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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow-Image, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</div>
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<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>
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<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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;though you and I will never cast a line in
it again,&mdash;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,&mdash;still it was your prognostic of your
friend&rsquo;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&mdash;and that, moreover, unknown to himself&mdash;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&mdash;the indices of intellectual condition
at far separate epochs&mdash;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&mdash;at least, so
I would fain hope&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it,
a trait of unworldly beauty,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Yes, Violet,&mdash;yes, my little Peony,&rdquo; said their kind mother,
&ldquo;you may go out and play in the new snow.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s figure, was struck with
a new idea.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if
your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out
of snow,&mdash;an image of a little girl,&mdash;and it shall be our sister, and
shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won&rsquo;t it be
nice?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but
a little boy. &ldquo;That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Violet; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;What remarkable children mine are!&rdquo; thought she, smiling with a
mother&rsquo;s pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them.
&ldquo;What other children could have made anything so like a little
girl&rsquo;s figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I must finish
Peony&rsquo;s new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and I want
the little fellow to look handsome.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Peony, Peony!&rdquo; cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to
another part of the garden, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s bosom with. You know that part must be
quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here it is, Violet!&rdquo; answered Peony, in his bluff tone,&mdash;but
a very sweet tone, too,&mdash;as he came floundering through the half-trodden
drifts. &ldquo;Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, how beau-ti-ful
she begins to look!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; &ldquo;our
snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could
make such a sweet little girl as this.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever
did!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Peony, Peony!&rdquo; cried Violet; for her brother was again at the
other side of the garden. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s head!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here they are, Violet!&rdquo; answered the little boy. &ldquo;Take care
you do not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Does she not look sweetly?&rdquo; said Violet, with a very satisfied
tone; &ldquo;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, &lsquo;Tush! nonsense!&mdash;come in out
of the cold!&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let us call mamma to look out,&rdquo; said Peony; and then he shouted
lustily, &ldquo;Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice
&rsquo;ittle girl we are making!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the window. But
it so happened that the sun&mdash;for this was one of the shortest days of the
whole year&mdash;had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that his setting
shine came obliquely into the lady&rsquo;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,&mdash;indeed, she looked more at them than at the image,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;They do everything better than other children,&rdquo; said she, very
complacently. &ldquo;No wonder they make better snow-images!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!&rdquo; said
Violet. &ldquo;I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold!
Sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t you love her dearly, Peony?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; cried Peony. &ldquo;And I will hug her, and she shall sit
down close by me and drink some of my warm milk!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh no, Peony!&rdquo; answered Violet, with grave wisdom. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; it is beau-ti-ful,&rdquo; answered Peony, pronouncing the three
syllables with deliberate accuracy. &ldquo;O Violet, only look at her hair! It
is all like gold!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh certainly,&rdquo; said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very
much a matter of course. &ldquo;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,&mdash;redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it
will make them red if we both kiss them!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s scarlet cheek.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, &rsquo;ittle snow-sister, kiss me!&rdquo; cried Peony.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There! she has kissed you,&rdquo; added Violet, &ldquo;and now her lips
are very red. And she blushed a little, too!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, what a cold kiss!&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is
running about the garden with us!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What imaginative little beings my children are!&rdquo; thought the
mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony&rsquo;s frock. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear mamma!&rdquo; cried Violet, &ldquo;pray look out and see what a
sweet playmate we have!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Violet my darling, what is this child&rsquo;s name?&rdquo; asked she.
&ldquo;Does she live near us?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, dearest mamma,&rdquo; answered Violet, laughing to think that her
mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, &ldquo;this is our little
snow-sister whom we have just been making!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, dear mamma,&rdquo; cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking
up simply into her face. &ldquo;This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice
&rsquo;ittle child?&rdquo;
</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&mdash;and this looked
strange&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Violet,&rdquo; said her mother, greatly perplexed, &ldquo;tell me the
truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My darling mamma,&rdquo; answered Violet, looking seriously into her
mother&rsquo;s face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further
explanation, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, mamma,&rdquo; asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimson
little phiz; &ldquo;this is &rsquo;ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one?
But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Pray, what little girl may that be?&rdquo; inquired this very sensible
man. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear husband,&rdquo; said his wife, &ldquo;I know no more about the
little thing than you do. Some neighbor&rsquo;s child, I suppose. Our Violet
and Peony,&rdquo; she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a
story, &ldquo;insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been
busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the
children&rsquo;s snow-image had been made. What was her surprise, on perceiving
that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!&mdash;no image at
all!&mdash;no piled up heap of snow!&mdash;nothing whatever, save the prints of
little footsteps around a vacant space!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is very strange!&rdquo; said she.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is strange, dear mother?&rdquo; asked Violet. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, papa,&rdquo; said crimson Peony. &ldquo;This be our &rsquo;ittle
snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poh, nonsense, children!&rdquo; cried their good, honest father, who, as
we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at
matters. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Dear father,&rdquo; cried Violet, putting herself before him, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, father,&rdquo; shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily
was he in earnest, &ldquo;this be nothing but our &rsquo;ittle snow-child! She
will not love the hot fire!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!&rdquo; cried the father, half
vexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Husband! dear husband!&rdquo; said his wife, in a low voice,&mdash;for
she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than
ever,&mdash;&ldquo;there is something very singular in all this. You will think
me foolish,&mdash;but&mdash;but&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear wife,&rdquo; replied the husband, laughing heartily, &ldquo;you
are as much a child as Violet and Peony.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;Pray, do not touch me!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s appearance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, you odd little thing!&rdquo; cried the honest man, seizing her by
the hand, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run
down their cheeks,&mdash;and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image
into the house.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not bring her in!&rdquo; exclaimed the kind-hearted man. &ldquo;Why, you
are crazy, my little Violet!&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s fingers on the child&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;After all, husband,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image!
I do believe she is made of snow!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled
like a star.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Snow!&rdquo; repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over
his hospitable threshold. &ldquo;No wonder she looks like snow. She is half
frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to
rights!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, this highly
benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little white
damsel&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Now she will be comfortable!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands
and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. &ldquo;Make
yourself at home, my child.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Come wife,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Husband! husband!&rdquo; cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken
face through the window-panes. &ldquo;There is no need of going for the
child&rsquo;s parents!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We told you so, father!&rdquo; screamed Violet and Peony, as he
re-entered the parlor. &ldquo;You would bring her in; and now our
poor&mdash;dear-beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;And there you see all that is left of it!&rdquo; added she, pointing to
a pool of water in front of the stove.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, father,&rdquo; said Violet looking reproachfully at him, through
her tears, &ldquo;there is all that is left of our dear little
snow-sister!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Naughty father!&rdquo; cried Peony, stamping his foot, and&mdash;I
shudder to say&mdash;shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man.
