The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow-Image, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Title: The Snow-Image
       and Other Twice-Told Tales

Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Release Date: May, 1996 [eBook #513]
[Most recently updated: May 22, 2022]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Charles Keller and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOW-IMAGE ***




The Snow-Image

and Other Twice-Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne


Contents

 PREFACE
 The Snow-Image: A Childish Miracle
 The Great Stone Face
 Main Street
 Ethan Brand
 A Bell’s Biography
 Sylph Etherege
 The Canterbury Pilgrims
 Old News
 The Man of Adamant: An Apologue
 The Devil in Manuscript
 John Inglefield’s Thanksgiving
 Old Ticonderoga: A Picture of The Past
 The Wives of The Dead
 Little Daffydowndilly
 My Kinsman, Major Molineux




PREFACE


TO HORATIO BRIDGE, ESQ., U. S. N.

MY DEAR BRIDGE:—Some of the more crabbed of my critics, I understand,
have pronounced your friend egotistical, indiscreet, and even
impertinent, on account of the Prefaces and Introductions with which,
on several occasions, he has seen fit to pave the reader’s way into the
interior edifice of a book. In the justice of this censure I do not
exactly concur, for the reasons, on the one hand, that the public
generally has negatived the idea of undue freedom on the author’s part,
by evincing, it seems to me, rather more interest in those aforesaid
Introductions than in the stories which followed; and that, on the
other hand, with whatever appearance of confidential intimacy, I have
been especially careful to make no disclosures respecting myself which
the most indifferent observer might not have been acquainted with, and
which I was not perfectly willing that my worst enemy should know. I
might further justify myself, on the plea that, ever since my youth, I
have been addressing a very limited circle of friendly readers, without
much danger of being overheard by the public at large; and that the
habits thus acquired might pardonably continue, although strangers may
have begun to mingle with my audience.

But the charge, I am bold to say, is not a reasonable one, in any view
which we can fairly take of it. There is no harm, but, on the contrary,
good, in arraying some of the ordinary facts of life in a slightly
idealized and artistic guise. I have taken facts which relate to
myself, because they chance to be nearest at hand, and likewise are my
own property. And, as for egotism, a person, who has been burrowing, to
his utmost ability, into the depths of our common nature, for the
purposes of psychological romance,—and who pursues his researches in
that dusky region, as he needs must, as well by the tact of sympathy as
by the light of observation,—will smile at incurring such an imputation
in virtue of a little preliminary talk about his external habits, his
abode, his casual associates, and other matters entirely upon the
surface. These things hide the man, instead of displaying him. You must
make quite another kind of inquest, and look through the whole range of
his fictitious characters, good and evil, in order to detect any of his
essential traits.

Be all this as it may, there can be no question as to the propriety of
my inscribing this volume of earlier and later sketches to you, and
pausing here, a few moments, to speak of them, as friend speaks to
friend; still being cautious, however, that the public and the critics
shall overhear nothing which we care about concealing. On you, if on no
other person, I am entitled to rely, to sustain the position of my
Dedicatee. If anybody is responsible for my being at this day an
author, it is yourself. I know not whence your faith came; but, while
we were lads together at a country college,—gathering blueberries, in
study-hours, under those tall academic pines; or watching the great
logs, as they tumbled along the current of the Androscoggin; or
shooting pigeons and gray squirrels in the woods; or bat-fowling in the
summer twilight; or catching trouts in that shadowy little stream
which, I suppose, is still wandering riverward through the
forest,—though you and I will never cast a line in it again,—two idle
lads, in short (as we need not fear to acknowledge now), doing a
hundred things that the Faculty never heard of, or else it had been the
worse for us,—still it was your prognostic of your friend’s destiny,
that he was to be a writer of fiction.

And a fiction-monger, in due season, he became. But was there ever such
a weary delay in obtaining the slightest recognition from the public,
as in my case? I sat down by the wayside of life, like a man under
enchantment, and a shrubbery sprung up around me, and the bushes grew
to be saplings, and the saplings became trees, until no exit appeared
possible, through the entangling depths of my obscurity. And there,
perhaps, I should be sitting at this moment, with the moss on the
imprisoning tree-trunks, and the yellow leaves of more than a score of
autumns piled above me, if it had not been for you. For it was through
your interposition—and that, moreover, unknown to himself—that your
early friend was brought before the public, somewhat more prominently
than theretofore, in the first volume of Twice-told Tales. Not a
publisher in America, I presume, would have thought well enough of my
forgotten or never-noticed stories to risk the expense of print and
paper; nor do I say this with any purpose of casting odium on the
respectable fraternity of booksellers, for their blindness to my
wonderful merit. To confess the truth, I doubted of the public
recognition quite as much as they could do. So much the more generous
was your confidence; and knowing, as I do, that it was founded on old
friendship rather than cold criticism, I value it only the more for
that.

So, now, when I turn back upon my path, lighted by a transitory gleam
of public favor, to pick up a few articles which were left out of my
former collections, I take pleasure in making them the memorial of our
very long and unbroken connection. Some of these sketches were among
the earliest that I wrote, and, after lying for years in manuscript,
they at last skulked into the Annuals or Magazines, and have hidden
themselves there ever since. Others were the productions of a later
period; others, again, were written recently. The comparison of these
various trifles—the indices of intellectual condition at far separate
epochs—affects me with a singular complexity of regrets. I am disposed
to quarrel with the earlier sketches, both because a mature judgment
discerns so many faults, and still more because they come so nearly up
to the standard of the best that I can achieve now. The ripened
autumnal fruit tastes but little better than the early windfalls. It
would, indeed, be mortifying to believe that the summer-time of life
has passed away, without any greater progress and improvement than is
indicated here. But—at least, so I would fain hope—these things are
scarcely to be depended upon, as measures of the intellectual and moral
man. In youth, men are apt to write more wisely than they really know
or feel; and the remainder of life may be not idly spent in realizing
and convincing themselves of the wisdom which they uttered long ago.
The truth that was only in the fancy then may have since become a
substance in the mind and heart.

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.

                        Very sincerely yours,
                                                   N. H.


LENOX, November 1, 1851.




THE SNOW-IMAGE:
A CHILDISH MIRACLE


One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with
chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of
their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder
child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest
disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and
other people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her
brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on account of the
ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody
think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. The father of these two
children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an
excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in
hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called the
common-sense view of all matters that came under his consideration.
With a heart about as tender as other people’s, he had a head as hard
and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron
pots which it was a part of his business to sell. The mother’s
character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of
unworldly beauty,—a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had
survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid
the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood.

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.

“Yes, Violet,—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother, “you may
go out and play in the new snow.”

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.

At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of
snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was
struck with a new idea.

“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks
were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of
snow,—an image of a little girl,—and it shall be our sister, and shall
run about and play with us all winter long. Won’t it be nice?”

“Oh yes!” cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a
little boy. “That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!”

“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. But she
must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little
snow-sister will not love the warmth.”

And forthwith the children began this great business of making a
snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting
at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling
at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to
imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live
little girl out of the snow. And, to say the truth, if miracles are
ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands to the work in
precisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in which
Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much as
knowing that it was a miracle. So thought the mother; and thought,
likewise, that the new snow, just fallen from heaven, would be
excellent material to make new beings of, if it were not so very cold.
She gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch their
little figures,—the girl, tall for her age, graceful and agile, and so
delicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought more than a
physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth rather than height,
and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as substantial as an
elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work.
What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for
Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony’s short legs.
Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help
turning her head to the window to see how the children got on with
their snow-image.

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.

“What remarkable children mine are!” thought she, smiling with a
mother’s pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of
them. “What other children could have made anything so like a little
girl’s figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I must
finish Peony’s new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and
I want the little fellow to look handsome.”

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!

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.

“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to another
part of the garden, “bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from the
very farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it to
shape our little snow-sister’s bosom with. You know that part must be
quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!”

“Here it is, Violet!” answered Peony, in his bluff tone,—but a very
sweet tone, too,—as he came floundering through the half-trodden
drifts. “Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, how
beau-ti-ful she begins to look!”

“Yes,” said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; “our snow-sister does
look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could make such
a sweet little girl as this.”

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident
it would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were to
come from paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help
them to make their snow-image, giving it the features of celestial
babyhood! Violet and Peony would not be aware of their immortal
playmates,—only they would see that the image grew very beautiful while
they worked at it, and would think that they themselves had done it
all.

“My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever
did!” said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own
motherly pride.

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.

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct
hum of the two children’s voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together
with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit,
while Peony acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow from
far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper
understanding of the matter, too!

“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her brother was again at the other
side of the garden. “Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have
rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the
snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some
ringlets for our snow-sister’s head!”

“Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care you do not
break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”

“Does she not look sweetly?” said Violet, with a very satisfied tone;
“and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to make the
brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how
very beautiful she is; but papa will say, ‘Tush! nonsense!—come in out
of the cold!’”

“Let us call mamma to look out,” said Peony; and then he shouted
lustily, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice ’ittle
girl we are making!”

The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the
window. But it so happened that the sun—for this was one of the
shortest days of the whole year—had sunken so nearly to the edge of the
world that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady’s eyes. So
she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not very distinctly
observe what was in the garden. Still, however, through all that
bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new snow, she beheld a small
white figure in the garden, that seemed to have a wonderful deal of
human likeness about it. And she saw Violet and Peony,—indeed, she
looked more at them than at the image,—she saw the two children still
at work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to the
figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model.
Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to
herself that never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made,
nor ever such a dear little girl and boy to make it.

