial visit to the Black Man in the forest. Around this great chimney the +wooden house clusters itself, in a whole community of gable-ends, each +ascending into its own separate peak; the second story, with its +lattice-windows, projecting over the first; and the door, which is perhaps +arched, provided on the outside with an iron hammer, wherewith the +visitor’s hand may give a thundering rat-a-tat. +</p> + +<p> +The timber framework of these houses, as compared with those of recent date, is +like the skeleton of an old giant, beside the frail bones of a modern man of +fashion. Many of them, by the vast strength and soundness of their oaken +substance, have been preserved through a length of time which would have tried +the stability of brick and stone; so that, in all the progressive decay and +continual reconstruction of the street, down to our own days, we shall still +behold these old edifices occupying their long-accustomed sites. For instance, +on the upper corner of that green lane which shall hereafter be North Street, +we see the Curwen House, newly built, with the carpenters still at work on the +roof nailing down the last sheaf of shingles. On the lower corner stands +another dwelling,—destined, at some period of its existence, to be the +abode of an unsuccessful alchemist,—which shall likewise survive to our +own generation, and perhaps long outlive it. Thus, through the medium of these +patriarchal edifices, we have now established a sort of kindred and hereditary +acquaintance with the Main Street. +</p> + +<p> +Great as is the transformation produced by a short term of years, each single +day creeps through the Puritan settlement sluggishly enough. It shall pass +before your eyes, condensed into the space of a few moments. The gray light of +early morning is slowly diffusing itself over the scene; and the bellman, whose +office it is to cry the hour at the street-corners, rings the last peal upon +his hand bell, and goes wearily homewards, with the owls, the bats, and other +creatures of the night. Lattices are thrust back on their hinges, as if the +town were opening its eyes, in the summer morning. Forth stumbles the still +drowsy cowherd, with his horn; putting which to his lips, it emits a bellowing +bray, impossible to be represented in the picture, but which reaches the +pricked-up ears of every cow in the settlement, and tells her that the dewy +pasture-hour is come. House after house awakes, and sends the smoke up curling +from its chimney, like frosty breath from living nostrils; and as those white +wreaths of smoke, though impregnated with earthy admixtures, climb skyward, so, +from each dwelling, does the morning worship—its spiritual essence, +bearing up its human imperfection—find its way to the heavenly +Father’s throne. +</p> + +<p> +The breakfast-hour being passed, the inhabitants do not, as usual, go to their +fields or workshops, but remain within doors; or perhaps walk the street, with +a grave sobriety, yet a disengaged and unburdened aspect, that belongs neither +to a holiday nor a Sabbath. And, indeed, this passing day is neither, nor is it +a common week-day, although partaking of all the three. It is the Thursday +Lecture; an institution which New England has long ago relinquished, and almost +forgotten, yet which it would have been better to retain, as bearing relations +to both the spiritual and ordinary life, and bringing each acquainted with the +other. The tokens of its observance, however, which here meet our eyes, are of +rather a questionable cast. It is, in one sense, a day of public shame; the day +on which transgressors, who have made themselves liable to the minor severities +of the Puritan law receive their reward of ignominy. At this very moment, this +constable has bound an idle fellow to the whipping-post, and is giving him his +deserts with a cat-o’-nine tails. Ever since sunrise, Daniel Fairfield +has been standing on the steps of the meeting-house, with a halter about his +neck, which he is condemned to wear visibly throughout his lifetime; Dorothy +Talby is chained to a post at the corner of Prison Lane, with the hot sun +blazing on her matronly face, and all for no other offence than lifting her +hand against her husband; while, through the bars of that great wooden cage, in +the centre of the scene, we discern either a human being or a wild beast, or +both in one, whom this public infamy causes to roar, and gnash his teeth, and +shake the strong oaken bars, as if he would break forth, and tear in pieces the +little children who have been peeping at him. Such are the profitable sights +that serve the good people to while away the earlier part of lecture-day. +Betimes in the forenoon, a traveller—the first traveller that has come +hitherward this morning—rides slowly into the street on his patient +steed. He seems a clergyman; and, as he draws near, we recognize the minister +of Lynn, who was pre-engaged to lecture here, and has been revolving his +discourse, as he rode through the hoary wilderness. Behold, now, the whole town +thronging into the meeting-house, mostly with such sombre visages that the +sunshine becomes little better than a shadow when it falls upon them. There go +the Thirteen Men, grim rulers of a grim community! There goes John Massey, the +first town-born child, now a youth of twenty, whose eye wanders with peculiar +interest towards that buxom damsel who comes up the steps at the same instant. +There hobbles Goody Foster, a sour and bitter old beldam, looking as if she +went to curse, and not to pray, and whom many of her neighbors suspect of +taking an occasional airing on a broomstick. There, too, slinking shamefacedly +in, you observe that same poor do-nothing and good-for-nothing whom we saw +castigated just now at the whipping-post. Last of all, there goes the +tithing-man, lugging in a couple of small boys, whom he has caught at play +beneath God’s blessed sunshine, in a back lane. What native of Naumkeag, +whose recollections go back more than thirty years, does not still shudder at +that dark ogre of his infancy, who perhaps had long ceased to have an actual +existence, but still lived in his childish belief, in a horrible idea, and in +the nurse’s threat, as the Tidy Man! +</p> + +<p> +It will be hardly worth our while to wait two, or it may be three, turnings of +the hour-glass, for the conclusion of the lecture. Therefore, by my control +over light and darkness, I cause the dusk, and then the starless night, to +brood over the street; and summon forth again the bellman, with his lantern +casting a gleam about his footsteps, to pace wearily from corner to corner, and +shout drowsily the hour to drowsy or dreaming ears. Happy are we, if for +nothing else, yet because we did not live in those days. In truth, when the +first novelty and stir of spirit had subsided,—when the new settlement, +between the forest-border and the sea, had become actually a little +town,—its daily life must have trudged onward with hardly anything to +diversify and enliven it, while also its rigidity could not fail to cause +miserable distortions of the moral nature. Such a life was sinister to the +intellect, and sinister to the heart; especially when one generation had +bequeathed its religious gloom, and the counterfeit of its religious ardor, to +the next; for these characteristics, as was inevitable, assumed the form both +of hypocrisy and exaggeration, by being inherited from the example and precept +of other human beings, and not from an original and spiritual source. The sons +and grandchildren of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower souls +than their progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant, but +not superstitious, not even fanatical; and endowed, if any men of that age +were, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it was impossible for the +succeeding race to grow up, in heaven’s freedom, beneath the discipline +which their gloomy energy of character had established; nor, it may be, have we +even yet thrown off all the unfavorable influences which, among many good ones, +were bequeathed to us by our Puritan forefathers. Let us thank God for having +given us such ancestors; and let each successive generation thank him, not less +fervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages. +</p> + +<p> +“What is all this?” cries the critic. “A sermon? If so, it is +not in the bill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true,” replies the showman; “and I ask pardon of the +audience.” +</p> + +<p> +Look now at the street, and observe a strange people entering it. Their +garments are torn and disordered, their faces haggard, their figures emaciated; +for they have made their way hither through pathless deserts, suffering hunger +and hardship, with no other shelter thin a hollow tree, the lair of a wild +beast, or an Indian wigwam. Nor, in the most inhospitable and dangerous of such +lodging-places, was there half the peril that awaits them in this thoroughfare +of Christian men, with those secure dwellings and warm hearths on either side +of it, and yonder meeting-house as the central object of the scene. These +wanderers have received from Heaven a gift that, in all epochs of the world, +has brought with it the penalties of mortal suffering and persecution, scorn, +enmity, and death itself;—a gift that, thus terrible to its possessors, +has ever been most hateful to all other men, since its very existence seems to +threaten the overthrow of whatever else the toilsome ages have built +up;—the gift of a new idea. You can discern it in them, illuminating +their faces—their whole persons, indeed, however earthly and +cloddish—with a light that inevitably shines through, and makes the +startled community aware that these men are not as they themselves +are,—not brethren nor neighbors of their thought. Forthwith, it is as if +an earthquake rumbled through the town, making its vibrations felt at every +hearthstone, and especially causing the spire of the meeting-house to totter. +The Quakers have come. We are in peril! See! they trample upon our wise and +well-established laws in the person of our chief magistrate; for Governor +Endicott is passing, now an aged man, and dignified with long habits of +authority,—and not one of the irreverent vagabonds has moved his hat. Did +you note the ominous frown of the white-bearded Puritan governor, as he turned +himself about, and, in his anger, half uplifted the staff that has become a +needful support to his old age? Here comes old Mr. Norris, our venerable +minister. Will they doff their hats, and pay reverence to him? No: their hats +stick fast to their ungracious heads, as if they grew there; and—impious +varlets that they are, and worse than the heathen Indians!—they eye our +reverend pastor with a peculiar scorn, distrust, unbelief, and utter denial of +his sanctified pretensions, of which he himself immediately becomes conscious; +the more bitterly conscious, as he never knew nor dreamed of the like before. +</p> + +<p> +But look yonder! Can we believe our eyes? A Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth, +and with ashes on her head, has mounted the steps of the meeting-house. She +addresses the people in a wild, shrill voice,—wild and shrill it must be +to suit such a figure,—which makes them tremble and turn pale, although +they crowd open-mouthed to hear her. She is bold against established authority; +she denounces the priest and his steeple-house. Many of her hearers are +appalled; some weep; and others listen with a rapt attention, as if a living +truth had now, for the first time, forced its way through the crust of habit, +reached their hearts, and awakened them to life. This matter must be looked to; +else we have brought our faith across the seas with us in vain; and it had been +better that the old forest were still standing here, waving its tangled boughs +and murmuring to the sky out of its desolate recesses, instead of this goodly +street, if such blasphemies be spoken in it. +</p> + +<p> +So thought the old Puritans. What was their mode of action may be partly judged +from the spectacles which now pass before your eyes. Joshua Buffum is standing +in the pillory. Cassandra Southwick is led to prison. And there a woman, it is +Ann Coleman,—naked from the waist upward, and bound to the tail of a +cart, is dragged through the Main Street at the pace of a brisk walk, while the +constable follows with a whip of knotted cords. A strong-armed fellow is that +constable; and each time that he flourishes his lash in the air, you see a +frown wrinkling and twisting his brow, and, at the same instant, a smile upon +his lips. He loves his business, faithful officer that he is, and puts his soul +into every stroke, zealous to fulfil the injunction of Major Hawthorne’s +warrant, in the spirit and to the letter. There came down a stroke that has +drawn blood! Ten such stripes are to be given in Salem, ten in Boston, and ten +in Dedham; and, with those thirty stripes of blood upon her, she is to be +driven into the forest. The crimson trail goes wavering along the Main Street; +but Heaven grant that, as the rain of so many years has wept upon it, time +after time, and washed it all away, so there may have been a dew of mercy, to +cleanse this cruel blood-stain out of the record of the persecutor’s +life! +</p> + +<p> +Pass on, thou spectral constable, and betake thee to thine own place of +torment. Meanwhile, by the silent operation of the mechanism behind the scenes, +a considerable space of time would seem to have lapsed over the street. The +older dwellings now begin to look weather-beaten, through the effect of the +many eastern storms that have moistened their unpainted shingles and +clapboards, for not less than forty years. Such is the age we would assign to +the town, judging by the aspect of John Massey, the first town-born child, whom +his neighbors now call Goodman Massey, and whom we see yonder, a grave, almost +autumnal-looking man, with children of his own about him. To the patriarchs of +the settlement, no doubt, the Main Street is still but an affair of yesterday, +hardly more antique, even if destined to be more permanent, than a path +shovelled through the snow. But to the middle-aged and elderly men who came +hither in childhood or early youth, it presents the aspect of a long and +well-established work, on which they have expended the strength and ardor of +their life. And the younger people, native to the street, whose earliest +recollections are of creeping over the paternal threshold, and rolling on the +grassy margin of the track, look at it as one of the perdurable things of our +mortal state,—as old as the hills of the great pasture, or the headland +at the harbor’s mouth. Their fathers and grandsires tell them how, within +a few years past, the forest stood here, with but a lonely track beneath its +tangled shade. Vain legend! They cannot make it true and real to their +conceptions. With them, moreover, the Main Street is a street indeed, worthy to +hold its way with the thronged and stately avenues of cities beyond the sea. +The old Puritans tell them of the crowds that hurry along Cheapside and Fleet +Street and the Strand, and of the rush of tumultuous life at Temple Bar. They +describe London Bridge, itself a street, with a row of houses on each side. +They speak of the vast structure of the Tower, and the solemn grandeur of +Westminster Abbey. The children listen, and still inquire if the streets of +London are longer and broader than the one before their father’s door; if +the Tower is bigger than the jail in Prison Lane; if the old Abbey will hold a +larger congregation than our meeting-house. Nothing impresses them, except +their own experience. +</p> + +<p> +It seems all a fable, too, that wolves have ever prowled here; and not less so, +that the Squaw Sachem, and the Sagamore her son, once ruled over this region, +and treated as sovereign potentates with the English settlers, then so few and +storm-beaten, now so powerful. There stand some school-boys, you observe, in a +little group around a drunken Indian, himself a prince of the Squaw +Sachem’s lineage. He brought hither some beaver-skins for sale, and has +already swallowed the larger portion of their price, in deadly draughts of +firewater. Is there not a touch of pathos in that picture? and does it not go +far towards telling the whole story of the vast growth and prosperity of one +race, and the fated decay of another?—the children of the stranger making +game of the great Squaw Sachem’s grandson! +</p> + +<p> +But the whole race of red men have not vanished with that wild princess and her +posterity. This march of soldiers along the street betokens the breaking out of +King Philip’s war; and these young men, the flower of Essex, are on their +way to defend the villages on the Connecticut; where, at Bloody Brook, a +terrible blow shall be smitten, and hardly one of that gallant band be left +alive. And there, at that stately mansion, with its three peaks in front, and +its two little peaked towers, one on either side of the door, we see brave +Captain Gardner issuing forth, clad in his embroidered buff-coat, and his +plumed cap upon his head. His trusty sword, in its steel scabbard, strikes +clanking on the doorstep. See how the people throng to their doors and windows, +as the cavalier rides past, reining his mettled steed so gallantly, and looking +so like the very soul and emblem of martial achievement,—destined, too, +to meet a warrior’s fate, at the desperate assault on the fortress of the +Narragansetts! +</p> + +<p> +“The mettled steed looks like a pig,” interrupts the critic, +“and Captain Gardner himself like the Devil, though a very tame one, and +on a most diminutive scale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, sir!” cries the persecuted showman, losing all +patience,—for, indeed, he had particularly prided himself on these +figures of Captain Gardner and his horse,—“I see that there is no +hope of pleasing you. Pray, sir, do me the favor to take back your money, and +withdraw!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I!” answers the unconscionable critic. “I am just +beginning to get interested in the matter. Come! turn your crank, and grind out +a few more of these fooleries!” +</p> + +<p> +The showman rubs his brow impulsively, whisks the little rod with which he +points out the notabilities of the scene, but, finally, with the inevitable +acquiescence of all public servants, resumes his composure and goes on. +</p> + +<p> +Pass onward, onward, Time! Build up new houses here, and tear down thy works of +yesterday, that have already the rusty moss upon them! Summon forth the +minister to the abode of the young maiden, and bid him unite her to the joyful +bridegroom! Let the youthful parents carry their first-born to the +meeting-house, to receive the baptismal rite! Knock at the door, whence the +sable line of the funeral is next to issue! Provide other successive +generations of men, to trade, talk, quarrel, or walk in friendly intercourse +along the street, as their fathers did before them! Do all thy daily and +accustomed business, Father Time, in this thoroughfare, which thy footsteps, +for so many years, have now made dusty! But here, at last, thou leadest along a +procession which, once witnessed, shall appear no more, and be remembered only +as a hideous dream of thine, or a frenzy of thy old brain. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn your crank, I say,” bellows the remorseless critic, +“and grind it out, whatever it be, without further preface!” +</p> + +<p> +The showman deems it best to comply. +</p> + +<p> +Then, here comes the worshipful Captain Curwen, sheriff of Essex, on horseback, +at the head of an armed guard, escorting a company of condemned prisoners from +the jail to their place of execution on Gallows Hill. The witches! There is no +mistaking them! The witches! As they approach up Prison Lane, and turn into the +Main Street, let us watch their faces, as if we made a part of the pale crowd +that presses so eagerly about them, yet shrinks back with such shuddering +dread, leaving an open passage betwixt a dense throng on either side. Listen to +what the people say. +</p> + +<p> +There is old George Jacobs, known hereabouts, these sixty years, as a man whom +we thought upright in all his way of life, quiet, blameless, a good husband +before his pious wife was summoned from the evil to come, and a good father to +the children whom she left him. Ah! but when that blessed woman went to heaven, +George Jacobs’s heart was empty, his hearth lonely, his life broken tip; +his children were married, and betook themselves to habitations of their own; +and Satan, in his wanderings up and down, beheld this forlorn old man, to whom +life was a sameness and a weariness, and found the way to tempt him. So the +miserable sinner was prevailed with to mount into the air, and career among the +clouds; and he is proved to have been present at a witch-meeting as far off as +Falmouth, on the very same night that his next neighbors saw him, with his +rheumatic stoop, going in at his own door. There is John Willard, too; an +honest man we thought him, and so shrewd and active in his business, so +practical, so intent on every-day affairs, so constant at his little place of +trade, where he bartered English goods for Indian corn and all kinds of country +produce! How could such a man find time, or what could put it into his mind, to +leave his proper calling, and become a wizard? It is a mystery, unless the +Black Man tempted him with great heaps of gold. See that aged couple,—a +sad sight, truly,—John Proctor, and his wife Elizabeth. If there were two +old people in all the county of Essex who seemed to have led a true Christian +life, and to be treading hopefully the little remnant of their earthly path, it +was this very pair. Yet have we heard it sworn, to the satisfaction of the +worshipful Chief-Justice Sewell, and all the court and jury, that Proctor and +his wife have shown their withered faces at children’s bedsides, mocking, +making mouths, and affrighting the poor little innocents in the night-time. +They, or their spectral appearances, have stuck pins into the Afflicted Ones, +and thrown them into deadly fainting-fits with a touch, or but a look. And, +while we supposed the old man to be reading the Bible to his old +wife,—she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner,—the pair of +hoary reprobates have whisked up the chimney, both on one broomstick, and flown +away to a witch-communion, far into the depths of the chill, dark forest. How +foolish! Were it only for fear of rheumatic pains in their old bones, they had +better have stayed at home. But away they went; and the laughter of their +decayed, cackling voices has been heard at midnight, aloft in the air. Now, in +the sunny noontide, as they go tottering to the gallows, it is the +Devil’s turn to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +Behind these two,—who help another along, and seem to be comforting and +encouraging each other, in a manner truly pitiful, if it were not a sin to pity +the old witch and wizard,—behind them comes a woman, with a dark proud +face that has been beautiful, and a figure that is still majestic. Do you know +her? It is Martha Carrier, whom the Devil found in a humble cottage, and looked +into her discontented heart, and saw pride there, and tempted her with his +promise that she should be Queen of Hell. And now, with that lofty demeanor, +she is passing to her kingdom, and, by her unquenchable pride, transforms this +escort of shame into a triumphal procession, that shall attend her to the gates +of her infernal palace, and seat her upon the fiery throne. Within this hour, +she shall assume her royal dignity. +</p> + +<p> +Last of the miserable train comes a man clad in black, of small stature and a +dark complexion, with a clerical band about his neck. Many a time, in the years +gone by, that face has been uplifted heavenward from the pulpit of the East +Meeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs seemed to worship God. +What!—he? The holy man!—the learned!—the wise! How has the +Devil tempted him? His fellow-criminals, for the most part, are obtuse, +uncultivated creatures, some of them scarcely half-witted by nature, and others +greatly decayed in their intellects through age. They were an easy prey for the +destroyer. Not so with this George Burroughs, as we judge by the inward light +which glows through his dark countenance, and, we might almost say, glorifies +his figure, in spite of the soil and haggardness of long imprisonment,—in +spite of the heavy shadow that must fall on him, while death is walking by his +side. What bribe could Satan offer, rich enough to tempt and overcome this +mail? Alas! it may have been in the very strength of his high and searching +intellect, that the Tempter found the weakness which betrayed him. He yearned +for knowledge he went groping onward into a world of mystery; at first, as the +witnesses have sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his two dead wives, and +talked with them of matters beyond the grave; and, when their responses failed +to satisfy the intense and sinful craving of his spirit, he called on Satan, +and was heard. Yet—to look at him—who, that had not known the +proof, could believe him guilty? Who would not say, while we see him offering +comfort to the weak and aged partners of his horrible crime,—while we +hear his ejaculations of prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the depths of +his heart, and fly heavenward, unawares,—while we behold a radiance +brightening on his features as from the other world, which is but a few steps +off,—who would not say, that, over the dusty track of the Main Street, a +Christian saint is now going to a martyr’s death? May not the Arch-Fiend +have been too subtle for the court and jury, and betrayed them—laughing +in his sleeve, the while—into the awful error of pouring out sanctified +blood as an acceptable sacrifice upon God’s altar? Ah! no; for listen to +wise Cotton Mather, who, as he sits there on his horse, speaks comfortably to +the perplexed multitude, and tells them that all has been religiously and +justly done, and that Satan’s power shall this day receive its death-blow +in New England. +</p> + +<p> +Heaven grant it be so!—the great scholar must be right; so lead the poor +creatures to their death! Do you see that group of children and half-grown +girls, and, among them, an old, hag-like Indian woman, Tituba by name? Those +are the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this very instant, a proof of Satan’s +power and malice! Mercy Parris, the minister’s daughter, has been smitten +by a flash of Martha Carrier’s eye, and falls down in the street, +writhing with horrible spasms and foaming at the mouth, like the possessed one +spoken of in Scripture. Hurry on the accursed witches to the gallows, ere they +do more mischief!—ere they fling out their withered arms, and scatter +pestilence by handfuls among the crowd!—ere, as their parting legacy, +they cast a blight over the land, so that henceforth it may bear no fruit nor +blade of grass, and be fit for nothing but a sepulchre for their unhallowed +carcasses! So, on they go; and old George Jacobs has stumbled, by reason of his +infirmity; but Goodman Proctor and his wife lean on one another, and walk at a +reasonably steady pace, considering their age. Mr. Burroughs seems to +administer counsel to Martha Carrier, whose face and mien, methinks, are milder +and humbler than they were. Among the multitude, meanwhile, there is horror, +fear, and distrust; and friend looks askance at friend, and the husband at his +wife, and the wife at him, and even the mother at her little child; as if, in +every creature that God has made, they suspected a witch, or dreaded an +accuser. Never, never again, whether in this or any other shape, may Universal +Madness riot in the Main Street! +</p> + +<p> +I perceive in your eyes, my indulgent spectators, the criticism which you are +too kind to utter. These scenes, you think, are all too sombre. So, indeed, +they are; but the blame must rest on the sombre spirit of our forefathers, who +wove their web of life with hardly a single thread of rose-color or gold, and +not on me, who have a tropic-love of sunshine, and would gladly gild all the +world with it, if I knew where to find so much. That you may believe me, I will +exhibit one of the only class of scenes, so far as my investigation has taught +me, in which our ancestors were wont to steep their tough old hearts in wine +and strong drink, and indulge an outbreak of grisly jollity. +</p> + +<p> +Here it comes, out of the same house whence we saw brave Captain Gardner go +forth to the wars. What! A coffin, borne on men’s shoulders, and six aged +gentlemen as pall-bearers, and a long train of mourners, with black gloves and +black hat-bands, and everything black, save a white handkerchief in each +mourner’s hand, to wipe away his tears withal. Now, my kind patrons, you +are angry with me. You were bidden to a bridal-dance, and find yourselves +walking in a funeral procession. Even so; but look back through all the social +customs of New England, in the first century of her existence, and read all her +traits of character; and if you find one occasion, other than a funeral feast, +where jollity was sanctioned by universal practice, I will set fire to my +puppet-show without another word. These are the obsequies of old Governor +Bradstreet, the patriarch and survivor of the first settlers, who, having +intermarried with the Widow Gardner, is now resting from his labors, at the +great age of ninety-four. The white-bearded corpse, which was his +spirit’s earthly garniture, now lies beneath yonder coffin-lid. Many a +cask of ale and cider is on tap, and many a draught of spiced wine and +aqua-vitæ has been quaffed. Else why should the bearers stagger, as they +tremulously uphold the coffin?—and the aged pall-bearers, too, as they +strive to walk solemnly beside it?—and wherefore do the mourners tread on +one another’s heels?—and why, if we may ask without offence, should +the nose of the Rev. Mr. Noyes, through which he has just been delivering the +funeral discourse, glow like a ruddy coal of fire? Well, well, old friends! +Pass on, with your burden of mortality, And lay it in the tomb with jolly +hearts. People should be permitted to enjoy themselves in their own fashion; +every man to his taste; but New England must have been a dismal abode for the +man of pleasure, when the only boon-companion was Death! +</p> + +<p> +Under cover of a mist that has settled over the scene, a few years flit by, and +escape our notice. As the atmosphere becomes transparent, we perceive a +decrepit grandsire, hobbling along the street. Do you recognize him? We saw +him, first, as the baby in Goodwife Massey’s arms, when the primeval +trees were flinging their shadow over Roger Conant’s cabin; we have seen +him, as the boy, the youth, the man, bearing his humble part in all the +successive scenes, and forming the index-figure whereby to note the age of his +coeval town. And here he is, old Goodman Massey, taking his last +walk,—often pausing,—often leaning over his staff,—and +calling to mind whose dwelling stood at such and such a spot, and whose field +or garden occupied the site of those more recent houses. He can render a reason +for all the bends and deviations of the thoroughfare, which, in its flexible +and plastic infancy, was made to swerve aside from a straight line, in order to +visit every settler’s door. The Main Street is still youthful; the coeval +man is in his latest age. Soon he will be gone, a patriarch of fourscore, yet +shall retain a sort of infantine life in our local history, as the first +town-born child. +</p> + +<p> +Behold here a change, wrought in the twinkling of an eye, like an incident in a +tale of magic, even while your observation has been fixed upon the scene. The +Main Street has vanished out of sight. In its stead appears a wintry waste of +snow, with the sun just peeping over it, cold and bright, and tingeing the +white expanse with the faintest and most ethereal rose-color. This is the Great +Snow of 1717, famous for the mountain-drifts in which it buried the whole +country. It would seem as if the street, the growth of which we have noted so +attentively, following it from its first phase, as an Indian track, until it +reached the dignity of sidewalks, were all at once obliterated, and resolved +into a drearier pathlessness than when the forest covered it. The gigantic +swells and billows of the snow have swept over each man’s metes and +bounds, and annihilated all the visible distinctions of human property. So that +now the traces of former times and hitherto accomplished deeds being done away, +mankind should be at liberty to enter on new paths, and guide themselves by +other laws than heretofore; if, indeed, the race be not extinct, and it be +worth our while to go on with the march of life, over the cold and desolate +expanse that lies before us. It may be, however, that matters are not so +desperate as they appear. That vast icicle, glittering so cheerlessly in the +sunshine, must be the spire of the meeting-house, incrusted with frozen sleet. +Those great heaps, too, which we mistook for drifts, are houses, buried up to +their eaves, and with their peaked roofs rounded by the depth of snow upon +them. There, now, comes a gush of smoke from what I judge to be the chimney of +the Ship Tavern;—and another—another—and another—from +the chimneys of other dwellings, where fireside comfort, domestic peace, the +sports of children, and the quietude of age are living yet, in spite of the +frozen crust above them. +</p> + +<p> +But it is time to change the scene. Its dreary monotony shall not test your +fortitude like one of our actual New England winters, which leaves so large a +blank—so melancholy a death-spot—in lives so brief that they ought +to be all summer-time. Here, at least, I may claim to be ruler of the seasons. +One turn of the crank shall melt away the snow from the Main Street, and show +the trees in their full foliage, the rose-bushes in bloom, and a border of +green grass along the sidewalk. There! But what! How! The scene will not move. +A wire is broken. The street continues buried beneath the snow, and the fate of +Herculaneum and Pompeii has its parallel in this catastrophe. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! my kind and gentle audience, you know not the extent of your misfortune. +The scenes to come were far better than the past. The street itself would have +been more worthy of pictorial exhibition; the deeds of its inhabitants not less +so. And how would your interest have deepened, as, passing out of the cold +shadow of antiquity, in my long and weary course, I should arrive within the +limits of man’s memory, and, leading you at last into the sunshine of the +present, should give a reflex of the very life that is flitting past us! Your +own beauty, my fair townswomen, would have beamed upon you, out of my scene. +Not a gentleman that walks the street but should have beheld his own face and +figure, his gait, the peculiar swing of his arm, and the coat that he put on +yesterday. Then, too,—and it is what I chiefly regret,—I had +expended a vast deal of light and brilliancy on a representation of the street +in its whole length, from Buffum’s Corner downward, on the night of the +grand illumination for General Taylor’s triumph. Lastly, I should have +given the crank one other turn, and have brought out the future, showing you +who shall walk the Main Street to-morrow, and, perchance, whose funeral shall +pass through it! +</p> + +<p> +But these, like most other human purposes, lie unaccomplished; and I have only +further to say, that any lady or gentlemen who may feel dissatisfied with the +evening’s entertainment shall receive back the admission fee at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Then give me mine,” cries the critic, stretching out his palm. +“I said that your exhibition would prove a humbug, and so it has turned +out. So, hand over my quarter!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>ETHAN BRAND:<br/> +A CHAPTER FROM AN ABORTIVE ROMANCE</h2> + +<p> +Bartram the lime-burner, a rough, heavy-looking man, begrimed with charcoal, +sat watching his kiln at nightfall, while his little son played at building +houses with the scattered fragments of marble, when, on the hill-side below +them, they heard a roar of laughter, not mirthful, but slow, and even solemn, +like a wind shaking the boughs of the forest. +</p> + +<p> +“Father, what is that?” asked the little boy, leaving his play, and +pressing betwixt his father’s knees. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, some drunken man, I suppose,” answered the lime-burner; +“some merry fellow from the bar-room in the village, who dared not laugh +loud enough within doors lest he should blow the roof of the house off. So here +he is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of Graylock.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, father,” said the child, more sensitive than the obtuse, +middle-aged clown, “he does not laugh like a man that is glad. So the +noise frightens me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a fool, child!” cried his father, gruffly. +“You will never make a man, I do believe; there is too much of your +mother in you. I have known the rustling of a leaf startle you. Hark! Here +comes the merry fellow now. You shall see that there is no harm in him.” +</p> + +<p> +Bartram and his little son, while they were talking thus, sat watching the same +lime-kiln that had been the scene of Ethan Brand’s solitary and +meditative life, before he began his search for the Unpardonable Sin. Many +years, as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that portentous night when the +I<small>DEA</small> was first developed. The kiln, however, on the +mountain-side, stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed since he had thrown +his dark thoughts into the intense glow of its furnace, and melted them, as it +were, into the one thought that took possession of his life. It was a rude, +round, tower-like structure about twenty feet high, heavily built of rough +stones, and with a hillock of earth heaped about the larger part of its +circumference; so that the blocks and fragments of marble might be drawn by +cart-loads, and thrown in at the top. There was an opening at the bottom of the +tower, like an over-mouth, but large enough to admit a man in a stooping +posture, and provided with a massive iron door. With the smoke and jets of +flame issuing from the chinks and crevices of this door, which seemed to give +admittance into the hill-side, it resembled nothing so much as the private +entrance to the infernal regions, which the shepherds of the Delectable +Mountains were accustomed to show to pilgrims. +</p> + +<p> +There are many such lime-kilns in that tract of country, for the purpose of +burning the white marble which composes a large part of the substance of the +hills. Some of them, built years ago, and long deserted, with weeds growing in +the vacant round of the interior, which is open to the sky, and grass and +wild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones, look already +like relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the lichens of +centuries to come. Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his daily and +night-long fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the hills, who +seats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a chat with the +solitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined to thought, +may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in the case of Ethan +Brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by, while the fire +in this very kiln was burning. +</p> + +<p> +The man who now watched the fire was of a different order, and troubled himself +with no thoughts save the very few that were requisite to his business. At +frequent intervals, he flung back the clashing weight of the iron door, and, +turning his face from the insufferable glare, thrust in huge logs of oak, or +stirred the immense brands with a long pole. Within the furnace were seen the +curling and riotous flames, and the burning marble, almost molten with the +intensity of heat; while without, the reflection of the fire quivered on the +dark intricacy of the surrounding forest, and showed in the foreground a bright +and ruddy little picture of the hut, the spring beside its door, the athletic +and coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner, and the half-frightened child, +shrinking into the protection of his father’s shadow. And when, again, +the iron door was closed, then reappeared the tender light of the half-full +moon, which vainly strove to trace out the indistinct shapes of the neighboring +mountains; and, in the upper sky, there was a flitting congregation of clouds, +still faintly tinged with the rosy sunset, though thus far down into the valley +the sunshine had vanished long and long ago. +</p> + +<p> +The little boy now crept still closer to his father, as footsteps were heard +ascending the hill-side, and a human form thrust aside the bushes that +clustered beneath the trees. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloo! who is it?” cried the lime-burner, vexed at his +son’s timidity, yet half infected by it. “Come forward, and show +yourself, like a man, or I’ll fling this chunk of marble at your +head!” +</p> + +<p> +“You offer me a rough welcome,” said a gloomy voice, as the unknown +man drew nigh. “Yet I neither claim nor desire a kinder one, even at my +own fireside.” +</p> + +<p> +To obtain a distincter view, Bartram threw open the iron door of the kiln, +whence immediately issued a gush of fierce light, that smote full upon the +stranger’s face and figure. To a careless eye there appeared nothing very +remarkable in his aspect, which was that of a man in a coarse brown, +country-made suit of clothes, tall and thin, with the staff and heavy shoes of +a wayfarer. As he advanced, he fixed his eyes—which were very +bright—intently upon the brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or +expected to behold, some object worthy of note within it. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, stranger,” said the lime-burner; “whence come +you, so late in the day?” +</p> + +<p> +“I come from my search,” answered the wayfarer; “for, at +last, it is finished.” +</p> + +<p> +“Drunk!—or crazy!” muttered Bartram to himself. “I +shall have trouble with the fellow. The sooner I drive him away, the +better.” +</p> + +<p> +The little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to his father, and begged him to +shut the door of the kiln, so that there might not be so much light; for that +there was something in the man’s face which he was afraid to look at, yet +could not look away from. And, indeed, even the lime-burner’s dull and +torpid sense began to be impressed by an indescribable something in that thin, +rugged, thoughtful visage, with the grizzled hair hanging wildly about it, and +those deeply sunken eyes, which gleamed like fires within the entrance of a +mysterious cavern. But, as he closed the door, the stranger turned towards him, +and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, that made Bartram feel as if he were a sane +and sensible man, after all. +</p> + +<p> +“Your task draws to an end, I see,” said he. “This marble has +already been burning three days. A few hours more will convert the stone to +lime.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, who are you?” exclaimed the lime-burner. “You seem as +well acquainted with my business as I am myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And well I may be,” said the stranger; “for I followed the +same craft many a long year, and here, too, on this very spot. But you are a +newcomer in these parts. Did you never hear of Ethan Brand?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man that went in search of the Unpardonable Sin?” asked +Bartram, with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” answered the stranger. “He has found what he +sought, and therefore he comes back again.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?” cried the lime-burner, in +amazement. “I am a new-comer here, as you say, and they call it eighteen +years since you left the foot of Graylock. But, I can tell you, the good folks +still talk about Ethan Brand, in the village yonder, and what a strange errand +took him away from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you have found the Unpardonable +Sin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so!” said the stranger, calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“If the question is a fair one,” proceeded Bartram, “where +might it be?” +</p> + +<p> +Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” replied he. +</p> + +<p> +And then, without mirth in his countenance, but as if moved by an involuntary +recognition of the infinite absurdity of seeking throughout the world for what +was the closest of all things to himself, and looking into every heart, save +his own, for what was hidden in no other breast, he broke into a laugh of +scorn. It was the same slow, heavy laugh, that had almost appalled the +lime-burner when it heralded the wayfarer’s approach. +</p> + +<p> +The solitary mountain-side was made dismal by it. Laughter, when out of place, +mistimed, or bursting forth from a disordered state of feeling, may be the most +terrible modulation of the human voice. The laughter of one asleep, even if it +be a little child,—the madman’s laugh,—the wild, screaming +laugh of a born idiot,—are sounds that we sometimes tremble to hear, and +would always willingly forget. Poets have imagined no utterance of fiends or +hobgoblins so fearfully appropriate as a laugh. And even the obtuse lime-burner +felt his nerves shaken, as this strange man looked inward at his own heart, and +burst into laughter that rolled away into the night, and was indistinctly +reverberated among the hills. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe,” said he to his little son, “scamper down to the tavern +in the village, and tell the jolly fellows there that Ethan Brand has come +back, and that he has found the Unpardonable Sin!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy darted away on his errand, to which Ethan Brand made no objection, nor +seemed hardly to notice it. He sat on a log of wood, looking steadfastly at the +iron door of the kiln. When the child was out of sight, and his swift and light +footsteps ceased to be heard treading first on the fallen leaves and then on +the rocky mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret his departure. He felt +that the little fellow’s presence had been a barrier between his guest +and himself, and that he must now deal, heart to heart, with a man who, on his +own confession, had committed the one only crime for which Heaven could afford +no mercy. That crime, in its indistinct blackness, seemed to overshadow him, +and made his memory riotous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted their +kindred with the Master Sin, whatever it might be, which it was within the +scope of man’s corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They were all of +one family; they went to and fro between his breast and Ethan Brand’s, +and carried dark greetings from one to the other. +</p> + +<p> +Then Bartram remembered the stories which had grown traditionary in reference +to this strange man, who had come upon him like a shadow of the night, and was +making himself at home in his old place, after so long absence, that the dead +people, dead and buried for years, would have had more right to be at home, in +any familiar spot, than he. Ethan Brand, it was said, had conversed with Satan +himself in the lurid blaze of this very kiln. The legend had been matter of +mirth heretofore, but looked grisly now. According to this tale, before Ethan +Brand departed on his search, he had been accustomed to evoke a fiend from the +hot furnace of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order to confer with him +about the Unpardonable Sin; the man and the fiend each laboring to frame the +image of some mode of guilt which could neither be atoned for nor forgiven. +And, with the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top, the fiend crept in at +the iron door, there to abide the intensest element of fire until again +summoned forth to share in the dreadful task of extending man’s possible +guilt beyond the scope of Heaven’s else infinite mercy. +</p> + +<p> +While the lime-burner was struggling with the horror of these thoughts, Ethan +Brand rose from the log, and flung open the door of the kiln. The action was in +such accordance with the idea in Bartram’s mind, that he almost expected +to see the Evil One issue forth, red-hot, from the raging furnace. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold! hold!” cried he, with a tremulous attempt to laugh; for he +was ashamed of his fears, although they overmastered him. “Don’t, +for mercy’s sake, bring out your Devil now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Man!” sternly replied Ethan Brand, “what need have I of the +Devil? I have left him behind me, on my track. It is with such half-way sinners +as you that he busies himself. Fear not, because I open the door. I do but act +by old custom, and am going to trim your fire, like a lime-burner, as I was +once.” +</p> + +<p> +He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more wood, and bent forward to gaze into +the hollow prison-house of the fire, regardless of the fierce glow that +reddened upon his face. The lime-burner sat watching him, and half suspected +this strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at least to plunge +into the flames, and thus vanish from the sight of man. Ethan Brand, however, +drew quietly back, and closed the door of the kiln. +</p> + +<p> +“I have looked,” said he, “into many a human heart that was +seven times hotter with sinful passions than yonder furnace is with fire. But I +found not there what I sought. No, not the Unpardonable Sin!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the Unpardonable Sin?” asked the lime-burner; and then he +shrank farther from his companion, trembling lest his question should be +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a sin that grew within my own breast,” replied Ethan Brand, +standing erect with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his stamp. +“A sin that grew nowhere else! The sin of an intellect that triumphed +over the sense of brotherhood with man and reverence for God, and sacrificed +everything to its own mighty claims! The only sin that deserves a recompense of +immortal agony! Freely, were it to do again, would I incur the guilt. +Unshrinkingly I accept the retribution!” +</p> + +<p> +“The man’s head is turned,” muttered the lime-burner to +himself. “He may be a sinner like the rest of us,—nothing more +likely,—but, I’ll be sworn, he is a madman too.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at his situation, alone with Ethan Brand on +the wild mountain-side, and was right glad to hear the rough murmur of tongues, +and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty numerous party, stumbling over the +stones and rustling through the underbrush. Soon appeared the whole lazy +regiment that was wont to infest the village tavern, comprehending three or +four individuals who had drunk flip beside the bar-room fire through all the +winters, and smoked their pipes beneath the stoop through all the summers, +since Ethan Brand’s departure. Laughing boisterously, and mingling all +their voices together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the moonshine +and narrow streaks of firelight that illuminated the open space before the +lime-kiln. Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the spot with light, that +the whole company might get a fair view of Ethan Brand, and he of them. +</p> + +<p> +There, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous man, now almost +extinct, but whom we were formerly sure to encounter at the hotel of every +thriving village throughout the country. It was the stage-agent. The present +specimen of the genus was a wilted and smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed, +in a smartly cut, brown, bobtailed coat, with brass buttons, who, for a length +of time unknown, had kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and was still +puffing what seemed to be the same cigar that he had lighted twenty years +before. He had great fame as a dry joker, though, perhaps, less on account of +any intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of brandy-toddy and +tobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and expressions, as well as his +person. Another well-remembered, though strangely altered, face was that of +Lawyer Giles, as people still called him in courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, in +his soiled shirtsleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This poor fellow had been an +attorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and in great +vogue among the village litigants; but flip, and sling, and toddy, and +cocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, had caused him to +slide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till at +last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a soap-vat. In other words, Giles +was now a soap-boiler, in a small way. He had come to be but the fragment of a +human being, a part of one foot having been chopped off by an axe, and an +entire hand torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though the +corporeal hand was gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth the +stump, Giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingers +with as vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. A maimed and +miserable wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the world could not +trample on, and had no right to scorn, either in this or any previous stage of +his misfortunes, since he had still kept up the courage and spirit of a man, +asked nothing in charity, and with his one hand—and that the left +one—fought a stern battle against want and hostile circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +Among the throng, too, came another personage, who, with certain points of +similarity to Lawyer Giles, had many more of difference. It was the village +doctor; a man of some fifty years, whom, at an earlier period of his life, we +introduced as paying a professional visit to Ethan Brand during the +latter’s supposed insanity. He was now a purple-visaged, rude, and +brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with something wild, ruined, and desperate +in his talk, and in all the details of his gesture and manners. Brandy +possessed this man like an evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as a +wild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be in +him such wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any which +medical science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would not +let him sink out of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his horse, and +grumbling thick accents at the bedside, he visited all the sick-chambers for +miles about among the mountain towns, and sometimes raised a dying man, as it +were, by miracle, or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to a grave that +was dug many a year too soon. The doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, +and, as somebody said, in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was always +alight with hell-fire. +</p> + +<p> +These three worthies pressed forward, and greeted Ethan Brand each after his +own fashion, earnestly inviting him to partake of the contents of a certain +black bottle, in which, as they averred, he would find something far better +worth seeking than the Unpardonable Sin. No mind, which has wrought itself by +intense and solitary meditation into a high state of enthusiasm, can endure the +kind of contact with low and vulgar modes of thought and feeling to which Ethan +Brand was now subjected. It made him doubt—and, strange to say, it was a +painful doubt—whether he had indeed found the Unpardonable Sin, and found +it within himself. The whole question on which he had exhausted life, and more +than life, looked like a delusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me,” he said bitterly, “ye brute beasts, that have +made yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery liquors! I have done +with you. Years and years ago, I groped into your hearts and found nothing +there for my purpose. Get ye gone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you uncivil scoundrel,” cried the fierce doctor, “is +that the way you respond to the kindness of your best friends? Then let me tell +you the truth. You have no more found the Unpardonable Sin than yonder boy Joe +has. You are but a crazy fellow,—I told you so twenty years +ago,—neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit companion +of old Humphrey, here!” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed, with long white hair, thin visage, +and unsteady eyes. For some years past this aged person had been wandering +about among the hills, inquiring of all travellers whom he met for his +daughter. The girl, it seemed, had gone off with a company of +circus-performers, and occasionally tidings of her came to the village, and +fine stories were told of her glittering appearance as she rode on horseback in +the ring, or performed marvellous feats on the tight-rope. +</p> + +<p> +The white-haired father now approached Ethan Brand, and gazed unsteadily into +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“They tell me you have been all over the earth,” said he, wringing +his hands with earnestness. “You must have seen my daughter, for she +makes a grand figure in the world, and everybody goes to see her. Did she send +any word to her old father, or say when she was coming back?” +</p> + +<p> +Ethan Brand’s eye quailed beneath the old man’s. That daughter, +from whom he so earnestly desired a word of greeting, was the Esther of our +tale, the very girl whom, with such cold and remorseless purpose, Ethan Brand +had made the subject of a psychological experiment, and wasted, absorbed, and +perhaps annihilated her soul, in the process. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he murmured, turning away from the hoary wanderer, “it +is no delusion. There is an Unpardonable Sin!” +</p> + +<p> +While these things were passing, a merry scene was going forward in the area of +cheerful light, beside the spring and before the door of the hut. A number of +the youth of the village, young men and girls, had hurried up the hill-side, +impelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand, the hero of so many a legend familiar +to their childhood. Finding nothing, however, very remarkable in his +aspect,—nothing but a sunburnt wayfarer, in plain garb and dusty shoes, +who sat looking into the fire as if he fancied pictures among the +coals,—these young people speedily grew tired of observing him. As it +happened, there was other amusement at hand. An old German Jew travelling with +a diorama on his back, was passing down the mountain-road towards the village +just as the party turned aside from it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits +of the day, the showman had kept them company to the lime-kiln. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, old Dutchman,” cried one of the young men, “let us see +your pictures, if you can swear they are worth looking at!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, Captain,” answered the Jew,—whether as a matter of +courtesy or craft, he styled everybody Captain,—“I shall show you, +indeed, some very superb pictures!” +</p> + +<p> +So, placing his box in a proper position, he invited the young men and girls to +look through the glass orifices of the machine, and proceeded to exhibit a +series of the most outrageous scratchings and daubings, as specimens of the +fine arts, that ever an itinerant showman had the face to impose upon his +circle of spectators. The pictures were worn out, moreover, tattered, full of +cracks and wrinkles, dingy with tobacco-smoke, and otherwise in a most pitiable +condition. Some purported to be cities, public edifices, and ruined castles in +Europe; others represented Napoleon’s battles and Nelson’s +sea-fights; and in the midst of these would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy +hand,—which might have been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny, though, in +truth, it was only the showman’s,—pointing its forefinger to +various scenes of the conflict, while its owner gave historical illustrations. +When, with much merriment at its abominable deficiency of merit, the exhibition +was concluded, the German bade little Joe put his head into the box. Viewed +through the magnifying-glasses, the boy’s round, rosy visage assumed the +strangest imaginable aspect of an immense Titanic child, the mouth grinning +broadly, and the eyes and every other feature overflowing with fun at the joke. +Suddenly, however, that merry face turned pale, and its expression changed to +horror, for this easily impressed and excitable child had become sensible that +the eye of Ethan Brand was fixed upon him through the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“You make the little man to be afraid, Captain,” said the German +Jew, turning up the dark and strong outline of his visage from his stooping +posture. “But look again, and, by chance, I shall cause you to see +somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!” +</p> + +<p> +Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an instant, and then starting back, looked +fixedly at the German. What had he seen? Nothing, apparently; for a curious +youth, who had peeped in almost at the same moment, beheld only a vacant space +of canvas. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you now,” muttered Ethan Brand to the showman. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Captain,” whispered the Jew of Nuremberg, with a dark smile, +“I find it to be a heavy matter in my show-box,—this Unpardonable +Sin! By my faith, Captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry +it over the mountain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peace,” answered Ethan Brand, sternly, “or get thee into the +furnace yonder!” +</p> + +<p> +The Jew’s exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderly +dog—who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laid +claim to him—saw fit to render himself the object of public notice. +Hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old dog, going round +from one to another, and, by way of being sociable, offering his rough head to +be patted by any kindly hand that would take so much trouble. But now, all of a +sudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, of his own mere motion, and without +the slightest suggestion from anybody else, began to run round after his tail, +which, to heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal shorter +than it should have been. Never was seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit of +an object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such a +tremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping,—as if +one end of the ridiculous brute’s body were at deadly and most +unforgivable enmity with the other. Faster and faster, round about went the +cur; and faster and still faster fled the unapproachable brevity of his tail; +and louder and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animosity; until, utterly +exhausted, and as far from the goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased his +performance as suddenly as he had begun it. The next moment he was as mild, +quiet, sensible, and respectable in his deportment, as when he first scraped +acquaintance with the company. +</p> + +<p> +As may be supposed, the exhibition was greeted with universal laughter, +clapping of hands, and shouts of encore, to which the canine performer +responded by wagging all that there was to wag of his tail, but appeared +totally unable to repeat his very successful effort to amuse the spectators. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Ethan Brand had resumed his seat upon the log, and moved, as it +might be, by a perception of some remote analogy between his own case and that +of this self-pursuing cur, he broke into the awful laugh, which, more than any +other token, expressed the condition of his inward being. From that moment, the +merriment of the party was at an end; they stood aghast, dreading lest the +inauspicious sound should be reverberated around the horizon, and that mountain +would thunder it to mountain, and so the horror be prolonged upon their ears. +Then, whispering one to another that it was late,—that the moon was +almost down,-that the August night was growing chill,—they hurried +homewards, leaving the lime-burner and little Joe to deal as they might with +their unwelcome guest. Save for these three human beings, the open space on the +hill-side was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of forest. Beyond that darksome +verge, the firelight glimmered on the stately trunks and almost black foliage +of pines, intermixed with the lighter verdure of sapling oaks, maples, and +poplars, while here and there lay the gigantic corpses of dead trees, decaying +on the leaf-strewn soil. And it seemed to little Joe—a timorous and +imaginative child—that the silent forest was holding its breath until +some fearful thing should happen. +</p> + +<p> +Ethan Brand thrust more wood into the fire, and closed the door of the kiln; +then looking over his shoulder at the lime-burner and his son, he bade, rather +than advised, them to retire to rest. +</p> + +<p> +“For myself, I cannot sleep,” said he. “I have matters that +it concerns me to meditate upon. I will watch the fire, as I used to do in the +old time.” +</p> + +<p> +“And call the Devil out of the furnace to keep you company, I +suppose,” muttered Bartram, who had been making intimate acquaintance +with the black bottle above mentioned. “But watch, if you like, and call +as many devils as you like! For my part, I shall be all the better for a +snooze. Come, Joe!” +</p> + +<p> +As the boy followed his father into the hut, he looked back at the wayfarer, +and the tears came into his eyes, for his tender spirit had an intuition of the +bleak and terrible loneliness in which this man had enveloped himself. +</p> + +<p> +When they had gone, Ethan Brand sat listening to the crackling of the kindled +wood, and looking at the little spirts of fire that issued through the chinks +of the door. These trifles, however, once so familiar, had but the slightest +hold of his attention, while deep within his mind he was reviewing the gradual +but marvellous change that had been wrought upon him by the search to which he +had devoted himself. He remembered how the night dew had fallen upon +him,—how the dark forest had whispered to him,—how the stars had +gleamed upon him,—a simple and loving man, watching his fire in the years +gone by, and ever musing as it burned. He remembered with what tenderness, with +what love and sympathy for mankind and what pity for human guilt and woe, he +had first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards became the +inspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into the heart +of man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and, however desecrated, +still to be held sacred by a brother; with what awful fear he had deprecated +the success of his pursuit, and prayed that the Unpardonable Sin might never be +revealed to him. Then ensued that vast intellectual development, which, in its +progress, disturbed the counterpoise between his mind and heart. The Idea that +possessed his life had operated as a means of education; it had gone on +cultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were susceptible; it +had raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer to stand on a star-lit +eminence, whither the philosophers of the earth, laden with the lore of +universities, might vainly strive to clamber after him. So much for the +intellect! But where was the heart? That, indeed, had withered,—had +contracted,—had hardened,—had perished! It had ceased to partake of +the universal throb. He had lost his hold of the magnetic chain of humanity. He +was no longer a brother-man, opening the chambers or the dungeons of our common +nature by the key of holy sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all its +secrets; he was now a cold observer, looking on mankind as the subject of his +experiment, and, at length, converting man and woman to be his puppets, and +pulling the wires that moved them to such degrees of crime as were demanded for +his study. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He began to be so from the moment that his +moral nature had ceased to keep the pace of improvement with his intellect. And +now, as his highest effort and inevitable development,—as the bright and +gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of his life’s labor,—he +had produced the Unpardonable Sin! +</p> + +<p> +“What more have I to seek? what more to achieve?” said Ethan Brand +to himself. “My task is done, and well done!” +</p> + +<p> +Starting from the log with a certain alacrity in his gait and ascending the +hillock of earth that was raised against the stone circumference of the +lime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the structure. It was a space of perhaps +ten feet across, from edge to edge, presenting a view of the upper surface of +the immense mass of broken marble with which the kiln was heaped. All these +innumerable blocks and fragments of marble were redhot and vividly on fire, +sending up great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft and danced madly, +as within a magic circle, and sank and rose again, with continual and +multitudinous activity. As the lonely man bent forward over this terrible body +of fire, the blasting heat smote up against his person with a breath that, it +might be supposed, would have scorched and shrivelled him up in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his arms on high. The blue flames played +upon his face, and imparted the wild and ghastly light which alone could have +suited its expression; it was that of a fiend on the verge of plunging into his +gulf of intensest torment. +</p> + +<p> +“O Mother Earth,” cried he, “who art no more my Mother, and +into whose bosom this frame shall never be resolved! O mankind, whose +brotherhood I have cast off, and trampled thy great heart beneath my feet! O +stars of heaven, that shone on me of old, as if to light me onward and +upward!—farewell all, and forever. Come, deadly element of +Fire,-henceforth my familiar friend! Embrace me, as I do thee!” +</p> + +<p> +That night the sound of a fearful peal of laughter rolled heavily through the +sleep of the lime-burner and his little son; dim shapes of horror and anguish +haunted their dreams, and seemed still present in the rude hovel, when they +opened their eyes to the daylight. +</p> + +<p> +“Up, boy, up!” cried the lime-burner, staring about him. +“Thank Heaven, the night is gone, at last; and rather than pass such +another, I would watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for a twelvemonth. This Ethan +Brand, with his humbug of an Unpardonable Sin, has done me no such mighty +favor, in taking my place!” +</p> + +<p> +He issued from the hut, followed by little Joe, who kept fast hold of his +father’s hand. The early sunshine was already pouring its gold upon the +mountain-tops, and though the valleys were still in shadow, they smiled +cheerfully in the promise of the bright day that was hastening onward. The +village, completely shut in by hills, which swelled away gently about it, +looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hollow of the great hand of +Providence. Every dwelling was distinctly visible; the little spires of the two +churches pointed upwards, and caught a fore-glimmering of brightness from the +sun-gilt skies upon their gilded weather-cocks. The tavern was astir, and the +figure of the old, smoke-dried stage-agent, cigar in mouth, was seen beneath +the stoop. Old Graylock was glorified with a golden cloud upon his head. +Scattered likewise over the breasts of the surrounding mountains, there were +heaps of hoary mist, in fantastic shapes, some of them far down into the +valley, others high up towards the summits, and still others, of the same +family of mist or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the upper atmosphere. +Stepping from one to another of the clouds that rested on the hills, and thence +to the loftier brotherhood that sailed in air, it seemed almost as if a mortal +man might thus ascend into the heavenly regions. Earth was so mingled with sky +that it was a day-dream to look at it. +</p> + +<p> +To supply that charm of the familiar and homely, which Nature so readily adopts +into a scene like this, the stage-coach was rattling down the mountain-road, +and the driver sounded his horn, while Echo caught up the notes, and +intertwined them into a rich and varied and elaborate harmony, of which the +original performer could lay claim to little share. The great hills played a +concert among themselves, each contributing a strain of airy sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +Little Joe’s face brightened at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear father,” cried he, skipping cheerily to and fro, “that +strange man is gone, and the sky and the mountains all seem glad of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” growled the lime-burner, with an oath, “but he has let +the fire go down, and no thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime are not +spoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts again, I shall feel like tossing him +into the furnace!” +</p> + +<p> +With his long pole in his hand, he ascended to the top of the kiln. After a +moment’s pause, he called to his son. +</p> + +<p> +“Come up here, Joe!” said he. +</p> + +<p> +So little Joe ran up the hillock, and stood by his father’s side. The +marble was all burnt into perfect, snow-white lime. But on its surface, in the +midst of the circle,—snow-white too, and thoroughly converted into +lime,—lay a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person who, after long +toil, lies down to long repose. Within the ribs—strange to say—was +the shape of a human heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Was the fellow’s heart made of marble?” cried Bartram, in +some perplexity at this phenomenon. “At any rate, it is burnt into what +looks like special good lime; and, taking all the bones together, my kiln is +half a bushel the richer for him.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his pole, and, letting it fall upon the +skeleton, the relics of Ethan Brand were crumbled into fragments. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY</h2> + +<p> +Hearken to our neighbor with the iron tongue. While I sit musing over my sheet +of foolscap, he emphatically tells the hour, in tones loud enough for all the +town to hear, though doubtless intended only as a gentle hint to myself, that I +may begin his biography before the evening shall be further wasted. +Unquestionably, a personage in such an elevated position, and making so great a +noise in the world, has a fair claim to the services of a biographer. He is the +representative and most illustrious member of that innumerable class, whose +characteristic feature is the tongue, and whose sole business, to clamor for +the public good. If any of his noisy brethren, in our tongue-governed +democracy, be envious of the superiority which I have assigned him, they have +my free consent to hang themselves as high as he. And, for his history, let not +the reader apprehend an empty repetition of ding-dong-bell. He has been the +passive hero of wonderful vicissitudes, with which I have chanced to become +acquainted, possibly from his own mouth; while the careless multitude supposed +him to be talking merely of the time of day, or calling them to dinner or to +church, or bidding drowsy people go bedward, or the dead to their graves. Many +a revolution has it been his fate to go through, and invariably with a +prodigious uproar. And whether or no he have told me his reminiscences, this at +least is true, that the more I study his deep-toned language, the more sense, +and sentiment, and soul, do I discover in it. +</p> + +<p> +This bell—for we may as well drop our quaint personification—is of +antique French manufacture, and the symbol of the cross betokens that it was +meant to be suspended in the belfry of a Romish place of worship. The old +people hereabout have a tradition, that a considerable part of the metal was +supplied by a brass cannon, captured in one of the victories of Louis the +Fourteenth over the Spaniards, and that a Bourbon princess threw her golden +crucifix into the molten mass. It is said, likewise, that a bishop baptized and +blessed the bell, and prayed that a heavenly influence might mingle with its +tones. When all due ceremonies had been performed, the Grand Monarque bestowed +the gift—than which none could resound his beneficence more +loudly—on the Jesuits, who were then converting the American Indians to +the spiritual dominion of the Pope. So the bell,—our self-same bell, +whose familiar voice we may hear at all hours, in the streets,—this very +bell sent forth its first-born accents from the tower of a log-built chapel, +westward of Lake Champlain, and near the mighty stream of the St. Lawrence. It +was called Our Lady’s Chapel of the Forest. The peal went forth as if to +redeem and consecrate the heathen wilderness. The wolf growled at the sound, as +he prowled stealthily through the underbrush; the grim bear turned his back, +and stalked sullenly away; the startled doe leaped up, and led her fawn into a +deeper solitude. The red men wondered what awful voice was speaking amid the +wind that roared through the tree-tops; and, following reverentially its +summons, the dark-robed fathers blessed them, as they drew near the +cross-crowned chapel. In a little time, there was a crucifix on every dusky +bosom. The Indians knelt beneath the lowly roof, worshipping in the same forms +that were observed under the vast dome of St. Peter’s, when the Pope +performed high mass in the presence of kneeling princes. All the religious +festivals, that awoke the chiming bells of lofty cathedrals, called forth a +peal from Our Lady’s Chapel of the Forest. Loudly rang the bell of the +wilderness while the streets of Paris echoed with rejoicings for the birthday +of the Bourbon, or whenever France had triumphed on some European battle-field. +And the solemn woods were saddened with a melancholy knell, as often as the +thick-strewn leaves were swept away from the virgin soil, for the burial of an +Indian chief. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, the bells of a hostile people and a hostile faith were ringing on +Sabbaths and lecture-days, at Boston and other Puritan towns. Their echoes died +away hundreds of miles southeastward of Our Lady’s Chapel. But scouts had +threaded the pathless desert that lay between, and, from behind the huge +tree-trunks, perceived the Indians assembling at the summons of the bell. Some +bore flaxen-haired scalps at their girdles, as if to lay those bloody trophies +on Our Lady’s altar. It was reported, and believed, all through New +England, that the Pope of Rome, and the King of France, had established this +little chapel in the forest, for the purpose of stirring up the red men to a +crusade against the English settlers. The latter took energetic measures to +secure their religion and their lives. On the eve of an especial fast of the +Romish Church, while the bell tolled dismally, and the priests were chanting a +doleful stave, a band of New England rangers rushed from the surrounding woods. +Fierce shouts, and the report of musketry, pealed suddenly within the chapel. +The ministering priests threw themselves before the altar, and were slain even +on its steps. If, as antique traditions tell us, no grass will grow where the +blood of martyrs has been shed, there should be a barren spot, to this very +day, on the site of that desecrated altar. +</p> + +<p> +While the blood was still plashing from step to step, the leader of the rangers +seized a torch, and applied it to the drapery of the shrine. The flame and +smoke arose, as from a burnt-sacrifice, at once illuminating and obscuring the +whole interior of the chapel,—now hiding the dead priests in a sable +shroud, now revealing them and their slayers in one terrific glare. Some +already wished that the altar-smoke could cover the deed from the sight of +Heaven. But one of the rangers—a man of sanctified aspect, though his +hands were bloody—approached the captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “our village meeting-house lacks a bell, and +hitherto we have been fain to summon the good people to worship by beat of +drum. Give me, I pray you, the bell of this popish chapel, for the sake of the +godly Mr. Rogers, who doubtless hath remembered us in the prayers of the +congregation, ever since we began our march. Who can tell what share of this +night’s good success we owe to that holy man’s wrestling with the +Lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, then,” answered the captain, “if good Mr. Rogers hath +holpen our enterprise, it is right that he should share the spoil. Take the +bell and welcome, Deacon Lawson, if you will be at the trouble of carrying it +home. Hitherto it hath spoken nothing but papistry, and that too in the French +or Indian gibberish; but I warrant me, if Mr. Rogers consecrate it anew, it +will talk like a good English and Protestant bell.” +</p> + +<p> +So Deacon Lawson and half a score of his townsmen took down the bell, suspended +it on a pole, and bore it away on their sturdy shoulders, meaning to carry it +to the shore of Lake Champlain, and thence homeward by water. Far through the +woods gleamed the flames of Our Lady’s Chapel, flinging fantastic shadows +from the clustered foliage, and glancing on brooks that had never caught the +sunlight. As the rangers traversed the midnight forest, staggering under their +heavy burden, the tongue of the bell gave many a tremendous +stroke,—clang, clang, clang!—a most doleful sound, as if it were +tolling for the slaughter of the priests and the ruin of the chapel. Little +dreamed Deacon Lawson and his townsmen that it was their own funeral knell. A +war-party of Indians had heard the report, of musketry, and seen the blaze of +the chapel, and now were on the track of the rangers, summoned to vengeance by +the bell’s dismal murmurs. In the midst of a deep swamp, they made a +sudden onset on the retreating foe. Good Deacon Lawson battled stoutly, but had +his skull cloven by a tomahawk, and sank into the depths of the morass, with +the ponderous bell above him. And, for many a year thereafter, our hero’s +voice was heard no more on earth, neither at the hour of worship, nor at +festivals nor funerals. +</p> + +<p> +And is he still buried in that unknown grave? Scarcely so, dear reader. Hark! +How plainly we hear him at this moment, the spokesman of Time, proclaiming that +it is nine o’clock at night! We may therefore safely conclude that some +happy chance has restored him to upper air. +</p> + +<p> +But there lay the bell, for many silent years; and the wonder is, that he did +not lie silent there a century, or perhaps a dozen centuries, till the world +should have forgotten not only his voice, but the voices of the whole +brotherhood of bells. How would the first accent of his iron tongue have +startled his resurrectionists! But he was not fated to be a subject of +discussion among the antiquaries of far posterity. Near the close of the Old +French War, a party of New England axe-men, who preceded the march of Colonel +Bradstreet toward Lake Ontario, were building a bridge of logs through a swamp. +Plunging down a stake, one of these pioneers felt it graze against some hard, +smooth substance. He called his comrades, and, by their united efforts, the top +of the bell was raised to the surface, a rope made fast to it, and thence +passed over the horizontal limb of a tree. Heave ho! up they hoisted their +prize, dripping with moisture, and festooned with verdant water-moss. As the +base of the bell emerged from the swamp, the pioneers perceived that a skeleton +was clinging with its bony fingers to the clapper, but immediately relaxing its +nerveless grasp, sank back into the stagnant water. The bell then gave forth a +sullen clang. No wonder that he was in haste to speak, after holding his tongue +for such a length of time! The pioneers shoved the bell to and fro, thus +ringing a loud and heavy peal, which echoed widely through the forest, and +reached the ears of Colonel Bradstreet, and his three thousand men. The +soldiers paused on their march; a feeling of religion, mingled with +borne-tenderness, overpowered their rude hearts; each seemed to hear the +clangor of the old church-bell, which had been familiar to hint from infancy, +and had tolled at the funerals of all his forefathers. By what magic had that +holy sound strayed over the wide-murmuring ocean, and become audible amid the +clash of arms, the loud crashing of the artillery over the rough +wilderness-path, and the melancholy roar of the wind among the boughs? +</p> + +<p> +The New-Englanders hid their prize in a shadowy nook, betwixt a large gray +stone and the earthy roots of an overthrown tree; and when the campaign was +ended, they conveyed our friend to Boston, and put him up at auction on the +sidewalk of King Street. He was suspended, for the nonce, by a block and +tackle, and being swung backward and forward, gave such loud and clear +testimony to his own merits, that the auctioneer had no need to say a word. The +highest bidder was a rich old representative from our town, who piously +bestowed the bell on the meeting-house where he had been a worshipper for half +a century. The good man had his reward. By a strange coincidence, the very +first duty of the sexton, after the bell had been hoisted into the belfry, was +to toll the funeral knell of the donor. Soon, however, those doleful echoes +were drowned by a triumphant peal for the surrender of Quebec. +</p> + +<p> +Ever since that period, our hero has occupied the same elevated station, and +has put in his word on all matters of public importance, civil, military, or +religious. On the day when Independence was first proclaimed in the street +beneath, he uttered a peal which many deemed ominous and fearful, rather than +triumphant. But he has told the same story these sixty years, and none mistake +his meaning now. When Washington, in the fulness of his glory, rode through our +flower-strewn streets, this was the tongue that bade the Father of his Country +welcome! Again the same voice was heard, when La Fayette came to gather in his +half-century’s harvest of gratitude. Meantime, vast changes have been +going on below. His voice, which once floated over a little provincial seaport, +is now reverberated between brick edifices, and strikes the ear amid the buzz +and tumult of a city. On the Sabbaths of olden time, the summons of the bell +was obeyed by a picturesque and varied throng; stately gentlemen in purple +velvet coats, embroidered waistcoats, white wigs, and gold-laced hats, stepping +with grave courtesy beside ladies in flowered satin gowns, and hoop-petticoats +of majestic circumference; while behind followed a liveried slave or bondsman, +bearing the psalm-book, and a stove for his mistress’s feet. The +commonalty, clad in homely garb, gave precedence to their betters at the door +of the meetinghouse, as if admitting that there were distinctions between them, +even in the sight of God. Yet, as their coffins were borne one after another +through the street, the bell has tolled a requiem for all alike. What mattered +it, whether or no there were a silver scutcheon on the coffin-lid? “Open +thy bosom, Mother Earth!” Thus spake the bell. “Another of thy +children is coming to his long rest. Take him to thy bosom, and let him slumber +in peace.” Thus spake the bell, and Mother Earth received her child. With +the self-same tones will the present generation be ushered to the embraces of +their mother; and Mother Earth will still receive her children. Is not thy +tongue a-weary, mournful talker of two centuries? O funeral bell! wilt thou +never be shattered with thine own melancholy strokes? Yea, and a trumpet-call +shall arouse the sleepers, whom thy heavy clang could awake no more! +</p> + +<p> +Again—again thy voice, reminding me that I am wasting the “midnight +oil.” In my lonely fantasy, I can scarce believe that other mortals have +caught the sound, or that it vibrates elsewhere than in my secret soul. But to +many hast thou spoken. Anxious men have heard thee on their sleepless pillows, +and bethought themselves anew of to-morrow’s care. In a brief interval of +wakefulness, the sons of toil have heard thee, and say, “Is so much of +our quiet slumber spent?—is the morning so near at hand?” Crime has +heard thee, and mutters, “Now is the very hour!” Despair answers +thee, “Thus much of this weary life is gone!” The young mother, on +her bed of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy echoing strokes, and dates from +them her first-born’s share of life and immortality. The bridegroom and +the bride have listened, and feel that their night of rapture flits like a +dream away. Thine accents have fallen faintly on the ear of the dying man, and +warned him that, ere thou speakest again, his spirit shall have passed whither +no voice of time can ever reach. Alas for the departing traveller, if thy +voice—the voice of fleeting time—have taught him no lessons for +Eternity! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>SYLPH ETHEREGE</h2> + +<p> +On a bright summer evening, two persons stood among the shrubbery of a garden, +stealthily watching a young girl, who sat in the window seat of a neighboring +mansion. One of these unseen observers, a gentleman, was youthful, and had an +air of high breeding and refinement, and a face marked with intellect, though +otherwise of unprepossessing aspect. His features wore even an ominous, though +somewhat mirthful expression, while he pointed his long forefinger at the girl, +and seemed to regard her as a creature completely within the scope of his +influence. +</p> + +<p> +“The charm works!” said he, in a low, but emphatic whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Edward Hamilton,—since so you choose to be +named,—do you know,” said the lady beside him, “that I have +almost a mind to break the spell at once? What if the lesson should prove too +severe! True, if my ward could be thus laughed out of her fantastic nonsense, +she might be the better for it through life. But then, she is such a delicate +creature! And, besides, are you not ruining your own chance, by putting forward +this shadow of a rival?” +</p> + +<p> +“But will he not vanish into thin air, at my bidding?” rejoined +Edward Hamilton. “Let the charm work!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s slender and sylph-like figure, tinged with radiance from the +sunset clouds, and overhung with the rich drapery of the silken curtains, and +set within the deep frame of the window, was a perfect picture; or, rather, it +was like the original loveliness in a painter’s fancy, from which the +most finished picture is but an imperfect copy. Though her occupation excited +so much interest in the two spectators, she was merely gazing at a miniature +which she held in her hand, encased in white satin and red morocco; nor did +there appear to be any other cause for the smile of mockery and malice with +which Hamilton regarded her. +</p> + +<p> +“The charm works!” muttered he, again. “Our pretty +Sylvia’s scorn will have a dear retribution!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the girl raised her eyes, and, instead of a life-like semblance +of the miniature, beheld the ill-omened shape of Edward Hamilton, who now +stepped forth from his concealment in the shrubbery. +</p> + +<p> +Sylvia Etherege was an orphan girl, who had spent her life, till within a few +months past, under the guardianship, and in the secluded dwelling, of an old +bachelor uncle. While yet in her cradle, she had been the destined bride of a +cousin, who was no less passive in the betrothal than herself. Their future +union had been projected, as the means of uniting two rich estates, and was +rendered highly expedient, if not indispensable, by the testamentary +dispositions of the parents on both sides. Edgar Vaughan, the promised +bridegroom, had been bred from infancy in Europe, and had never seen the +beautiful girl whose heart he was to claim as his inheritance. But already, for +several years, a correspondence had been kept up between tine cousins, and had +produced an intellectual intimacy, though it could but imperfectly acquaint +them with each other’s character. +</p> + +<p> +Sylvia was shy, sensitive, and fanciful; and her guardian’s secluded +habits had shut her out from even so much of the world as is generally open to +maidens of her age. She had been left to seek associates and friends for +herself in the haunts of imagination, and to converse with them, sometimes in +the language of dead poets, oftener in the poetry of her own mind. The +companion whom she chiefly summoned up was the cousin with whose idea her +earliest thoughts had been connected. She made a vision of Edgar Vaughan, and +tinted it with stronger hues than a mere fancy-picture, yet graced it with so +many bright and delicate perfections, that her cousin could nowhere have +encountered so dangerous a rival. To this shadow she cherished a romantic +fidelity. With its airy presence sitting by her side, or gliding along her +favorite paths, the loneliness of her young life was blissful; her heart was +satisfied with love, while yet its virgin purity was untainted by the +earthliness that the touch of a real lover would have left there. Edgar Vaughan +seemed to be conscious of her character; for, in his letters, he gave her a +name that was happily appropriate to the sensitiveness of her disposition, the +delicate peculiarity of her manners, and the ethereal beauty both of her mind +and person. Instead of Sylvia, he called her Sylph,—with the prerogative +of a cousin and a lover,—his dear Sylph Etherege. +</p> + +<p> +When Sylvia was seventeen, her guardian died, and she passed under the care of +Mrs. Grosvenor, a lady of wealth and fashion, and Sylvia’s nearest +relative, though a distant one. While an inmate of Mrs. Grosvenor’s +family, she still preserved somewhat of her life-long habits of seclusion, and +shrank from a too familiar intercourse with those around her. Still, too, she +was faithful to her cousin, or to the shadow which bore his name. +</p> + +<p> +The time now drew near when Edgar Vaughan, whose education had been completed +by an extensive range of travel, was to revisit the soil of his nativity. +Edward Hamilton, a young gentleman, who had been Vaughan’s companion, +both in his studies and rambles, had already recrossed the Atlantic, bringing +letters to Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia Etherege. These credentials insured him an +earnest welcome, which, however, on Sylvia’s part, was not followed by +personal partiality, or even the regard that seemed due to her cousin’s +most intimate friend. As she herself could have assigned no cause for her +repugnance, it might be termed instinctive. Hamilton’s person, it is +true, was the reverse of attractive, especially when beheld for the first time. +Yet, in the eyes of the most fastidious judges, the defect of natural grace was +compensated by the polish of his manners, and by the intellect which so often +gleamed through his dark features. Mrs. Grosvenor, with whom he immediately +became a prodigious favorite, exerted herself to overcome Sylvia’s +dislike. But, in this matter, her ward could neither be reasoned with nor +persuaded. The presence of Edward Hamilton was sure to render her cold, shy, +and distant, abstracting all the vivacity from her deportment, as if a cloud +had come betwixt her and the sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +The simplicity of Sylvia’s demeanor rendered it easy for so keen an +observer as Hamilton to detect her feelings. Whenever any slight circumstance +made him sensible of them, a smile might be seen to flit over the young +man’s sallow visage. None, that had once beheld this smile, were in any +danger of forgetting it; whenever they recalled to memory the features of +Edward Hamilton, they were always duskily illuminated by this expression of +mockery and malice. +</p> + +<p> +In a few weeks after Hamilton’s arrival, he presented to Sylvia Etherege +a miniature of her cousin, which, as he informed her, would have been delivered +sooner, but was detained with a portion of his baggage. This was the miniature +in the contemplation of which we beheld Sylvia so absorbed, at the commencement +of our story. Such, in truth, was too often the habit of the shy and musing +girl. The beauty of the pictured countenance was almost too perfect to +represent a human creature, that had been born of a fallen and world-worn race, +and had lived to manhood amid ordinary troubles and enjoyments, and must become +wrinkled with age and care. It seemed too bright for a thing formed of dust, +and doomed to crumble into dust again. Sylvia feared that such a being would be +too refined and delicate to love a simple girl like her. Yet, even while her +spirit drooped with that apprehension, the picture was but the masculine +counterpart of Sylph Etherege’s sylphlike beauty. There was that +resemblance between her own face and the miniature which is said often to exist +between lovers whom Heaven has destined for each other, and which, in this +instance, might be owing to the kindred blood of the two parties. Sylvia felt, +indeed, that there was something familiar in the countenance, so like a friend +did the eyes smile upon her, and seem to imply a knowledge of her thoughts. She +could account for this impression only by supposing that, in some of her +day-dreams, imagination had conjured up the true similitude of her distant and +unseen lover. +</p> + +<p> +But now could Sylvia give a brighter semblance of reality to those day-dreams. +Clasping the miniature to her heart, she could summon forth, from that haunted +cell of pure and blissful fantasies, the life-like shadow, to roam with her in +the moonlight garden. Even at noontide it sat with her in the arbor, when the +sunshine threw its broken flakes of gold into the clustering shade. The effect +upon her mind was hardly less powerful than if she had actually listened to, +and reciprocated, the vows of Edgar Vaughan; for, though the illusion never +quite deceived her, yet the remembrance was as distinct as of a remembered +interview. Those heavenly eyes gazed forever into her soul, which drank at them +as at a fountain, and was disquieted if reality threw a momentary cloud +between. She heard the melody of a voice breathing sentiments with which her +own chimed in like music. O happy, yet hapless girl! Thus to create the being +whom she loves, to endow him with all the attributes that were most fascinating +to her heart, and then to flit with the airy creature into the realm of fantasy +and moonlight, where dwelt his dreamy kindred! For her lover wiled Sylvia away +from earth, which seemed strange, and dull, and darksome, and lured her to a +country where her spirit roamed in peaceful rapture, deeming that it had found +its home. Many, in their youth, have visited that land of dreams, and wandered +so long in its enchanted groves, that, when banished thence, they feel like +exiles everywhere. +</p> + +<p> +The dark-browed Edward Hamilton, like the villain of a tale, would often glide +through the romance wherein poor Sylvia walked. Sometimes, at the most blissful +moment of her ecstasy, when the features of the miniature were pictured +brightest in the air, they would suddenly change, and darken, and be +transformed into his visage. And always, when such change occurred, the +intrusive visage wore that peculiar smile with which Hamilton had glanced at +Sylvia. +</p> + +<p> +Before the close of summer, it was told Sylvia Etherege that Vaughan had +arrived from France, and that she would meet him—would meet, for the +first time, the loved of years—that very evening. We will not tell how +often and how earnestly she gazed upon the miniature, thus endeavoring to +prepare herself for the approaching interview, lest the throbbing of her +timorous heart should stifle the words of welcome. While the twilight grew +deeper and duskier, she sat with Mrs. Grosvenor in an inner apartment, lighted +only by the softened gleam from an alabaster lamp, which was burning at a +distance on the centre-table of the drawing-room. Never before had Sylph +Etherege looked so sylph-like. She had communed with a creature of imagination, +till her own loveliness seemed but the creation of a delicate and dreamy fancy. +Every vibration of her spirit was visible in her frame, as she listened to the +rattling of wheels and the tramp upon the pavement, and deemed that even the +breeze bore the sound of her lover’s footsteps, as if he trode upon the +viewless air. Mrs. Grosvenor, too, while she watched the tremulous flow of +Sylvia’s feelings, was deeply moved; she looked uneasily at the agitated +girl, and was about to speak, when the opening of the street-door arrested the +words upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +Footsteps ascended the staircase, with a confident and familiar tread, and some +one entered the drawing-room. From the sofa where they sat, in the inner +apartment, Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia could not discern the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Sylph!” cried a voice. “Dearest Sylph! Where are you, sweet +Sylph Etherege? Here is your Edgar Vaughan!” +</p> + +<p> +But instead of answering, or rising to meet her lover,—who had greeted +her by the sweet and fanciful name, which, appropriate as it was to her +character, was known only to him,—Sylvia grasped Mrs. Grosvenor’s +arm, while her whole frame shook with the throbbing of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” gasped she. “Who calls me Sylph?” +</p> + +<p> +Before Mrs. Grosvenor could reply, the stranger entered the room, bearing the +lamp in his hand. Approaching the sofa, he displayed to Sylvia the features of +Edward Hamilton, illuminated by that evil smile, from which his face derived so +marked an individuality. +</p> + +<p> +“Is not the miniature an admirable likeness?” inquired he. +</p> + +<p> +Sylvia shuddered, but had not power to turn away her white face from his gaze. +The miniature, which she had been holding in her hand, fell down upon the +floor, where Hamilton, or Vaughan, set his foot upon it, and crushed the ivory +counterfeit to fragments. +</p> + +<p> +“There, my sweet Sylph,” he exclaimed. “It was I that created +your phantom-lover, and now I annihilate him! Your dream is rudely broken. +Awake, Sylph Etherege, awake to truth! I am the only Edgar Vaughan!” +</p> + +<p> +“We have gone too far, Edgar Vaughan,” said Mrs. Grosvenor, +catching Sylvia in her arms. The revengeful freak, which Vaughan’s +wounded vanity had suggested, had been countenanced by this lady, in the hope +of curing Sylvia of her romantic notions, and reconciling her to the truths and +realities of life. “Look at the poor child!” she continued. +“I protest I tremble for the consequences!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, madam!” replied Vaughan, sneeringly, as he threw the light +of the lamp on Sylvia’s closed eyes and marble features. “Well, my +conscience is clear. I did but look into this delicate creature’s heart; +and with the pure fantasies that I found there, I made what seemed a +man,—and the delusive shadow has wiled her away to Shadow-land, and +vanished there! It is no new tale. Many a sweet maid has shared the lot of poor +Sylph Etherege!” +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Edgar Vaughan,” said Mrs. Grosvenor, as Sylvia’s +heart began faintly to throb again, “now try, in good earnest, to win +back her love from the phantom which you conjured up. If you succeed, she will +be the better, her whole life long, for the lesson we have given her.” +</p> + +<p> +Whether the result of the lesson corresponded with Mrs. Grosvenor’s +hopes, may be gathered from the closing scene of our story. It had been made +known to the fashionable world that Edgar Vaughan had returned from France, +and, under the assumed name of Edward Hamilton, had won the affections of the +lovely girl to whom he had been affianced in his boyhood. The nuptials were to +take place at an early date. One evening, before the day of anticipated bliss +arrived, Edgar Vaughan entered Mrs. Grosvenor’s drawing-room, where he +found that lady and Sylph Etherege. +</p> + +<p> +“Only that Sylvia makes no complaint,” remarked Mrs. Grosvenor, +“I should apprehend that the town air is ill-suited to her constitution. +She was always, indeed, a delicate creature; but now she is a mere gossamer. Do +but look at her! Did you ever imagine anything so fragile?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan was already attentively observing his mistress, who sat in a shadowy +and moonlighted recess of the room, with her dreamy eyes fixed steadfastly upon +his own. The bough of a tree was waving before the window, and sometimes +enveloped her in the gloom of its shadow, into which she seemed to vanish. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, to Mrs. Grosvenor. “I can scarcely deem her +of the earth, earthy. No wonder that I call her Sylph! Methinks she will fade +into the moonlight, which falls upon her through the window. Or, in the open +air, she might flit away upon the breeze, like a wreath of mist!” +</p> + +<p> +Sylvia’s eyes grew yet brighter. She waved her hand to Edgar Vaughan, +with a gesture of ethereal triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell!” she said. “I will neither fade into the +moonlight, nor flit away upon the breeze. Yet you cannot keep me here!” +</p> + +<p> +There was something in Sylvia’s look and tones that startled Mrs. +Grosvenor with a terrible apprehension. But, as she was rushing towards the +girl, Vaughan held her back. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” cried he, with a strange smile of mockery and anguish. +“Can our sweet Sylph be going to heaven, to seek the original of the +miniature?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS</h2> + +<p> +The summer moon, which shines in so many a tale, was beaming over a broad +extent of uneven country. Some of its brightest rays were flung into a spring +of water, where no traveller, toiling, as the writer has, up the hilly road +beside which it gushes, ever failed to quench his thirst. The work of neat +hands and considerate art was visible about this blessed fountain. An open +cistern, hewn and hollowed out of solid stone, was placed above the waters, +which filled it to the brim, but by some invisible outlet were conveyed away +without dripping down its sides. Though the basin had not room for another +drop, and the continual gush of water made a tremor on the surface, there was a +secret charm that forbade it to overflow. I remember, that when I had slaked my +summer thirst, and sat panting by the cistern, it was my fanciful theory that +Nature could not afford to lavish so pure a liquid, as she does the waters of +all meaner fountains. +</p> + +<p> +While the moon was hanging almost perpendicularly over this spot, two figures +appeared on the summit of the hill, and came with noiseless footsteps down +towards the spring. They were then in the first freshness of youth; nor is +there a wrinkle now on either of their brows, and yet they wore a strange, +old-fashioned garb. One, a young man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath the +canopy of a broad-brimmed gray hat; he seemed to have inherited his +great-grandsire’s square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat that extended its +immense flaps to his knees; his brown locks, also, hung down behind, in a mode +unknown to our times. By his side was a sweet young damsel, her fair features +sheltered by a prim little bonnet, within which appeared the vestal muslin of a +cap; her close, long-waisted gown, and indeed her whole attire, might have been +worn by some rustic beauty who had faded half a century before. But that there +was something too warm and life-like in them, I would here have compared this +couple to the ghosts of two young lovers who had died long since in the glow of +passion, and now were straying out of their graves, to renew the old vows, and +shadow forth the unforgotten kiss of their earthly lips, beside the moonlit +spring. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee and I will rest here a moment, Miriam,” said the young man, +as they drew near the stone cistern, “for there is no fear that the +elders know what we have done; and this may be the last time we shall ever +taste this water.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus speaking, with a little sadness in his face, which was also visible in +that of his companion, he made her sit down on a stone, and was about to place +himself very close to her side; she, however, repelled him, though not +unkindly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Josiah,” said she, giving him a timid push with her maiden +hand, “thee must sit farther off, on that other stone, with the spring +between us. What would the sisters say, if thee were to sit so close to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“But we are of the world’s people now, Miriam,” answered +Josiah. +</p> + +<p> +The girl persisted in her prudery, nor did the youth, in fact, seem altogether +free from a similar sort of shyness; so they sat apart from each other, gazing +up the hill, where the moonlight discovered the tops of a group of buildings. +While their attention was thus occupied, a party of travellers, who had come +wearily up the long ascent, made a halt to refresh themselves at the spring. +There were three men, a woman, and a little girl and boy. Their attire was +mean, covered with the dust of the summer’s day, and damp with the +night-dew; they all looked woebegone, as if the cares and sorrows of the world +had made their steps heavier as they climbed the hill; even the two little +children appeared older in evil days than the young man and maiden who had +first approached the spring. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening to you, young folks,” was the salutation of the +travellers; and “Good evening, friends,” replied the youth and +damsel. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that white building the Shaker meeting-house?” asked one of the +strangers. “And are those the red roofs of the Shaker village?” +</p> + +<p> +“Friend, it is the Shaker village,” answered Josiah, after some +hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, who, from the first, had looked suspiciously at the garb of +these young people, now taxed them with an intention which all the +circumstances, indeed, rendered too obvious to be mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, friends,” replied the young man, summoning up his +courage. “Miriam and I have a gift to love each other, and we are going +among the world’s people, to live after their fashion. And ye know that +we do not transgress the law of the land; and neither ye, nor the elders +themselves, have a right to hinder us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you think it expedient to depart without leave-taking,” +remarked one of the travellers. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, ye-a,” said Josiah, reluctantly, “because father Job is +a very awful man to speak with; and being aged himself, he has but little +charity for what he calls the iniquities of the flesh.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the stranger, “we will neither use force to +bring you back to the village, nor will we betray you to the elders. But sit +you here awhile, and when you have heard what we shall tell you of the world +which we have left, and into which you are going, perhaps you will turn back +with us of your own accord. What say you?” added he, turning to his +companions. “We have travelled thus far without becoming known to each +other. Shall we tell our stories, here by this pleasant spring, for our own +pastime, and the benefit of these misguided young lovers?” +</p> + +<p> +In accordance with this proposal, the whole party stationed themselves round +the stone cistern; the two children, being very weary, fell asleep upon the +damp earth, and the pretty Shaker girl, whose feelings were those of a nun or a +Turkish lady, crept as close as possible to the female traveller, and as far as +she well could from the unknown men. The same person who had hitherto been the +chief spokesman now stood up, waving his hat in his hand, and suffered the +moonlight to fall full upon his front. +</p> + +<p> +“In me,” said he, with a certain majesty of +utterance,—“in me, you behold a poet.” +</p> + +<p> +Though a lithographic print of this gentleman is extant, it may be well to +notice that he was now nearly forty, a thin and stooping figure, in a black +coat, out at elbows; notwithstanding the ill condition of his attire, there +were about him several tokens of a peculiar sort of foppery, unworthy of a +mature man, particularly in the arrangement of his hair which was so disposed +as to give all possible loftiness and breadth to his forehead. However, he had +an intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a marked countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“A poet!” repeated the young Shaker, a little puzzled how to +understand such a designation, seldom heard in the utilitarian community where +he had spent his life. “Oh, ay, Miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must +know.” +</p> + +<p> +This remark jarred upon the susceptible nerves of the poet; nor could he help +wondering what strange fatality had put into this young man’s mouth an +epithet, which ill-natured people had affirmed to be more proper to his merit +than the one assumed by himself. +</p> + +<p> +“True, I am a verse-maker,” he resumed, “but my verse is no +more than the material body into which I breathe the celestial soul of thought. +Alas! how many a pang has it cost me, this same insensibility to the ethereal +essence of poetry, with which you have here tortured me again, at the moment +when I am to relinquish my profession forever! O Fate! why hast thou warred +with Nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin of me, +their possessor? What is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear of +taste? How can I rejoice in my strength and delicacy of feeling, when they have +but made great sorrows out of little ones? Have I dreaded scorn like death, and +yearned for fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middle +state between obscurity and infamy? But I have my revenge! I could have given +existence to a thousand bright creations. I crush them into my heart, and there +let them putrefy! I shake off the dust of my feet against my countrymen! But +posterity, tracing my footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon the +unworthy age that drove one of the fathers of American song to end his days in +a Shaker village!” +</p> + +<p> +During this harangue, the speaker gesticulated with great energy, and, as +poetry is the natural language of passion, there appeared reason to apprehend +his final explosion into an ode extempore. The reader must understand that, for +all these bitter words, he was a kind, gentle, harmless, poor fellow enough, +whom Nature, tossing her ingredients together without looking at her recipe, +had sent into the world with too much of one sort of brain, and hardly any of +another. +</p> + +<p> +“Friend,” said the young Shaker, in some perplexity, “thee +seemest to have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, I should pity them, +if—if I could but understand what they were.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happy in your ignorance!” replied the poet, with an air of sublime +superiority. “To your coarser mind, perhaps, I may seem to speak of more +important griefs when I add, what I had well-nigh forgotten, that I am out at +elbows, and almost starved to death. At any rate, you have the advice and +example of one individual to warn you back; for I am come hither, a +disappointed man, flinging aside the fragments of my hopes, and seeking shelter +in the calm retreat which you are so anxious to leave.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank thee, friend,” rejoined the youth, “but I do not +mean to be a poet, nor, Heaven be praised! do I think Miriam ever made a varse +in her life. So we need not fear thy disappointments. But, Miriam,” he +added, with real concern, “thee knowest that the elders admit nobody that +has not a gift to be useful. Now, what under the sun can they do with this poor +varse-maker?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man,” said the girl, +in all simplicity and kindness. “Our hymns are very rough, and perhaps +they may trust him to smooth them.” +</p> + +<p> +Without noticing this hint of professional employment, the poet turned away, +and gave himself up to a sort of vague reverie, which he called thought. +Sometimes he watched the moon, pouring a silvery liquid on the clouds, through +which it slowly melted till they became all bright; then he saw the same sweet +radiance dancing on the leafy trees which rustled as if to shake it off, or +sleeping on the high tops of hills, or hovering down in distant valleys, like +the material of unshaped dreams; lastly, he looked into the spring, and there +the light was mingling with the water. In its crystal bosom, too, beholding all +heaven reflected there, he found an emblem of a pure and tranquil breast. He +listened to that most ethereal of all sounds, the song of crickets, coming in +full choir upon the wind, and fancied that, if moonlight could be heard, it +would sound just like that. Finally, he took a draught at the Shaker spring, +and, as if it were the true Castalia, was forthwith moved to compose a lyric, a +Farewell to his Harp, which he swore should be its closing strain, the last +verse that an ungrateful world should have from him. This effusion, with two or +three other little pieces, subsequently written, he took the first opportunity +to send, by one of the Shaker brethren, to Concord, where they were published +in the New Hampshire Patriot. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, another of the Canterbury pilgrims, one so different from the poet +that the delicate fancy of the latter could hardly have conceived of him, began +to relate his sad experience. He was a small man, of quick and unquiet +gestures, about fifty years old, with a narrow forehead, all wrinkled and drawn +together. He held in his hand a pencil, and a card of some commission-merchant +in foreign parts, on the back of which, for there was light enough to read or +write by, he seemed ready to figure out a calculation. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man,” said he, abruptly, “what quantity of land do the +Shakers own here, in Canterbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is more than I can tell thee, friend,” answered Josiah, +“but it is a very rich establishment, and for a long way by the roadside +thee may guess the land to be ours, by the neatness of the fences.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what may be the value of the whole,” continued the stranger, +“with all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in round +numbers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, a monstrous sum,—more than I can reckon,” replied the +young Shaker. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the pilgrim, “there was a day, and not very +long ago, neither, when I stood at my counting-room window, and watched the +signal flags of three of my own ships entering the harbor, from the East +Indies, from Liverpool, and from up the Straits, and I would not have given the +invoice of the least of them for the title-deeds of this whole Shaker +settlement. You stare. Perhaps, now, you won’t believe that I could have +put more value on a little piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of your +hand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, and pasture-land would sell +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t dispute it, friend,” answered Josiah, “but I +know I had rather have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet of thy +paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may say so now,” said the ruined merchant, bitterly, +“for my name would not be worth the paper I should write it on. Of +course, you must have heard of my failure?” +</p> + +<p> +And the stranger mentioned his name, which, however mighty it might have been +in the commercial world, the young Shaker had never heard of among the +Canterbury hills. +</p> + +<p> +“Not heard of my failure!” exclaimed the merchant, considerably +piqued. “Why, it was spoken of on ’Change in London, and from +Boston to New Orleans men trembled in their shoes. At all events, I did fail, +and you see me here on my road to the Shaker village, where, doubtless (for the +Shakers are a shrewd sect), they will have a due respect for my experience, and +give me the management of the trading part of the concern, in which case I +think I can pledge myself to double their capital in four or five years. Turn +back with me, young man; for though you will never meet with my good luck, you +can hardly escape my bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not turn back for this,” replied Josiah, calmly, “any +more than for the advice of the varse-maker, between whom and thee, friend, I +see a sort of likeness, though I can’t justly say where it lies. But +Miriam and I can earn our daily bread among the world’s people as well as +in the Shaker village. And do we want anything more, Miriam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing more, Josiah,” said the girl, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, if God send +them,” observed the simple Shaker lad. +</p> + +<p> +Miriam did not reply, but looked down into the spring, where she encountered +the image of her own pretty face, blushing within the prim little bonnet. The +third pilgrim now took up the conversation. He was a sunburnt countryman, of +tall frame and bony strength, on whose rude and manly face there appeared a +darker, more sullen and obstinate despondency, than on those of either the poet +or the merchant. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, youngster,” he began, “these folks have had their +say, so I’ll take my turn. My story will cut but a poor figure by the +side of theirs; for I never supposed that I could have a right to meat and +drink, and great praise besides, only for tagging rhymes together, as it seems +this man does; nor ever tried to get the substance of hundreds into my own +hands, like the trader there. When I was about of your years, I married me a +wife,—just such a neat and pretty young woman as Miriam, if that’s +her name,—and all I asked of Providence was an ordinary blessing on the +sweat of my brow, so that we might be decent and comfortable, and have daily +bread for ourselves, and for some other little mouths that we soon had to feed. +We had no very great prospects before us; but I never wanted to be idle; and I +thought it a matter of course that the Lord would help me, because I was +willing to help myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And didn’t He help thee, friend?” demanded Josiah, with some +eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the yeoman, sullenly; “for then you would not have +seen me here. I have labored hard for years; and my means have been growing +narrower, and my living poorer, and my heart colder and heavier, all the time; +till at last I could bear it no longer. I set myself down to calculate whether +I had best go on the Oregon expedition, or come here to the Shaker village; but +I had not hope enough left in me to begin the world over again; and, to make my +story short, here I am. And now, youngster, take my advice, and turn back; or +else, some few years hence, you’ll have to climb this hill, with as heavy +a heart as mine.” +</p> + +<p> +This simple story had a strong effect on the young fugitives. The misfortunes +of the poet and merchant had won little sympathy from their plain good sense +and unworldly feelings, qualities which made them such unprejudiced and +inflexible judges, that few men would have chosen to take the opinion of this +youth and maiden as to the wisdom or folly of their pursuits. But here was one +whose simple wishes had resembled their own, and who, after efforts which +almost gave him a right to claim success from fate, had failed in accomplishing +them. +</p> + +<p> +“But thy wife, friend?” exclaimed the younger man. “What +became of the pretty girl, like Miriam? Oh, I am afraid she is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, poor man, she must be dead,—she and the children, too,” +sobbed Miriam. +</p> + +<p> +The female pilgrim had been leaning over the spring, wherein latterly a tear or +two might have been seen to fall, and form its little circle on the surface of +the water. She now looked up, disclosing features still comely, but which had +acquired an expression of fretfulness, in the same long course of evil fortune +that had thrown a sullen gloom over the temper of the unprosperous yeoman. +</p> + +<p> +“I am his wife,” said she, a shade of irritability just perceptible +in the sadness of her tone. “These poor little things, asleep on the +ground, are two of our children. We had two more, but God has provided better +for them than we could, by taking them to Himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what would thee advise Josiah and me to do?” asked Miriam, +this being the first question which she had put to either of the strangers. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to part true +lovers,” answered the yeoman’s wife, after a pause; “but +I’ll speak as truly to you as if these were my dying words. Though my +husband told you some of our troubles, he didn’t mention the greatest, +and that which makes all the rest so hard to bear. If you and your sweetheart +marry, you’ll be kind and pleasant to each other for a year or two, and +while that’s the case, you never will repent; but, by and by, he’ll +grow gloomy, rough, and hard to please, and you’ll be peevish, and full +of little angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the fireside, when he comes +to rest himself from his troubles out of doors; so your love will wear away by +little and little, and leave you miserable at last. It has been so with us; and +yet my husband and I were true lovers once, if ever two young folks were +.” +</p> + +<p> +As she ceased, the yeoman and his wife exchanged a glance, in which there was +more and warmer affection than they had supposed to have escaped the frost of a +wintry fate, in either of their breasts. At that moment, when they stood on the +utmost verge of married life, one word fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiar +look, had they had mutual confidence enough to reciprocate it, might have +renewed all their old feelings, and sent them back, resolved to sustain each +other amid the struggles of the world. But the crisis passed and never came +again. Just then, also, the children, roused by their mother’s voice, +looked up, and added their wailing accents to the testimony borne by all the +Canterbury pilgrims against the world from which they fled. +</p> + +<p> +“We are tired and hungry!” cried they. “Is it far to the +Shaker village?” +</p> + +<p> +The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other’s eyes. +They had but stepped across the threshold of their homes, when lo! the dark +array of cares and sorrows that rose up to warn them back. The varied +narratives of the strangers had arranged themselves into a parable; they seemed +not merely instances of woful fate that had befallen others, but shadowy omens +of disappointed hope and unavailing toil, domestic grief and estranged +affection, that would cloud the onward path of these poor fugitives. But after +one instant’s hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed their +resolve with as pure and fond an embrace as ever youthful love had hallowed. +</p> + +<p> +“We will not go back,” said they. “The world never can be +dark to us, for we will always love one another.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Canterbury pilgrims went up the hill, while the poet chanted a drear +and desperate stanza of the Farewell to his Harp, fitting music for that +melancholy band. They sought a home where all former ties of nature or society +would be sundered, and all old distinctions levelled, and a cold and +passionless security be substituted for mortal hope and fear, as in that other +refuge of the world’s weary outcasts, the grave. The lovers drank at the +Shaker spring, and then, with chastened hopes, but more confiding affections, +went on to mingle in an untried life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>OLD NEWS</h2> + +<p> +There is a volume of what were once newspapers each on a small half-sheet, +yellow and time-stained, of a coarse fabric, and imprinted with a rude old +type. Their aspect conveys a singular impression of antiquity, in a species of +literature which we are accustomed to consider as connected only with the +present moment. Ephemeral as they were intended and supposed to be, they have +long outlived the printer and his whole subscription-list, and have proved more +durable, as to their physical existence, than most of the timber, bricks, and +stone of the town where they were issued. These are but the least of their +triumphs. The government, the interests, the opinions, in short, all the moral +circumstances that were contemporary with their publication, have passed away, +and left no better record of what they were than may be found in these frail +leaves. Happy are the editors of newspapers! Their productions excel all others +in immediate popularity, and are certain to acquire another sort of value with +the lapse of time. They scatter their leaves to the wind, as the sibyl did, and +posterity collects them, to be treasured up among the best materials of its +wisdom. With hasty pens they write for immortality. +</p> + +<p> +It is pleasant to take one of these little dingy half-sheets between the thumb +and finger, and picture forth the personage who, above ninety years ago, held +it, wet from the press, and steaming, before the fire. Many of the numbers bear +the name of an old colonial dignitary. There he sits, a major, a member of the +council, and a weighty merchant, in his high-backed arm-chair, wearing a solemn +wig and grave attire, such as befits his imposing gravity of mien, and +displaying but little finery, except a huge pair of silver shoe-buckles, +curiously carved. Observe the awful reverence of his visage, as he reads his +Majesty’s most gracious speech; and the deliberate wisdom with which he +ponders over some paragraph of provincial politics, and the keener intelligence +with which he glances at the ship-news and commercial advertisements. Observe, +and smile! He may have been a wise man in his day; but, to us, the wisdom of +the politician appears like folly, because we can compare its prognostics with +actual results; and the old merchant seems to have busied himself about +vanities, because we know that the expected ships have been lost at sea, or +mouldered at the wharves; that his imported broadcloths were long ago worn to +tatters, and his cargoes of wine quaffed to the lees; and that the most +precious leaves of his ledger have become waste-paper. Yet, his avocations were +not so vain as our philosophic moralizing. In this world we are the things of a +moment, and are made to pursue momentary things, with here and there a thought +that stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps may endure as long. All +philosophy that would abstract mankind from the present is no more than words. +</p> + +<p> +The first pages of most of these old papers are as soporific as a bed of +poppies. Here we have an erudite clergyman, or perhaps a Cambridge professor, +occupying several successive weeks with a criticism on Tate and Brady, as +compared with the New England version of the Psalms. Of course, the preference +is given to the native article. Here are doctors disagreeing about the +treatment of a putrid fever then prevalent, and blackguarding each other with a +characteristic virulence that renders the controversy not altogether +unreadable. Here are President Wigglesworth and the Rev. Dr. Colman, +endeavoring to raise a fund for the support of missionaries among the Indians +of Massachusetts Bay. Easy would be the duties of such a mission now! +Here—for there is nothing new under the sun—are frequent complaints +of the disordered state of the currency, and the project of a bank with a +capital of five hundred thousand pounds, secured on lands. Here are literary +essays, from the Gentleman’s Magazine; and squibs against the Pretender, +from the London newspapers. And here, occasionally, are specimens of New +England honor, laboriously light and lamentably mirthful, as if some very sober +person, in his zeal to be merry, were dancing a jig to the tune of a +funeral-psalm. All this is wearisome, and we must turn the leaf. +</p> + +<p> +There is a good deal of amusement, and some profit, in the perusal of those +little items which characterize the manners and circumstances of the country. +New England was then in a state incomparably more picturesque than at present, +or than it has been within the memory of man; there being, as yet, only a +narrow strip of civilization along the edge of a vast forest, peopled with +enough of its original race to contrast the savage life with the old customs of +another world. The white population, also, was diversified by the influx of all +sorts of expatriated vagabonds, and by the continual importation of +bond-servants from Ireland and elsewhere, so that there was a wild and +unsettled multitude, forming a strong minority to the sober descendants of the +Puritans. Then, there were the slaves, contributing their dark shade to the +picture of society. The consequence of all this was a great variety and +singularity of action and incident, many instances of which might be selected +from these columns, where they are told with a simplicity and quaintness of +style that bring the striking points into very strong relief. It is natural to +suppose, too, that these circumstances affected the body of the people, and +made their course of life generally less regular than that of their +descendants. There is no evidence that the moral standard was higher then than +now; or, indeed, that morality was so well defined as it has since become. +There seem to have been quite as many frauds and robberies, in proportion to +the number of honest deeds; there were murders, in hot-blood and in malice; and +bloody quarrels over liquor. Some of our fathers also appear to have been yoked +to unfaithful wives, if we may trust the frequent notices of elopements from +bed and board. The pillory, the whipping-post, the prison, and the gallows, +each had their use in those old times; and, in short, as often as our +imagination lives in the past, we find it a ruder and rougher age than our own, +with hardly any perceptible advantages, and much that gave life a gloomier +tinge. In vain we endeavor to throw a sunny and joyous air over our picture of +this period; nothing passes before our fancy but a crowd of sad-visaged people, +moving duskily through a dull gray atmosphere. It is certain that winter rushed +upon them with fiercer storms than now, blocking up the narrow forest-paths, +and overwhelming the roads along the sea-coast with mountain snow drifts; so +that weeks elapsed before the newspaper could announce how many travellers had +perished, or what wrecks had strewn the shore. The cold was more piercing then, +and lingered further into the spring, making the chimney-corner a comfortable +seat till long past May-day. By the number of such accidents on record, we +might suppose that the thunder-stone, as they termed it, fell oftener and +deadlier on steeples, dwellings, and unsheltered wretches. In fine, our fathers +bore the brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than we. There were +forebodings, also, of a more fearful tempest than those of the elements. At two +or three dates, we have stories of drums, trumpets, and all sorts of martial +music, passing athwart the midnight sky, accompanied with the—roar of +cannon and rattle of musketry, prophetic echoes of the sounds that were soon to +shake the land. Besides these airy prognostics, there were rumors of French +fleets on the coast, and of the march of French and Indians through the +wilderness, along the borders of the settlements. The country was saddened, +moreover, with grievous sicknesses. The small-pox raged in many of the towns, +and seems, though so familiar a scourge, to have been regarded with as much +affright as that which drove the throng from Wall Street and Broadway at the +approach of a new pestilence. There were autumnal fevers too, and a contagious +and destructive throat-distemper,—diseases unwritten in medical hooks. +The dark superstition of former days had not yet been so far dispelled as not +to heighten the gloom of the present times. There is an advertisement, indeed, +by a committee of the Legislature, calling for information as to the +circumstances of sufferers in the “late calamity of 1692,” with a +view to reparation for their losses and misfortunes. But the tenderness with +which, after above forty years, it was thought expedient to allude to the +witchcraft delusion, indicates a good deal of lingering error, as well as the +advance of more enlightened opinions. The rigid hand of Puritanism might yet be +felt upon the reins of government, while some of the ordinances intimate a +disorderly spirit on the part of the people. The Suffolk justices, after a +preamble that great disturbances have been committed by persons entering town +and leaving it in coaches, chaises, calashes, and other wheel-carriages, on the +evening before the Sabbath, give notice that a watch will hereafter be set at +the “fortification-gate,” to prevent these outrages. It is amusing +to see Boston assuming the aspect of a walled city, guarded, probably, by a +detachment of church-members, with a deacon at their head. Governor Belcher +makes proclamation against certain “loose and dissolute people” who +have been wont to stop passengers in the streets, on the Fifth of November, +“otherwise called Pope’s Day,” and levy contributions for the +building of bonfires. In this instance, the populace are more puritanic than +the magistrate. +</p> + +<p> +The elaborate solemnities of funerals were in accordance with the sombre +character of the times. In cases of ordinary death, the printer seldom fails to +notice that the corpse was “very decently interred.” But when some +mightier mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of the +“worshipful” such-a-one is announced, with all his titles of +deacon, justice, councillor, and colonel; then follows an heraldic sketch of +his honorable ancestors, and lastly an account of the black pomp of his +funeral, and the liberal expenditure of scarfs, gloves, and mourning rings. The +burial train glides slowly before us, as we have seen it represented in the +woodcuts of that day, the coffin, and the bearers, and the lamentable friends, +trailing their long black garments, while grim Death, a most misshapen +skeleton, with all kinds of doleful emblems, stalks hideously in front. There +was a coach maker at this period, one John Lucas, who scents to have gained the +chief of his living by letting out a sable coach to funerals. It would not be +fair, however, to leave quite so dismal an impression on the reader’s +mind; nor should it be forgotten that happiness may walk soberly in dark +attire, as well as dance lightsomely in a gala-dress. And this reminds us that +there is an incidental notice of the “dancing-school near the +Orange-Tree,” whence we may infer that the salutatory art was +occasionally practised, though perhaps chastened into a characteristic gravity +of movement. This pastime was probably confined to the aristocratic circle, of +which the royal governor was the centre. But we are scandalized at the attempt +of Jonathan Furness to introduce a more reprehensible amusement: he challenges +the whole country to match his black gelding in a race for a hundred pounds, to +be decided on Metonomy Common or Chelsea Beach. Nothing as to the manners of +the times can be inferred from this freak of an individual. There were no daily +and continual opportunities of being merry; but sometimes the people rejoiced, +in their own peculiar fashion, oftener with a calm, religious smile than with a +broad laugh, as when they feasted, like one great family, at Thanksgiving time, +or indulged a livelier mirth throughout the pleasant days of Election-week. +This latter was the true holiday season of New England. Military musters were +too seriously important in that warlike time to be classed among amusements; +but they stirred up and enlivened the public mind, and were occasions of solemn +festival to the governor and great men of the province, at the expense of the +field-offices. The Revolution blotted a feast-day out of our calendar; for the +anniversary of the king’s birth appears to have been celebrated with most +imposing pomp, by salutes from Castle William, a military parade, a grand +dinner at the town-house, and a brilliant illumination in the evening. There +was nothing forced nor feigned in these testimonials of loyalty to George the +Second. So long as they dreaded the re-establishment of a popish dynasty, the +people were fervent for the house of Hanover: and, besides, the immediate +magistracy of the country was a barrier between the monarch and the occasional +discontents of the colonies; the waves of faction sometimes reached the +governor’s chair, but never swelled against the throne. Thus, until +oppression was felt to proceed from the king’s own hand, New England +rejoiced with her whole heart on his Majesty’s birthday. +</p> + +<p> +But the slaves, we suspect, were the merriest part of the population, since it +was their gift to be merry in the worst of circumstances; and they endured, +comparatively, few hardships, under the domestic sway of our fathers. There +seems to have been a great trade in these human commodities. No advertisements +are more frequent than those of “a negro fellow, fit for almost any +household work”; “a negro woman, honest, healthy, and +capable”; “a negro wench of many desirable qualities”; +“a negro man, very fit for a taylor.” We know not in what this +natural fitness for a tailor consisted, unless it were some peculiarity of +conformation that enabled him to sit cross-legged. When the slaves of a family +were inconveniently prolific,—it being not quite orthodox to drown the +superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens,—notice was promulgated +of “a negro child to be given away.” Sometimes the slaves assumed +the property of their own persons, and made their escape; among many such +instances, the governor raises a hue-and-cry after his negro Juba. But, without +venturing a word in extenuation of the general system, we confess our opinion +that Caesar, Pompey, Scipio, and all such great Roman namesakes, would have +been better advised had they stayed at home, foddering the cattle, cleaning +dishes,—in fine, performing their moderate share of the labors of life, +without being harassed by its cares. The sable inmates of the mansion were not +excluded from the domestic affections: in families of middling rank, they had +their places at the board; and when the circle closed round the evening hearth, +its blaze glowed on their dark shining faces, intermixed familiarly with their +master’s children. It must have contributed to reconcile them to their +lot, that they saw white men and women imported from Europe as they had been +from Africa, and sold, though only for a term of years, yet as actual slaves to +the highest bidder. Slave labor being but a small part of the industry of the +country, it did not change the character of the people; the latter, on the +contrary, modified and softened the institution, making it a patriarchal, and +almost a beautiful, peculiarity of the times. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! We had forgotten the good old merchant, over whose shoulder we were +peeping, while he read the newspaper. Let us now suppose him putting on his +three-cornered gold-laced hat, grasping his cane, with a head inlaid of ebony +and mother-of-pearl, and setting forth, through the crooked streets of Boston, +on various errands, suggested by the advertisements of the day. Thus he +communes with himself: I must be mindful, says he, to call at Captain +Scut’s, in Creek Lane, and examine his rich velvet, whether it be fit for +my apparel on Election-day,—that I may wear a stately aspect in presence +of the governor and my brethren of the council. I will look in, also, at the +shop of Michael Cario, the jeweller: he has silver buckles of a new fashion; +and mine have lasted me some half-score years. My fair daughter Miriam shall +have an apron of gold brocade, and a velvet mask,—though it would be a +pity the wench should hide her comely visage; and also a French cap, from +Robert Jenkins’s, on the north side of the town-house. He hath beads, +too, and ear-rings, and necklaces, of all sorts; these are but vanities, +nevertheless, they would please the silly maiden well. My dame desireth another +female in the kitchen; wherefore, I must inspect the lot of Irish lasses, for +sale by Samuel Waldo, aboard the schooner Endeavor; as also the likely negro +wench, at Captain Bulfinch’s. It were not amiss that I took my daughter +Miriam to see the royal waxwork, near the town-dock, that she may learn to +honor our most gracious King and Queen, and their royal progeny, even in their +waxen images; not that I would approve of image-worship. The camel, too, that +strange beast from Africa, with two great humps, to be seen near the Common; +methinks I would fain go thither, and see how the old patriarchs were wont to +ride. I will tarry awhile in Queen Street, at the bookstore of my good friends +Kneeland & Green, and purchase Dr. Colman’s new sermon, and the +volume of discourses by Mr. Henry Flynt; and look over the controversy on +baptism, between the Rev. Peter Clarke and an unknown adversary; and see +whether this George Whitefield be as great in print as he is famed to be in the +pulpit. By that time, the auction will have commenced at the Royal Exchange, in +King Street. Moreover, I must look to the disposal of my last cargo of West +India rum and muscovado sugar; and also the lot of choice Cheshire cheese, lest +it grow mouldy. It were well that I ordered a cask of good English beer, at the +lower end of Milk Street. +</p> + +<p> +Then am I to speak with certain dealers about the lot of stout old Vidonia, +rich Canary, and Oporto-wines, which I have now lying in the cellar of the Old +South meeting-house. But, a pipe or two of the rich Canary shall be reserved, +that it may grow mellow in mine own wine-cellar, and gladden my heart when it +begins to droop with old age. +</p> + +<p> +Provident old gentleman! But, was he mindful of his sepulchre? Did he bethink +him to call at the workshop of Timothy Sheaffe, in Cold Lane, and select such a +gravestone as would best please him? There wrought the man whose handiwork, or +that of his fellow-craftsmen, was ultimately in demand by all the busy +multitude who have left a record of their earthly toil in these old +time-stained papers. And now, as we turn over the volume, we seem to be +wandering among the mossy stones of a burial-ground. +</p> + +<h3>II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR.</h3> + +<p> +At a period about twenty years subsequent to that of our former sketch, we +again attempt a delineation of some of the characteristics of life and manners +in New England. Our text-book, as before, is a file of antique newspapers. The +volume which serves us for a writing-desk is a folio of larger dimensions than +the one before described; and the papers are generally printed on a whole +sheet, sometimes with a supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. They have +a venerable appearance, being overspread with a duskiness of more than seventy +years, and discolored, here and there, with the deeper stains of some liquid, +as if the contents of a wineglass had long since been splashed upon the page. +Still, the old book conveys an impression that, when the separate numbers were +flying about town, in the first day or two of their respective existences, they +might have been fit reading for very stylish people. Such newspapers could have +been issued nowhere but in a metropolis the centre, not only of public and +private affairs, but of fashion and gayety. Without any discredit to the +colonial press, these might have been, and probably were, spread out on the +tables of the British coffee-house, in king Street, for the perusal of the +throng of officers who then drank their wine at that celebrated establishment. +To interest these military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the war between +Prussia and Austria; between England and France, on the old battle-plains of +Flanders; and between the same antagonists, in the newer fields of the East +Indies,—and in our own trackless woods, where white men never trod until +they came to fight there. Or, the travelled American, the petit-maitre of the +colonies,—the ape of London foppery, as the newspaper was the semblance +of the London journals,—he, with his gray powdered periwig, his +embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy silk stockings, +golden-clocked,—his buckles of glittering paste, at knee-band and +shoe-strap,—his scented handkerchief, and chapeau beneath his arm, even +such a dainty figure need not have disdained to glance at these old yellow +pages, while they were the mirror of passing times. For his amusement, there +were essays of wit and humor, the light literature of the day, which, for +breadth and license, might have proceeded from the pen of Fielding or Smollet; +while, in other columns, he would delight his imagination with the enumerated +items of all sorts of finery, and with the rival advertisements of half a dozen +peruke-makers. In short, newer manners and customs had almost entirely +superseded those of the Puritans, even in their own city of refuge. +</p> + +<p> +It was natural that, with the lapse of time and increase of wealth and +population, the peculiarities of the early settlers should have waxed fainter +and fainter through the generations of their descendants, who also had been +alloyed by a continual accession of emigrants from many countries and of all +characters. It tended to assimilate the colonial manners to those of the +mother-country, that the commercial intercourse was great, and that the +merchants often went thither in their own ships. Indeed, almost every man of +adequate fortune felt a yearning desire, and even judged it a filial duty, at +least once in his life, to visit the home of his ancestors. They still called +it their own home, as if New England were to them, what many of the old +Puritans had considered it, not a permanent abiding-place, but merely a lodge +in the wilderness, until the trouble of the times should be passed. The example +of the royal governors must have had much influence on the manners of the +colonists; for these rulers assumed a degree of state and splendor which had +never been practised by their predecessors, who differed in nothing from +republican chief-magistrates, under the old charter. The officers of the crown, +the public characters in the interest of the administration, and the gentlemen +of wealth and good descent, generally noted for their loyalty, would constitute +a dignified circle, with the governor in the centre, bearing a very passable +resemblance to a court. Their ideas, their habits, their bode of courtesy, and +their dress would have all the fresh glitter of fashions immediately derived +from the fountain-head, in England. To prevent their modes of life from +becoming the standard with all who had the ability to imitate them, there was +no longer an undue severity of religion, nor as yet any disaffection to British +supremacy, nor democratic prejudices against pomp. Thus, while the colonies +were attaining that strength which was soon to render them an independent +republic, it might have been supposed that the wealthier classes were growing +into an aristocracy, and ripening for hereditary rank, while the poor were to +be stationary in their abasement, and the country, perhaps, to be a sister +monarchy with England. Such, doubtless, were the plausible conjectures deduced +from the superficial phenomena of our connection with a monarchical government, +until the prospective nobility were levelled with the mob, by the mere +gathering of winds that preceded the storm of the Revolution. The portents of +that storm were not yet visible in the air. A true picture of society, +therefore, would have the rich effect produced by distinctions of rank that +seemed permanent, and by appropriate habits of splendor on the part of the +gentry. +</p> + +<p> +The people at large had been somewhat changed in character, since the period of +our last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest of Louisburg. After that +event, the New-Englanders never settled into precisely the same quiet race +which all the world had imagined them to be. They had done a deed of history, +and were anxious to add new ones to the record. They had proved themselves +powerful enough to influence the result of a war, and were thenceforth called +upon, and willingly consented, to join their strength against the enemies of +England; on those fields, at least, where victory would redound to their +peculiar advantage. And now, in the heat of the Old French War, they might well +be termed a martial people. Every man was a soldier, or the father or brother +of a soldier; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll of the drum, +either beating up for recruits among the towns and villages, or striking the +march towards the frontiers. Besides the provincial troops, there were +twenty-three British regiments in the northern colonies. The country has never +known a period of such excitement and warlike life; except during the +Revolution,—perhaps scarcely then; for that was a lingering war, and this +a stirring and eventful one. +</p> + +<p> +One would think that no very wonderful talent was requisite for an historical +novel, when the rough and hurried paragraphs of these newspapers can recall the +past so magically. We seem to be waiting in the street for the arrival of the +post-rider—who is seldom more than twelve hours beyond his +time—with letters, by way of Albany, from the various departments of the +army. Or, we may fancy ourselves in the circle of listeners, all with necks +stretched out towards an old gentleman in the centre, who deliberately puts on +his spectacles, unfolds the wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the +broken and contradictory reports, which have been flying from mouth to mouth, +ever since the courier alighted at Secretary Oliver’s office. Sometimes +we have an account of the Indian skirmishes near Lake George, and how a ranging +party of provincials were so closely pursued, that they threw away their arms, +and eke their shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely reaching the camp in their +shirts, which also were terribly tattered by the bushes. Then, there is a +journal of the siege of Fort Niagara, so minute that it almost numbers the +cannon-shot and bombs, and describes the effect of the latter missiles on the +French commandant’s stone mansion, within the fortress. In the letters of +the provincial officers, it is amusing to observe how some of them endeavor to +catch the careless and jovial turn of old campaigners. One gentleman tells us +that he holds a brimming glass in his hand, intending to drink the health of +his correspondent, unless a cannon ball should dash the liquor from his lips; +in the midst of his letter he hears the bells of the French churches ringing, +in Quebec, and recollects that it is Sunday; whereupon, like a good Protestant, +he resolves to disturb the Catholic worship by a few thirty-two pound shot. +While this wicked man of war was thus making a jest of religion, his pious +mother had probably put up a note, that very Sabbath-day, desiring the +“prayers of the congregation for a son gone a soldiering.” We +trust, however, that there were some stout old worthies who were not ashamed to +do as their fathers did, but went to prayer, with their soldiers, before +leading them to battle; and doubtless fought none the worse for that. If we had +enlisted in the Old French War, it should have been under such a captain; for +we love to see a man keep the characteristics of his country.* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[* The contemptuous jealousy of the British army, from the general downwards, +was very galling to the provincial troops. In one of the newspapers, there is +an admirable letter of a New England man, copied from the London Chronicle, +defending the provincials with an ability worthy of Franklin, and somewhat in +his style. The letter is remarkable, also, because it takes up the cause of the +whole range of colonies, as if the writer looked upon them all as constituting +one country, and that his own. Colonial patriotism had not hitherto been so +broad a sentiment.] +</p> + +<p> +These letters, and other intelligence from the army, are pleasant and lively +reading, and stir up the mind like the music of a drum and fife. It is less +agreeable to meet with accounts of women slain and scalped, and infants dashed +against trees, by the Indians on the frontiers. It is a striking circumstance, +that innumerable bears, driven from the woods, by the uproar of contending +armies in their accustomed haunts, broke into the settlements, and committed +great ravages among children, as well as sheep and swine. Some of them prowled +where bears had never been for a century, penetrating within a mile or two of +Boston; a fact that gives a strong and gloomy impression of something very +terrific going on in the forest, since these savage beasts fled townward to +avoid it. But it is impossible to moralize about such trifles, when every +newspaper contains tales of military enterprise, and often a huzza for victory; +as, for instance, the taking of Ticonderoga, long a place of awe to the +provincials, and one of the bloodiest spots in the present war. Nor is it +unpleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to find a note of sorrow for the +fall of some brave officer; it comes wailing in, like a funeral strain amidst a +peal of triumph, itself triumphant too. Such was the lamentation over Wolfe. +Somewhere, in this volume of newspapers, though we cannot now lay our finger +upon the passage, we recollect a report that General Wolfe was slain, not by +the enemy, but by a shot from his own soldiers. +</p> + +<p> +In the advertising columns, also, we are continually reminded that the country +was in a state of war. Governor Pownall makes proclamation for the enlisting of +soldiers, and directs the militia colonels to attend to the discipline of their +regiments, and the selectmen of every town to replenish their stocks of +ammunition. The magazine, by the way, was generally kept in the upper loft of +the village meeting-house. The provincial captains are drumming up for +soldiers, in every newspaper. Sir Jeffrey Amherst advertises for batteaux-men, +to be employed on the lakes; and gives notice to the officers of seven British +regiments, dispersed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous in Boston. +Captain Hallowell, of the province ship-of-war King George, invites able-bodied +seamen to serve his Majesty, for fifteen pounds, old tenor, per month. By the +rewards offered, there would appear to have been frequent desertions from the +New England forces: we applaud their wisdom, if not their valor or integrity. +Cannon of all calibres, gunpowder and balls, firelocks, pistols, swords, and +hangers, were common articles of merchandise. Daniel Jones, at the sign of the +hat and helmet, offers to supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold-lace +for hats and waistcoats, cockades, and other military foppery, allowing credit +until the payrolls shall be made up. This advertisement gives us quite a +gorgeous idea of a provincial captain in full dress. +</p> + +<p> +At the commencement of the campaign of 1759, the British general informs the +farmers of New England that a regular market will be established at Lake +George, whither they are invited to bring provisions and refreshments of all +sorts, for the use of the army. Hence, we may form a singular picture of petty +traffic, far away from any permanent settlements, among the hills which border +that romantic lake, with the solemn woods overshadowing the scene. Carcasses of +bullocks and fat porkers are placed upright against the huge trunks of the +trees; fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing against the heads of those +beneath; butter-firkins, great cheeses, and brown loaves of household bread, +baked in distant ovens, are collected under temporary shelters or pine-boughs, +with gingerbread, and pumpkin-pies, perhaps, and other toothsome dainties. +Barrels of cider and spruce-beer are running freely into the wooden canteens of +the soldiers. Imagine such a scene, beneath the dark forest canopy, with here +and there a few struggling sunbeams, to dissipate the gloom. See the shrewd +yeomen, haggling with their scarlet-coated customers, abating somewhat in their +prices, but still dealing at monstrous profit; and then complete the picture +with circumstances that bespeak war and danger. A cannon shall be seen to belch +its smoke from among the trees, against some distant canoes on the lake; the +traffickers shall pause, and seem to hearken, at intervals, as if they heard +the rattle of musketry or the shout of Indians; a scouting-party shall be +driven in, with two or three faint and bloody men among them. And, in spite of +these disturbances, business goes on briskly in the market of the wilderness. +</p> + +<p> +It must not be supposed that the martial character of the times interrupted all +pursuits except those connected with war. On the contrary, there appears to +have been a general vigor and vivacity diffused into the whole round of +colonial life. During the winter of 1759, it was computed that about a thousand +sled-loads of country produce were daily brought into Boston market. It was a +symptom of an irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innumerable +lotteries were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvements, +such as roads and bridges. Many females seized the opportunity to engage in +business: as, among others, Alice Quick, who dealt in crockery and hosiery, +next door to Deacon Beautineau’s; Mary Jackson, who sold butter, at the +Brazen-Head, in Cornhill; Abigail Hiller, who taught ornamental work, near the +Orange-Tree, where also were to be seen the King and Queen, in wax-work; Sarah +Morehead, an instructor in glass-painting, drawing, and japanning; Mary Salmon, +who shod horses, at the South End; Harriet Pain, at the Buck and Glove, and +Mrs. Henrietta Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashionable milliners; Anna +Adams, who advertises Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks, and scarlet +cardinals, opposite the old brick meeting-house; besides a lady at the head of +a wine and spirit establishment. Little did these good dames expect to reappear +before the public, so long after they had made their last courtesies behind the +counter. Our great-grandmothers were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not to +have been utterly despised by the gentlemen at the British coffee-house; at +least, some gracious bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of his +willingness to take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possess +brown hair, regular features, a brisk eye, and a fortune. Now, this was great +condescension towards the ladies of Massachusetts Bay, in a threadbare +lieutenant of foot. +</p> + +<p> +Polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. Few native works were +advertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of controversial divinity; +nor were the English authors of the day much known on this side of the +Atlantic. But catalogues were frequently offered at auction or private sale, +comprising the standard English books, history, essays, and poetry, of Queen +Anne’s age, and the preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of a +novel, unless it be “The Two Mothers, price four coppers.” There +was an American poet, however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved no +specimen,—the author of “War, an Heroic Poem”; he publishes +by subscription, and threatens to prosecute his patrons for not taking their +books. We have discovered a periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claim +to be recorded here, since it bore the title of “T<small>HE</small> +N<small>EW</small> E<small>NGLAND</small> M<small>AGAZINE</small>,” a +forgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and take its +excellence on trust. The fine arts, too, were budding into existence. At the +“old glass and picture shop,” in Cornhill, various maps, plates, +and views are advertised, and among them a “Prospect of Boston,” a +copperplate engraving of Quebec, and the effigies of all the New England +ministers ever done in mezzotinto. All these must have been very salable +articles. Other ornamental wares were to be found at the same shop; such as +violins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, English and Dutch toys, and London +babies. About this period, Mr. Dipper gives notice of a concert of vocal and +instrumental music. There had already been an attempt at theatrical +exhibitions. +</p> + +<p> +There are tokens, in every newspaper, of a style of luxury and magnificence +which we do not usually associate with our ideas of the times. When the +property of a deceased person was to be sold, we find, among the household +furniture, silk beds and hangings, damask table-cloths, Turkey carpets, +pictures, pier-glasses, massive plate, and all things proper for a noble +mansion. Wine was more generally drunk than now, though by no means to the +neglect of ardent spirits. For the apparel of both sexes, the mercers and +milliners imported good store of fine broadcloths, especially scarlet, crimson, +and sky-blue, silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, gold brocade, and gold and +silver lace, and silver tassels, and silver spangles, until Cornhill shone and +sparkled with their merchandise. The gaudiest dress permissible by modern taste +fades into a Quaker-like sobriety, compared with the deep, rich, glowing +splendor of our ancestors. Such figures were almost too fine to go about town +on foot; accordingly, carriages were so numerous as to require a tax; and it is +recorded that, when Governor Bernard came to the province, he was met between +Dedham and Boston by a multitude of gentlemen in their coaches and chariots. +</p> + +<p> +Take my arm, gentle reader, and come with me into some street, perhaps trodden +by your daily footsteps, but which now has such an aspect of half-familiar +strangeness, that you suspect yourself to be walking abroad in a dream. True, +there are some brick edifices which you remember from childhood, and which your +father and grandfather remembered as well; but you are perplexed by the absence +of many that were here only an hour or two since; and still more amazing is the +presence of whole rows of wooden and plastered houses, projecting over the +sidewalks, and bearing iron figures on their fronts, which prove them to have +stood on the same sites above a century. Where have your eyes been that you +never saw them before? Along the ghostly street,—for, at length, you +conclude that all is unsubstantial, though it be so good a mockery of an +antique town,—along the ghostly street, there are ghostly people too. +Every gentleman has his three-cornered hat, either on his head or under his +arm; and all wear wigs in infinite variety,—the Tie, the Brigadier, the +Spencer, the Albemarle, the Major, the Ramillies, the grave Full-bottom, or the +giddy Feather-top. Look at the elaborate lace-ruffles, and the square-skirted +coats of gorgeous hues, bedizened with silver and gold! Make way for the +phantom-ladies, whose hoops require such breadth of passage, as they pace +majestically along, in silken gowns, blue, green, or yellow, brilliantly +embroidered, and with small satin hats surmounting their powdered hair. Make +way; for the whole spectral show will vanish, if your earthly garments brush +against their robes. Now that the scene is brightest, and the whole street +glitters with imaginary sunshine,—now hark to the bells of the Old South +and the Old North, ringing out with a sudden and merry peal, while the cannon +of Castle William thunder below the town, and those of the Diana frigate repeat +the sound, and the Charlestown batteries reply with a nearer roar! You see the +crowd toss up their hats in visionary joy. You hear of illuminations and +fire-works, and of bonfires, built oil scaffolds, raised several stories above +the ground, that are to blaze all night in King Street and on Beacon Hill. And +here come the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of the Boston +troop of horseguards, escorting the governor to King’s Chapel, where he +is to return solemn thanks for the surrender of Quebec. March on, thou shadowy +troop! and vanish, ghostly crowd! and change again, old street! for those +stirring times are gone. +</p> + +<p> +Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on the +twentieth of March, 1760, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill, and consumed nearly +four hundred buildings. Similar disasters have always been epochs in the +chronology of Boston. That of 1711 had hitherto been termed the Great Fire, but +now resigned its baleful dignity to one which has ever since retained it. Did +we desire to move the reader’s sympathies on this subject, we would not +be grandiloquent about the sea of billowy flame, the glowing and crumbling +streets, the broad, black firmament of smoke, and the blast or wind that sprang +up with the conflagration and roared behind it. It would be more effective to +mark out a single family at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle of +their dwelling: then would ensue the removal of the bedridden grandmother, the +cradle with the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of all, the dying man just at +the extremity of a lingering disease. Do but imagine the confused agony of one +thus awfully disturbed in his last hour; his fearful glance behind at the +consuming fire raging after him, from house to house, as its devoted victim; +and, finally, the almost eagerness with which he would seize some calmer +interval to die! The Great Fire must have realized many such a scene. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless posterity has acquired a better city by the calamity of that +generation. None will be inclined to lament it at this late day, except the +lover of antiquity, who would have been glad to walk among those streets of +venerable houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there, that he might +commune with their shadows, and paint a more vivid picture of their times. +</p> + +<h3>III. THE OLD TORY.</h3> + +<p> +Again we take a leap of about twenty years, and alight in the midst of the +Revolution. Indeed, having just closed a volume of colonial newspapers, which +represented the period when monarchical and aristocratic sentiments were at the +highest,—and now opening another volume printed in the same metropolis, +after such sentiments had long been deemed a sin and shame,—we feel as if +the leap were more than figurative. Our late course of reading has tinctured +us, for the moment, with antique prejudices; and we shrink from the strangely +contrasted times into which we emerge, like one of those immutable old Tories, +who acknowledge no oppression in the Stamp Act. It may be the most effective +method of going through the present file of papers, to follow out this idea, +and transform ourself, perchance, from a modern Tory into such a sturdy +King-man as once wore that pliable nickname. +</p> + +<p> +Well, then, here we sit, an old, gray, withered, sour-visaged, threadbare sort +of gentleman, erect enough, here in our solitude, but marked out by a depressed +and distrustful mien abroad, as one conscious of a stigma upon his forehead, +though for no crime. We were already in the decline of life when the first +tremors of the earthquake that has convulsed the continent were felt. Our mind +had grown too rigid to change any of its opinions, when the voice of the people +demanded that all should be changed. We are an Episcopalian, and sat under the +High-Church doctrines of Dr. Caner; we have been a captain of the provincial +forces, and love our king the better for the blood that we shed in his cause on +the Plains of Abraham. Among all the refugees, there is not one more loyal to +the backbone than we. Still we lingered behind when the British army evacuated +Boston, sweeping in its train most of those with whom we held communion; the +old, loyal gentlemen, the aristocracy of the colonies, the hereditary +Englishman, imbued with more than native zeal and admiration for the glorious +island and its monarch, because the far-intervening ocean threw a dim reverence +around them. When our brethren departed, we could not tear our aged roots out +of the soil. +</p> + +<p> +We have remained, therefore, enduring to be outwardly a freeman, but idolizing +King George in secrecy and silence,—one true old heart amongst a host of +enemies. We watch, with a weary hope, for the moment when all this turmoil +shall subside, and the impious novelty that has distracted our latter years, +like a wild dream, give place to the blessed quietude of royal sway, with the +king’s name in every ordinance, his prayer in the church, his health at +the board, and his love in the people’s heart. Meantime, our old age +finds little honor. Hustled have we been, till driven from town-meetings; dirty +water has been cast upon our ruffles by a Whig chambermaid; John +Hancock’s coachman seizes every opportunity to bespatter us with mud; +daily are we hooted by the unbreeched rebel brats; and narrowly, once, did our +gray hairs escape the ignominy of tar and feathers. Alas! only that we cannot +bear to die till the next royal governor comes over, we would fain be in our +quiet grave. +</p> + +<p> +Such an old man among new things are we who now hold at arm’s-length the +rebel newspaper of the day. The very figure-head, for the thousandth time, +elicits it groan of spiteful lamentation. Where are the united heart and crown, +the loyal emblem, that used to hallow the sheet on which it was impressed, in +our younger days? In its stead we find a continental officer, with the +Declaration of Independence in one hand, a drawn sword in the other, and above +his head a scroll, bearing the motto, “W<small>E APPEAL TO</small> +H<small>EAVEN</small>.” Then say we, with a prospective triumph, let +Heaven judge, in its own good time! The material of the sheet attracts our +scorn. It is a fair specimen of rebel manufacture, thick and coarse, like +wrapping-paper, all overspread with little knobs; and of such a deep, dingy +blue color, that we wipe our spectacles thrice before we can distinguish a +letter of the wretched print. Thus, in all points, the newspaper is a type of +the times, far more fit for the rough hands of a democratic mob, than for our +own delicate, though bony fingers. Nay we will not handle it without our +gloves! +</p> + +<p> +Glancing down the page, our eyes are greeted everywhere by the offer of lands +at auction, for sale or to be leased, not by the rightful owners, but a rebel +committee; notices of the town constable, that he is authorized to receive the +taxes on such all estate, in default of which, that also is to be knocked down +to the highest bidder; and notifications of complaints filed by the +attorney-general against certain traitorous absentees, and of confiscations +that are to ensue. And who are these traitors? Our own best friends; names as +old, once as honored, as any in the land where they are no longer to have a +patrimony, nor to be remembered as good men who have passed away. We are +ashamed of not relinquishing our little property, too; but comfort ourselves +because we still keep our principles, without gratifying the rebels with our +plunder. Plunder, indeed, they are seizing everywhere,—by the strong hand +at sea, as well as by legal forms oil shore. Here are prize-vessels for sale; +no French nor Spanish merchantmen, whose wealth is the birthright of British +subjects, but hulls of British oak, from Liverpool, Bristol, and the Thames, +laden with the king’s own stores, for his army in New York. And what a +fleet of privateers—pirates, say we—are fitting out for new +ravages, with rebellion in their very names! The Free Yankee, the General +Greene, the Saratoga, the Lafayette, and the Grand Monarch! Yes, the Grand +Monarch; so is a French king styled, by the sons of Englishmen. And here we +have an ordinance from the Court of Versailles, with the Bourbon’s own +signature affixed, as if New England were already a French province. Everything +is French,—French soldiers, French sailors, French surgeons, and French +diseases too, I trow; besides French dancing-masters and French milliners, to +debauch our daughters with French fashions! Everything in America is French, +except the Canadas, the loyal Canadas, which we helped to wrest, from France. +And to that old French province the Englishman of the colonies must go to find +his country! +</p> + +<p> +O, the misery of seeing the whole system of things changed in my old days, when +I would be loath to change even a pair of buckles! The British coffee-house, +where oft we sat, brimful of wine and loyalty, with the gallant gentlemen of +Amherst’s army, when we wore a redcoat too,—the British +coffee-house, forsooth, must now be styled the American, with a golden eagle +instead of the royal arms above the door. Even the street it stands in is no +longer King Street! Nothing is the king’s, except this heavy heart in my +old bosom. Wherever I glance my eyes, they meet something that pricks them like +a needle. This soap-maker, for instance, this Hobert Hewes, has conspired +against my peace, by notifying that his shop is situated near Liberty Stump. +But when will their misnamed liberty have its true emblem in that Stump, hewn +down by British steel? +</p> + +<p> +Where shall we buy our next year’s almanac? Not this of +Weatherwise’s, certainly; for it contains a likeness of George +Washington, the upright rebel, whom we most hate, though reverentially, as a +fallen angel, with his heavenly brightness undiminished, evincing pure fame in +an unhallowed cause. And here is a new book for my evening’s +recreation,—a History of the War till the close of the year 1779, with +the heads of thirteen distinguished officers, engraved on copperplate. A plague +upon their heads! We desire not to see them till they grin at us from the +balcony before the town-house, fixed on spikes, as the heads of traitors. How +bloody-minded the villains make a peaceable old man! What next? An Oration, on +the Horrid Massacre of 1770. When that blood was shed,—the first that the +British soldier ever drew from the bosoms of our countrymen,—we turned +sick at heart, and do so still, as often as they make it reek anew from among +the stones in King Street. The pool that we saw that night has swelled into a +lake,—English blood and American,—no! all British, all blood of my +brethren. And here come down tears. Shame on me, since half of them are shed +for rebels! Who are not rebels now! Even the women are thrusting their white +hands into the war, and come out in this very paper with proposals to form a +society—the lady of George Washington at their head—for clothing +the continental troops. They will strip off their stiff petticoats to cover the +ragged rascals, and then enlist in the ranks themselves. +</p> + +<p> +What have we here? Burgoyne’s proclamation turned into Hudibrastic rhyme! +And here, some verses against the king, in which the scribbler leaves a blank +for the name of George, as if his doggerel might yet exalt him to the pillory. +Such, after years of rebellion, is the heart’s unconquerable reverence +for the Lord’s anointed! In the next column, we have scripture parodied +in a squib against his sacred Majesty. What would our Puritan great-grandsires +have said to that? They never laughed at God’s word, though they cut off +a king’s head. +</p> + +<p> +Yes; it was for us to prove how disloyalty goes hand in hand with irreligion, +and all other vices come trooping in the train. Nowadays men commit robbery and +sacrilege for the mere luxury of wickedness, as this advertisement testifies. +Three hundred pounds reward for the detection of the villains who stole and +destroyed the cushions and pulpit drapery of the Brattle Street and Old South +churches. Was it a crime? I can scarcely think our temples hallowed, since the +king ceased to be prayed for. But it is not temples only that they rob. Here a +man offers a thousand dollars—a thousand dollars, in Continental +rags!—for the recovery of his stolen cloak, and other articles of +clothing. Horse-thieves are innumerable. Now is the day when every beggar gets +on horseback. And is not the whole land like a beggar on horseback riding post +to the Davil? Ha! here is a murder, too. A woman slain at midnight, by all +unknown ruffian, and found cold, stiff, and bloody, in her violated bed! Let +the hue-and-cry follow hard after the man in the uniform of blue and buff who +last went by that way. My life on it, he is the blood-stained ravisher! These +deserters whom we see proclaimed in every column,—proof that the banditti +are as false to their Stars and Stripes as to the Holy Red Cross,—they +bring the crimes of a rebel camp into a soil well suited to them; the bosom of +a people, without the heart that kept them virtuous,—their king! +</p> + +<p> +Here flaunting down a whole column, with official seal and signature, here +comes a proclamation. By whose authority? Ah! the United States,—these +thirteen little anarchies, assembled in that one grand anarchy, their Congress. +And what the import? A general Fast. By Heaven! for once the traitorous +blockheads have legislated wisely! Yea; let a misguided people kneel down in +sackcloth and ashes, from end to end, from border to border, of their wasted +country. Well may they fast where there is no food, and cry aloud for whatever +remnant of God’s mercy their sins may not have exhausted. We too will +fast, even at a rebel summons. Pray others as they will, there shall be at +least an old man kneeling for the righteous cause. Lord, put down the rebels! +God save the king! +</p> + +<p> +Peace to the good old Tory! One of our objects has been to exemplify, without +softening a single prejudice proper to the character which we assumed, that the +Americans who clung to the losing side in the Revolution were men greatly to be +pitied and often worthy of our sympathy. It would be difficult to say whose lot +was most lamentable, that of the active Tories, who gave up their patrimonies +for a pittance from the British pension-roll, and their native land for a cold +reception in their miscalled home, or the passive ones who remained behind to +endure the coldness of former friends, and the public opprobrium, as despised +citizens, under a government which they abhorred. In justice to the old +gentleman who has favored us with his discontented musings, we must remark that +the state of the country, so far as can be gathered from these papers, was of +dismal augury for the tendencies of democratic rule. It was pardonable in the +conservative of that day to mistake the temporary evils of a change for +permanent diseases of the system which that change was to establish. A +revolution, or anything that interrupts social order, may afford opportunities +for the individual display of eminent virtues; but its effects are pernicious +to general morality. Most people are so constituted that they can be virtuous +only in a certain routine; and an irregular course of public affairs +demoralizes them. One great source of disorder was the multitude of disbanded +troops, who were continually returning home, after terms of service just long +enough to give them a distaste to peaceable occupations; neither citizens nor +soldiers, they were very liable to become ruffians. Almost all our impressions +in regard to this period are unpleasant, whether referring to the state of +civil society, or to the character of the contest, which, especially where +native Americans were opposed to each other, was waged with the deadly hatred +of fraternal enemies. It is the beauty of war, for men to commit mutual havoc +with undisturbed good-humor. +</p> + +<p> +The present volume of newspapers contains fewer characteristic traits than any +which we have looked over. Except for the peculiarities attendant on the +passing struggle, manners seem to have taken a modern cast. Whatever antique +fashions lingered into the War of the Revolution, or beyond it, they were not +so strongly marked as to leave their traces in the public journals. Moreover, +the old newspapers had an indescribable picturesqueness, not to be found in the +later ones. Whether it be something in the literary execution, or the ancient +print and paper, and the idea that those same musty pages have been handled by +people once alive and bustling amid the scenes there recorded, yet now in their +graves beyond the memory of man; so it is, that in those elder volumes we seem +to find the life of a past age preserved between the leaves, like a dry +specimen of foliage. It is so difficult to discover what touches are really +picturesque, that we doubt whether our attempts have produced any similar +effect. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>THE MAN OF ADAMANT: AN APOLOGUE</h2> + +<p> +In the old times of religious gloom and intolerance lived Richard Digby, the +gloomiest and most intolerant of a stern brotherhood. His plan of salvation was +so narrow, that, like a plank in a tempestuous sea, it could avail no sinner +but himself, who bestrode it triumphantly, and hurled anathemas against the +wretches whom he saw struggling with the billows of eternal death. In his view +of the matter, it was a most abominable crime—as, indeed, it is a great +folly—for men to trust to their own strength, or even to grapple to any +other fragment of the wreck, save this narrow plank, which, moreover, he took +special care to keep out of their reach. In other words, as his creed was like +no man’s else, and being well pleased that Providence had intrusted him +alone, of mortals, with the treasure of a true faith, Richard Digby determined +to seclude himself to the sole and constant enjoyment of his happy fortune. +</p> + +<p> +“And verily,” thought he, “I deem it a chief condition of +Heaven’s mercy to myself, that I hold no communion with those abominable +myriads which it hath cast off to perish. Peradventure, were I to tarry longer +in the tents of Kedar, the gracious boon would be revoked, and I also be +swallowed up in the deluge of wrath, or consumed in the storm of fire and +brimstone, or involved in whatever new kind of ruin is ordained for the +horrible perversity of this generation.” +</p> + +<p> +So Richard Digby took an axe, to hew space enough for a tabernacle in the +wilderness, and some few other necessaries, especially a sword and gun, to +smite and slay any intruder upon his hallowed seclusion; and plunged into the +dreariest depths of the forest. On its verge, however, he paused a moment, to +shake off the dust of his feet against the village where he had dwelt, and to +invoke a curse on the meeting-house, which he regarded as a temple of heathen +idolatry. He felt a curiosity, also, to see whether the fire and brimstone +would not rush down from Heaven at once, now that the one righteous man had +provided for his own safety. But, as the sunshine continued to fall peacefully +on the cottages and fields, and the husbandmen labored and children played, and +as there were many tokens of present happiness, and nothing ominous of a speedy +judgment, he turned away, somewhat disappointed. The farther he went, however, +and the lonelier he felt himself, and the thicker the trees stood along his +path, and the darker the shadow overhead, so much the more did Richard Digby +exult. He talked to himself, as he strode onward; he read his Bible to himself, +as he sat beneath the trees; and, as the gloom of the forest hid the blessed +sky, I had almost added, that, at morning, noon, and eventide, he prayed to +himself. So congenial was this mode of life to his disposition, that he often +laughed to himself, but was displeased when an echo tossed him back the long +loud roar. +</p> + +<p> +In this manner, he journeyed onward three days and two nights, and came, on the +third evening, to the mouth of a cave, which, at first sight, reminded him of +Elijah’s cave at Horeb, though perhaps it more resembled Abraham’s +sepulchral cave at Machpelah. It entered into the heart of a rocky hill. There +was so dense a veil of tangled foliage about it, that none but a sworn lover of +gloomy recesses would have discovered the low arch of its entrance, or have +dared to step within its vaulted chamber, where the burning eyes of a panther +might encounter him. If Nature meant this remote and dismal cavern for the use +of man, it could only be to bury in its gloom the victims of a pestilence, and +then to block up its mouth with stones, and avoid the spot forever after. There +was nothing bright nor cheerful near it, except a bubbling fountain, some +twenty paces off, at which Richard Digby hardly threw away a glance. But he +thrust his head into the cave, shivered, and congratulated himself. +</p> + +<p> +“The finger of Providence hath pointed my way!” cried he, aloud, +while the tomb-like den returned a strange echo, as if some one within were +mocking him. “Here my soul will be at peace; for the wicked will not find +me. Here I can read the Scriptures, and be no more provoked with lying +interpretations. Here I can offer up acceptable prayers, because my voice will +not be mingled with the sinful supplications of the multitude. Of a truth, the +only way to heaven leadeth through the narrow entrance of this cave,—and +I alone have found it!” +</p> + +<p> +In regard to this cave it was observable that the roof, so far as the imperfect +light permitted it to be seen, was hung with substances resembling opaque +icicles; for the damps of unknown centuries, dripping down continually, had +become as hard as adamant; and wherever that moisture fell, it seemed to +possess the power of converting what it bathed to stone. The fallen leaves and +sprigs of foliage, which the wind had swept into the cave, and the little +feathery shrubs, rooted near the threshold, were not wet with a natural dew, +but had been embalmed by this wondrous process. And here I am put in mind that +Richard Digby, before he withdrew himself from the world, was supposed by +skilful physicians to have contracted a disease for which no remedy was written +in their medical books. It was a deposition of calculous particles within his +heart, caused by an obstructed circulation of the blood; and, unless a miracle +should be wrought for him, there was danger that the malady might act on the +entire substance of the organ, and change his fleshy heart to stone. Many, +indeed, affirmed that the process was already near its consummation. Richard +Digby, however, could never be convinced that any such direful work was going +on within him; nor when he saw the sprigs of marble foliage, did his heart even +throb the quicker, at the similitude suggested by these once tender herbs. It +may be that this same insensibility was a symptom of the disease. +</p> + +<p> +Be that as it might, Richard Digby was well contented with his sepulchral cave. +So dearly did he love this congenial spot, that, instead of going a few paces +to the bubbling spring for water, he allayed his thirst with now and then a +drop of moisture from the roof, which, had it fallen anywhere but on his +tongue, would have been congealed into a pebble. For a man predisposed to +stoniness of the heart, this surely was unwholesome liquor. But there he dwelt, +for three days more eating herbs and roots, drinking his own destruction, +sleeping, as it were, in a tomb, and awaking to the solitude of death, yet +esteeming this horrible mode of life as hardly inferior to celestial bliss. +Perhaps superior; for, above the sky, there would be angels to disturb him. At +the close of the third day, he sat in the portal of his mansion, reading the +Bible aloud, because no other ear could profit by it, and reading it amiss, +because the rays of the setting sun did not penetrate the dismal depth of +shadow round about him, nor fall upon the sacred page. Suddenly, however, a +faint gleam of light was thrown over the volume, and, raising his eyes, Richard +Digby saw that a young woman stood before the mouth of the cave, and that the +sunbeams bathed her white garment, which thus seemed to possess a radiance of +its own. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Richard,” said the girl; “I have come from +afar to find thee.” +</p> + +<p> +The slender grace and gentle loveliness of this young woman were at once +recognized by Richard Digby. Her name was Mary Goffe. She had been a convert to +his preaching of the word in England, before he yielded himself to that +exclusive bigotry which now enfolded him with such an iron grasp that no other +sentiment could reach his bosom. When he came a pilgrim to America, she had +remained in her father’s hall; but now, as it appeared, had crossed the +ocean after him, impelled by the same faith that led other exiles hither, and +perhaps by love almost as holy. What else but faith and love united could have +sustained so delicate a creature, wandering thus far into the forest, with her +golden hair dishevelled by the boughs, and her feet wounded by the thorns? Yet, +weary and faint though she must have been, and affrighted at the dreariness of +the cave, she looked on the lonely man with a mild and pitying expression, such +as might beam from an angel’s eyes, towards an afflicted mortal. But the +recluse, frowning sternly upon her, and keeping his finger between the leaves +of his half-closed Bible, motioned her away with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Off!” cried he. “I am sanctified, and thou art sinful. +Away!” +</p> + +<p> +“O Richard,” said she, earnestly, “I have come this weary way +because I heard that a grievous distemper had seized upon thy heart; and a +great Physician hath given me the skill to cure it. There is no other remedy +than this which I have brought thee. Turn me not away, therefore, nor refuse my +medicine; for then must this dismal cave be thy sepulchre.” +</p> + +<p> +“Away!” replied Richard Digby, still with a dark frown. “My +heart is in better condition than thine own. Leave me, earthly one; for the sun +is almost set; and when no light reaches the door of the cave, then is my +prayer-time.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, great as was her need, Mary Goffe did not plead with this stony-hearted +man for shelter and protection, nor ask anything whatever for her own sake. All +her zeal was for his welfare. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back with me!” she exclaimed, clasping her +hands,—“come back to thy fellow-men; for they need thee, Richard, +and thou hast tenfold need of them. Stay not in this evil den; for the air is +chill, and the damps are fatal; nor will any that perish within it ever find +the path to heaven. Hasten hence, I entreat thee, for thine own soul’s +sake; for either the roof will fall upon thy head, or some other speedy +destruction is at hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perverse woman!” answered Richard Digby, laughing aloud,—for +he was moved to bitter mirth by her foolish vehemence,—“I tell thee +that the path to heaven leadeth straight through this narrow portal where I +sit. And, moreover, the destruction thou speakest of is ordained, not for this +blessed cave, but for all other habitations of mankind, throughout the earth. +Get thee hence speedily, that thou mayst have thy share!” +</p> + +<p> +So saving, he opened his Bible again, and fixed his eyes intently on the page, +being resolved to withdraw his thoughts from this child of sin and wrath, and +to waste no more of his holy breath upon her. The shadow had now grown so deep, +where he was sitting, that he made continual mistakes in what he read, +converting all that was gracious and merciful to denunciations of vengeance and +unutterable woe on every created being but himself. Mary Goffe, meanwhile, was +leaning against a tree, beside the sepulchral cave, very sad, yet with +something heavenly and ethereal in her unselfish sorrow. The light from the +setting sun still glorified her form, and was reflected a little way within the +darksome den, discovering so terrible a gloom that the maiden shuddered for its +self-doomed inhabitant. Espying the bright fountain near at hand, she hastened +thither, and scooped up a portion of its water, in a cup of birchen bark. A few +tears mingled with the draught, and perhaps gave it all its efficacy. She then +returned to the mouth of the cave, and knelt down at Richard Digby’s +feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Richard,” she said, with passionate fervor, yet a gentleness in +all her passion, “I pray thee, by thy hope of heaven, and as thou wouldst +not dwell in this tomb forever, drink of this hallowed water, be it but a +single drop! Then, make room for me by thy side, and let us read together one +page of that blessed volume; and, lastly, kneel down with me and pray! Do this, +and thy stony heart shall become softer than a babe’s, and all be +well.” +</p> + +<p> +But Richard Digby, in utter abhorrence of the proposal, cast the Bible at his +feet, and eyed her with such a fixed and evil frown, that he looked less like a +living man than a marble statue, wrought by some dark-imagined sculptor to +express the most repulsive mood that human features could assume. And, as his +look grew even devilish, so, with an equal change did Mary Goffe become more +sad, more mild, more pitiful, more like a sorrowing angel. But, the more +heavenly she was, the more hateful did she seem to Richard Digby, who at length +raised his hand, and smote down the cup of hallowed water upon the threshold of +the cave, thus rejecting the only medicine that could have cured his stony +heart. A sweet perfume lingered in the air for a moment, and then was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Tempt me no more, accursed woman,” exclaimed he, still with his +marble frown, “lest I smite thee down also! What hast thou to do with my +Bible?