&ldquo;We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;though by no means very
wholesome, even for them,&mdash;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&rsquo;s stamp. They know everything,&mdash;oh, to be
sure!&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Wife,&rdquo; said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s name
was Ernest.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If an old prophecy should come to pass,&rdquo; answered his mother,
&ldquo;we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as
that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?&rdquo; eagerly inquired Ernest.
&ldquo;Pray tell me about it!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;O mother, dear mother!&rdquo; cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his
head, &ldquo;I do hope that I shall live to see him!&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;Perhaps you may.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Here he comes!&rdquo; cried a group of people who were assembled to
witness the arrival. &ldquo;Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;The very image of the Great Stone Face!&rdquo; shouted the people.
&ldquo;Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man
come, at last!&rdquo;
</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&mdash;the very same that had clawed together so much wealth&mdash;poked
itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the ground; so
that, though the great man&rsquo;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, &ldquo;He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;simple as when his mother first taught him the
old prophecy,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis the same face, to a hair!&rdquo; cried one man, cutting a
caper for joy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wonderfully like, that&rsquo;s a fact!&rdquo; responded another.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous
looking-glass!&rdquo; cried a third. &ldquo;And why not? He&rsquo;s the
greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;The general! the general!&rdquo; was now the cry. &ldquo;Hush! silence!
Old Blood-and-Thunder&rsquo;s going to make a speech.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This is not the man of prophecy,&rdquo; sighed Ernest to himself, as he
made his way out of the throng. &ldquo;And must the world wait longer
yet?&rdquo;
</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&mdash;as it always did&mdash;the aspect of
his marvellous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fear not, Ernest,&rdquo; said his heart, even as if the Great Face were
whispering him,&mdash;&ldquo;fear not, Ernest; he will come.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s wealth and the warrior&rsquo;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,&mdash;when it had
been heard in halls of state, and in the courts of princes and
potentates,&mdash;after it had made him known all over the world, even as a
voice crying from shore to shore,&mdash;it finally persuaded his countrymen to
select him for the Presidency. Before this time,&mdash;indeed, as soon as he
began to grow celebrated,&mdash;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Huzza for the
great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!&rdquo; But as yet he had not seen him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here he is, now!&rdquo; cried those who stood near Ernest. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Confess it,&rdquo; said one of Ernest&rsquo;s neighbors to him,
&ldquo;the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and
pressing him for an answer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No!&rdquo; said Ernest bluntly, &ldquo;I see little or no
likeness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Lo, here I am, Ernest!&rdquo; the benign lips seemed to say. &ldquo;I
have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will
come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;O majestic friend,&rdquo; he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face,
&ldquo;is not this man worthy to resemble thee?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Good evening,&rdquo; said the poet. &ldquo;Can you give a traveller a
night&rsquo;s lodging?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Willingly,&rdquo; answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling,
&ldquo;Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a
stranger.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s glowing
eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have read these poems,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You know me,
then,&mdash;for I wrote them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Wherefore are you sad?&rdquo; inquired the poet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because,&rdquo; replied Ernest, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You hoped,&rdquo; answered the poet, faintly smiling, &ldquo;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&mdash;in shame and sadness do I speak
it, Ernest&mdash;I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic
image.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And why?&rdquo; asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. &ldquo;Are not
those thoughts divine?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They have a strain of the Divinity,&rdquo; replied the poet. &ldquo;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&mdash;and that, too, by my own
choice&mdash;among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even&mdash;shall I dare
to say it?&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</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,
&ldquo;Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone
Face!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;barring, I say, the casualties to which such a complicated piece
of mechanism is liable,&mdash;I flatter myself, ladies and
gentlemen,&mdash;that the performance will elicit your generous approbation.
</p>

<p>
Ting-a-ting-ting! goes the bell; the curtain rises; and we behold&mdash;not,
indeed, the Main Street&mdash;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,&mdash;the ever-youthful and venerably old,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;a majestic and
queenly woman, or else her spectral image does not represent her
truly,&mdash;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,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;The whole affair is a manifest catchpenny!&rdquo; observes he, scarcely
under his breath. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s wooden monkey, sliding up and down a stick.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am obliged to you, sir, for the candor of your remarks,&rdquo; replies
the showman, with a bow. &ldquo;Perhaps they are just. Human art has its
limits, and we must now and then ask a little aid from the spectator&rsquo;s
imagination.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You will get no such aid from mine,&rdquo; responds the critic. &ldquo;I
make it a point to see things precisely as they are. But come! go ahead! the
stage is waiting!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;such is the ingenious contrivance of this piece of
pictorial mechanism,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for, by its dignity, as marking an
epoch in the history of the street, it deserves that name,&mdash;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;The worshipful Court of Assistants
have done wisely,&rdquo; say they between themselves. &ldquo;They have chosen
for our governor a man out of a thousand.&rdquo; Then they toss up their
hats,&mdash;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&rsquo;s wear,&mdash;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?&mdash;-a
rose of beauty from an English garden, now to be transplanted to a fresher
soil. It may be that, long years&mdash;centuries indeed&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This is too ridiculous!&mdash;positively insufferable!&rdquo; mutters
the same critic who had before expressed his disapprobation. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, sir, you have not the proper point of view,&rdquo; remarks the
showman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; replies the critic; &ldquo;I want no other light and
shade. I have already told you that it is my business to see things just as
they are.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would suggest to the author of this ingenious exhibition,&rdquo;
observes a gentlemanly person, who has shown signs of being much
interested,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&mdash;as the phrase now goes&mdash;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&rsquo;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?&mdash;how, with the pictured windows, where the light of
common day was hallowed by being transmitted through the glorified figures of
saints?&mdash;how, with the lofty roof, imbued, as it must have been, with the
prayers that had gone upward for centuries?&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s threshold,
a child of six or seven years old. Which is the better-grown infant,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;their spectres, if you choose so to call
them&mdash;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&mdash;a propriety, an equilibrium, in
Governor Winthrop&rsquo;s nature&mdash;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&mdash;as Sir Richard Saltonstall has been, once and
again&mdash;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,&mdash;an
eccentricity in the manner,&mdash;a certain indescribable
waywardness,&mdash;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&mdash;we might almost say
preaching or expounding&mdash;in the centre of a group of profoundly attentive
auditors, is Ann Hutchinson. And here comes Vane&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, my dear sir,&rdquo; interrupts the same gentleman who before
questioned the showman&rsquo;s genealogical accuracy, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The fellow,&rdquo; adds the scarcely civil critic, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s
pictures. Well! go on, sir!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir, you break the illusion of the scene,&rdquo; mildly remonstrates the
showman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Illusion! What illusion?&rdquo; rejoins the critic, with a contemptuous
snort. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s tongue,&mdash;and that but a
wretched one, into the bargain!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We public men,&rdquo; replies the showman, meekly, &ldquo;must lay our
account, sometimes, to meet an uncandid severity of criticism. But&mdash;merely