“They do everything better than other children,” said she, very
complacently. “No wonder they make better snow-images!”

She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as
possible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony’s frock was not
yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early
in the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers.
The children, likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and still
the mother listened, whenever she could catch a word. She was amused to
observe how their little imaginations had got mixed up with what they
were doing, and carried away by it. They seemed positively to think
that the snow-child would run about and play with them.

“What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!” said
Violet. “I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold!
Sha’n’t you love her dearly, Peony?”

“Oh yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug her, and she shall sit down
close by me and drink some of my warm milk!”

“Oh no, Peony!” answered Violet, with grave wisdom. “That will not do
at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister.
Little snow people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony;
we must not give her anything warm to drink!”

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were
never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the
garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,—“Look
here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of
that rose-colored cloud! and the color does not go away! Is not that
beautiful!”

“Yes; it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three
syllables with deliberate accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her hair!
It is all like gold!”

“Oh certainly,” said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very much
a matter of course. “That color, you know, comes from the golden
clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now.
But her lips must be made very red,—redder than her cheeks. Perhaps,
Peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!”

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her
children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this
did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed
that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet cheek.

“Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony.

“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips are very
red. And she blushed a little, too!”

“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.

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.

“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is
running about the garden with us!”

“What imaginative little beings my children are!” thought the mother,
putting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it is strange,
too that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I
can hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come to
life!”

“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out and see what a sweet
playmate we have!”

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.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the
threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or
whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted
whether it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of the
new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the
intensely cold west-wind. There was certainly something very singular
in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the
neighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its pure
white, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about
the forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of
white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman
would put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, in the
depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to
look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except a
very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was clad,
the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold,
but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left
hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace
with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind.

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.

She called Violet, and whispered to her.

“Violet my darling, what is this child’s name?” asked she. “Does she
live near us?”

“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her
mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little
snow-sister whom we have just been making!”

“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up
simply into her face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice ’ittle
child?”

At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. As
was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But—and this looked
strange—they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly
about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as
an old acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see
these little birds, old Winter’s grandchildren, as they were to see
her, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they
each and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and
thumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of their
tiny wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another
put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, and
seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them when
sporting with a snow-storm.

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.

“Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, “tell me the truth,
without any jest. Who is this little girl?”

“My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her
mother’s face, and apparently surprised that she should need any
further explanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our
little snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell
you so, as well as I.”

“Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimson
little phiz; “this is ’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But,
mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”

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.

“Pray, what little girl may that be?” inquired this very sensible man.
“Surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in such bitter
weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown and
those thin slippers!”

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

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

“This is very strange!” said she.

“What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet. “Dear father, do not you
see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made,
because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?”

“Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “This be our ’ittle snow-sister. Is
she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”

“Poh, nonsense, children!” cried their good, honest father, who, as we
have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way of
looking at matters. “Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow.
Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a
moment longer. We will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give
her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you
can. Meanwhile, I will inquire among the neighbors; or, if necessary,
send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child.”

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.

“Dear father,” cried Violet, putting herself before him, “it is true
what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and she
cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. Do
not make her come into the hot room!”

“Yes, father,” shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily was
he in earnest, “this be nothing but our ’ittle snow-child! She will not
love the hot fire!”

“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!” cried the father, half vexed,
half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. “Run into
the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now. I must
take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her
death-a-cold!”

“Husband! dear husband!” said his wife, in a low voice,—for she had
been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than
ever,—“there is something very singular in all this. You will think me
foolish,—but—but—may it not be that some invisible angel has been
attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children set
about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of his
immortality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the result
is what we call a miracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what a
foolish thought it is!”

“My dear wife,” replied the husband, laughing heartily, “you are as
much a child as Violet and Peony.”

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.

But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from his
two children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching
him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind.
As he approached, the snow-birds took to flight. The little white
damsel, also, fled backward, shaking her head, as if to say, “Pray, do
not touch me!” and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the
deepest of the snow. Once, the good man stumbled, and floundered down
upon his face, so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow
sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry
as a snow-image of the largest size. Some of the neighbors, meanwhile,
seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr.
Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift,
which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length, after a
vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into a corner,
where she could not possibly escape him. His wife had been looking on,
and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe how the
snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all
round about her; and when driven into the corner, she positively
glistened like a star! It was a frosty kind of brightness, too, like
that of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife thought it strange that
good Mr. Lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child’s
appearance.

“Come, you odd little thing!” cried the honest man, seizing her by the
hand, “I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in
spite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on
your frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrap
yourself in. Your poor white nose, I am afraid, is actually
frost-bitten. But we will make it all right. Come along in.”

And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all
purple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took
the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house. She followed
him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparkle was gone
out of her figure; and whereas just before she had resembled a bright,
frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon,
she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw. As kind Mr. Lindsey led
her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his
face,—their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run down
their cheeks,—and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image
into the house.

“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man. “Why, you are
crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold,
already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick
gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?”

His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long,
earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. She
hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help
fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on the
child’s neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out the
image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected
to smooth the impression quite away.

“After all, husband,” said the mother, recurring to her idea that the
angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and Peony as she
herself was,—“after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! I
do believe she is made of snow!”

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

“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his
hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half
frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to
rights!”

Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, this
highly benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little white
damsel—drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more out of the frosty
air, and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove, filled to the
brim with intensely burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleam
through the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the vase of water
on its top to fume and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was
diffused throughout the room. A thermometer on the wall farthest from
the stove stood at eighty degrees. The parlor was hung with red
curtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it
felt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold, wintry
twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to
the hottest part of India, or from the North Pole into an oven. Oh,
this was a fine place for the little white stranger!

The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, right
in front of the hissing and fuming stove.

“Now she will be comfortable!” cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands and
looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. “Make
yourself at home, my child.”

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!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

“Come wife,” said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings and a
woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm
supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your
little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a
strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbors, and
find out where she belongs.”

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.

“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face
through the window-panes. “There is no need of going for the child’s
parents!”

“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered
the parlor. “You would bring her in; and now our poor—dear-beau-ti-ful
little snow-sister is thawed!”

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.

“And there you see all that is left of it!” added she, pointing to a
pool of water in front of the stove.

“Yes, father,” said Violet looking reproachfully at him, through her
tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”

“Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I shudder to
say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. “We told you
how it would be! What for did you bring her in?”

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!

This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet will
occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. The
remarkable story of the snow-image, though to that sagacious class of
people to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but a childish
affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralized in various
methods, greatly for their edification. One of its lessons, for
instance, might be, that it behooves men, and especially men of
benevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, before acting
on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehend
the nature and all the relations of the business in hand. What has been
established as an element of good to one being may prove absolute
mischief to another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper enough
for children of flesh and blood, like Violet and Peony,—though by no
means very wholesome, even for them,—but involved nothing short of
annihilation to the unfortunate snow-image.

But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good Mr.
Lindsey’s stamp. They know everything,—oh, to be sure!—everything that
has been, and everything that is, and everything that, by any future
possibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of nature or
providence transcend their system, they will not recognize it, even if
it come to pass under their very noses.

“Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, “see what a quantity
of snow the children have brought in on their feet! It has made quite a
puddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and
mop it up!”




THE GREAT STONE FACE


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.

And what was the Great Stone Face?

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.

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.

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.

As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their
cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The
child’s name was Ernest.

“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, “I wish that
it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs
be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him
dearly.”

“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, “we may
see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that.”

“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest.
“Pray tell me about it!”

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.

“O mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his
head, “I do hope that I shall live to see him!”

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it
was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So
she only said to him, “Perhaps you may.”

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was
always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He
spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was
dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her
much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In this
manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild,
quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but
with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads
who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher,
save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of
the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to
imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile
of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of
veneration. We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake,
although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all
the world besides. But the secret was that the boy’s tender and
confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and
thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion.

About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the
great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance
to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many
years before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a
distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had
set up as a shopkeeper. His name—but I could never learn whether it was
his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and
success in life—was Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed by
Providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops itself in what
the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner
of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the
globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap after
heap to the mountainous accumulation of this one man’s wealth. The cold
regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic
Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted
for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks
of her great elephants out of the forests; the East came bringing him
the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds,
and the gleaming purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be
behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that Mr.
Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit of it. Be the
original commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It
might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he
touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was
changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better,
into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich
that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth,
he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back
thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view,
he sent a skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit
for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that
Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and
vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable
similitude of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to
believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid
edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father’s
old weatherbeaten farm-house. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly
white that it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in
the sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his
young play-days, before his fingers were gifted with the touch of
transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had a richly
ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a
lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated
wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from the
floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were composed,
respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so transparently pure
that it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant atmosphere.
Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace;
but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far more
gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in
other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold’s
bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no
ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the
other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he
could not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain
to find its way beneath his eyelids.

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.

“Here he comes!” cried a group of people who were assembled to witness
the arrival. “Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!”

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.

“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people. “Sure
enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come,
at last!”

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe
that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there
chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children,
stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled
onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most
piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw—the very same that had
clawed together so much wealth—poked itself out of the coach-window,
and dropt some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great
man’s name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably
have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest
shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people
bellowed, “He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!”