—what with my prayers?—what with my heaven?” +</p> + +<p> +No sooner had he spoken these dreadful words, than Richard Digby’s heart +ceased to beat; while—so the legend says-the form of Mary Goffe melted +into the last sunbeams, and returned from the sepulchral cave to heaven. For +Mary Golfe had been buried in an English churchyard, months before; and either +it was her ghost that haunted the wild forest, or else a dream-like spirit, +typifying pure Religion. +</p> + +<p> +Above a century afterwards, when the trackless forest of Richard Digby’s +day had long been interspersed with settlements, the children of a neighboring +farmer were playing at the foot of a hill. The trees, on account of the rude +and broken surface of this acclivity, had never been felled, and were crowded +so densely together as to hide all but a few rocky prominences, wherever their +roots could grapple with the soil. A little boy and girl, to conceal themselves +from their playmates, had crept into the deepest shade, where not only the +darksome pines, but a thick veil of creeping plants suspended from an +overhanging rock, combined to make a twilight at noonday, and almost a midnight +at all other seasons. There the children hid themselves, and shouted, repeating +the cry at intervals, till the whole party of pursuers were drawn thither, and, +pulling aside the matted foliage, let in a doubtful glimpse of daylight. But +scarcely was this accomplished, when the little group uttered a simultaneous +shriek, and tumbled headlong down the hill, making the best of their way +homeward, without a second glance into the gloomy recess. Their father, unable +to comprehend what had so startled them, took his axe, and, by felling one or +two trees, and tearing away the creeping plants, laid the mystery open to the +day. He had discovered the entrance of a cave, closely resembling the mouth of +a sepulchre, within which sat the figure of a man, whose gesture and attitude +warned the father and children to stand back, while his visage wore a most +forbidding frown. This repulsive personage seemed to have been carved in the +same gray stone that formed the walls and portal of the cave. On minuter +inspection, indeed, such blemishes were observed, as made it doubtful whether +the figure were really a statue, chiselled by human art and somewhat worn and +defaced by the lapse of ages, or a freak of Nature, who might have chosen to +imitate, in stone, her usual handiwork of flesh. Perhaps it was the least +unreasonable idea, suggested by this strange spectacle, that the moisture of +the cave possessed a petrifying quality, which had thus awfully embalmed a +human corpse. +</p> + +<p> +There was something so frightful in the aspect of this Man of Adamant, that the +farmer, the moment that he recovered from the fascination of his first gaze, +began to heap stones into the mouth of the cavern. His wife, who had followed +him to the hill, assisted her husband’s efforts. The children, also, +approached as near as they durst, with their little hands full of pebbles, and +cast them on the pile. Earth was then thrown into the crevices, and the whole +fabric overlaid with sods. Thus all traces of the discovery were obliterated, +leaving only a marvellous legend, which grew wilder from one generation to +another, as the children told it to their grandchildren, and they to their +posterity, till few believed that there had ever been a cavern or a statue, +where now they saw but a grassy patch on the shadowy hillside. Yet, grown +people avoid the spot, nor do children play there. Friendship, and Love, and +Piety, all human and celestial sympathies, should keep aloof from that hidden +cave; for there still sits, and, unless an earthquake crumble down the roof +upon his head, shall sit forever, the shape of Richard Digby, in the attitude +of repelling the whole race of mortals,—not from heaven,—but from +the horrible loneliness of his dark, cold sepulchre! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT</h2> + +<p> +On a bitter evening of December, I arrived by mail in a large town, which was +then the residence of an intimate friend, one of those gifted youths who +cultivate poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves students at law. +My first business, after supper, was to visit him at the office of his +distinguished instructor. As I have said, it was a bitter night, clear +starlight, but cold as Nova Zembla,—the shop-windows along the street +being frosted, so as almost to hide the lights, while the wheels of coaches +thundered equally loud over frozen earth and pavements of stone. There was no +snow, either on the ground or the roofs of the houses. The wind blew so +violently, that I had but to spread my cloak like a main-sail, and scud along +the street at the rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navigators, who +were beating slowly up, with the gale right in their teeth. One of these I +capsized, but was gone on the wings of the wind before he could even vociferate +an oath. +</p> + +<p> +After this picture of an inclement night, behold us seated by a great blazing +fire, which looked so comfortable and delicious that I felt inclined to lie +down and roll among the hot coals. The usual furniture of a lawyer’s +office was around us,—rows of volumes in sheepskin, and a multitude of +writs, summonses, and other legal papers, scattered over the desks and tables. +But there were certain objects which seemed to intimate that we had little +dread of the intrusion of clients, or of the learned counsellor himself, who, +indeed, was attending court in a distant town. A tall, decanter-shaped bottle +stood on the table, between two tumblers, and beside a pile of blotted +manuscripts, altogether dissimilar to any law documents recognized in our +courts. My friend, whom I shall call Oberon,—it was a name of fancy and +friendship between him and me,—my friend Oberon looked at these papers +with a peculiar expression of disquietude. +</p> + +<p> +“I do believe,” said he, soberly, “or, at least, I could +believe, if I chose, that there is a devil in this pile of blotted papers. You +have read them, and know what I mean,—that conception in which I +endeavored to embody the character of a fiend, as represented in our traditions +and the written records of witchcraft. Oh, I have a horror of what was created +in my own brain, and shudder at the manuscripts in which I gave that dark idea +a sort of material existence! Would they were out of my sight!” +</p> + +<p> +“And of mine, too,” thought I. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember,” continued Oberon, “how the hellish thing used +to suck away the happiness of those who, by a simple concession that seemed +almost innocent, subjected themselves to his power. Just so my peace is gone, +and all by these accursed manuscripts. Have you felt nothing of the same +influence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied I, “unless the spell be hid in a desire to +turn novelist, after reading your delightful tales.” +</p> + +<p> +“Novelist!” exclaimed Oberon, half seriously. “Then, indeed, +my devil has his claw on you! You are gone! You cannot even pray for +deliverance! But we will be the last and only victims; for this night I mean to +burn the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his retribution in the +flames.” +</p> + +<p> +“Burn your tales!” repeated I, startled at the desperation of the +idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Even so,” said the author, despondingly. “You cannot +conceive what an effect the composition of these tales has had on me. I have +become ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. I am +surrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the realities of +life. They have drawn me aside from the beaten path of the world, and led me +into a strange sort of solitude,—a solitude in the midst of men,-where +nobody wishes for what I do, nor thinks nor feels as I do. The tales have done +all this. When they are ashes, perhaps I shall be as I was before they had +existence. Moreover, the sacrifice is less than you may suppose, since nobody +will publish them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That does make a difference, indeed,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“They have been offered, by letter,” continued Oberon, reddening +with vexation, “to some seventeen booksellers. It would make you stare to +read their answers; and read them you should, only that I burnt them as fast as +they arrived. One man publishes nothing but school-books; another has five +novels already under examination.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of America must +be!” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the Alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!” said my +friend. “Well, another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, +I verily believe, to escape publishing my book. Several, however, would not +absolutely decline the agency, on my advancing half the cost of an edition, and +giving bonds for the remainder, besides a high percentage to themselves, +whether the book sells or not. Another advises a subscription.” +</p> + +<p> +“The villain!” exclaimed I. +</p> + +<p> +“A fact!” said Oberon. “In short, of all the seventeen +booksellers, only one has vouchsafed even to read my tales; and he—a +literary dabbler himself, I should judge—has the impertinence to +criticise them, proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, +after a general sentence of condemnation, with the definitive assurance that he +will not be concerned on any terms.” +</p> + +<p> +“It might not be amiss to pull that fellow’s nose,” remarked +I. +</p> + +<p> +“If the whole ‘trade’ had one common nose, there would be +some satisfaction in pulling it,” answered the author. “But, there +does seem to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he +tells me fairly, that no American publisher will meddle with an American +work,—seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new +one,—unless at the writer’s risk.” +</p> + +<p> +“The paltry rogues!” cried I. “Will they live by literature, +and yet risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your +own account.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so I might,” replied Oberon. “But the devil of the +business is this. These people have put me so out of conceit with the tales, +that I loathe the very thought of them, and actually experience a physical +sickness of the stomach, whenever I glance at them on the table. I tell you +there is a demon in them! I anticipate a wild enjoyment in seeing them in the +blaze; such as I should feel in taking vengeance on an enemy, or destroying +something noxious.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not very strenuously oppose this determination, being privately of +opinion, in spite of my partiality for the author, that his tales would make a +more brilliant appearance in the fire than anywhere else. Before proceeding to +execution, we broached the bottle of champagne, which Oberon had provided for +keeping up his spirits in this doleful business. We swallowed each a +tumblerful, in sparkling commotion; it went bubbling down our throats, and +brightened my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and heavy as before. He drew +the tales towards him, with a mixture of natural affection and natural disgust, +like a father taking a deformed infant into his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! Pish! Pshaw!” exclaimed he, holding them at +arm’s-length. “It was Gray’s idea of heaven, to lounge on a +sofa and read new novels. Now, what more appropriate torture would Dante +himself have contrived, for the sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be +continually turning over the manuscript?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would fail of effect,” said I, “because a bad author is +always his own great admirer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I lack that one characteristic of my tribe,—the only desirable +one,” observed Oberon. “But how many recollections throng upon me, +as I turn over these leaves! This scene came into my fancy as I walked along a +hilly road, on a starlight October evening; in the pure and bracing air, I +became all soul, and felt as if I could climb the sky, and run a race along the +Milky Way. Here is another tale, in which I wrapt myself during a dark and +dreary night-ride in the month of March, till the rattling of the wheels and +the voices of my companions seemed like faint sounds of a dream, and my visions +a bright reality. That scribbled page describes shadows which I summoned to my +bedside at midnight: they would not depart when I bade them; the gray dawn +came, and found me wide awake and feverish, the victim of my own +enchantments!” +</p> + +<p> +“There must have been a sort of happiness in all this,” said I, +smitten with a strange longing to make proof of it. +</p> + +<p> +“There may be happiness in a fever fit,” replied the author. +“And then the various moods in which I wrote! Sometimes my ideas were +like precious stones under the earth, requiring toil to dig them up, and care +to polish and brighten them; but often a delicious stream of thought would gush +out upon the page at once, like water sparkling up suddenly in the desert; and +when it had passed, I gnawed my pen hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and +miserable toil, as if there were a wall of ice between me and my +subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you now perceive a corresponding difference,” inquired I, +“between the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid flashes +of the mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table. “I +find no traces of the golden pen with which I wrote in characters of fire. My +treasure of fairy coin is changed to worthless dross. My picture, painted in +what seemed the loveliest hues, presents nothing but a faded and +indistinguishable surface. I have been eloquent and poetical and humorous in a +dream,—and behold! it is all nonsense, now that I am awake.” +</p> + +<p> +My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing it +blaze like Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, seized the champagne bottle, and +drank two or three brimming bumpers, successively. The heady liquor combined +with his agitation to throw him into a species of rage. He laid violent hands +on the tales. In one instant more, their faults and beauties would alike have +vanished in a glowing purgatory. But, all at once, I remembered passages of +high imagination, deep pathos, original thoughts, and points of such varied +excellence, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly. I +caught his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, you do not mean to burn them!” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me alone!” cried Oberon, his eyes flashing fire. “I will +burn them! Not a scorched syllable shall escape! Would you have me a damned +author?—To undergo sneers, taunts, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint +praise, bestowed, for pity’s sake, against the giver’s conscience! +A hissing and a laughing-stock to my own traitorous thoughts! An outlaw from +the protection of the grave,—one whose ashes every careless foot might +spurn, unhonored in life, and remembered scornfully in death! Am I to bear all +this, when yonder fire will insure me from the whole? No! There go the tales! +May my hand wither when it would write another!” +</p> + +<p> +The deed was done. He had thrown the manuscripts into the hottest of the fire, +which at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled around them, and made +them a part of its own fervent brightness. Oberon stood gazing at the +conflagration, and shortly began to soliloquize, in the wildest strain, as if +Fancy resisted and became riotous, at the moment when he would have compelled +her to ascend that funeral pile. His words described objects which he appeared +to discern in the fire, fed by his own precious thoughts; perhaps the thousand +visions which the writer’s magic had incorporated with these pages became +visible to him in the dissolving heat, brightening forth ere they vanished +forever; while the smoke, the vivid sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening +coals, caught the aspect of a varied scenery. +</p> + +<p> +“They blaze,” said he, “as if I had steeped them in the +intensest spirit of genius. There I see my lovers clasped in each other’s +arms. How pure the flame that bursts from their glowing hearts! And yonder the +features of a villain writhing in the fire that shall torment him to eternity. +My holy men, my pious and angelic women, stand like martyrs amid the flames, +their mild eyes lifted heavenward. Ring out the bells! A city is on fire. +See!—destruction roars through my dark forests, while the lakes boil up +in steaming billows, and the mountains are volcanoes, and the sky kindles with +a lurid brightness! All elements are but one pervading flame! Ha! The +fiend!” +</p> + +<p> +I was somewhat startled by this latter exclamation. The tales were almost +consumed, but just then threw forth a broad sheet of fire, which flickered as +with laughter, making the whole room dance in its brightness, and then roared +portentously up the chimney. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw him? You must have seen him!” cried Oberon. “How he +glared at me and laughed, in that last sheet of flame, with just the features +that I imagined for him! Well! The tales are gone.” +</p> + +<p> +The papers were indeed reduced to a heap of black cinders, with a multitude of +sparks hurrying confusedly among them, the traces of the pen being now +represented by white lines, and the whole mass fluttering to and fro in the +draughts of air. The destroyer knelt down to look at them. +</p> + +<p> +“What is more potent than fire!” said he, in his gloomiest tone. +“Even thought, invisible and incorporeal as it is, cannot escape it. In +this little time, it has annihilated the creations of long nights and days, +which I could no more reproduce, in their first glow and freshness, than cause +ashes and whitened bones to rise up and live. There, too, I sacrificed the +unborn children of my mind. All that I had accomplished—all that I +planned for future years—has perished by one common ruin, and left only +this heap of embers! The deed has been my fate. And what remains? A weary and +aimless life,—a long repentance of this hour,—and at last an +obscure grave, where they will bury and forget me!” +</p> + +<p> +As the author concluded his dolorous moan, the extinguished embers arose and +settled down and arose again, and finally flew up the chimney, like a demon +with sable wings. Just as they disappeared, there was a loud and solitary cry +in the street below us. “Fire!” Fire! Other voices caught up that +terrible word, and it speedily became the shout of a multitude. Oberon started +to his feet, in fresh excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“A fire on such a night!” cried he. “The wind blows a gale, +and wherever it whirls the flames, the roofs will flash up like gunpowder. +Every pump is frozen up, and boiling water would turn to ice the moment it was +flung from the engine. In an hour, this wooden town will be one great bonfire! +What a glorious scene for my next—Pshaw!” +</p> + +<p> +The street was now all alive with footsteps, and the air full of voices. We +heard one engine thundering round a corner, and another rattling from a +distance over the pavements. The bells of three steeples clanged out at once, +spreading the alarm to many a neighboring town, and expressing hurry, +confusion, and terror, so inimitably that I could almost distinguish in their +peal the burden of the universal cry,—“Fire! Fire! Fire!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is so eloquent as their iron tongues!” exclaimed Oberon. +“My heart leaps and trembles, but not with fear. And that other sound, +too,—deep and awful as a mighty organ,—the roar and thunder of the +multitude on the pavement below! Come! We are losing time. I will cry out in +the loudest of the uproar, and mingle my spirit with the wildest of the +confusion, and be a bubble on the top of the ferment!” +</p> + +<p> +From the first outcry, my forebodings had warned me of the true object and +centre of alarm. There was nothing now but uproar, above, beneath, and around +us; footsteps stumbling pell-mell up the public staircase, eager shouts and +heavy thumps at the door, the whiz and dash of water from the engines, and the +crash of furniture thrown upon the pavement. At once, the truth flashed upon my +friend. His frenzy took the hue of joy, and, with a wild gesture of exultation, +he leaped almost to the ceiling of the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“My tales!” cried Oberon. “The chimney! The roof! The Fiend +has gone forth by night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder from their +beds! Here I stand,—a triumphant author! Huzza! Huzza! My brain has set +the town on fire! Huzza!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING</h2> + +<p> +On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in his +elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at his board. Being the +central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light on +his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage, so that it looked +like the head of an iron statue, all aglow, from his own forge, and with its +features rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At John Inglefield’s right +hand was an empty chair. The other places round the hearth were filled by the +members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of +fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of the +group was John Inglefield’s son, who had been bred at college, and was +now a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of sixteen, +whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed. The +only other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice of +the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son of +John Inglefield than did the pale and slender student. +</p> + +<p> +Only these four had kept New England’s festival beneath that roof. The +vacant chair at John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of his wife, +whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With a +feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved +husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did his +eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave might +send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening. +Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another grief +which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, +have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance. +Within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not +to the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her. +</p> + +<p> +While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with the +shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a light +footstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner door was lifted by some +familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she +took off, and laid on the table beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing a +moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at John +Inglefield’s right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am, at last, father,” said she. “You ate your +Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly attire +which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work was over for +the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the simple and modest +fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek might otherwise have been +pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom. If she had +spent the many months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to +have left no traces on her gentle aspect. She could not have looked less +altered, had she merely stepped away from her father’s fireside for half +an hour, and returned while the blaze was quivering upwards from the same +brands that were burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was the +very image of his buried wife, such as he remembered her on the first +Thanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore, though +naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinful +child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“You are welcome home, Prudence,” said he, glancing sideways at +her, and his voice faltered. “Your mother would have rejoiced to see you, +but she has been gone from us these four months.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, father, I know it,” replied Prudence, quickly. +“And yet, when I first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight, +that she seemed to be sitting in this very chair!” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the other members of the family had begun to recover from their +surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the grave, nor vision +of their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own self. Her brother was the +next that greeted her. He advanced and held out his hand affectionately, as a +brother should; yet not entirely like a brother, for, with all his kindness, he +was still a clergyman, and speaking to a child of sin. +</p> + +<p> +“Sister Prudence,” said he, earnestly, “I rejoice that a +merciful Providence hath turned your steps homeward, in time for me to bid you +a last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to the +far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved faces that I +shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. O, may I see all of them--yours +and all--beyond the grave!” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow flitted across the girl’s countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“The grave is very dark, brother,” answered she, withdrawing her +hand somewhat hastily from his grasp. “You must look your last at me by +the light of this fire.” +</p> + +<p> +While this was passing, the twin-girl-the rosebud that had grown on the same +stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling herself +upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might intertwine again. At +first she was restrained by mingled grief and shame, and by a dread that +Prudence was too much changed to respond to her affection, or that her own +purity would be felt as a reproach by the lost one. But, as she listened to the +familiar voice, while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgot +everything save that Prudence had come back. Springing forward, she would have +clasped her in a close embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence started +from her chair, and held out both her hands, with a warning gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mary,--no, my sister,” cried she, “do not you touch me. +Your bosom must not be pressed to mine!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than the +grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near each other +in the light of their father’s hearth, where they had grown up together. +Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room, in search of one who had not +yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn from his seat by the fireside, and was +standing near the door, with his face averted, so that his features could be +discerned only by the flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall. But +Prudence called to him, in a cheerful and kindly tone:-- +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Robert,” said she, “won’t you shake hands with +your old friend?” +</p> + +<p> +Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled powerfully, and +overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed towards Prudence, seized her hand, +and pressed it to his bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, Robert!” said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew +her hand, “you must not give me too warm a welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family, Prudence +again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield’s right hand. She +was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities, gladsome in her general +mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused among her merriest words and +deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that she had a faculty, even from +childhood, of throwing her own feelings, like a spell, over her companions. +Such as she had been in her days of innocence, so did she appear this evening. +Her friends, in the surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that +she had ever left them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their +affection. In the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered +eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own Prudence +had come back to them, and were thankful. John Inglefleld’s rough visage +brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within him; +once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet seemed startled +by the echo of his own mirth. The grave young minister became as frolicsome as +a school-boy. Mary, too, the rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever +been torn from the stem, and trampled in the dust. And as for Robert Moore, he +gazed at Prudence with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, +with sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him. +</p> + +<p> +In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own depth +of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. When the clock struck +eight, Prudence poured out her father’s customary draught of herb-tea, +which had been steeping by the fireside ever since twilight. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, child!” said John Inglefield, as he took the cup +from her hand; “you have made your old father happy again. But we miss +your mother sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be here +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +It was now the hour for domestic worship. But while the family were making +preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that Prudence had put on +her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?” cried they all, with one +voice. +</p> + +<p> +As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned towards them, and flung back her +hand with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so changed that they hardly +recognized it. Sin and evil passions glowed through its comeliness, and wrought +a horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, at +their surprise and grief. +</p> + +<p> +“Daughter,” cried John Inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, +“stay and be your father’s blessing, or take his curse with +you!” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted room, +while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were struggling with +a fiend, who had power to seize his victim even within the hallowed precincts +of her father’s hearth. The fiend prevailed; and Prudence vanished into +the outer darkness. When the family rushed to the door, they could see nothing, +but heard the sound of wheels rattling over the frozen ground. +</p> + +<p> +That same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a neighboring +city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent with any sympathy +for pure affections, and for the joys and griefs which are hallowed by them. +Yet this was Prudence Inglefield. Her visit to the Thanksgiving fireside was +the realization of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will +sometimes stray back to its innocence. But Sin, alas! is careful of her +bond-slaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and are +constrained to go whither she summons them. The same dark power that drew +Prudence Inglefleld from her father’s hearth--the same in its nature, +though heightened then to a dread necessity--would snatch a guilty soul from +the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its punishment alike eternal. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>OLD TICONDEROGA</h2> + +<h3>A PICTURE OF THE PAST</h3> + +<p> +The greatest attraction, in this vicinity, is the famous old fortress of +Ticonderoga, the remains of which are visible from the piazza of the tavern, on +a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. Those celebrated +heights, Mount Defiance and Mount Independence, familiar to all Americans in +history, stand too prominent not to be recognized, though neither of them +precisely corresponds to the images excited by their names. In truth, the whole +scene, except the interior of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defiance, +which one pictures as a steep, lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable +aspect, frowning down with the grim visage of a precipice on old Ticonderoga, +is merely a long and wooded ridge; and bore, at some former period, the gentle +name of Sugar Hill. The brow is certainly difficult to climb, and high enough +to look into every corner of the fortress. St. Clair’s most probable +reason, however, for neglecting to occupy it, was the deficiency of troops to +man the works already constructed, rather than the supposed inaccessibility of +Mount Defiance. It is singular that the French never fortified this height, +standing, as it does, in the quarter whence they must have looked for the +advance of a British army. +</p> + +<p> +In my first view of the ruins, I was favored with the scientific guidance of a +young lieutenant of engineers, recently from West Point, where he had gained +credit for great military genius. I saw nothing but confusion in what chiefly +interested him; straight lines and zigzags, defence within defence, wall +opposed to wall, and ditch intersecting ditch; oblong squares of masonry below +the surface of the earth, and huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone, +above it. On one of these artificial hillocks, a pine-tree has rooted itself, +and grown tall and strong, since the banner-staff was levelled. But where my +unmilitary glance could trace no regularity, the young lieutenant was perfectly +at home. He fathomed the meaning of every ditch, and formed an entire plan of +the fortress from its half-obliterated lines. His description of Ticonderoga +would be as accurate as a geometrical theorem, and as barren of the poetry that +has clustered round its decay. I viewed Ticonderoga as a place of ancient +strength, in ruins for half a century: where the flags of three nations had +successively waved, and none waved now; where armies had struggled, so long ago +that the bones of the slain were mouldered; where Peace had found a heritage in +the forsaken haunts of War. Now the young West-Pointer, with his lectures on +ravelins, counterscarps, angles, and covered ways, made it an affair of brick +and mortar and hewn stone, arranged on certain regular principles, having a +good deal to do with mathematics, but nothing at all with poetry. +</p> + +<p> +I should have been glad of a hoary veteran to totter by my side, and tell me, +perhaps, of the French garrisons and their Indian allies,—of Abercrombie, +Lord Howe, and Amherst,—of Ethan Allen’s triumph and St. +Clair’s surrender. The old soldier and the old fortress would be emblems +of each other. His reminiscences, though vivid as the image of Ticonderoga in +the lake, would harmonize with the gray influence of the scene. A survivor of +the long-disbanded garrisons, though but a private soldier, might have mustered +his dead chiefs and comrades,—some from Westminster Abbey, and English +churchyards, and battle-fields in Europe,—others from their graves here +in America,—others, not a few, who lie sleeping round the fortress; he +might have mustered them all, and bid them march through the ruined gateway, +turning their old historic faces on me, as they passed. Next to such a +companion, the best is one’s own fancy. +</p> + +<p> +At another visit I was alone, and, after rambling all over the ramparts, sat +down to rest myself in one of the roofless barracks. These are old French +structures, and appear to have occupied three sides of a large area, now +overgrown with grass, nettles, and thistles. The one in which I sat was long +and narrow, as all the rest had been, with peaked gables. The exterior walls +were nearly entire, constructed of gray, flat, unpicked stones, the aged +strength of which promised long to resist the elements, if no other violence +should precipitate their fall.—The roof, floors, partitions, and the rest +of the wood-work had probably been burnt, except some bars of stanch old oak, +which were blackened with fire, but still remained imbedded into the +window-sills and over the doors. There were a few particles of plastering near +the chimney, scratched with rude figures, perhaps by a soldier’s hand. A +most luxuriant crop of weeds had sprung up within the edifice, and hid the +scattered fragments of the wall. Grass and weeds grew in the windows, and in +all the crevices of the stone, climbing, step by step, till a tuft of yellow +flowers was waving on the highest peak of the gable. Some spicy herb diffused a +pleasant odor through the ruin. A verdant heap of vegetation had covered the +hearth of the second floor, clustering on the very spot where the huge logs had +mouldered to glowing coals, and flourished beneath the broad flue, which had so +often puffed the smoke over a circle of French or English soldiers. I felt that +there was no other token of decay so impressive as that bed of weeds in the +place of the backlog. +</p> + +<p> +Here I sat, with those roofless walls about me, the clear sky over my head, and +the afternoon sunshine falling gently bright through the window-frames and +doorway. I heard the tinkling of a cow-bell, the twittering of birds, and the +pleasant hum of insects. Once a gay butterfly, with four gold-speckled wings, +came and fluttered about my head, then flew up and lighted on the highest tuft +of yellow flowers, and at last took wing across the lake. Next a bee buzzed +through the sunshine, and found much sweetness among the weeds. After watching +him till he went off to his distant hive, I closed my eyes on Ticonderoga in +ruins, and cast a dream-like glance over pictures of the past, and scenes of +which this spot had been the theatre. +</p> + +<p> +At first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, lonely lakes, and venerable woods. +Not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over the infant soil, had +felt the axe, but had grown up and flourished through its long generation, had +fallen beneath the weight of years, been buried in green moss, and nourished +the roots of others as gigantic. Hark! A light paddle dips into the lake, a +birch canoe glides round the point, and an Indian chief has passed, painted and +feather-crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, and +flint-headed arrows. But the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, when a +white flag caught the breeze, over a castle in the wilderness, with frowning +ramparts and a hundred cannon. There stood a French chevalier, commandant of +the fortress, paying court to a copper-colored lady, the princess of the land, +and winning her wild love by the arts which had been successful with Parisian +dames. A war-party of French and Indians were issuing from the gate to lay +waste some village of New England. Near the fortress there was a group of +dancers. The merry soldiers footing it with the swart savage maids; deeper in +the wood, some red men were growing frantic around a keg of the fire-water; and +elsewhere a Jesuit preached the faith of high cathedrals beneath a canopy of +forest boughs, and distributed crucifixes to be worn beside English scalps. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to make a series of pictures from the old French war, when fleets were +on the lake and armies in the woods, and especially of Abercrombie’s +disastrous repulse, where thousands of lives were utterly thrown away; but, +being at a loss how to order the battle, I chose an evening scene in the +barracks, after the fortress had surrendered to Sir Jeffrey Amherst. What an +immense fire blazes on that hearth, gleaming on swords, bayonets, and +musket-barrels, and blending with the hue of the scarlet coats till the whole +barrack-room is quivering with ruddy light! One soldier has thrown himself down +to rest, after a deer-hunt, or perhaps a long run through the woods with +Indians on his trail. Two stand up to wrestle, and are on the point of coming +to blows. A fifer plays a shrill accompaniment to a drummer’s +song,—a strain of light love and bloody war, with a chorus thundered +forth by twenty voices. Meantime, a veteran in the corner is prosing about +Dettingen and Fontenoy, and relates camp-traditions of Marlborough’s +battles, till his pipe, having been roguishly charged with gunpowder, makes a +terrible explosion under his nose. And now they all vanish in a puff of smoke +from the chimney. +</p> + +<p> +I merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, which glided peacefully over the +frontier fortress, till Ethan Allen’s shout was heard, summoning it to +surrender “in the name of the great Jehovah and of the Continental +Congress.” Strange allies! thought the British captain. Next came the +hurried muster of the soldiers of liberty, when the cannon of Burgoyne, +pointing down upon their stronghold from the brow of Mount Defiance, announced +a new conqueror of Ticonderoga. No virgin fortress, this! Forth rushed the +motley throng from the barracks, one man wearing the blue and buff of the +Union, another the red coat of Britain, a third a dragoon’s jacket, and a +fourth a cotton frock; here was a pair of leather breeches, and striped +trousers there; a grenadier’s cap on one head, and a broad-brimmed hat, +with a tall feather, on the next; this fellow shouldering a king’s arm, +that might throw a bullet to Crown Point, and his comrade a long fowling-piece, +admirable to shoot ducks on the lake. In the midst of the bustle, when the +fortress was all alive with its last warlike scene, the ringing of a bell on +the lake made me suddenly unclose my eyes, and behold only the gray and +weed-grown ruins. They were as peaceful in the sun as a warrior’s grave. +</p> + +<p> +Hastening to the rampart, I perceived that the signal had been given by the +steamboat Franklin, which landed a passenger from Whitehall at the tavern, and +resumed its progress northward, to reach Canada the next morning. A sloop was +pursuing the same track; a little skiff had just crossed the ferry; while a +scow, laden with lumber, spread its huge square sail, and went up the lake. The +whole country was a cultivated farm. Within musket-shot of the ramparts lay the +neat villa of Mr. Pell, who, since the Revolution, has become proprietor of a +spot for which France, England, and America have so often struggled. How +forcibly the lapse of time and change of circumstances came home to my +apprehension! Banner would never wave again, nor cannon roar, nor blood be +shed, nor trumpet stir up a soldier’s heart, in this old fort of +Ticonderoga. Tall trees have grown upon its ramparts, since the last garrison +marched out, to return no more, or only at some dreamer’s summons, +gliding from the twilight past to vanish among realities. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>THE WIVES OF THE DEAD</h2> + +<p> +The following story, the simple and domestic incidents of which may be deemed +scarcely worth relating, after such a lapse of time, awakened some degree of +interest, a hundred years ago, in a principal seaport of the Bay Province. The +rainy twilight of an autumn day,—a parlor on the second floor of a small +house, plainly furnished, as beseemed the middling circumstances of its +inhabitants, yet decorated with little curiosities from beyond the sea, and a +few delicate specimens of Indian manufacture,—these are the only +particulars to be premised in regard to scene and season. Two young and comely +women sat together by the fireside, nursing their mutual and peculiar sorrows. +They were the recent brides of two brothers, a sailor and a landsman, and two +successive days had brought tidings of the death of each, by the chances of +Canadian warfare and the tempestuous Atlantic. The universal sympathy excited +by this bereavement drew numerous condoling guests to the habitation of the +widowed sisters. Several, among whom was the minister, had remained till the +verge of evening; when, one by one, whispering many comfortable passages of +Scripture, that were answered by more abundant tears, they took their leave, +and departed to their own happier homes. The mourners, though not insensible to +the kindness of their friends, had yearned to be left alone. United, as they +had been, by the relationship of the living, and now more closely so by that of +the dead, each felt as if whatever consolation her grief admitted were to be +found in the bosom of the other. They joined their hearts, and wept together +silently. But after an hour of such indulgence, one of the sisters, all of +whose emotions were influenced by her mild, quiet, yet not feeble character, +began to recollect the precepts of resignation and endurance which piety had +taught her, when she did not think to need them. Her misfortune, besides, as +earliest known, should earliest cease to interfere with her regular course of +duties; accordingly, having placed the table before the fire, and arranged a +frugal meal, she took the hand of her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, dearest sister; you have eaten not a morsel to-day,” she +said. “Arise, I pray you, and let us ask a blessing on that which is +provided for us.” +</p> + +<p> +Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable temperament, and the first +pangs of her sorrow had been expressed by shrieks and passionate lamentation. +She now shrunk from Mary’s words, like a wounded sufferer from a hand +that revives the throb. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask it!” cried +Margaret, with a fresh burst of tears. “Would it were His will that I +might never taste food more!” +</p> + +<p> +Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, almost as soon as they were +uttered, and, by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her sister’s mind +nearer to the situation of her own. Time went on, and their usual hour of +repose arrived. The brothers and their brides, entering the married state with +no more than the slender means which then sanctioned such a step, had +confederated themselves in one household, with equal rights to the parlor, and +claiming exclusive privileges in two sleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thither +the widowed ones retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying embers of their +fire, and placing a lighted lamp upon the hearth. The doors of both chambers +were left open, so that a part of the interior of each, and the beds with their +unclosed curtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not steal upon the +sisters at one and the same time. Mary experienced the effect often consequent +upon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into temporary forgetfulness, while +Margaret became more disturbed and feverish, in proportion as the night +advanced with its deepest and stillest hours. She lay listening to the drops of +rain, that came down in monotonous succession, unswayed by a breath of wind; +and a nervous impulse continually caused her to lift her head from the pillow, +and gaze into Mary’s chamber and the intermediate apartment. The cold +light of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture up against the wall, +stamping them immovably there, except when they were shaken by a sudden flicker +of the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were in their old positions on opposite +sides of the hearth, where the brothers had been wont to sit in young and +laughing dignity, as heads of families; two humbler seats were near them, the +true thrones of that little empire, where Mary and herself had exercised in +love a power that love had won. The cheerful radiance of the fire had shone +upon the happy circle, and the dead glimmer of the lamp might have befitted +their reunion now. While Margaret groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at +the street door. +</p> + +<p> +“How would my heart have leapt at that sound but yesterday!” +thought she, remembering the anxiety with which she had long awaited tidings +from her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“I care not for it now; let them begone, for I will not arise.” +</p> + +<p> +But even while a sort of childish fretfulness made her thus resolve, she was +breathing hurriedly, and straining her ears to catch a repetition of the +summons. It is difficult to be convinced of the death of one whom we have +deemed another self. The knocking was now renewed in slow and regular strokes, +apparently given with the soft end of a doubled fist, and was accompanied by +words, faintly heard through several thicknesses of wall. Margaret looked to +her sister’s chamber, and beheld her still lying in the depths of sleep. +She arose, placed her foot upon the floor, and slightly arrayed herself, +trembling between fear and eagerness as she did so. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven help me!” sighed she. “I have nothing left to fear, +and methinks I am ten times more a coward than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she hastened to the window that overlooked +the street-door. It was a lattice, turning upon hinges; and having thrown it +back, she stretched her head a little way into the moist atmosphere. A lantern +was reddening the front of the house, and melting its light in the neighboring +puddles, while a deluge of darkness overwhelmed every other object. As the +window grated on its hinges, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and blanket-coat +stepped from under the shelter of the projecting story, and looked upward to +discover whom his application had aroused. Margaret knew him as a friendly +innkeeper of the town. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you have, Goodman Parker?” cried the widow. +</p> + +<p> +“Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret?” replied the innkeeper. +“I was afraid it might be your sister Mary; for I hate to see a young +woman in trouble, when I have n’t a word of comfort to whisper +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“For Heaven’s sake, what news do you bring?” screamed +Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there has been an express through the town within this +half-hour,” said Goodman Parker, “travelling from the eastern +jurisdiction with letters from the governor and council. He tarried at my house +to refresh himself with a drop and a morsel, and I asked him what tidings on +the frontiers. He tells me we had the better in the skirmish you wot of, and +that thirteen men reported slain are well and sound, and your husband among +them. Besides, he is appointed of the escort to bring the captivated Frenchers +and Indians home to the province jail. I judged you would n’t mind being +broke of your rest, and so I stepped over to tell you. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, the honest man departed; and his lantern gleamed along the street, +bringing to view indistinct shapes of things, and the fragments of a world, +like order glimmering through chaos, or memory roaming over the past. But +Margaret stayed not to watch these picturesque effects. Joy flashed into her +heart, and lighted it up at once; and breathless, and with winged steps, she +flew to the bedside of her sister. She paused, however, at the door of the +chamber, while a thought of pain broke in upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Mary!” said she to herself. “Shall I waken her, to feel +her sorrow sharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own bosom +till the morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +She approached the bed, to discover if Mary’s sleep were peaceful. Her +face was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there to weep; +but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it, as if her heart, +like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had sunk down so far within. +Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter sorrows are those from which dreams +are chiefly fabricated. Margaret shrunk from disturbing her sister-in-law, and +felt as if her own better fortune had rendered her involuntarily unfaithful, +and as if altered and diminished affection must be the consequence of the +disclosure she had to make. With a sudden step she turned away. But joy could +not long be repressed, even by circumstances that would have excited heavy +grief at another moment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, till +sleep stole on, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and more wild, +like the breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!) working fantastic +tracery upon a window. +</p> + +<p> +When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with a sudden start. A vivid dream +had latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which, however, she could only +remember that it had been broken in upon at the most interesting point. For a +little time, slumber hung about her like a morning mist, hindering her from +perceiving the distinct outline of her situation. She listened with imperfect +consciousness to two or three volleys of a rapid and eager knocking; and first +she deemed the noise a matter of course, like the breath she drew; next, it +appeared a thing in which she had no concern; and lastly, she became aware that +it was a summons necessary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang of +recollection darted into her mind; the pall of sleep was thrown back from the +face of grief; the dim light of the chamber, and the objects therein revealed, +had retained all her suspended ideas, and restored them as soon as she unclosed +her eyes. Again there was a quick peal upon the street-door. Fearing that her +sister would also be disturbed, Mary wrapped herself in a cloak and hood, took +the lamp from the hearth, and hastened to the window. By some accident, it had +been left unhasped, and yielded easily to her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” asked Mary, trembling as she looked forth. +</p> + +<p> +The storm was over, and the moon was up; it shone upon broken clouds above, and +below upon houses black with moisture, and upon little lakes of the fallen +rain, curling into silver beneath the quick enchantment of a breeze. A young +man in a sailor’s dress, wet as if he had come out of the depths of the +sea, stood alone under the window. Mary recognized him as one whose livelihood +was gained by short voyages along the coast; nor did she forget that, previous +to her marriage, he had been an unsuccessful wooer of her own. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you seek here, Stephen?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you,” answered the rejected +lover. “You must know I got home not ten minutes ago, and the first thing +my good mother told me was the news about your husband. So, without saying a +word to the old woman, I clapped on my hat, and ran out of the house. I could +n’t have slept a wink before speaking to you, Mary, for the sake of old +times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stephen, I thought better of you!” exclaimed the widow, with +gushing tears and preparing to close the lattice; for she was no whit inclined +to imitate the first wife of Zadig. +</p> + +<p> +“But stop, and hear my story out,” cried the young sailor. “I +tell you we spoke a brig yesterday afternoon, bound in from Old England. And +who do you think I saw standing on deck, well and hearty, only a bit thinner +than he was five months ago?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. “Why, it was your +husband himself,” continued the generous seaman. “He and three +others saved themselves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom upwards. The +brig will beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, and you’ll see +him here to-morrow. There’s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so good +night.” +</p> + +<p> +He hurried away, while Mary watched him with a doubt of waking reality, that +seemed stronger or weaker as he alternately entered the shade of the houses, or +emerged into the broad streaks of moonlight. Gradually, however, a blessed +flood of conviction swelled into her heart, in strength enough to overwhelm +her, had its increase been more abrupt. Her first impulse was to rouse her +sister-in-law, and communicate the new-born gladness. She opened the +chamber-door, which had been closed in the course of the night, though not +latched, advanced to the bedside, and was about to lay her hand upon the +slumberer’s shoulder. But then she remembered that Margaret would awake +to thoughts of death and woe, rendered not the less bitter by their contrast +with her own felicity. She suffered the rays of the lamp to fall upon the +unconscious form of the bereaved one. Margaret lay in unquiet sleep, and the +drapery was displaced around her; her young cheek was rosy-tinted, and her lips +half opened in a vivid smile; an expression of joy, debarred its passage by her +sealed eyelids, struggled forth like incense from the whole countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor sister! you will waken too soon from that happy dream,” +thought Mary. +</p> + +<p> +Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and endeavored to arrange the +bedclothes so that the chill air might not do harm to the feverish slumberer. +But her hand trembled against Margaret’s neck, a tear also fell upon her +cheek, and she suddenly awoke. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY</h2> + +<p> +Daffydowndilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a flower, and +loved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in labor +of any kind. But, while Daffydowndilly was yet a little boy, his mother sent +him away from his pleasant home, and put him under the care of a very strict +schoolmaster, who went by the name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him best +affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a very worthy character; and that he had done +more good, both to children and grown people, than anybody else in the world. +Certainly he had lived long enough to do a great deal of good; for, if all +stories be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from the +garden of Eden. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly countenance, especially for such +little boys or big men as were inclined to be idle; his voice, too, was harsh; +and all his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable to our friend +Daffydowndilly. The whole day long, this terrible old schoolmaster sat at his +desk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the school-room with a certain +awful birch rod in his hand. Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whom +Mr. Toil had caught at play; now he punished a whole class who were behindhand +with their lessons; and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and +constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in the +school-room of Mr. Toil. +</p> + +<p> +“This will never do for me,” thought Daffydowndilly. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly’s life had hitherto been passed with his +dear mother, who had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who had always +been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, therefore, that poor +Daffydowndilly found it a woful change, to be sent away from the good +lady’s side, and put under the care of this ugly-visaged schoolmaster, +who never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed to think that little boys +were created only to get lessons. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t bear it any longer,” said Daffydowndilly to himself, +when he had been at school about a week. “I’ll run away, and try to +find my dear mother; and, at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so +disagreeable as this old Mr. Toil!” +</p> + +<p> +So, the very next morning, off started poor Daffydowndilly, and began his +rambles about the world, with only some bread and cheese for his breakfast, and +very little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But he had gone only a short +distance, when he overtook a man of grave and sedate appearance, who was +trudging at a moderate pace along the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, my fine lad,” said the stranger; and his voice +seemed hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it; “whence do +you come so early, and whither are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +Little Daffydowndilly was a boy of very ingenuous disposition, and had never +been known to tell a lie in all his life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitated +a moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run away from school, on +account of his great dislike to Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to find some +place in the world where he should never see or hear of the old schoolmaster +again. +</p> + +<p> +“O, very well, my little friend!” answered the stranger. +“Then we will go together; for I, likewise, have had a good deal to do +with Mr. Toil, and should be glad to find some place where he was never heard +of.” +</p> + +<p> +Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better pleased with a companion of +his own age, with whom he might have gathered flowers along the roadside, or +have chased butterflies, or have done many other things to make the journey +pleasant. But he had wisdom enough to understand that he should get along +through the world much easier by having a man of experience to show him the +way. So he accepted the stranger’s proposal, and they walked on very +sociably together. +</p> + +<p> +They had not gone far, when the road passed by a field where some haymakers +were at work, mowing down the tall grass, and spreading it out in the sun to +dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet smell of the new-mown grass, +and thought how much pleasanter it must be to make hay in the sunshine, under +the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly in the neighboring trees and +bushes, than to be shut up in a dismal school-room, learning lessons all day +long, and continually scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, in the midst of these +thoughts, while he was stopping to peep over the stone wall, he started back +and caught hold of his companion’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Quick, quick!” cried he. “Let us run away, or he will catch +us!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who will catch us?” asked the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!” answered Daffydowndilly. +“Don’t you see him amongst the haymakers?” +</p> + +<p> +And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, who seemed to be the owner of the +field, and the employer of the men at work there. He had stripped off his coat +and waistcoat, and was busily at work in his shirt-sleeves. The drops of sweat +stood upon his brow; but he gave himself not a moment’s rest, and kept +crying out to the haymakers to make hay while the sun shone. Now, strange to +say, the figure and features of this old farmer were precisely the same as +those of old Mr. Toil, who, at that very moment, must have been just entering +his school-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid,” said the stranger. “This is not Mr. +Toil the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer; and people +say he is the most disagreeable man of the two. However, he won’t trouble +you, unless you become a laborer on the farm.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion said, but was very glad, +nevertheless, when they were out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a +singular resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers had gone but little +farther, when they came to a spot where some carpenters were erecting a house. +Daffydowndilly begged his companion to stop a moment; for it was a very pretty +sight to see how neatly the carpenters did their work, with their broad-axes, +and saws, and planes, and hammers, shaping out the doors, and putting in the +window-sashes, and nailing on the clapboards; and he could not help thinking +that he should like to take a broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, and +build a little house for himself. And then, when he should have a house of his +own, old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him. +</p> + +<p> +But, just while he was delighting himself with this idea, little Daffydowndilly +beheld something that made him catch hold of his companion’s hand, all in +a fright. +</p> + +<p> +“Make haste. Quick, quick!” cried he. “There he is +again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” asked the stranger, very quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, trembling. “There! he +that is overseeing the carpenters. ‘T is my old schoolmaster, as sure as +I’m alive!” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly pointed his finger; and he saw +an elderly man, with a carpenter’s rule and compasses in his hand. This +person went to and fro about the unfinished house, measuring pieces of timber, +and marking out the work that was to be done, and continually exhorting the +other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever he turned his hard and wrinkled +visage, the men seemed to feel that they had a task-master over them, and +sawed, and hammered, and planed, as if for dear life. +</p> + +<p> +“O no! this is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster,” said the stranger. +“It is another brother of his, who follows the trade of carpenter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear it,” quoth Daffydowndilly; “but if +you please, sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum and +fife. Daffydowndilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought his companion to +hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers. Accordingly, they +made what haste they could, and soon met a company of soldiers, gayly dressed, +with beautiful feathers in their caps, and bright muskets on their shoulders. +In front marched two drummers and two fifers, beating on their drums and +playing on their fifes with might and main, and making such lively music that +little Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to the end of the world. +And if he was only a soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would +never venture to look him in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Quick step! Forward march!” shouted a gruff voice. +</p> + +<p> +Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay; for this voice which had spoken +to the soldiers sounded precisely the same as that which he had heard every day +in Mr. Toil’s school-room, out of Mr. Toil’s own mouth. And, +turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should he see but the very +image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his head, a pair +of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash +round his waist, and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand. And +though he held his head so high, and strutted like a turkey-cock, still he +looked quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the +schoolroom. +</p> + +<p> +“This is certainly old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, in a +trembling voice. “Let us run away, for fear he should make us enlist in +his company!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken again, my little friend,” replied the stranger, +very composedly. “This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother +of his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he’s a +terribly severe fellow; but you and I need not be afraid of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said little Daffydowndilly, “but, if you +please, sir, I don’t want to see the soldiers any more.” +</p> + +<p> +So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by, they came +to a house by the roadside, where a number of people were making merry. Young +men and rosy-checked girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing to the +sound of a fiddle. It was the pleasantest sight that Daffydowndilly had yet met +with, and it comforted him for all his disappointments. +</p> + +<p> +“O, let us stop here,” cried he to his companion; “for Mr. +Toil will never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where +people are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here!” +</p> + +<p> +But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly’s tongue; for, +happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should be behold again, but the +likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a birch rod, and +flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he had been a fiddler all +his life! He had somewhat the air of a Frenchman, but still looked exactly like +the old schoolmaster; and Daffydowndilly even fancied that he nodded and winked +at him, and made signs for him to join in the dance. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear me!” whispered he, turning pale. “It seems as if +there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his +playing on a fiddle!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is not your old schoolmaster,” observed the stranger, +“but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the +profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls +himself Monsieur le Plaisir; but his real name is Toil, and those who have +known him best think him still more disagreeable than his brothers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray let us go a little farther,” said Daffydowndilly. “I +don’t like the looks of this fiddler at all.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, thus the stranger and little Daffydowndilly went wandering along the +highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and whithersoever +they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil. He stood like a +scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house, he sat in the parlor; if +they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He made himself at home in every +cottage, and stole, under one disguise or another, into the most splendid +mansions. Everywhere there was sure to be somebody wearing the likeness of Mr. +Toil, and who, as the stranger affirmed, was one of the old +schoolmaster’s innumerable brethren. +</p> + +<p> +Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to death, when he perceived some people +reclining lazily in a shady place, by the side of the road. The poor child +entreated his companion that they might sit down there, and take some repose. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Mr. Toil will never come here,” said he; “for he hates +to see people taking their ease.” +</p> + +<p> +But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly’s eyes fell upon a person who +seemed the laziest, and heaviest, and most torpid of all those lazy and heavy +and torpid people who had lain down to sleep in the shade. Who should it be, +again, but the very image of Mr. Toil! +</p> + +<p> +“There is a large family of these Toils,” remarked the stranger. +“This is another of the old schoolmaster’s brothers, who was bred +in Italy, where he acquired very idle habits, and goes by the name of Signor +Far Niente. He pretends to lead an easy life, but is really the most miserable +fellow in the family.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, take me back!—take me back!” cried poor little +Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. “If there is nothing but Toil all +the world over, I may just as well go back to the school-house!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yonder it is,—there is the school-house!” said the stranger; +for though he and little Daffydowndilly had taken a great many steps, they had +travelled in a circle, instead of a straight line. “Come; we will go back +to school together.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something in his companion’s voice that little Daffydowndilly +now remembered; and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking +up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so that +the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing +his best to run away from him. Some people, to whom I have told little +Daffydowndilly’s story, are of opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician, +and possessed the power of multiplying himself into as many shapes as he saw +fit. +</p> + +<p> +Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned a good lesson, and from +that time forward was diligent at his task, because he knew that diligence is +not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when he became better +acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very +disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster’s smile of approbation made +his face almost as pleasant as even that of Daffydowndilly’s mother. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX</h2> + +<p> +After the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the +colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and +generous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under +the original charters. The people looked with most jealous scrutiny to the +exercise of power which did not emanate from themselves, and they usually +rewarded their rulers with slender gratitude for the compliances by which, in +softening their instructions from beyond the sea, they had incurred the +reprehension of those who gave them. The annals of Massachusetts Bay will +inform us, that of six governors in the space of about forty years from the +surrender of the old charter, under James II, two were imprisoned by a popular +insurrection; a third, as Hutchinson inclines to believe, was driven from the +province by the whizzing of a musket-ball; a fourth, in the opinion of the same +historian, was hastened to his grave by continual bickerings with the House of +Representatives; and the remaining two, as well as their successors, till the +Revolution, were favored with few and brief intervals of peaceful sway. The +inferior members of the court party, in times of high political excitement, led +scarcely a more desirable life. These remarks may serve as a preface to the +following adventures, which chanced upon a summer night, not far from a hundred +years ago. The reader, in order to avoid a long and dry detail of colonial +affairs, is requested to dispense with an account of the train of circumstances +that had caused much temporary inflammation of the popular mind. +</p> + +<p> +It was near nine o’clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed the +ferry with a single passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at that unusual +hour by the promise of an extra fare. While he stood on the landing-place, +searching in either pocket for the means of fulfilling his agreement, the +ferryman lifted a lantern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen moon, he +took a very accurate survey of the stranger’s figure. He was a youth of +barely eighteen years, evidently country-bred, and now, as it should seem, upon +his first visit to town. He was clad in a coarse gray coat, well worn, but in +excellent repair; his under garments were durably constructed of leather, and +fitted tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs; his stockings of +blue yarn were the incontrovertible work of a mother or a sister; and on his +head was a three-cornered hat, which in its better days had perhaps sheltered +the graver brow of the lad’s father. Under his left arm was a heavy +cudgel formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part of the hardened root; and +his equipment was completed by a wallet, not so abundantly stocked as to +incommode the vigorous shoulders on which it hung. Brown, curly hair, +well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes were nature’s gifts, and +worth all that art could have done for his adornment. +</p> + +<p> +The youth, one of whose names was Robin, finally drew from his pocket the half +of a little province bill of five shillings, which, in the depreciation in that +sort of currency, did but satisfy the ferryman’s demand, with the surplus +of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at three pence. He then walked +forward into the town, with as light a step as if his day’s journey had +not already exceeded thirty miles, and with as eager an eye as if he were +entering London city, instead of the little metropolis of a New England colony. +Before Robin had proceeded far, however, it occurred to him that he knew not +whither to direct his steps; so he paused, and looked up and down the narrow +street, scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that were scattered on +either side. +</p> + +<p> +“This low hovel cannot be my kinsman’s dwelling,” thought he, +“nor yonder old house, where the moonlight enters at the broken casement; +and truly I see none hereabouts that might be worthy of him. It would have been +wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and doubtless he would have gone with +me, and earned a shilling from the Major for his pains. But the next man I meet +will do as well.” +</p> + +<p> +He resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now became wider, +and the houses more respectable in their appearance. He soon discerned a figure +moving on moderately in advance, and hastened his steps to overtake it. As +Robin drew nigh, he saw that the passenger was a man in years, with a full +periwig of gray hair, a wide-skirted coat of dark cloth, and silk stockings +rolled above his knees. He carried a long and polished cane, which he struck +down perpendicularly before him at every step; and at regular intervals he +uttered two successive hems, of a peculiarly solemn and sepulchral intonation. +Having made these observations, Robin laid hold of the skirt of the old +man’s coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a +barber’s shop fell upon both their figures. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening to you, honored sir,” said he, making a low bow, and +still retaining his hold of the skirt. “I pray you tell me whereabouts is +the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.” +</p> + +<p> +The youth’s question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers, +whose razor was descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was dressing +a Ramillies wig, left their occupations, and came to the door. The citizen, in +the mean time, turned a long-favored countenance upon Robin, and answered him +in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His two sepulchral hems, however, +broke into the very centre of his rebuke, with most singular effect, like a +thought of the cold grave obtruding among wrathful passions. +</p> + +<p> +“Let go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak of. +What! I have authority, I have—hem, hem—authority; and if this be +the respect you show for your betters, your feet shall be brought acquainted +with the stocks by daylight, tomorrow morning!” +</p> + +<p> +Robin released the old man’s skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an +ill-mannered roar of laughter from the barber’s shop. He was at first +considerably surprised by the result of his question, but, being a shrewd +youth, soon thought himself able to account for the mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“This is some country representative,” was his conclusion, +“who has never seen the inside of my kinsman’s door, and lacks the +breeding to answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily—I might +be tempted to turn back and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even the +barber’s boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser +in time, friend Robin.” +</p> + +<p> +He now became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, which +crossed each other, and meandered at no great distance from the water-side. The +smell of tar was obvious to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the +moonlight above the tops of the buildings, and the numerous signs, which Robin +paused to read, informed him that he was near the centre of business. But the +streets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in the +second stories of a few dwelling-houses. At length, on the corner of a narrow +lane, through which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of a +British hero swinging before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the voices of +many guests. The casement of one of the lower windows was thrown back, and a +very thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a party at supper, round a +well-furnished table. The fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth into the +outer air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the last remnant of +his travelling stock of provision had yielded to his morning appetite, and that +noon had found and left him dinnerless. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at +yonder table!” said Robin, with a sigh. “But the Major will make me +welcome to the best of his victuals; so I will even step boldly in, and inquire +my way to his dwelling.” +</p> + +<p> +He entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes of +tobacco to the public-room. It was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls, +grown dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but of +no immaculate purity. A number of persons—the larger part of whom +appeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea—occupied +the wooden benches, or leatherbottomed chairs, conversing on various matters, +and occasionally lending their attention to some topic of general interest. +Three or four little groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which the +West India trade had long since made a familiar drink in the colony. Others, +who had the appearance of men who lived by regular and laborious handicraft, +preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more taciturn +under its influence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection for the Good +Creature in some of its various shapes, for this is a vice to which, as Fast +Day sermons of a hundred years ago will testify, we have a long hereditary +claim. The only guests to whom Robin’s sympathies inclined him were two +or three sheepish countrymen, who were using the inn somewhat after the fashion +of a Turkish caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of +the room, and heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread of +their own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. But though +Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these strangers, his eyes were attracted +from them to a person who stood near the door, holding whispered conversation +with a group of ill-dressed associates. His features were separately striking +almost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on the +memory. The forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between; +the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of more +than a finger’s breadth; the eyebrows were deep and shaggy, and the eyes +glowed beneath them like fire in a cave. +</p> + +<p> +While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman’s +dwelling, he was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained white +apron, who had come to pay his professional welcome to the stranger. Being in +the second generation from a French Protestant, he seemed to have inherited the +courtesy of his parent nation; but no variety of circumstances was ever known +to change his voice from the one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin. +</p> + +<p> +“From the country, I presume, sir?” said he, with a profound bow. +“Beg leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a +long stay with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and much that may +interest a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your commands in respect to +supper?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that I am related +to the Major!” thought Robin, who had hitherto experienced little +superfluous civility. +</p> + +<p> +All eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his worn +three-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings, +leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a wallet on his back. +</p> + +<p> +Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption of confidence +as befitted the Major’s relative. “My honest friend,” he +said, “I shall make it a point to patronize your house on some occasion, +when”—here he could not help lowering his voice—“when I +may have more than a parchment three-pence in my pocket. My present +business,” continued he, speaking with lofty confidence, “is merely +to inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sudden and general movement in the room, which Robin interpreted as +expressing the eagerness of each individual to become his guide. But the +innkeeper turned his eyes to a written paper on the wall, which he read, or +seemed to read, with occasional recurrences to the young man’s figure. +</p> + +<p> +“What have we here?” said he, breaking his speech into little dry +fragments. “‘Left the house of the subscriber, bounden servant, +Hezekiah Mudge,—had on, when he went away, gray coat, leather breeches, +master’s third-best hat. One pound currency reward to whosoever shall +lodge him in any jail of the providence.’ Better trudge, boy; better +trudge!” +</p> + +<p> +Robin had begun to draw his hand towards the lighter end of the oak cudgel, but +a strange hostility in every countenance induced him to relinquish his purpose +of breaking the courteous innkeeper’s head. As he turned to leave the +room, he encountered a sneering glance from the bold-featured personage whom he +had before noticed; and no sooner was he beyond the door, than he heard a +general laugh, in which the innkeeper’s voice might be distinguished, +like the dropping of small stones into a kettle. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, is it not strange,” thought Robin, with his usual shrewdness, +“is it not strange that the confession of an empty pocket should outweigh +the name of my kinsman, Major Molineux? Oh, if I had one of those grinning +rascals in the woods, where I and my oak sapling grew up together, I would +teach him that my arm is heavy though my purse be light!” +</p> + +<p> +On turning the corner of the narrow lane, Robin found himself in a spacious +street, with an unbroken line of lofty houses on each side, and a steepled +building at the upper end, whence the ringing of a bell announced the hour of +nine. The light of the moon, and the lamps from the numerous shop-windows, +discovered people promenading on the pavement, and amongst them Robin had hoped +to recognize his hitherto inscrutable relative. The result of his former +inquiries made him unwilling to hazard another, in a scene of such publicity, +and he determined to walk slowly and silently up the street, thrusting his face +close to that of every elderly gentleman, in search of the Major’s +lineaments. In his progress, Robin encountered many gay and gallant figures. +Embroidered garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs, gold-laced hats, and +silver-hilted swords glided past him and dazzled his optics. Travelled youths, +imitators of the European fine gentlemen of the period, trod jauntily along, +half dancing to the fashionable tunes which they hummed, and making poor Robin +ashamed of his quiet and natural gait. At length, after many pauses to examine +the gorgeous display of goods in the shop-windows, and after suffering some +rebukes for the impertinence of his scrutiny into people’s faces, the +Major’s kinsman found himself near the steepled building, still +unsuccessful in his search. As yet, however, he had seen only one side of the +thronged street; so Robin crossed, and continued the same sort of inquisition +down the opposite pavement, with stronger hopes than the philosopher seeking an +honest man, but with no better fortune. He had arrived about midway towards the +lower end, from which his course began, when he overheard the approach of some +one who struck down a cane on the flag-stones at every step, uttering at +regular intervals, two sepulchral hems. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy on us!” quoth Robin, recognizing the sound. +</p> + +<p> +Turning a corner, which chanced to be close at his right hand, he hastened to +pursue his researches in some other part of the town. His patience now was +wearing low, and he seemed to feel more fatigue from his rambles since he +crossed the ferry, than from his journey of several days on the other side. +Hunger also pleaded loudly within him, and Robin began to balance the propriety +of demanding, violently, and with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance from +the first solitary passenger whom he should meet. While a resolution to this +effect was gaining strength, he entered a street of mean appearance, on either +side of which a row of ill-built houses was straggling towards the harbor. The +moonlight fell upon no passenger along the whole extent, but in the third +domicile which Robin passed there was a half-opened door, and his keen glance +detected a woman’s garment within. +</p> + +<p> +“My luck may be better here,” said he to himself. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, he approached the doors and beheld it shut closer as he did so; +yet an open space remained, sufficing for the fair occupant to observe the +stranger, without a corresponding display on her part. All that Robin could +discern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and the occasional sparkle of an eye, +as if the moonbeams were trembling on some bright thing. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty mistress,” for I may call her so with a good conscience +thought the shrewd youth, since I know nothing to the contrary,—“my +sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me whereabouts I must +seek the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?” +</p> + +<p> +Robin’s voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothing +to be shunned in the handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and came +forth into the moonlight. She was a dainty little figure with a white neck, +round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which her scarlet +petticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon. +Moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her hair dark beneath the little cap, +and her bright eyes possessed a sly freedom, which triumphed over those of +Robin. +</p> + +<p> +“Major Molineux dwells here,” said this fair woman. +</p> + +<p> +Now, her voice was the sweetest Robin had heard that night, yet he could not +help doubting whether that sweet voice spoke Gospel truth. He looked up and +down the mean street, and then surveyed the house before which they stood. It +was a small, dark edifice of two stories, the second of which projected over +the lower floor, and the front apartment had the aspect of a shop for petty +commodities. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, truly, I am in luck,” replied Robin, cunningly, “and so +indeed is my kinsman, the Major, in having so pretty a housekeeper. But I +prithee trouble him to step to the door; I will deliver him a message from his +friends in the country, and then go back to my lodgings at the inn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or more,” said the lady of +the scarlet petticoat; “and it would be to little purpose to disturb him +to-night, seeing his evening draught was of the strongest. But he is a +kind-hearted man, and it would be as much as my life’s worth to let a +kinsman of his turn away from the door. You are the good old gentleman’s +very picture, and I could swear that was his rainy-weather hat. Also he has +garments very much resembling those leather small-clothes. But come in, I pray, +for I bid you hearty welcome in his name.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, the fair and hospitable dame took our hero by the hand; and the +touch was light, and the force was gentleness, and though Robin read in her +eyes what he did not hear in her words, yet the slender-waisted woman in the +scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the athletic country youth. She had +drawn his half-willing footsteps nearly to the threshold, when the opening of a +door in the neighborhood startled the Major’s housekeeper, and, leaving +the Major’s kinsman, she vanished speedily into her own domicile. A heavy +yawn preceded the appearance of a man, who, like the Moonshine of Pyramus and +Thisbe, carried a lantern, needlessly aiding his sister luminary in the +heavens. As he walked sleepily up the street, he turned his broad, dull face on +Robin, and displayed a long staff, spiked at the end. +</p> + +<p> +“Home, vagabond, home!” said the watchman, in accents that seemed +to fall asleep as soon as they were uttered. “Home, or we’ll set +you in the stocks by peep of day!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the second hint of the kind,” thought Robin. “I wish +they would end my difficulties, by setting me there to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the guardian of +midnight order, which at first prevented him from asking his usual question. +But just when the man was about to vanish behind the corner, Robin resolved not +to lose the opportunity, and shouted lustily after him, “I say, friend! +will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, Major Molineux?” +</p> + +<p> +The watchman made no reply, but turned the corner and was gone; yet Robin +seemed to hear the sound of drowsy laughter stealing along the solitary street. +At that moment, also, a pleasant titter saluted him from the open window above +his head; he looked up, and caught the sparkle of a saucy eye; a round arm +beckoned to him, and next he heard light footsteps descending the staircase +within. But Robin, being of the household of a New England clergyman, was a +good youth, as well as a shrewd one; so he resisted temptation, and fled away. +</p> + +<p> +He now roamed desperately, and at random, through the town, almost ready to +believe that a spell was on him, like that by which a wizard of his country had +once kept three pursuers wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty paces +of the cottage which they sought. The streets lay before him, strange and +desolate, and the lights were extinguished in almost every house. Twice, +however, little parties of men, among whom Robin distinguished individuals in +outlandish attire, came hurrying along; but, though on both occasions, they +paused to address him such intercourse did not at all enlighten his perplexity. +They did but utter a few words in some language of which Robin knew nothing, +and perceiving his inability to answer, bestowed a curse upon him in plain +English and hastened away. Finally, the lad determined to knock at the door of +every mansion that might appear worthy to be occupied by his kinsman, trusting +that perseverance would overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted him. +Firm in this resolve, he was passing beneath the walls of a church, which +formed the corner of two streets, when, as he turned into the shade of its +steeple, he encountered a bulky stranger muffled in a cloak. The man was +proceeding with the speed of earnest business, but Robin planted himself full +before him, holding the oak cudgel with both hands across his body as a bar to +further passage. +</p> + +<p> +“Halt, honest man, and answer me a question,” said he, very +resolutely. “Tell me, this instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my +kinsman, Major Molineux!” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!” said +a deep, gruff voice, which Robin partly remembered. “Let me pass, or +I’ll strike you to the earth!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, neighbor!” cried Robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then +thrusting its larger end close to the man’s muffled face. “No, no, +I’m not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass till I have an answer +to my question. Whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major +Molineux?” The stranger, instead of attempting to force his passage, +stepped back into the moonlight, unmuffled his face, and stared full into that +of Robin. +</p> + +<p> +“Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux will pass by,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Robin gazed with dismay and astonishment on the unprecedented physiognomy of +the speaker. The forehead with its double prominence the broad hooked nose, the +shaggy eyebrows, and fiery eyes were those which he had noticed at the inn, but +the man’s complexion had undergone a singular, or, more properly, a +twofold change. One side of the face blazed an intense red, while the other was +black as midnight, the division line being in the broad bridge of the nose; and +a mouth which seemed to extend from ear to ear was black or red, in contrast to +the color of the cheek. The effect was as if two individual devils, a fiend of +fire and a fiend of darkness, had united themselves to form this infernal +visage. The stranger grinned in Robin’s face, muffled his party-colored +features, and was out of sight in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Strange things we travellers see!” ejaculated Robin. +</p> + +<p> +He seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door, resolving to +wait the appointed time for his kinsman. A few moments were consumed in +philosophical speculations upon the species of man who had just left him; but +having settled this point shrewdly, rationally, and satisfactorily, he was +compelled to look elsewhere for his amusement. And first he threw his eyes +along the street. It was of more respectable appearance than most of those into +which he had wandered, and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, a +beautiful strangeness in familiar objects, gave something of romance to a scene +that might not have possessed it in the light of day. The irregular and often +quaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were broken into +numerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, into a single +point, and others again were square; the pure snow-white of some of their +complexions, the aged darkness of others, and the thousand sparklings, +reflected from bright substances in the walls of many; these matters engaged +Robin’s attention for a while, and then began to grow wearisome. Next he +endeavored to define the forms of distant objects, starting away, with almost +ghostly indistinctness, just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally he +took a minute survey of an edifice which stood on the opposite side of the +street, directly in front of the church-door, where he was stationed. It was a +large, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony, which +rested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window, communicating +therewith. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps this is the very house I have been seeking,” thought +Robin. +</p> + +<p> +Then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which swept +continually along the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to an +unaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull, dreamy sound, compounded of many +noises, each of which was at too great a distance to be separately heard. Robin +marvelled at this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled more whenever its +continuity was broken by now and then a distant shout, apparently loud where it +originated. But altogether it was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off +its drowsy influence, Robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he might +view the interior of the church. There the moonbeams came trembling in, and +fell down upon the deserted pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. A +fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and one +solitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great Bible. Had +nature, in that deep hour, become a worshipper in the house which man had +builded? Or was that heavenly light the visible sanctity of the +place,—visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls? +The scene made Robin’s heart shiver with a sensation of loneliness +stronger than he had ever felt in the remotest depths of his native woods; so +he turned away and sat down again before the door. There were graves around the +church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into Robin’s breast. What if +the object of his search, which had been so often and so strangely thwarted, +were all the time mouldering in his shroud? What if his kinsman should glide +through yonder gate, and nod and smile to him in dimly passing by? +</p> + +<p> +“Oh that any breathing thing were here with me!” said Robin. +</p> + +<p> +Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent them over forest, +hill, and stream, and attempted to imagine how that evening of ambiguity and +weariness had been spent by his father’s household. He pictured them +assembled at the door, beneath the tree, the great old tree, which had been +spared for its huge twisted trunk and venerable shade, when a thousand leafy +brethren fell. There, at the going down of the summer sun, it was his +father’s custom to perform domestic worship that the neighbors might come +and join with him like brothers of the family, and that the wayfaring man might +pause to drink at that fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening the +memory of home. Robin distinguished the seat of every individual of the little +audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding the Scriptures in the +golden light that fell from the western clouds; he beheld him close the book +and all rise up to pray. He heard the old thanksgivings for daily mercies, the +old supplications for their continuance to which he had so often listened in +weariness, but which were now among his dear remembrances. He perceived the +slight inequality of his father’s voice when he came to speak of the +absent one; he noted how his mother turned her face to the broad and knotted +trunk; how his elder brother scorned, because the beard was rough upon his +upper lip, to permit his features to be moved; how the younger sister drew down +a low hanging branch before her eyes; and how the little one of all, whose +sports had hitherto broken the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer for +her playmate, and burst into clamorous grief. Then he saw them go in at the +door; and when Robin would have entered also, the latch tinkled into its place, +and he was excluded from his home. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I here, or there?” cried Robin, starting; for all at once, when +his thoughts had become visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide, +solitary street shone out before him. +</p> + +<p> +He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the large +edifice which he had surveyed before. But still his mind kept vibrating between +fancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened into the +tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human figures, settled again into +their true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of changes. For +a single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a +visage—one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as +his kinsman’s—was looking towards him from the Gothic window. A +deeper sleep wrestled with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound of +footsteps along the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a man +passing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, and +lamentable cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major +Molineux?” +</p> + +<p> +The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the passenger, barely +able to discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of the steeple, traversed +the street to obtain a nearer view. He was himself a gentleman in his prime, of +open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether prepossessing countenance. +Perceiving a country youth, apparently homeless and without friends, he +accosted him in a tone of real kindness, which had become strange to +Robin’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?” inquired he. +“Can I be of service to you in any way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid not, sir,” replied Robin, despondingly; “yet I +shall take it kindly, if you’ll answer me a single question. I’ve +been searching, half the night, for one Major Molineux, now, sir, is there +really such a person in these parts, or am I dreaming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me,” said +the gentleman, smiling. “Have you any objection to telling me the nature +of your business with him?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a small +salary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and Major Molineux +were brothers’ children. The Major, having inherited riches, and acquired +civil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in great pomp, a year or two +before; had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother, and, being +childless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of +one of them in life. The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm +which his father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore +determined that Robin should profit by his kinsman’s generous intentions, +especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess +other necessary endowments. +</p> + +<p> +“For I have the name of being a shrewd youth,” observed Robin, in +this part of his story. +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt not you deserve it,” replied his new friend, +good-naturedly; “but pray proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you +see,” continued Robin, drawing himself up to his full height, “I +thought it high time to begin in the world. So my mother and sister put me in +handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last year’s +salary, and five days ago I started for this place, to pay the Major a visit. +But, would you believe it, sir! I crossed the ferry a little after dark, and +have yet found nobody that would show me the way to his dwelling; only, an hour +or two since, I was told to wait here, and Major Molineux would pass by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you describe the man who told you this?” inquired the +gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir,” replied Robin, +“with two great bumps on his forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what +struck me as the strangest, his face was of two different colors. Do you happen +to know such a man, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not intimately,” answered the stranger, “but I chanced to +meet him a little time previous to your stopping me. I believe you may trust +his word, and that the Major will very shortly pass through this street. In the +mean time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting, I will sit +down here upon the steps and bear you company.” +</p> + +<p> +He seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animated +discourse. It was but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting, +which had long been remotely audible, drew so much nearer that Robin inquired +its cause. +</p> + +<p> +“What may be the meaning of this uproar?” asked he. “Truly, +if your town be always as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an +inhabitant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous +fellows abroad to-night,” replied the gentleman. “You must not +expect all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. But the +watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day,” interrupted Robin +recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. “But, dear +sir, if I may trust my ears, an army of watchmen would never make head against +such a multitude of rioters. There were at least a thousand voices went up to +make that one shout.” +</p> + +<p> +“May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two +complexions?” said his friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!” +responded the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the +Major’s housekeeper. +</p> + +<p> +The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and +continual, that Robin’s curiosity was strongly excited. In addition to +the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from many instruments of discord, and a +wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals. Robin rose from the steps, +and looked wistfully towards a point whither people seemed to be hastening. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on,” exclaimed he +“I have laughed very little since I left home, sir, and should be sorry +to lose an opportunity. Shall we step round the corner by that darkish house +and take our share of the fun?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down again, sit down, good Robin,” replied the gentleman, +laying his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. “You forget that we must +wait here for your kinsman; and there is reason to believe that he will pass +by, in the course of a very few moments.” +</p> + +<p> +The near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windows +flew open on all sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and +confused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever had +leisure to observe them. Eager voices hailed each other from house to house, +all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. Half-dressed men +hurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stone +steps that thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. The shouts, the +laughter, and the tuneless bray the antipodes of music, came onwards with +increasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser bodies, began to +appear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?” +inquired the gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I can’t warrant it, sir; but I’ll take my stand +here, and keep a bright lookout,” answered Robin, descending to the outer +edge of the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +A mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rolling slowly +towards the church. A single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them, +and close behind him came a band of fearful wind instruments, sending forth a +fresher discord now that no intervening buildings kept it from the ear. Then a +redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense multitude of torches shone +along the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they illuminated. +The single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rode +onward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appeared +like war personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; the +blackness of the other betokened the mourning that attends them. In his train +were wild figures in the Indian dress, and many fantastic shapes without a +model, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had broken forth +from some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnight +streets. A mass of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed +the procession in; and several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing the +confusion of heavier sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or terror. +</p> + +<p> +“The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me,” muttered Robin, with +an indefinite but an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part in +the pageantry. +</p> + +<p> +The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon the +country youth, as the steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed his eyes from +those fiery ones, the musicians were passing before him, and the torches were +close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter formed a veil which he +could not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes found its +way to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and +then melted into the vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered a +command to halt: the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their +peace; the shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained only +a universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin’s eyes was an +uncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shone +out like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, Major +Molineux! +</p> + +<p> +He was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square +features, betokening a steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies had found +means to shake it. His face was pale as death, and far more ghastly; the broad +forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his eyebrows formed one grizzled +line; his eyes were red and wild, and the foam hung white upon his quivering +lip. His whole frame was agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which his +pride strove to quell, even in those circumstances of overwhelming humiliation. +But perhaps the bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of Robin; for +he evidently knew him on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing the foul +disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. They stared at each other in silence, +and Robin’s knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a mixture of pity +and terror. Soon, however, a bewildering excitement began to seize upon his +mind; the preceding adventures of the night, the unexpected appearance of the +crowd, the torches, the confused din and the hush that followed, the spectre of +his kinsman reviled by that great multitude,—all this, and, more than +all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the whole scene, affected him with +a sort of mental inebriety. At that moment a voice of sluggish merriment +saluted Robin’s ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner +of the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily enjoying +the lad’s amazement. Then he heard a peal of laughter like the ringing of +silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met his, and he saw the +lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry cachinnation appealed to his +memory, and, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white apron over his +head, he beheld the courteous little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over +the heads of the multitude a great, broad laugh, broken in the midst by two +sepulchral hems; thus, “Haw, haw, haw,—hem, hem,—haw, haw, +haw, haw!” +</p> + +<p> +The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither Robin +turned his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood the old citizen, wrapped +in a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrust +back from his forehead, and his silk stockings hanging about his legs. He +supported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, which +manifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on a +tombstone. Then Robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests +of the inn, and of all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion was +spreading among the multitude, when all at once, it seized upon Robin, and he +sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street,—every man +shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin’s shout was the +loudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as the +congregated mirth went roaring up the sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far +bellow. “Oho,” quoth he, “the old earth is frolicsome +to-night!” +</p> + +<p> +When there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the leader +gave the sign, the procession resumed its march. On they went, like fiends that +throng in mockery around some dead potentate, mighty no more, but majestic +still in his agony. On they went, in counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, +in frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old man’s heart. On swept the +tumult, and left a silent street behind. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“Well, Robin, are you dreaming?” inquired the gentleman, laying his +hand on the youth’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he had +instinctively clung, as the living stream rolled by him. His cheek was somewhat +pale, and his eye not quite as lively as in the earlier part of the evening. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?” said he, +after a moment’s pause. +</p> + +<p> +“You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?” observed his +companion, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, sir,” replied Robin, rather dryly. “Thanks to you, +and to my other friends, I have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce +desire to see my face again. I begin to grow weary of a town life, sir. Will +you show me the way to the ferry?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my good friend Robin,—not to-night, at least,” said the +gentleman. “Some few days hence, if you wish it, I will speed you on your +journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd +youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman, Major +Molineux.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOW-IMAGE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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