for your own pleasure, sir&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know better,&rdquo; retorts the critic, settling himself in his seat,
with sullen but self-complacent immovableness. &ldquo;And, as for my own
pleasure, I shall best consult it by remaining precisely where I am.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s curiosity excited, and causes each structure, like its
owner&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;destined, at some period of its existence, to be the
abode of an unsuccessful alchemist,&mdash;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&mdash;its spiritual essence,
bearing up its human imperfection&mdash;find its way to the heavenly
Father&rsquo;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&rsquo;-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&mdash;the first traveller that has come
hitherward this morning&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;when the new settlement,
between the forest-border and the sea, had become actually a little
town,&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;What is all this?&rdquo; cries the critic. &ldquo;A sermon? If so, it is
not in the bill.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very true,&rdquo; replies the showman; &ldquo;and I ask pardon of the
audience.&rdquo;
</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;&mdash;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;&mdash;the gift of a new idea. You can discern it in them, illuminating
their faces&mdash;their whole persons, indeed, however earthly and
cloddish&mdash;with a light that inevitably shines through, and makes the
startled community aware that these men are not as they themselves
are,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;impious
varlets that they are, and worse than the heathen Indians!&mdash;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,&mdash;wild and shrill it must be
to suit such a figure,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;as old as the hills of the great pasture, or the headland
at the harbor&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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?&mdash;the children of the stranger making
game of the great Squaw Sachem&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;destined, too,
to meet a warrior&rsquo;s fate, at the desperate assault on the fortress of the
Narragansetts!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The mettled steed looks like a pig,&rdquo; interrupts the critic,
&ldquo;and Captain Gardner himself like the Devil, though a very tame one, and
on a most diminutive scale.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir, sir!&rdquo; cries the persecuted showman, losing all
patience,&mdash;for, indeed, he had particularly prided himself on these
figures of Captain Gardner and his horse,&mdash;&ldquo;I see that there is no
hope of pleasing you. Pray, sir, do me the favor to take back your money, and
withdraw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not I!&rdquo; answers the unconscionable critic. &ldquo;I am just
beginning to get interested in the matter. Come! turn your crank, and grind out
a few more of these fooleries!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Turn your crank, I say,&rdquo; bellows the remorseless critic,
&ldquo;and grind it out, whatever it be, without further preface!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;a
sad sight, truly,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner,&mdash;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&rsquo;s turn to laugh.
</p>

<p>
Behind these two,&mdash;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,&mdash;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!&mdash;he? The holy man!&mdash;the learned!&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;to look at him&mdash;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,&mdash;while we
hear his ejaculations of prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the depths of
his heart, and fly heavenward, unawares,&mdash;while we behold a radiance
brightening on his features as from the other world, which is but a few steps
off,&mdash;who would not say, that, over the dusty track of the Main Street, a
Christian saint is now going to a martyr&rsquo;s death? May not the Arch-Fiend
have been too subtle for the court and jury, and betrayed them&mdash;laughing
in his sleeve, the while&mdash;into the awful error of pouring out sanctified
blood as an acceptable sacrifice upon God&rsquo;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&rsquo;s power shall this day receive its death-blow
in New England.
</p>

<p>
Heaven grant it be so!&mdash;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&rsquo;s
power and malice! Mercy Parris, the minister&rsquo;s daughter, has been smitten
by a flash of Martha Carrier&rsquo;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!&mdash;ere they fling out their withered arms, and scatter
pestilence by handfuls among the crowd!&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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?&mdash;and the aged pall-bearers, too, as they
strive to walk solemnly beside it?&mdash;and wherefore do the mourners tread on
one another&rsquo;s heels?&mdash;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&rsquo;s arms, when the primeval
trees were flinging their shadow over Roger Conant&rsquo;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,&mdash;often pausing,&mdash;often leaning over his staff,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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;&mdash;and another&mdash;another&mdash;and another&mdash;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&mdash;so melancholy a death-spot&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;and it is what I chiefly regret,&mdash;I had
expended a vast deal of light and brilliancy on a representation of the street
in its whole length, from Buffum&rsquo;s Corner downward, on the night of the
grand illumination for General Taylor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s entertainment shall receive back the admission fee at the door.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then give me mine,&rdquo; cries the critic, stretching out his palm.
&ldquo;I said that your exhibition would prove a humbug, and so it has turned
out. So, hand over my quarter!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Father, what is that?&rdquo; asked the little boy, leaving his play, and
pressing betwixt his father&rsquo;s knees.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, some drunken man, I suppose,&rdquo; answered the lime-burner;
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, father,&rdquo; said the child, more sensitive than the obtuse,
middle-aged clown, &ldquo;he does not laugh like a man that is glad. So the
noise frightens me!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a fool, child!&rdquo; cried his father, gruffly.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Halloo! who is it?&rdquo; cried the lime-burner, vexed at his
son&rsquo;s timidity, yet half infected by it. &ldquo;Come forward, and show
yourself, like a man, or I&rsquo;ll fling this chunk of marble at your
head!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You offer me a rough welcome,&rdquo; said a gloomy voice, as the unknown
man drew nigh. &ldquo;Yet I neither claim nor desire a kinder one, even at my
own fireside.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&mdash;which were very
bright&mdash;intently upon the brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or
expected to behold, some object worthy of note within it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good evening, stranger,&rdquo; said the lime-burner; &ldquo;whence come
you, so late in the day?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I come from my search,&rdquo; answered the wayfarer; &ldquo;for, at
last, it is finished.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Drunk!&mdash;or crazy!&rdquo; muttered Bartram to himself. &ldquo;I
shall have trouble with the fellow. The sooner I drive him away, the
better.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s face which he was afraid to look at, yet
could not look away from. And, indeed, even the lime-burner&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Your task draws to an end, I see,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;This marble has
already been burning three days. A few hours more will convert the stone to
lime.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, who are you?&rdquo; exclaimed the lime-burner. &ldquo;You seem as
well acquainted with my business as I am myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And well I may be,&rdquo; said the stranger; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The man that went in search of the Unpardonable Sin?&rdquo; asked
Bartram, with a laugh.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The same,&rdquo; answered the stranger. &ldquo;He has found what he
sought, and therefore he comes back again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?&rdquo; cried the lime-burner, in
amazement. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even so!&rdquo; said the stranger, calmly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If the question is a fair one,&rdquo; proceeded Bartram, &ldquo;where
might it be?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;the madman&rsquo;s laugh,&mdash;the wild, screaming
laugh of a born idiot,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Joe,&rdquo; said he to his little son, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They were all of
one family; they went to and fro between his breast and Ethan Brand&rsquo;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&rsquo;s possible
guilt beyond the scope of Heaven&rsquo;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&rsquo;s mind, that he almost expected
to see the Evil One issue forth, red-hot, from the raging furnace.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hold! hold!&rdquo; cried he, with a tremulous attempt to laugh; for he
was ashamed of his fears, although they overmastered him. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t,
for mercy&rsquo;s sake, bring out your Devil now!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Man!&rdquo; sternly replied Ethan Brand, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;I have looked,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is the Unpardonable Sin?&rdquo; asked the lime-burner; and then he
shrank farther from his companion, trembling lest his question should be
answered.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is a sin that grew within my own breast,&rdquo; replied Ethan Brand,
standing erect with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his stamp.