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?

“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!”

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a
young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of
the valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life save
that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart
and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their
idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as
Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for
the sake of indulging this idle habit. They knew not that the Great
Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment which
was expressed in it would enlarge the young man’s heart, and fill it
with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They knew not that
thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and
a better life than could be moulded on the defaced example of other
human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections
which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and
wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those
which all men shared with him. A simple soul,—simple as when his mother
first taught him the old prophecy,—he beheld the marvellous features
beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human
counterpart was so long in making his appearance.

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.

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.

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of
the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan
banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr.
Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set
before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor
they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared space of the
woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened
eastward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the
general’s chair, which was a relic from the home of Washington, there
was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel profusely intermixed,
and surmounted by his country’s banner, beneath which he had won his
victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to
get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd
about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch
any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer
company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets
at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of
an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into the background, where
he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy than if it
had been still blazing on the battle-field. To console himself, he
turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long
remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of
the forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various
individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero with the face
on the distant mountain-side.

“’Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man, cutting a caper for
joy.

“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” responded another.

“Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous
looking-glass!” cried a third. “And why not? He’s the greatest man of
this or any other age, beyond a doubt.”

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.

“The general! the general!” was now the cry. “Hush! silence! Old
Blood-and-Thunder’s going to make a speech.”

Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general’s health had been
drunk, amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank
the company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the
crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward,
beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the
banner drooping as if to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the
same glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone
Face! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had
testified? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a war-worn
and weatherbeaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive of an
iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies,
were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage; and even if
the Great Stone Face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder
traits would still have tempered it.

“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest to himself, as he made
his way out of the throng. “And must the world wait longer yet?”

The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there
were seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful
but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and
enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked,
Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole
visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of
the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting
through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the
object that he gazed at. But—as it always did—the aspect of his
marvellous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in
vain.

“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were
whispering him,—“fear not, Ernest; he will come.”

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.

When the people’s minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready
enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between
General Blood-and-Thunder’s truculent physiognomy and the benign visage
on the mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many
paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great
Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent
statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a
native of the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up
the trades of law and politics. Instead of the rich man’s wealth and
the warrior’s sword, he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both
together. So wonderfully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose
to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked
like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could
make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the
natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument:
sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the
sweetest music. It was the blast of war, the song of peace; and it
seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. In good
truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all
other imaginable success,—when it had been heard in halls of state, and
in the courts of princes and potentates,—after it had made him known
all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore,—it
finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the Presidency.
Before this time,—indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated,—his
admirers had found out the resemblance between him and the Great Stone
Face; and so much were they struck by it, that throughout the country
this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz.
The phrase was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his
political prospects; for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom,
nobody ever becomes President without taking a name other than his own.

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.

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of
hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that
the visage of the mountain-side was completely hidden from Ernest’s
eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback;
militia officers, in uniform; the member of Congress; the sheriff of
the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had
mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It
really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were
numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were
gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone
Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the
pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be
confessed, was marvellous. We must not forget to mention that there was
a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring and
reverberate with the loud triumph of its strains; so that airy and
soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, as
if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, to welcome the
distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off
mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face
itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment
that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.

All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with
enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he
likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest,
“Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!” But as yet he had
not seen him.

“Here he is, now!” cried those who stood near Ernest. “There! There!
Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see
if they are not as like as two twin-brothers!”

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.

“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neighbors to him, “the Great Stone
Face has met its match at last!”

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.

Still, Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and
pressing him for an answer.

“Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain?”

“No!” said Ernest bluntly, “I see little or no likeness.”

“Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!” answered his
neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.

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.

“Lo, here I am, Ernest!” the benign lips seemed to say. “I have waited
longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come.”

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another’s
heels. And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over
the head of Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead,
and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he
grown old: more than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts
in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time had
graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been
tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure.
Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made
him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the valley in which
he had dwelt so quietly. College professors, and even the active men of
cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report
had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those of
other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone,—a tranquil and
familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the angels as his
daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or philanthropist,
Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had
characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever
came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they
talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them,
as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such
discourse, his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the
valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that they had
seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where.

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.

The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were
the subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust
of life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in
it, were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He
showed the golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with
an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial
birth that made them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who
thought to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all
the beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet’s
fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who undoubtedly appear to
have been spawned forth by Nature with a contemptuous bitterness; she
having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the swine
were made. As respects all things else, the poet’s ideal was the truest
truth.

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.

“O majestic friend,” he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, “is
not this man worthy to resemble thee?”

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not
only heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until
he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught
wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One
summer morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the
decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance
from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the
palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his
carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was
resolved to be accepted as his guest.

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.

“Good evening,” said the poet. “Can you give a traveller a night’s
lodging?”

“Willingly,” answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, “Methinks I
never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger.”

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked
together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the
wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and
feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great
truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been
so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the
fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and,
dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the
sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm
of household words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand,
was moved and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of
his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage-door with
shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The sympathies of these two men
instructed them with a profounder sense than either could have attained
alone. Their minds accorded into one strain, and made delightful music
which neither of them could have claimed as all his own, nor
distinguished his own share from the other’s. They led one another, as
it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and
hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so
beautiful that they desired to be there always.

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face
was bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s
glowing eyes.

“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?” he said.

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.

“You have read these poems,” said he. “You know me, then,—for I wrote
them.”

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet’s
features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an
uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his
head, and sighed.

“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet.

“Because,” replied Ernest, “all through life I have awaited the
fulfilment of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it
might be fulfilled in you.”

“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the
likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly
with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz.
Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious
three, and record another failure of your hopes. For—in shame and
sadness do I speak it, Ernest—I am not worthy to be typified by yonder
benign and majestic image.”

“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are not those
thoughts divine?”

“They have a strain of the Divinity,” replied the poet. “You can hear
in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest,
has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they
have been only dreams, because I have lived—and that, too, by my own
choice—among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even—shall I dare to
say it?—I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness,
which my own words are said to have made more evident in nature and in
human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou
hope to find me, in yonder image of the divine?”

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise,
were those of Ernest.

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.

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.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter,
the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with
benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms
aloft and shouted, “Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of
the Great Stone Face!”

Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet
said was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished
what he had to say, took the poet’s arm, and walked slowly homeward,
still hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and
by appear, bearing a resemblance to the GREAT STONE FACE.




MAIN STREET


A respectable-looking individual makes his bow and addresses the
public. In my daily walks along the principal street of my native town,
it has often occurred to me, that, if its growth from infancy upward,
and the vicissitude of characteristic scenes that have passed along
this thoroughfare during the more than two centuries of its existence,
could be presented to the eye in a shifting panorama, it would be an
exceedingly effective method of illustrating the march of time. Acting
on this idea, I have contrived a certain pictorial exhibition, somewhat
in the nature of a puppet-show, by means of which I propose to call up
the multiform and many-colored Past before the spectator, and show him
the ghosts of his forefathers, amid a succession of historic incidents,
with no greater trouble than the turning of a crank. Be pleased,
therefore, my indulgent patrons, to walk into the show-room, and take
your seats before yonder mysterious curtain. The little wheels and
springs of my machinery have been well oiled; a multitude of puppets
are dressed in character, representing all varieties of fashion, from
the Puritan cloak and jerkin to the latest Oak Hall coat; the lamps are
trimmed, and shall brighten into noontide sunshine, or fade away in
moonlight, or muffle their brilliancy in a November cloud, as the
nature of the scene may require; and, in short, the exhibition is just
ready to commence. Unless something should go wrong,—as, for instance,
the misplacing of a picture, whereby the people and events of one
century might be thrust into the middle of another; or the breaking of
a wire, which would bring the course of time to a sudden
period,—barring, I say, the casualties to which such a complicated
piece of mechanism is liable,—I flatter myself, ladies and
gentlemen,—that the performance will elicit your generous approbation.

Ting-a-ting-ting! goes the bell; the curtain rises; and we behold—not,
indeed, the Main Street—but the track of leaf-strewn forest-land over
which its dusty pavement is hereafter to extend.

You perceive, at a glance, that this is the ancient and primitive
wood,—the ever-youthful and venerably old,—verdant with new twigs, yet
hoary, as it were, with the snowfall of innumerable years, that have
accumulated upon its intermingled branches. The white man’s axe has
never smitten a single tree; his footstep has never crumpled a single
one of the withered leaves, which all the autumns since the flood have
been harvesting beneath. Yet, see! along through the vista of impending
boughs, there is already a faintly traced path, running nearly east and
west, as if a prophecy or foreboding of the future street had stolen
into the heart of the solemn old wood. Onward goes this hardly
perceptible track, now ascending over a natural swell of land, now
subsiding gently into a hollow; traversed here by a little streamlet,
which glitters like a snake through the gleam of sunshine, and quickly
hides itself among the underbrush, in its quest for the neighboring
cove; and impeded there by the massy corpse of a giant of the forest,
which had lived out its incalculable term of life, and been overthrown
by mere old age, and lies buried in the new vegetation that is born of
its decay. What footsteps can have worn this half-seen path? Hark! Do
we not hear them now rustling softly over the leaves? We discern an
Indian woman,—a majestic and queenly woman, or else her spectral image
does not represent her truly,—for this is the great Squaw Sachem, whose
rule, with that of her sons, extends from Mystic to Agawam. That red
chief, who stalks by her side, is Wappacowet, her second husband, the
priest and magician, whose incantations shall hereafter affright the
pale-faced settlers with grisly phantoms, dancing and shrieking in the
woods, at midnight. But greater would be the affright of the Indian
necromancer, if, mirrored in the pool of water at his feet, he could
catch a prophetic glimpse of the noonday marvels which the white man is
destined to achieve; if he could see, as in a dream, the stone front of
the stately hall, which will cast its shadow over this very spot; if he
could be aware that the future edifice will contain a noble Museum,
where, among countless curiosities of earth and sea, a few Indian
arrow-heads shall be treasured up as memorials of a vanished race!

No such forebodings disturb the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet. They pass
on, beneath the tangled shade, holding high talk on matters of state
and religion, and imagine, doubtless, that their own system of affairs
will endure forever. Meanwhile, how full of its own proper life is the
scene that lies around them! The gray squirrel runs up the trees, and
rustles among the upper branches. Was not that the leap of a deer? And
there is the whirr of a partridge! Methinks, too, I catch the cruel and
stealthy eye of a wolf, as he draws back into yonder impervious density
of underbrush. So, there, amid the murmur of boughs, go the Indian
queen and the Indian priest; while the gloom of the broad wilderness
impends over them, and its sombre mystery invests them as with
something preternatural; and only momentary streaks of quivering
sunlight, once in a great while, find their way down, and glimmer among
the feathers in their dusky hair. Can it be that the thronged street of
a city will ever pass into this twilight solitude,—over those soft
heaps of the decaying tree-trunks, and through the swampy places, green
with water-moss, and penetrate that hopeless entanglement of great
trees, which have been uprooted and tossed together by a whirlwind? It
has been a wilderness from the creation. Must it not be a wilderness
forever?

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.

“The whole affair is a manifest catchpenny!” observes he, scarcely
under his breath. “The trees look more like weeds in a garden than a
primitive forest; the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet are stiff in their
pasteboard joints; and the squirrels, the deer, and the wolf move with
all the grace of a child’s wooden monkey, sliding up and down a stick.”

“I am obliged to you, sir, for the candor of your remarks,” replies the
showman, with a bow. “Perhaps they are just. Human art has its limits,
and we must now and then ask a little aid from the spectator’s
imagination.”

“You will get no such aid from mine,” responds the critic. “I make it a
point to see things precisely as they are. But come! go ahead! the
stage is waiting!”

The showman proceeds.

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.

Within the door of the cottage you discern the wife, with her ruddy
English cheek. She is singing, doubtless, a psalm tune, at her
household work; or, perhaps she sighs at the remembrance of the
cheerful gossip, and all the merry social life, of her native village
beyond the vast and melancholy sea. Yet the next moment she laughs,
with sympathetic glee, at the sports of her little tribe of children;
and soon turns round, with the home-look in her face, as her husband’s
foot is heard approaching the rough-hewn threshold. How sweet must it
be for those who have an Eden in their hearts, like Roger Conant and
his wife, to find a new world to project it into, as they have, instead
of dwelling among old haunts of men, where so many household fires have
been kindled and burnt out, that the very glow of happiness has
something dreary in it! Not that this pair are alone in their wild
Eden, for here comes Goodwife Massey, the young spouse of Jeffrey
Massey, from her home hard by, with an infant at her breast. Dame
Conant has another of like age; and it shall hereafter be one of the
disputed points of history which of these two babies was the first
town-born child.

But see! Roger Conant has other neighbors within view. Peter Palfrey
likewise has built himself a house, and so has Balch, and Norman, and
Woodbury. Their dwellings, indeed,—such is the ingenious contrivance of
this piece of pictorial mechanism,—seem to have arisen, at various
points of the scene, even while we have been looking at it. The
forest-track, trodden more and more by the hobnailed shoes of these
sturdy and ponderous Englishmen, has now a distinctness which it never
could have acquired from the light tread of a hundred times as many
Indian moccasins. It will be a street, anon! As we observe it now, it
goes onward from one clearing to another, here plunging into a shadowy
strip of woods, there open to the sunshine, but everywhere showing a
decided line, along which human interests have begun to hold their
career. Over yonder swampy spot, two trees have been felled, and laid
side by side to make a causeway. In another place, the axe has cleared
away a confused intricacy of fallen trees and clustered boughs, which
had been tossed together by a hurricane. So now the little children,
just beginning to run alone, may trip along the path, and not often
stumble over an impediment, unless they stray from it to gather
wood-berries beneath the trees. And, besides the feet of grown people
and children, there are the cloven hoofs of a small herd of cows, who
seek their subsistence from the native grasses, and help to deepen the
track of the future thoroughfare. Goats also browse along it, and
nibble at the twigs that thrust themselves across the way. Not seldom,
in its more secluded portions, where the black shadow of the forest
strives to hide the trace of human-footsteps, stalks a gaunt wolf, on
the watch for a kid or a young calf; or fixes his hungry gaze on the
group of children gathering berries, and can hardly forbear to rush
upon them. And the Indians, coming from their distant wigwams to view
the white man’s settlement, marvel at the deep track which he makes,
and perhaps are saddened by a flitting presentiment that this heavy
tread will find its way over all the land; and that the wild-woods, the
wild wolf, and the wild Indian will alike be trampled beneath it. Even
so shall it be. The pavements of the Main Street must be laid over the
red man’s grave.

Behold! here is a spectacle which should be ushered in by the peal of
trumpets, if Naumkeag had ever yet heard that cheery music, and by the
roar of cannon, echoing among the woods. A procession,—for, by its
dignity, as marking an epoch in the history of the street, it deserves
that name,—a procession advances along the pathway. The good ship
Abigail has arrived from England, bringing wares and merchandise, for
the comfort of the inhabitants, and traffic with the Indians; bringing
passengers too, and, more important than all, a governor for the new
settlement. Roger Conant and Peter Palfrey, with their companions, have
been to the shore to welcome him; and now, with such honor and triumph
as their rude way of life permits, are escorting the sea-flushed
voyagers to their habitations. At the point where Endicott enters upon
the scene, two venerable trees unite their branches high above his
head; thus forming a triumphal arch of living verdure, beneath which he
pauses, with his wife leaning on his arm, to catch the first impression
of their new-found home. The old settlers gaze not less earnestly at
him, than he at the hoary woods and the rough surface of the clearings.
They like his bearded face, under the shadow of the broad-brimmed and
steeple-crowned Puritan hat;—a visage resolute, grave, and thoughtful,
yet apt to kindle with that glow of a cheerful spirit by which men of
strong character are enabled to go joyfully on their proper tasks. His
form, too, as you see it, in a doublet and hose of sad-colored cloth,
is of a manly make, fit for toil and hardship, and fit to wield the
heavy sword that hangs from his leathern belt. His aspect is a better
warrant for the ruler’s office than the parchment commission which he
bears, however fortified it may be with the broad seal of the London
council. Peter Palfrey nods to Roger Conant. “The worshipful Court of
Assistants have done wisely,” say they between themselves. “They have
chosen for our governor a man out of a thousand.” Then they toss up
their hats,—they, and all the uncouth figures of their company, most of
whom are clad in skins, inasmuch as their old kersey and linsey-woolsey
garments have been torn and tattered by many a long month’s wear,—they
all toss up their hats, and salute their new governor and captain with
a hearty English shout of welcome. We seem to hear it with our own
ears, so perfectly is the action represented in this life-like, this
almost magic picture!

But have you observed the lady who leans upon the arm of Endicott?—-a
rose of beauty from an English garden, now to be transplanted to a
fresher soil. It may be that, long years—centuries indeed—after this
fair flower shall have decayed, other flowers of the same race will
appear in the same soil, and gladden other generations with hereditary
beauty. Does not the vision haunt us yet? Has not Nature kept the mould
unbroken, deeming it a pity that the idea should vanish from mortal
sight forever, after only once assuming earthly substance? Do we not
recognize, in that fair woman’s face, a model of features which still
beam, at happy moments, on what was then the woodland pathway, but has
long since grown into a busy street?

“This is too ridiculous!—positively insufferable!” mutters the same
critic who had before expressed his disapprobation. “Here is a
pasteboard figure, such as a child would cut out of a card, with a pair
of very dull scissors; and the fellow modestly requests us to see in it
the prototype of hereditary beauty!”

“But, sir, you have not the proper point of view,” remarks the showman.
“You sit altogether too near to get the best effect of my pictorial
exhibition. Pray, oblige me by removing to this other bench, and I
venture to assure you the proper light and shadow will transform the
spectacle into quite another thing.”

“Pshaw!” replies the critic; “I want no other light and shade. I have
already told you that it is my business to see things just as they
are.”

“I would suggest to the author of this ingenious exhibition,” observes
a gentlemanly person, who has shown signs of being much interested,—“I
would suggest that Anna Gower, the first wife of Governor Endicott, and
who came with him from England, left no posterity; and that,
consequently, we cannot be indebted to that honorable lady for any
specimens of feminine loveliness now extant among us.”

Having nothing to allege against this genealogical objection, the
showman points again to the scene.