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The man&rsquo;s head is turned,&rdquo; muttered the lime-burner to
himself. &ldquo;He may be a sinner like the rest of us,&mdash;nothing more
likely,&mdash;but, I&rsquo;ll be sworn, he is a madman too.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&mdash;and that the left
one&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;and, strange to say, it was a
painful doubt&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Leave me,&rdquo; he said bitterly, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, you uncivil scoundrel,&rdquo; cried the fierce doctor, &ldquo;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,&mdash;I told you so twenty years
ago,&mdash;neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit companion
of old Humphrey, here!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;They tell me you have been all over the earth,&rdquo; said he, wringing
his hands with earnestness. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethan Brand&rsquo;s eye quailed beneath the old man&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he murmured, turning away from the hoary wanderer, &ldquo;it
is no delusion. There is an Unpardonable Sin!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Come, old Dutchman,&rdquo; cried one of the young men, &ldquo;let us see
your pictures, if you can swear they are worth looking at!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, Captain,&rdquo; answered the Jew,&mdash;whether as a matter of
courtesy or craft, he styled everybody Captain,&mdash;&ldquo;I shall show you,
indeed, some very superb pictures!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s battles and Nelson&rsquo;s
sea-fights; and in the midst of these would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy
hand,&mdash;which might have been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny, though, in
truth, it was only the showman&rsquo;s,&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;You make the little man to be afraid, Captain,&rdquo; said the German
Jew, turning up the dark and strong outline of his visage from his stooping
posture. &ldquo;But look again, and, by chance, I shall cause you to see
somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;I remember you now,&rdquo; muttered Ethan Brand to the showman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, Captain,&rdquo; whispered the Jew of Nuremberg, with a dark smile,
&ldquo;I find it to be a heavy matter in my show-box,&mdash;this Unpardonable
Sin! By my faith, Captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry
it over the mountain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Peace,&rdquo; answered Ethan Brand, sternly, &ldquo;or get thee into the
furnace yonder!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Jew&rsquo;s exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderly
dog&mdash;who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laid
claim to him&mdash;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,&mdash;as if
one end of the ridiculous brute&rsquo;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,&mdash;that the moon was
almost down,-that the August night was growing chill,&mdash;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&mdash;a timorous and
imaginative child&mdash;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>
&ldquo;For myself, I cannot sleep,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I have matters that
it concerns me to meditate upon. I will watch the fire, as I used to do in the
old time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And call the Devil out of the furnace to keep you company, I
suppose,&rdquo; muttered Bartram, who had been making intimate acquaintance
with the black bottle above mentioned. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;how the dark forest had whispered to him,&mdash;how the stars had
gleamed upon him,&mdash;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,&mdash;had
contracted,&mdash;had hardened,&mdash;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,&mdash;as the bright and
gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of his life&rsquo;s labor,&mdash;he
had produced the Unpardonable Sin!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What more have I to seek? what more to achieve?&rdquo; said Ethan Brand
to himself. &ldquo;My task is done, and well done!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;O Mother Earth,&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;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!&mdash;farewell all, and forever. Come, deadly element of
Fire,-henceforth my familiar friend! Embrace me, as I do thee!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Up, boy, up!&rdquo; cried the lime-burner, staring about him.
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He issued from the hut, followed by little Joe, who kept fast hold of his
father&rsquo;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&rsquo;s face brightened at once.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear father,&rdquo; cried he, skipping cheerily to and fro, &ldquo;that
strange man is gone, and the sky and the mountains all seem glad of it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; growled the lime-burner, with an oath, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With his long pole in his hand, he ascended to the top of the kiln. After a
moment&rsquo;s pause, he called to his son.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come up here, Joe!&rdquo; said he.
</p>

<p>
So little Joe ran up the hillock, and stood by his father&rsquo;s side. The
marble was all burnt into perfect, snow-white lime. But on its surface, in the
midst of the circle,&mdash;snow-white too, and thoroughly converted into
lime,&mdash;lay a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person who, after long
toil, lies down to long repose. Within the ribs&mdash;strange to say&mdash;was
the shape of a human heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was the fellow&rsquo;s heart made of marble?&rdquo; cried Bartram, in
some perplexity at this phenomenon. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&mdash;for we may as well drop our quaint personification&mdash;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&mdash;than which none could resound his beneficence more
loudly&mdash;on the Jesuits, who were then converting the American Indians to
the spiritual dominion of the Pope. So the bell,&mdash;our self-same bell,
whose familiar voice we may hear at all hours, in the streets,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&mdash;a man of sanctified aspect, though his
hands were bloody&mdash;approached the captain.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s good success we owe to that holy man&rsquo;s wrestling with the
Lord?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, then,&rdquo; answered the captain, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;clang, clang, clang!&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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? &ldquo;Open
thy bosom, Mother Earth!&rdquo; Thus spake the bell. &ldquo;Another of thy
children is coming to his long rest. Take him to thy bosom, and let him slumber
in peace.&rdquo; 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&mdash;again thy voice, reminding me that I am wasting the &ldquo;midnight
oil.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s care. In a brief interval of
wakefulness, the sons of toil have heard thee, and say, &ldquo;Is so much of
our quiet slumber spent?&mdash;is the morning so near at hand?&rdquo; Crime has
heard thee, and mutters, &ldquo;Now is the very hour!&rdquo; Despair answers
thee, &ldquo;Thus much of this weary life is gone!&rdquo; The young mother, on
her bed of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy echoing strokes, and dates from
them her first-born&rsquo;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&mdash;the voice of fleeting time&mdash;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>
&ldquo;The charm works!&rdquo; said he, in a low, but emphatic whisper.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, Edward Hamilton,&mdash;since so you choose to be
named,&mdash;do you know,&rdquo; said the lady beside him, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But will he not vanish into thin air, at my bidding?&rdquo; rejoined
Edward Hamilton. &ldquo;Let the charm work!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The girl&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;The charm works!&rdquo; muttered he, again. &ldquo;Our pretty
Sylvia&rsquo;s scorn will have a dear retribution!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s character.