During this little interruption, you perceive that the Anglo-Saxon
energy—as the phrase now goes—has been at work in the spectacle before
us. So many chimneys now send up their smoke, that it begins to have
the aspect of a village street; although everything is so inartificial
and inceptive, that it seems as if one returning wave of the wild
nature might overwhelm it all. But the one edifice which gives the
pledge of permanence to this bold enterprise is seen at the central
point of the picture. There stands the meeting-house, a small
structure, low-roofed, without a spire, and built of rough timber,
newly hewn, with the sap still in the logs, and here and there a strip
of bark adhering to them. A meaner temple was never consecrated to the
worship of the Deity. With the alternative of kneeling beneath the
awful vault of the firmament, it is strange that men should creep into
this pent-up nook, and expect God’s presence there. Such, at least, one
would imagine, might be the feeling of these forest-settlers,
accustomed, as they had been, to stand under the dim arches of vast
cathedrals, and to offer up their hereditary worship in the old
ivy-covered churches of rural England, around which lay the bones of
many generations of their forefathers. How could they dispense with the
carved altar-work?—how, with the pictured windows, where the light of
common day was hallowed by being transmitted through the glorified
figures of saints?—how, with the lofty roof, imbued, as it must have
been, with the prayers that had gone upward for centuries?—how, with
the rich peal of the solemn organ, rolling along the aisles, pervading
the whole church, and sweeping the soul away on a flood of audible
religion? They needed nothing of all this. Their house of worship, like
their ceremonial, was naked, simple, and severe. But the zeal of a
recovered faith burned like a lamp within their hearts, enriching
everything around them with its radiance; making of these new walls,
and this narrow compass, its own cathedral; and being, in itself, that
spiritual mystery and experience, of which sacred architecture,
pictured windows, and the organ’s grand solemnity are remote and
imperfect symbols. All was well, so long as their lamps were freshly
kindled at heavenly flame. After a while, however, whether in their
time or their children’s, these lamps began to burn more dimly, or with
a less genuine lustre; and then it might be seen how hard, cold, and
confined was their system,—how like an iron cage was that which they
called Liberty.

Too much of this. Look again at the picture, and observe how the
aforesaid Anglo-Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, and
raising a positive cloud of dust beneath its sturdy footsteps. For
there the carpenters are building a new house, the frame of which was
hewn and fitted in England, of English oak, and sent hither on
shipboard; and here a blacksmith makes huge slang and clatter on his
anvil, shaping out tools and weapons; and yonder a wheelwright, who
boasts himself a London workman, regularly bred to his handicraft, is
fashioning a set of wagon-wheels, the track of which shall soon be
visible. The wild forest is shrinking back; the street has lost the
aromatic odor of the pine-trees, and of the sweet-fern that grew
beneath them. The tender and modest wild-flowers, those gentle children
of savage nature that grew pale beneath the ever-brooding shade, have
shrank away and disappeared, like stars that vanish in the breadth of
light. Gardens are fenced in, and display pumpkin-beds and rows of
cabbages and beans; and, though the governor and the minister both view
them with a disapproving eye, plants of broad-leaved tobacco, which the
cultivators are enjoined to use privily, or not at all. No wolf, for a
year past, has been heard to bark, or known to range among the
dwellings, except that single one, whose grisly head, with a plash of
blood beneath it, is now affixed to the portal of the meeting-house.
The partridge has ceased to run across the too-frequented path. Of all
the wild life that used to throng here, only the Indians still come
into the settlement, bringing the skins of beaver and otter, bear and
elk, which they sell to Endicott for the wares of England. And there is
little John Massey, the son of Jeffrey Massey and first-born of
Naumkeag, playing beside his father’s threshold, a child of six or
seven years old. Which is the better-grown infant,—the town or the boy?

The red men have become aware that the street is no longer free to
them, save by the sufferance and permission of the settlers. Often, to
impress them with an awe of English power, there is a muster and
training of the town-forces, and a stately march of the mail-clad band,
like this which we now see advancing up the street. There they come,
fifty of them, or more; all with their iron breastplates and steel caps
well burnished, and glimmering bravely against the sun; their ponderous
muskets on their shoulders, their bandaliers about their waists, their
lighted matches in their hands, and the drum and fife playing cheerily
before them. See! do they not step like martial men? Do they not
manœuvre like soldiers who have seen stricken fields? And well they
may; for this band is composed of precisely such materials as those
with which Cromwell is preparing to beat down the strength of a
kingdom; and his famous regiment of Ironsides might be recruited from
just such men. In everything, at this period, New England was the
essential spirit and flower of that which was about to become uppermost
in the mother-country. Many a bold and wise man lost the fame which
would have accrued to him in English history, by crossing the Atlantic
with our forefathers. Many a valiant captain, who might have been
foremost at Marston Moor or Naseby, exhausted his martial ardor in the
command of a log-built fortress, like that which you observe on the
gently rising ground at the right of the pathway,—its banner fluttering
in the breeze, and the culverins and sakers showing their deadly
muzzles over the rampart.

A multitude of people were now thronging to New England: some, because
the ancient and ponderous framework of Church and State threatened to
crumble down upon their heads; others, because they despaired of such a
downfall. Among those who came to Naumkeag were men of history and
legend, whose feet leave a track of brightness along any pathway which
they have trodden. You shall behold their life-like images—their
spectres, if you choose so to call them—passing, encountering with a
familiar nod, stopping to converse together, praying, bearing weapons,
laboring or resting from their labors, in the Main Street. Here, now,
comes Hugh Peters, an earnest, restless man, walking swiftly, as being
impelled by that fiery activity of nature which shall hereafter thrust
him into the conflict of dangerous affairs, make him the chaplain and
counsellor of Cromwell, and finally bring him to a bloody end. He
pauses, by the meetinghouse, to exchange a greeting with Roger
Williams, whose face indicates, methinks, a gentler spirit, kinder and
more expansive, than that of Peters; yet not less active for what he
discerns to be the will of God, or the welfare of mankind. And look!
here is a guest for Endicott, coming forth out of the forest, through
which he has been journeying from Boston, and which, with its rude
branches, has caught hold of his attire, and has wet his feet with its
swamps and streams. Still there is something in his mild and venerable,
though not aged presence—a propriety, an equilibrium, in Governor
Winthrop’s nature—that causes the disarray of his costume to be
unnoticed, and gives us the same impression as if he were clad in such
rave and rich attire as we may suppose him to have worn in the Council
Chamber of the colony. Is not this characteristic wonderfully
perceptible in our spectral representative of his person? But what
dignitary is this crossing from the other side to greet the governor? A
stately personage, in a dark velvet cloak, with a hoary beard, and a
gold chain across his breast; he has the authoritative port of one who
has filled the highest civic station in the first of cities. Of all men
in the world, we should least expect to meet the Lord Mayor of
London—as Sir Richard Saltonstall has been, once and again—in a
forest-bordered settlement of the western wilderness.

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.

Have you not already detected a quaint, sly humor in that face,—an
eccentricity in the manner,—a certain indescribable waywardness,—all
the marks, in short, of an original man, unmistakably impressed, yet
kept down by a sense of clerical restraint? That is Nathaniel Ward, the
minister of Ipswich, but better remembered as the simple cobbler of
Agawam. He hammered his sole so faithfully, and stitched his
upper-leather so well, that the shoe is hardly yet worn out, though
thrown aside for some two centuries past. And next, among these
Puritans and Roundheads, we observe the very model of a Cavalier, with
the curling lovelock, the fantastically trimmed beard, the embroidery,
the ornamented rapier, the gilded dagger, and all other foppishnesses
that distinguished the wild gallants who rode headlong to their
overthrow in the cause of King Charles. This is Morton of Merry Mount,
who has come hither to hold a council with Endicott, but will shortly
be his prisoner. Yonder pale, decaying figure of a white-robed woman,
who glides slowly along the street, is the Lady Arabella, looking for
her own grave in the virgin soil. That other female form, who seems to
be talking—we might almost say preaching or expounding—in the centre of
a group of profoundly attentive auditors, is Ann Hutchinson. And here
comes Vane—

“But, my dear sir,” interrupts the same gentleman who before questioned
the showman’s genealogical accuracy, “allow me to observe that these
historical personages could not possibly have met together in the Main
Street. They might, and probably did, all visit our old town, at one
time or another, but not simultaneously; and you have fallen into
anachronisms that I positively shudder to think of!”

“The fellow,” adds the scarcely civil critic, “has learned a bead-roll
of historic names, whom he lugs into his pictorial puppet-show, as he
calls it, helter-skelter, without caring whether they were
contemporaries or not,—and sets them all by the ears together. But was
there ever such a fund of impudence? To hear his running commentary,
you would suppose that these miserable slips of painted pasteboard,
with hardly the remotest outlines of the human figure, had all the
character and expression of Michael Angelo’s pictures. Well! go on,
sir!”

“Sir, you break the illusion of the scene,” mildly remonstrates the
showman.

“Illusion! What illusion?” rejoins the critic, with a contemptuous
snort. “On the word of a gentleman, I see nothing illusive in the
wretchedly bedaubed sheet of canvas that forms your background, or in
these pasteboard slips that hitch and jerk along the front. The only
illusion, permit me to say, is in the puppet-showman’s tongue,—and that
but a wretched one, into the bargain!”

“We public men,” replies the showman, meekly, “must lay our account,
sometimes, to meet an uncandid severity of criticism. But—merely for
your own pleasure, sir—let me entreat you to take another point of
view. Sit farther back, by that young lady, in whose face I have
watched the reflection of every changing scene; only oblige me by
sitting there; and, take my word for it, the slips of pasteboard shall
assume spiritual life, and the bedaubed canvas become an airy and
changeable reflex of what it purports to represent.”

“I know better,” retorts the critic, settling himself in his seat, with
sullen but self-complacent immovableness. “And, as for my own pleasure,
I shall best consult it by remaining precisely where I am.”

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.

Years have rolled over our scene, and converted the forest-track into a
dusty thoroughfare, which, being intersected with lanes and
cross-paths, may fairly be designated as the Main Street. On the
ground-sites of many of the log-built sheds, into which the first
settlers crept for shelter, houses of quaint architecture have now
risen. These later edifices are built, as you see, in one generally
accordant style, though with such subordinate variety as keeps the
beholder’s curiosity excited, and causes each structure, like its
owner’s character, to produce its own peculiar impression. Most of them
have a huge chimney in the centre, with flues so vast that it must have
been easy for the witches to fly out of them as they were wont to do,
when bound on an aerial visit to the Black Man in the forest. Around
this great chimney the wooden house clusters itself, in a whole
community of gable-ends, each ascending into its own separate peak; the
second story, with its lattice-windows, projecting over the first; and
the door, which is perhaps arched, provided on the outside with an iron
hammer, wherewith the visitor’s hand may give a thundering rat-a-tat.

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,
to down our own days, we shall still behold these old edifices
occupying their long-accustomed sites. For instance, on the upper
corner of that green lane which shall hereafter be North Street, we see
the Curwen House, newly built, with the carpenters still at work on the
roof nailing down the last sheaf of shingles. On the lower corner
stands another dwelling,—destined, at some period of its existence, to
be the abode of an unsuccessful alchemist,—which shall likewise survive
to our own generation, and perhaps long outlive it. Thus, through the
medium of these patriarchal edifices, we have now established a sort of
kindred and hereditary acquaintance with the Main Street.

Great as is the transformation produced by a short term of years, each
single day creeps through the Puritan settlement sluggishly enough. It
shall pass before your eyes, condensed into the space of a few moments.
The gray light of early morning is slowly diffusing itself over the
scene; and the bellman, whose office it is to cry the hour at the
street-corners, rings the last peal upon his hand bell, and goes
wearily homewards, with the owls, the bats, and other creatures of the
night. Lattices are thrust back on their hinges, as if the town were
opening its eyes, in the summer morning. Forth stumbles the still
drowsy cowherd, with his horn; putting which to his lips, it emits a
bellowing bray, impossible to be represented in the picture, but which
reaches the pricked-up ears of every cow in the settlement, and tells
her that the dewy pasture-hour is come. House after house awakes, and
sends the smoke up curling from its chimney, like frosty breath from
living nostrils; and as those white wreaths of smoke, though
impregnated with earthy admixtures, climb skyward, so, from each
dwelling, does the morning worship—its spiritual essence, bearing up
its human imperfection—find its way to the heavenly Father’s throne.

The breakfast-hour being passed, the inhabitants do not, as usual, go
to their fields or workshops, but remain within doors; or perhaps walk
the street, with a grave sobriety, yet a disengaged and unburdened
aspect, that belongs neither to a holiday nor a Sabbath. And, indeed,
this passing day is neither, nor is it a common week-day, although
partaking of all the three. It is the Thursday Lecture; an institution
which New England has long ago relinquished, and almost forgotten, yet
which it would have been better to retain, as bearing relations to both
the spiritual and ordinary life, and bringing each acquainted with the
other. The tokens of its observance, however, which here meet our eyes,
are of rather a questionable cast. It is, in one sense, a day of public
shame; the day on which transgressors, who have made themselves liable
to the minor severities of the Puritan law receive their reward of
ignominy. At this very moment, this constable has bound an idle fellow
to the whipping-post, and is giving him his deserts with a cat-o’-nine
tails. Ever since sunrise, Daniel Fairfield has been standing on the
steps of the meeting-house, with a halter about his neck, which he is
condemned to wear visibly throughout his lifetime; Dorothy Talby is
chained to a post at the corner of Prison Lane, with the hot sun
blazing on her matronly face, and all for no other offence than lifting
her hand against her husband; while, through the bars of that great
wooden cage, in the centre of the scene, we discern either a human
being or a wild beast, or both in one, whom this public infamy causes
to roar, and gnash his teeth, and shake the strong oaken bars, as if he
would break forth, and tear in pieces the little children who have been
peeping at him. Such are the profitable sights that serve the good
people to while away the earlier part of lecture-day. Betimes in the
forenoon, a traveller—the first traveller that has come hitherward this
morning—rides slowly into the street on his patient steed. He seems a
clergyman; and, as he draws near, we recognize the minister of Lynn,
who was pre-engaged to lecture here, and has been revolving his
discourse, as he rode through the hoary wilderness. Behold, now, the
whole town thronging into the meeting-house, mostly with such sombre
visages that the sunshine becomes little better than a shadow when it
falls upon them. There go the Thirteen Men, grim rulers of a grim
community! There goes John Massey, the first town-born child, now a
youth of twenty, whose eye wanders with peculiar interest towards that
buxom damsel who comes up the steps at the same instant. There hobbles
Goody Foster, a sour and bitter old beldam, looking as if she went to
curse, and not to pray, and whom many of her neighbors suspect of
taking an occasional airing on a broomstick. There, too, slinking
shamefacedly in, you observe that same poor do-nothing and
good-for-nothing whom we saw castigated just now at the whipping-post.
Last of all, there goes the tithing-man, lugging in a couple of small
boys, whom he has caught at play beneath God’s blessed sunshine, in a
back lane. What native of Naumkeag, whose recollections go back more
than thirty years, does not still shudder at that dark ogre of his
infancy, who perhaps had long ceased to have an actual existence, but
still lived in his childish belief, in a horrible idea, and in the
nurse’s threat, as the Tidy Man!

It will be hardly worth our while to wait two, or it may be three,
turnings of the hour-glass, for the conclusion of the lecture.
Therefore, by my control over light and darkness, I cause the dusk, and
then the starless night, to brood over the street; and summon forth
again the bellman, with his lantern casting a gleam about his
footsteps, to pace wearily from corner to corner, and shout drowsily
the hour to drowsy or dreaming ears. Happy are we, if for nothing else,
yet because we did not live in those days. In truth, when the first
novelty and stir of spirit had subsided,—when the new settlement,
between the forest-border and the sea, had become actually a little
town,—its daily life must have trudged onward with hardly anything to
diversify and enliven it, while also its rigidity could not fail to
cause miserable distortions of the moral nature. Such a life was
sinister to the intellect, and sinister to the heart; especially when
one generation had bequeathed its religious gloom, and the counterfeit
of its religious ardor, to the next; for these characteristics, as was
inevitable, assumed the form both of hypocrisy and exaggeration, by
being inherited from the example and precept of other human beings, and
not from an original and spiritual source. The sons and grandchildren
of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower souls than
their progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant,
but not superstitious, not even fanatical; and endowed, if any men of
that age were, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it was
impossible for the succeeding race to grow up, in heaven’s freedom,
beneath the discipline which their gloomy energy of character had
established; nor, it may be, have we even yet thrown off all the
unfavorable influences which, among many good ones, were bequeathed to
us by our Puritan forefathers. Let us thank God for having given us
such ancestors; and let each successive generation thank him, not less
fervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages.

“What is all this?” cries the critic. “A sermon? If so, it is not in
the bill.”

“Very true,” replies the showman; “and I ask pardon of the audience.”

Look now at the street, and observe a strange people entering it. Their
garments are torn and disordered, their faces haggard, their figures
emaciated; for they have made their way hither through pathless
deserts, suffering hunger and hardship, with no other shelter thin a
hollow tree, the lair of a wild beast, or an Indian wigwam. Nor, in the
most inhospitable and dangerous of such lodging-places, was there half
the peril that awaits them in this thoroughfare of Christian men, with
those secure dwellings and warm hearths on either side of it, and
yonder meeting-house as the central object of the scene. These
wanderers have received from Heaven a gift that, in all epochs of the
world, has brought with it the penalties of mortal suffering and
persecution, scorn, enmity, and death itself;—a gift that, thus
terrible to its possessors, has ever been most hateful to all other
men, since its very existence seems to threaten the overthrow of
whatever else the toilsome ages have built up;—the gift of a new idea.
You can discern it in them, illuminating their faces—their whole
persons, indeed, however earthly and cloddish—with a light that
inevitably shines through, and makes the startled community aware that
these men are not as they themselves are,—not brethren nor neighbors of
their thought. Forthwith, it is as if an earthquake rumbled through the
town, making its vibrations felt at every hearthstone, and especially
causing the spire of the meeting-house to totter. The Quakers have
come. We are in peril! See! they trample upon our wise and
well-established laws in the person of our chief magistrate; for
Governor Endicott is passing, now an aged man, and dignified with long
habits of authority,—and not one of the irreverent vagabonds has moved
his hat. Did you note the ominous frown of the white-bearded Puritan
governor, as he turned himself about, and, in his anger, half uplifted
the staff that has become a needful support to his old age? Here comes
old Mr. Norris, our venerable minister. Will they doff their hats, and
pay reverence to him? No: their hats stick fast to their ungracious
heads, as if they grew there; and—impious varlets that they are, and
worse than the heathen Indians!—they eye our reverend pastor with a
peculiar scorn, distrust, unbelief, and utter denial of his sanctified
pretensions, of which he himself immediately becomes conscious; the
more bitterly conscious, as he never knew nor dreamed of the like
before.