</p>

<p>
Sylvia was shy, sensitive, and fanciful; and her guardian&rsquo;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,&mdash;with the prerogative
of a cousin and a lover,&mdash;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&rsquo;s nearest
relative, though a distant one. While an inmate of Mrs. Grosvenor&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s part, was not followed by
personal partiality, or even the regard that seemed due to her cousin&rsquo;s
most intimate friend. As she herself could have assigned no cause for her
repugnance, it might be termed instinctive. Hamilton&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;would meet, for the
first time, the loved of years&mdash;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&rsquo;s footsteps, as if he trode upon the
viewless air. Mrs. Grosvenor, too, while she watched the tremulous flow of
Sylvia&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Sylph!&rdquo; cried a voice. &ldquo;Dearest Sylph! Where are you, sweet
Sylph Etherege? Here is your Edgar Vaughan!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But instead of answering, or rising to meet her lover,&mdash;who had greeted
her by the sweet and fanciful name, which, appropriate as it was to her
character, was known only to him,&mdash;Sylvia grasped Mrs. Grosvenor&rsquo;s
arm, while her whole frame shook with the throbbing of her heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; gasped she. &ldquo;Who calls me Sylph?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Is not the miniature an admirable likeness?&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;There, my sweet Sylph,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We have gone too far, Edgar Vaughan,&rdquo; said Mrs. Grosvenor,
catching Sylvia in her arms. The revengeful freak, which Vaughan&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Look at the poor child!&rdquo; she continued.
&ldquo;I protest I tremble for the consequences!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, madam!&rdquo; replied Vaughan, sneeringly, as he threw the light
of the lamp on Sylvia&rsquo;s closed eyes and marble features. &ldquo;Well, my
conscience is clear. I did but look into this delicate creature&rsquo;s heart;
and with the pure fantasies that I found there, I made what seemed a
man,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now, Edgar Vaughan,&rdquo; said Mrs. Grosvenor, as Sylvia&rsquo;s
heart began faintly to throb again, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Whether the result of the lesson corresponded with Mrs. Grosvenor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s drawing-room, where he
found that lady and Sylph Etherege.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Only that Sylvia makes no complaint,&rdquo; remarked Mrs. Grosvenor,
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, to Mrs. Grosvenor. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sylvia&rsquo;s eyes grew yet brighter. She waved her hand to Edgar Vaughan,
with a gesture of ethereal triumph.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Farewell!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I will neither fade into the
moonlight, nor flit away upon the breeze. Yet you cannot keep me here!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was something in Sylvia&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried he, with a strange smile of mockery and anguish.
&ldquo;Can our sweet Sylph be going to heaven, to seek the original of the
miniature?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Thee and I will rest here a moment, Miriam,&rdquo; said the young man,
as they drew near the stone cistern, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Nay, Josiah,&rdquo; said she, giving him a timid push with her maiden
hand, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But we are of the world&rsquo;s people now, Miriam,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Good evening to you, young folks,&rdquo; was the salutation of the
travellers; and &ldquo;Good evening, friends,&rdquo; replied the youth and
damsel.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is that white building the Shaker meeting-house?&rdquo; asked one of the
strangers. &ldquo;And are those the red roofs of the Shaker village?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Friend, it is the Shaker village,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;It is true, friends,&rdquo; replied the young man, summoning up his
courage. &ldquo;Miriam and I have a gift to love each other, and we are going
among the world&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yet you think it expedient to depart without leave-taking,&rdquo;
remarked one of the travellers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea, ye-a,&rdquo; said Josiah, reluctantly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the stranger, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; added he, turning to his
companions. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;In me,&rdquo; said he, with a certain majesty of
utterance,&mdash;&ldquo;in me, you behold a poet.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;A poet!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh, ay, Miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must
know.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;True, I am a verse-maker,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Friend,&rdquo; said the young Shaker, in some perplexity, &ldquo;thee
seemest to have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, I should pity them,
if&mdash;if I could but understand what they were.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Happy in your ignorance!&rdquo; replied the poet, with an air of sublime
superiority. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thank thee, friend,&rdquo; rejoined the youth, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he
added, with real concern, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man,&rdquo; said the girl,
in all simplicity and kindness. &ldquo;Our hymns are very rough, and perhaps
they may trust him to smooth them.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; said he, abruptly, &ldquo;what quantity of land do the
Shakers own here, in Canterbury?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is more than I can tell thee, friend,&rdquo; answered Josiah,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what may be the value of the whole,&rdquo; continued the stranger,
&ldquo;with all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in round
numbers?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, a monstrous sum,&mdash;more than I can reckon,&rdquo; replied the
young Shaker.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said the pilgrim, &ldquo;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&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I won&rsquo;t dispute it, friend,&rdquo; answered Josiah, &ldquo;but I
know I had rather have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet of thy
paper.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You may say so now,&rdquo; said the ruined merchant, bitterly,
&ldquo;for my name would not be worth the paper I should write it on. Of
course, you must have heard of my failure?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Not heard of my failure!&rdquo; exclaimed the merchant, considerably
piqued. &ldquo;Why, it was spoken of on &rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will not turn back for this,&rdquo; replied Josiah, calmly, &ldquo;any
more than for the advice of the varse-maker, between whom and thee, friend, I
see a sort of likeness, though I can&rsquo;t justly say where it lies. But
Miriam and I can earn our daily bread among the world&rsquo;s people as well as
in the Shaker village. And do we want anything more, Miriam?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing more, Josiah,&rdquo; said the girl, quietly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, if God send
them,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Well, now, youngster,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;these folks have had their
say, so I&rsquo;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,&mdash;just such a neat and pretty young woman as Miriam, if that&rsquo;s
her name,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And didn&rsquo;t He help thee, friend?&rdquo; demanded Josiah, with some
eagerness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the yeoman, sullenly; &ldquo;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&rsquo;ll have to climb this hill, with as heavy
a heart as mine.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;But thy wife, friend?&rdquo; exclaimed the younger man. &ldquo;What
became of the pretty girl, like Miriam? Oh, I am afraid she is dead!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea, poor man, she must be dead,&mdash;she and the children, too,&rdquo;
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>
&ldquo;I am his wife,&rdquo; said she, a shade of irritability just perceptible
in the sadness of her tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what would thee advise Josiah and me to do?&rdquo; asked Miriam,
this being the first question which she had put to either of the strangers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to part true
lovers,&rdquo; answered the yeoman&rsquo;s wife, after a pause; &ldquo;but
I&rsquo;ll speak as truly to you as if these were my dying words. Though my
husband told you some of our troubles, he didn&rsquo;t mention the greatest,
and that which makes all the rest so hard to bear. If you and your sweetheart
marry, you&rsquo;ll be kind and pleasant to each other for a year or two, and
while that&rsquo;s the case, you never will repent; but, by and by, he&rsquo;ll
grow gloomy, rough, and hard to please, and you&rsquo;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
.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;We are tired and hungry!&rdquo; cried they. &ldquo;Is it far to the
Shaker village?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;We will not go back,&rdquo; said they. &ldquo;The world never can be
dark to us, for we will always love one another.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;for there is nothing new under the sun&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;late calamity of 1692,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;fortification-gate,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;loose and dissolute people&rdquo; who
have been wont to stop passengers in the streets, on the Fifth of November,
&ldquo;otherwise called Pope&rsquo;s Day,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;very decently interred.&rdquo; But when some
mightier mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of the
&ldquo;worshipful&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;dancing-school near the