But look yonder! Can we believe our eyes? A Quaker woman, clad in
sackcloth, and with ashes on her head, has mounted the steps of the
meeting-house. She addresses the people in a wild, shrill voice,—wild
and shrill it must be to suit such a figure,—which makes them tremble
and turn pale, although they crowd open-mouthed to hear her. She is
bold against established authority; she denounces the priest and his
steeple-house. Many of her hearers are appalled; some weep; and others
listen with a rapt attention, as if a living truth had now, for the
first time, forced its way through the crust of habit, reached their
hearts, and awakened them to life. This matter must be looked to; else
we have brought our faith across the seas with us in vain; and it had
been better that the old forest were still standing here, waving its
tangled boughs and murmuring to the sky out of its desolate recesses,
instead of this goodly street, if such blasphemies be spoken in it.

So thought the old Puritans. What was their mode of action may be
partly judged from the spectacles which now pass before your eyes.
Joshua Buffum is standing in the pillory. Cassandra Southwick is led to
prison. And there a woman, it is Ann Coleman,—naked from the waist
upward, and bound to the tail of a cart, is dragged through the Main
Street at the pace of a brisk walk, while the constable follows with a
whip of knotted cords. A strong-armed fellow is that constable; and
each time that he flourishes his lash in the air, you see a frown
wrinkling and twisting his brow, and, at the same instant, a smile upon
his lips. He loves his business, faithful officer that he is, and puts
his soul into every stroke, zealous to fulfil the injunction of Major
Hawthorne’s warrant, in the spirit and to the letter. There came down a
stroke that has drawn blood! Ten such stripes are to be given in Salem,
ten in Boston, and ten in Dedham; and, with those thirty stripes of
blood upon her, she is to be driven into the forest. The crimson trail
goes wavering along the Main Street; but Heaven grant that, as the rain
of so many years has wept upon it, time after time, and washed it all
away, so there may have been a dew of mercy, to cleanse this cruel
blood-stain out of the record of the persecutor’s life!

Pass on, thou spectral constable, and betake thee to thine own place of
torment. Meanwhile, by the silent operation of the mechanism behind the
scenes, a considerable space of time would seem to have lapsed over the
street. The older dwellings now begin to look weather-beaten, through
the effect of the many eastern storms that have moistened their
unpainted shingles and clapboards, for not less than forty years. Such
is the age we would assign to the town, judging by the aspect of John
Massey, the first town-born child, whom his neighbors now call Goodman
Massey, and whom we see yonder, a grave, almost autumnal-looking man,
with children of his own about him. To the patriarchs of the
settlement, no doubt, the Main Street is still but an affair of
yesterday, hardly more antique, even if destined to be more permanent,
than a path shovelled through the snow. But to the middle-aged and
elderly men who came hither in childhood or early youth, it presents
the aspect of a long and well-established work, on which they have
expended the strength and ardor of their life. And the younger people,
native to the street, whose earliest recollections are of creeping over
the paternal threshold, and rolling on the grassy margin of the track,
look at it as one of the perdurable things of our mortal state,—as old
as the hills of the great pasture, or the headland at the harbor’s
mouth. Their fathers and grandsires tell them how, within a few years
past, the forest stood here, with but a lonely track beneath its
tangled shade. Vain legend! They cannot make it true and real to their
conceptions. With them, moreover, the Main Street is a street indeed,
worthy to hold its way with the thronged and stately avenues of cities
beyond the sea. The old Puritans tell them of the crowds that hurry
along Cheapside and Fleet Street and the Strand, and of the rush of
tumultuous life at Temple Bar. They describe London Bridge, itself a
street, with a row of houses on each side. They speak of the vast
structure of the Tower, and the solemn grandeur of Westminster Abbey.
The children listen, and still inquire if the streets of London are
longer and broader than the one before their father’s door; if the
Tower is bigger than the jail in Prison Lane; if the old Abbey will
hold a larger congregation than our meeting-house. Nothing impresses
them, except their own experience.

It seems all a fable, too, that wolves have ever prowled here; and not
less so, that the Squaw Sachem, and the Sagamore her son, once ruled
over this region, and treated as sovereign potentates with the English
settlers, then so few and storm-beaten, now so powerful. There stand
some school-boys, you observe, in a little group around a drunken
Indian, himself a prince of the Squaw Sachem’s lineage. He brought
hither some beaver-skins for sale, and has already swallowed the larger
portion of their price, in deadly draughts of firewater. Is there not a
touch of pathos in that picture? and does it not go far towards telling
the whole story of the vast growth and prosperity of one race, and the
fated decay of another?—the children of the stranger making game of the
great Squaw Sachem’s grandson!

But the whole race of red men have not vanished with that wild princess
and her posterity. This march of soldiers along the street betokens the
breaking out of King Philip’s war; and these young men, the flower of
Essex, are on their way to defend the villages on the Connecticut;
where, at Bloody Brook, a terrible blow shall be smitten, and hardly
one of that gallant band be left alive. And there, at that stately
mansion, with its three peaks in front, and its two little peaked
towers, one on either side of the door, we see brave Captain Gardner
issuing forth, clad in his embroidered buff-coat, and his plumed cap
upon his head. His trusty sword, in its steel scabbard, strikes
clanking on the doorstep. See how the people throng to their doors and
windows, as the cavalier rides past, reining his mettled steed so
gallantly, and looking so like the very soul and emblem of martial
achievement,—destined, too, to meet a warrior’s fate, at the desperate
assault on the fortress of the Narragansetts!

“The mettled steed looks like a pig,” interrupts the critic, “and
Captain Gardner himself like the Devil, though a very tame one, and on
a most diminutive scale.”

“Sir, sir!” cries the persecuted showman, losing all patience,—for,
indeed, he had particularly prided himself on these figures of Captain
Gardner and his horse,—“I see that there is no hope of pleasing you.
Pray, sir, do me the favor to take back your money, and withdraw!”

“Not I!” answers the unconscionable critic. “I am just beginning to get
interested in the matter. Come! turn your crank, and grind out a few
more of these fooleries!”

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.

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.

“Turn your crank, I say,” bellows the remorseless critic, “and grind it
out, whatever it be, without further preface!”

The showman deems it best to comply.

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.

There is old George Jacobs, known hereabouts, these sixty years, as a
man whom we thought upright in all his way of life, quiet, blameless, a
good husband before his pious wife was summoned from the evil to come,
and a good father to the children whom she left him. Ah! but when that
blessed woman went to heaven, George Jacobs’s heart was empty, his
hearth lonely, his life broken tip; his children were married, and
betook themselves to habitations of their own; and Satan, in his
wanderings up and down, beheld this forlorn old man, to whom life was a
sameness and a weariness, and found the way to tempt him. So the
miserable sinner was prevailed with to mount into the air, and career
among the clouds; and he is proved to have been present at a
witch-meeting as far off as Falmouth, on the very same night that his
next neighbors saw him, with his rheumatic stoop, going in at his own
door. There is John Willard, too; an honest man we thought him, and so
shrewd and active in his business, so practical, so intent on every-day
affairs, so constant at his little place of trade, where he bartered
English goods for Indian corn and all kinds of country produce! How
could such a man find time, or what could put it into his mind, to
leave his proper calling, and become a wizard? It is a mystery, unless
the Black Man tempted him with great heaps of gold. See that aged
couple,—a sad sight, truly,—John Proctor, and his wife Elizabeth. If
there were two old people in all the county of Essex who seemed to have
led a true Christian life, and to be treading hopefully the little
remnant of their earthly path, it was this very pair. Yet have we heard
it sworn, to the satisfaction of the worshipful Chief-Justice Sewell,
and all the court and jury, that Proctor and his wife have shown their
withered faces at children’s bedsides, mocking, making mouths, and
affrighting the poor little innocents in the night-time. They, or their
spectral appearances, have stuck pins into the Afflicted Ones, and
thrown them into deadly fainting-fits with a touch, or but a look. And,
while we supposed the old man to be reading the Bible to his old
wife,—she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner,—the pair of hoary
reprobates have whisked up the chimney, both on one broomstick, and
flown away to a witch-communion, far into the depths of the chill, dark
forest. How foolish! Were it only for fear of rheumatic pains in their
old bones, they had better have stayed at home. But away they went; and
the laughter of their decayed, cackling voices has been heard at
midnight, aloft in the air. Now, in the sunny noontide, as they go
tottering to the gallows, it is the Devil’s turn to laugh.

Behind these two,—who help another along, and seem to be comforting and
encouraging each other, in a manner truly pitiful, if it were not a sin
to pity the old witch and wizard,—behind them comes a woman, with a
dark proud face that has been beautiful, and a figure that is still
majestic. Do you know her? It is Martha Carrier, whom the Devil found
in a humble cottage, and looked into her discontented heart, and saw
pride there, and tempted her with his promise that she should be Queen
of Hell. And now, with that lofty demeanor, she is passing to her
kingdom, and, by her unquenchable pride, transforms this escort of
shame into a triumphal procession, that shall attend her to the gates
of her infernal palace, and seat her upon the fiery throne. Within this
hour, she shall assume her royal dignity.