Orange-Tree,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s chair, but never swelled against the throne. Thus, until
oppression was felt to proceed from the king&rsquo;s own hand, New England
rejoiced with her whole heart on his Majesty&rsquo;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 &ldquo;a negro fellow, fit for almost any
household work&rdquo;; &ldquo;a negro woman, honest, healthy, and
capable&rdquo;; &ldquo;a negro wench of many desirable qualities&rdquo;;
&ldquo;a negro man, very fit for a taylor.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;it being not quite orthodox to drown the
superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens,&mdash;notice was promulgated
of &ldquo;a negro child to be given away.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s, in Creek Lane, and examine his rich velvet, whether it be fit for
my apparel on Election-day,&mdash;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,&mdash;though it would be a
pity the wench should hide her comely visage; and also a French cap, from
Robert Jenkins&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &amp; Green, and purchase Dr. Colman&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;the ape of London foppery, as the newspaper was the semblance
of the London journals,&mdash;he, with his gray powdered periwig, his
embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy silk stockings,
golden-clocked,&mdash;his buckles of glittering paste, at knee-band and
shoe-strap,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;who is seldom more than twelve hours beyond his
time&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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
&ldquo;prayers of the congregation for a son gone a soldiering.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s age, and the preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of a
novel, unless it be &ldquo;The Two Mothers, price four coppers.&rdquo; There
was an American poet, however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved no
specimen,&mdash;the author of &ldquo;War, an Heroic Poem&rdquo;; 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 &ldquo;T<small>HE</small>
N<small>EW</small> E<small>NGLAND</small> M<small>AGAZINE</small>,&rdquo; 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
&ldquo;old glass and picture shop,&rdquo; in Cornhill, various maps, plates,
and views are advertised, and among them a &ldquo;Prospect of Boston,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;for, at length, you
conclude that all is unsubstantial, though it be so good a mockery of an
antique town,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;and now opening another volume printed in the same metropolis,
after such sentiments had long been deemed a sin and shame,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s name in every ordinance, his prayer in the church, his health at
the board, and his love in the people&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;W<small>E APPEAL TO</small>
H<small>EAVEN</small>.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s own stores, for his army in New York. And what a
fleet of privateers&mdash;pirates, say we&mdash;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&rsquo;s own
signature affixed, as if New England were already a French province. Everything
is French,&mdash;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&rsquo;s army, when we wore a redcoat too,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s almanac? Not this of
Weatherwise&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
recreation,&mdash;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,&mdash;the first that the
British soldier ever drew from the bosoms of our countrymen,&mdash;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,&mdash;English blood and American,&mdash;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&mdash;the lady of George Washington at their head&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s unconquerable reverence
for the Lord&rsquo;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&rsquo;s word, though they cut off
a king&rsquo;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&mdash;a thousand dollars, in Continental
rags!&mdash;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,&mdash;proof that the banditti
are as false to their Stars and Stripes as to the Holy Red Cross,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;as, indeed, it is a great
folly&mdash;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;And verily,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;I deem it a chief condition of
Heaven&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s cave at Horeb, though perhaps it more resembled Abraham&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;The finger of Providence hath pointed my way!&rdquo; cried he, aloud,
while the tomb-like den returned a strange echo, as if some one within were
mocking him. &ldquo;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,&mdash;and
I alone have found it!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Good evening, Richard,&rdquo; said the girl; &ldquo;I have come from
afar to find thee.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Off!&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;I am sanctified, and thou art sinful.
Away!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O Richard,&rdquo; said she, earnestly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Away!&rdquo; replied Richard Digby, still with a dark frown. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Come back with me!&rdquo; she exclaimed, clasping her
hands,&mdash;&ldquo;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&rsquo;s
sake; for either the roof will fall upon thy head, or some other speedy
destruction is at hand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perverse woman!&rdquo; answered Richard Digby, laughing aloud,&mdash;for
he was moved to bitter mirth by her foolish vehemence,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s
feet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Richard,&rdquo; she said, with passionate fervor, yet a gentleness in
all her passion, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s, and all be
well.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Tempt me no more, accursed woman,&rdquo; exclaimed he, still with his
marble frown, &ldquo;lest I smite thee down also! What hast thou to do with my
Bible?&mdash;what with my prayers?&mdash;what with my heaven?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
No sooner had he spoken these dreadful words, than Richard Digby&rsquo;s heart
ceased to beat; while&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;not from heaven,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s
office was around us,&mdash;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,&mdash;it was a name of fancy and
friendship between him and me,&mdash;my friend Oberon looked at these papers
with a peculiar expression of disquietude.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do believe,&rdquo; said he, soberly, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And of mine, too,&rdquo; thought I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You remember,&rdquo; continued Oberon, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied I, &ldquo;unless the spell be hid in a desire to
turn novelist, after reading your delightful tales.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Novelist!&rdquo; exclaimed Oberon, half seriously. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Burn your tales!&rdquo; repeated I, startled at the desperation of the
idea.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; said the author, despondingly. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That does make a difference, indeed,&rdquo; said I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They have been offered, by letter,&rdquo; continued Oberon, reddening
with vexation, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of America must
be!&rdquo; cried I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, the Alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!&rdquo; said my
friend. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The villain!&rdquo; exclaimed I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A fact!&rdquo; said Oberon. &ldquo;In short, of all the seventeen
booksellers, only one has vouchsafed even to read my tales; and he&mdash;a
literary dabbler himself, I should judge&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It might not be amiss to pull that fellow&rsquo;s nose,&rdquo; remarked
I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If the whole &lsquo;trade&rsquo; had one common nose, there would be
some satisfaction in pulling it,&rdquo; answered the author. &ldquo;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,&mdash;seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new
one,&mdash;unless at the writer&rsquo;s risk.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The paltry rogues!&rdquo; cried I. &ldquo;Will they live by literature,
and yet risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your
own account.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And so I might,&rdquo; replied Oberon. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Pooh! Pish! Pshaw!&rdquo; exclaimed he, holding them at
arm&rsquo;s-length. &ldquo;It was Gray&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would fail of effect,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;because a bad author is
always his own great admirer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I lack that one characteristic of my tribe,&mdash;the only desirable
one,&rdquo; observed Oberon. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There must have been a sort of happiness in all this,&rdquo; said I,
smitten with a strange longing to make proof of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There may be happiness in a fever fit,&rdquo; replied the author.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you now perceive a corresponding difference,&rdquo; inquired I,
&ldquo;between the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid flashes
of the mind?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table. &ldquo;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,&mdash;and behold! it is all nonsense, now that I am awake.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing it
blaze like Nebuchadnezzar&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Surely, you do not mean to burn them!&rdquo; I exclaimed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me alone!&rdquo; cried Oberon, his eyes flashing fire. &ldquo;I will
burn them! Not a scorched syllable shall escape! Would you have me a damned
author?&mdash;To undergo sneers, taunts, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint
praise, bestowed, for pity&rsquo;s sake, against the giver&rsquo;s conscience!
A hissing and a laughing-stock to my own traitorous thoughts! An outlaw from
the protection of the grave,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;They blaze,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as if I had steeped them in the
intensest spirit of genius. There I see my lovers clasped in each other&rsquo;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!&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;You saw him? You must have seen him!&rdquo; cried Oberon. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;What is more potent than fire!&rdquo; said he, in his gloomiest tone.
&ldquo;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&mdash;all that I
planned for future years&mdash;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,&mdash;a long repentance of this hour,&mdash;and at last an
obscure grave, where they will bury and forget me!&rdquo;
</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. &ldquo;Fire!&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;A fire on such a night!&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;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&mdash;Pshaw!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;&ldquo;Fire! Fire! Fire!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is so eloquent as their iron tongues!&rdquo; exclaimed Oberon.
&ldquo;My heart leaps and trembles, but not with fear. And that other sound,
too,&mdash;deep and awful as a mighty organ,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;My tales!&rdquo; cried Oberon. &ldquo;The chimney! The roof! The Fiend
has gone forth by night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder from their
beds! Here I stand,&mdash;a triumphant author! Huzza! Huzza! My brain has set
the town on fire! Huzza!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>JOHN INGLEFIELD&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s festival beneath that roof. The
vacant chair at John Inglefield&rsquo;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&rsquo;s right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here I am, at last, father,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You ate your
Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with
you.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;You are welcome home, Prudence,&rdquo; said he, glancing sideways at
her, and his voice faltered. &ldquo;Your mother would have rejoiced to see you,
but she has been gone from us these four months.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know it, father, I know it,&rdquo; replied Prudence, quickly.
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Sister Prudence,&rdquo; said he, earnestly, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A shadow flitted across the girl&rsquo;s countenance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The grave is very dark, brother,&rdquo; answered she, withdrawing her
hand somewhat hastily from his grasp. &ldquo;You must look your last at me by
the light of this fire.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;No, Mary,--no, my sister,&rdquo; cried she, &ldquo;do not you touch me.
Your bosom must not be pressed to mine!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Come, Robert,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you shake hands with
your old friend?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;There, there, Robert!&rdquo; said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew
her hand, &ldquo;you must not give me too warm a welcome.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family, Prudence
again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s customary draught of herb-tea,
which had been steeping by the fireside ever since twilight.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;God bless you, child!&rdquo; said John Inglefield, as he took the cup
from her hand; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, father, or never,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Daughter,&rdquo; cried John Inglefield, between wrath and sorrow,
&ldquo;stay and be your father&rsquo;s blessing, or take his curse with
you!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;of Abercrombie,
Lord Howe, and Amherst,&mdash;of Ethan Allen&rsquo;s triumph and St.
Clair&rsquo;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,&mdash;some from Westminster Abbey, and English
churchyards, and battle-fields in Europe,&mdash;others from their graves here
in America,&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
song,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s shout was heard, summoning it to
surrender &ldquo;in the name of the great Jehovah and of the Continental
Congress.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s jacket, and a
fourth a cotton frock; here was a pair of leather breeches, and striped
trousers there; a grenadier&rsquo;s cap on one head, and a broad-brimmed hat,
with a tall feather, on the next; this fellow shouldering a king&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Come, dearest sister; you have eaten not a morsel to-day,&rdquo; she
said. &ldquo;Arise, I pray you, and let us ask a blessing on that which is
provided for us.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s words, like a wounded sufferer from a hand
that revives the throb.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask it!&rdquo; cried
Margaret, with a fresh burst of tears. &ldquo;Would it were His will that I
might never taste food more!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;How would my heart have leapt at that sound but yesterday!&rdquo;
thought she, remembering the anxiety with which she had long awaited tidings
from her husband.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I care not for it now; let them begone, for I will not arise.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Heaven help me!&rdquo; sighed she. &ldquo;I have nothing left to fear,
and methinks I am ten times more a coward than ever.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;What would you have, Goodman Parker?&rdquo; cried the widow.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret?&rdquo; replied the innkeeper.
&ldquo;I was afraid it might be your sister Mary; for I hate to see a young
woman in trouble, when I have n&rsquo;t a word of comfort to whisper
her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For Heaven&rsquo;s sake, what news do you bring?&rdquo; screamed
Margaret.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, there has been an express through the town within this
half-hour,&rdquo; said Goodman Parker, &ldquo;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&rsquo;t mind being
broke of your rest, and so I stepped over to tell you. Good night.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Poor Mary!&rdquo; said she to herself. &ldquo;Shall I waken her, to feel
her sorrow sharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own bosom
till the morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She approached the bed, to discover if Mary&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Who&rsquo;s there?&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;What do you seek here, Stephen?&rdquo; said she.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you,&rdquo; answered the rejected
lover. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t have slept a wink before speaking to you, Mary, for the sake of old
times.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stephen, I thought better of you!&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;But stop, and hear my story out,&rdquo; cried the young sailor. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. &ldquo;Why, it was your
husband himself,&rdquo; continued the generous seaman. &ldquo;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&rsquo;ll see
him here to-morrow. There&rsquo;s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so good
night.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;My poor sister! you will waken too soon from that happy dream,&rdquo;
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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This will never do for me,&rdquo; thought Daffydowndilly.
</p>

<p>
Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear it any longer,&rdquo; said Daffydowndilly to himself,
when he had been at school about a week. &ldquo;I&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Good morning, my fine lad,&rdquo; said the stranger; and his voice
seemed hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it; &ldquo;whence do
you come so early, and whither are you going?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;O, very well, my little friend!&rdquo; answered the stranger.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quick, quick!&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;Let us run away, or he will catch
us!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who will catch us?&rdquo; asked the stranger.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!&rdquo; answered Daffydowndilly.
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you see him amongst the haymakers?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; said the stranger. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t trouble
you, unless you become a laborer on the farm.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s hand, all in
a fright.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Make haste. Quick, quick!&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;There he is
again!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked the stranger, very quietly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Old Mr. Toil,&rdquo; said Daffydowndilly, trembling. &ldquo;There! he
that is overseeing the carpenters. &lsquo;T is my old schoolmaster, as sure as
I&rsquo;m alive!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly pointed his finger; and he saw
an elderly man, with a carpenter&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;O no! this is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster,&rdquo; said the stranger.
&ldquo;It is another brother of his, who follows the trade of carpenter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am very glad to hear it,&rdquo; quoth Daffydowndilly; &ldquo;but if
you please, sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as
possible.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Quick step! Forward march!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s school-room, out of Mr. Toil&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This is certainly old Mr. Toil,&rdquo; said Daffydowndilly, in a
trembling voice. &ldquo;Let us run away, for fear he should make us enlist in
his company!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are mistaken again, my little friend,&rdquo; replied the stranger,
very composedly. &ldquo;This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother
of his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he&rsquo;s a
terribly severe fellow; but you and I need not be afraid of him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said little Daffydowndilly, &ldquo;but, if you
please, sir, I don&rsquo;t want to see the soldiers any more.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;O, let us stop here,&rdquo; cried he to his companion; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;O dear me!&rdquo; whispered he, turning pale. &ldquo;It seems as if
there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his
playing on a fiddle!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is not your old schoolmaster,&rdquo; observed the stranger,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pray let us go a little farther,&rdquo; said Daffydowndilly. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t like the looks of this fiddler at all.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Old Mr. Toil will never come here,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;for he hates
to see people taking their ease.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;There is a large family of these Toils,&rdquo; remarked the stranger.
&ldquo;This is another of the old schoolmaster&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O, take me back!&mdash;take me back!&rdquo; cried poor little
Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. &ldquo;If there is nothing but Toil all
the world over, I may just as well go back to the school-house!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yonder it is,&mdash;there is the school-house!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Come; we will go back
to school together.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was something in his companion&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s smile of approbation made
his face almost as pleasant as even that of Daffydowndilly&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This low hovel cannot be my kinsman&rsquo;s dwelling,&rdquo; thought he,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a
barber&rsquo;s shop fell upon both their figures.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good evening to you, honored sir,&rdquo; said he, making a low bow, and
still retaining his hold of the skirt. &ldquo;I pray you tell me whereabouts is
the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The youth&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Let go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak of.
What! I have authority, I have&mdash;hem, hem&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Robin released the old man&rsquo;s skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an
ill-mannered roar of laughter from the barber&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;This is some country representative,&rdquo; was his conclusion,
&ldquo;who has never seen the inside of my kinsman&rsquo;s door, and lacks the
breeding to answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily&mdash;I might
be tempted to turn back and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even the
barber&rsquo;s boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser
in time, friend Robin.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at
yonder table!&rdquo; said Robin, with a sigh. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&mdash;the larger part of whom
appeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;From the country, I presume, sir?&rdquo; said he, with a profound bow.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that I am related
to the Major!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s relative. &ldquo;My honest friend,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;I shall make it a point to patronize your house on some occasion,
when&rdquo;&mdash;here he could not help lowering his voice&mdash;&ldquo;when I
may have more than a parchment three-pence in my pocket. My present
business,&rdquo; continued he, speaking with lofty confidence, &ldquo;is merely
to inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s figure.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What have we here?&rdquo; said he, breaking his speech into little dry
fragments. &ldquo;&lsquo;Left the house of the subscriber, bounden servant,
Hezekiah Mudge,&mdash;had on, when he went away, gray coat, leather breeches,
master&rsquo;s third-best hat. One pound currency reward to whosoever shall
lodge him in any jail of the providence.&rsquo; Better trudge, boy; better
trudge!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s voice might be distinguished,
like the dropping of small stones into a kettle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, is it not strange,&rdquo; thought Robin, with his usual shrewdness,
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s faces, the
Major&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Mercy on us!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s garment within.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My luck may be better here,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Pretty mistress,&rdquo; for I may call her so with a good conscience
thought the shrewd youth, since I know nothing to the contrary,&mdash;&ldquo;my
sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me whereabouts I must
seek the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Robin&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Major Molineux dwells here,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Now, truly, I am in luck,&rdquo; replied Robin, cunningly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or more,&rdquo; said the lady of
the scarlet petticoat; &ldquo;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&rsquo;s worth to let a
kinsman of his turn away from the door. You are the good old gentleman&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s housekeeper, and, leaving
the Major&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Home, vagabond, home!&rdquo; said the watchman, in accents that seemed
to fall asleep as soon as they were uttered. &ldquo;Home, or we&rsquo;ll set
you in the stocks by peep of day!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is the second hint of the kind,&rdquo; thought Robin. &ldquo;I wish
they would end my difficulties, by setting me there to-night.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;I say, friend!
will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, Major Molineux?&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Halt, honest man, and answer me a question,&rdquo; said he, very
resolutely. &ldquo;Tell me, this instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my
kinsman, Major Molineux!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!&rdquo; said
a deep, gruff voice, which Robin partly remembered. &ldquo;Let me pass, or
I&rsquo;ll strike you to the earth!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, no, neighbor!&rdquo; cried Robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then
thrusting its larger end close to the man&rsquo;s muffled face. &ldquo;No, no,
I&rsquo;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?&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux will pass by,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s face, muffled his party-colored
features, and was out of sight in a moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Strange things we travellers see!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Perhaps this is the very house I have been seeking,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls?
The scene made Robin&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Oh that any breathing thing were here with me!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Am I here, or there?&rdquo; 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&mdash;one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as
his kinsman&rsquo;s&mdash;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>
&ldquo;Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major
Molineux?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s ears.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?&rdquo; inquired he.
&ldquo;Can I be of service to you in any way?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid not, sir,&rdquo; replied Robin, despondingly; &ldquo;yet I
shall take it kindly, if you&rsquo;ll answer me a single question. I&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me,&rdquo; said
the gentleman, smiling. &ldquo;Have you any objection to telling me the nature
of your business with him?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s generous intentions,
especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess
other necessary endowments.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For I have the name of being a shrewd youth,&rdquo; observed Robin, in
this part of his story.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I doubt not you deserve it,&rdquo; replied his new friend,
good-naturedly; &ldquo;but pray proceed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you
see,&rdquo; continued Robin, drawing himself up to his full height, &ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you describe the man who told you this?&rdquo; inquired the
gentleman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir,&rdquo; replied Robin,
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not intimately,&rdquo; answered the stranger, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;What may be the meaning of this uproar?&rdquo; asked he. &ldquo;Truly,
if your town be always as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an
inhabitant.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous
fellows abroad to-night,&rdquo; replied the gentleman. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day,&rdquo; interrupted Robin
recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two
complexions?&rdquo; said his friend.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!&rdquo;
responded the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the
Major&rsquo;s housekeeper.
</p>

<p>
The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and
continual, that Robin&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on,&rdquo; exclaimed he
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down again, sit down, good Robin,&rdquo; replied the gentleman,
laying his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?&rdquo;
inquired the gentleman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, I can&rsquo;t warrant it, sir; but I&rsquo;ll take my stand
here, and keep a bright lookout,&rdquo; 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>
&ldquo;The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Haw, haw, haw,&mdash;hem, hem,&mdash;haw, haw,
haw, haw!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;every man
shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Oho,&rdquo; quoth he, &ldquo;the old earth is frolicsome
to-night!&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s heart. On swept the
tumult, and left a silent street behind.
</p>

<hr />

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Robin, are you dreaming?&rdquo; inquired the gentleman, laying his
hand on the youth&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?&rdquo; said he,
after a moment&rsquo;s pause.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?&rdquo; observed his
companion, with a smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, yes, sir,&rdquo; replied Robin, rather dryly. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, my good friend Robin,&mdash;not to-night, at least,&rdquo; said the
gentleman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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