Last of the miserable train comes a man clad in black, of small stature
and a dark complexion, with a clerical band about his neck. Many a
time, in the years gone by, that face has been uplifted heavenward from
the pulpit of the East Meeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs
seemed to worship God. What!—he? The holy man!—the learned!—the wise!
How has the Devil tempted him? His fellow-criminals, for the most part,
are obtuse, uncultivated creatures, some of them scarcely half-witted
by nature, and others greatly decayed in their intellects through age.
They were an easy prey for the destroyer. Not so with this George
Burroughs, as we judge by the inward light which glows through his dark
countenance, and, we might almost say, glorifies his figure, in spite
of the soil and haggardness of long imprisonment,—in spite of the heavy
shadow that must fall on him, while death is walking by his side. What
bribe could Satan offer, rich enough to tempt and overcome this mail?
Alas! it may have been in the very strength of his high and searching
intellect, that the Tempter found the weakness which betrayed him. He
yearned for knowledge he went groping onward into a world of mystery;
at first, as the witnesses have sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his
two dead wives, and talked with them of matters beyond the grave; and,
when their responses failed to satisfy the intense and sinful craving
of his spirit, he called on Satan, and was heard. Yet—to look at
him—who, that had not known the proof, could believe him guilty? Who
would not say, while we see him offering comfort to the weak and aged
partners of his horrible crime,—while we hear his ejaculations of
prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the depths of his heart, and fly
heavenward, unawares,—while we behold a radiance brightening on his
features as from the other world, which is but a few steps off,—who
would not say, that, over the dusty track of the Main Street, a
Christian saint is now going to a martyr’s death? May not the
Arch-Fiend have been too subtle for the court and jury, and betrayed
them—laughing in his sleeve, the while—into the awful error of pouring
out sanctified blood as an acceptable sacrifice upon God’s altar? Ah!
no; for listen to wise Cotton Mather, who, as he sits there on his
horse, speaks comfortably to the perplexed multitude, and tells them
that all has been religiously and justly done, and that Satan’s power
shall this day receive its death-blow in New England.

Heaven grant it be so!—the great scholar must be right; so lead the
poor creatures to their death! Do you see that group of children and
half-grown girls, and, among them, an old, hag-like Indian woman,
Tituba by name? Those are the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this very
instant, a proof of Satan’s power and malice! Mercy Parris, the
minister’s daughter, has been smitten by a flash of Martha Carrier’s
eye, and falls down in the street, writhing with horrible spasms and
foaming at the mouth, like the possessed one spoken of in Scripture.
Hurry on the accursed witches to the gallows, ere they do more
mischief!—ere they fling out their withered arms, and scatter
pestilence by handfuls among the crowd!—ere, as their parting legacy,
they cast a blight over the land, so that henceforth it may bear no
fruit nor blade of grass, and be fit for nothing but a sepulchre for
their unhallowed carcasses! So, on they go; and old George Jacobs has
stumbled, by reason of his infirmity; but Goodman Proctor and his wife
lean on one another, and walk at a reasonably steady pace, considering
their age. Mr. Burroughs seems to administer counsel to Martha Carrier,
whose face and mien, methinks, are milder and humbler than they were.
Among the multitude, meanwhile, there is horror, fear, and distrust;
and friend looks askance at friend, and the husband at his wife, and
the wife at him, and even the mother at her little child; as if, in
every creature that God has made, they suspected a witch, or dreaded an
accuser. Never, never again, whether in this or any other shape, may
Universal Madness riot in the Main Street!

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.

Here it comes, out of the same house whence we saw brave Captain
Gardner go forth to the wars. What! A coffin, borne on men’s shoulders,
and six aged gentlemen as pall-bearers, and a long train of mourners,
with black gloves and black hat-bands, and everything black, save a
white handkerchief in each mourner’s hand, to wipe away his tears
withal. Now, my kind patrons, you are angry with me. You were bidden to
a bridal-dance, and find yourselves walking in a funeral procession.
Even so; but look back through all the social customs of New England,
in the first century of her existence, and read all her traits of
character; and if you find one occasion, other than a funeral feast,
where jollity was sanctioned by universal practice, I will set fire to
my puppet-show without another word. These are the obsequies of old
Governor Bradstreet, the patriarch and survivor of the first settlers,
who, having intermarried with the Widow Gardner, is now resting from
his labors, at the great age of ninety-four. The white-bearded corpse,
which was his spirit’s earthly garniture, now lies beneath yonder
coffin-lid. Many a cask of ale and cider is on tap, and many a draught
of spiced wine and aqua-vitæ has been quaffed. Else why should the
bearers stagger, as they tremulously uphold the coffin?—and the aged
pall-bearers, too, as they strive to walk solemnly beside it?—and
wherefore do the mourners tread on one another’s heels?—and why, if we
may ask without offence, should the nose of the Rev. Mr. Noyes, through
which he has just been delivering the funeral discourse, glow like a
ruddy coal of fire? Well, well, old friends! Pass on, with your burden
of mortality, And lay it in the tomb with jolly hearts. People should
be permitted to enjoy themselves in their own fashion; every man to his
taste; but New England must have been a dismal abode for the man of
pleasure, when the only boon-companion was Death!

Under cover of a mist that has settled over the scene, a few years flit
by, and escape our notice. As the atmosphere becomes transparent, we
perceive a decrepit grandsire, hobbling along the street. Do you
recognize him? We saw him, first, as the baby in Goodwife Massey’s
arms, when the primeval trees were flinging their shadow over Roger
Conant’s cabin; we have seen him, as the boy, the youth, the man,
bearing his humble part in all the successive scenes, and forming the
index-figure whereby to note the age of his coeval town. And here he
is, old Goodman Massey, taking his last walk,—often pausing,—often
leaning over his staff,—and calling to mind whose dwelling stood at
such and such a spot, and whose field or garden occupied the site of
those more recent houses. He can render a reason for all the bends and
deviations of the thoroughfare, which, in its flexible and plastic
infancy, was made to swerve aside from a straight line, in order to
visit every settler’s door. The Main Street is still youthful; the
coeval man is in his latest age. Soon he will be gone, a patriarch of
fourscore, yet shall retain a sort of infantine life in our local
history, as the first town-born child.

Behold here a change, wrought in the twinkling of an eye, like an
incident in a tale of magic, even while your observation has been fixed
upon the scene. The Main Street has vanished out of sight. In its stead
appears a wintry waste of snow, with the sun just peeping over it, cold
and bright, and tingeing the white expanse with the faintest and most
ethereal rose-color. This is the Great Snow of 1717, famous for the
mountain-drifts in which it buried the whole country. It would seem as
if the street, the growth of which we have noted so attentively,
following it from its first phase, as an Indian track, until it reached
the dignity of sidewalks, were all at once obliterated, and resolved
into a drearier pathlessness than when the forest covered it. The
gigantic swells and billows of the snow have swept over each man’s
metes and bounds, and annihilated all the visible distinctions of human
property. So that now the traces of former times and hitherto
accomplished deeds being done away, mankind should be at liberty to
enter on new paths, and guide themselves by other laws than heretofore;
if, indeed, the race be not extinct, and it be worth our while to go on
with the march of life, over the cold and desolate expanse that lies
before us. It may be, however, that matters are not so desperate as
they appear. That vast icicle, glittering so cheerlessly in the
sunshine, must be the spire of the meeting-house, incrusted with frozen
sleet. Those great heaps, too, which we mistook for drifts, are houses,
buried up to their eaves, and with their peaked roofs rounded by the
depth of snow upon them. There, now, comes a gush of smoke from what I
judge to be the chimney of the Ship Tavern;—and another—another—and
another—from the chimneys of other dwellings, where fireside comfort,
domestic peace, the sports of children, and the quietude of age are
living yet, in spite of the frozen crust above them.

But it is time to change the scene. Its dreary monotony shall not test
your fortitude like one of our actual New England winters, which leaves
so large a blank—so melancholy a death-spot—in lives so brief that they
ought to be all summer-time. Here, at least, I may claim to be ruler of
the seasons. One turn of the crank shall melt away the snow from the
Main Street, and show the trees in their full foliage, the rose-bushes
in bloom, and a border of green grass along the sidewalk. There! But
what! How! The scene will not move. A wire is broken. The street
continues buried beneath the snow, and the fate of Herculaneum and
Pompeii has its parallel in this catastrophe.

Alas! my kind and gentle audience, you know not the extent of your
misfortune. The scenes to come were far better than the past. The
street itself would have been more worthy of pictorial exhibition; the
deeds of its inhabitants not less so. And how would your interest have
deepened, as, passing out of the cold shadow of antiquity, in my long
and weary course, I should arrive within the limits of man’s memory,
and, leading you at last into the sunshine of the present, should give
a reflex of the very life that is flitting past us! Your own beauty, my
fair townswomen, would have beamed upon you, out of my scene. Not a
gentleman that walks the street but should have beheld his own face and
figure, his gait, the peculiar swing of his arm, and the coat that he
put on yesterday. Then, too,—and it is what I chiefly regret,—I had
expended a vast deal of light and brilliancy on a representation of the
street in its whole length, from Buffum’s Corner downward, on the night
of the grand illumination for General Taylor’s triumph. Lastly, I
should have given the crank one other turn, and have brought out the
future, showing you who shall walk the Main Street to-morrow, and,
perchance, whose funeral shall pass through it!

But these, like most other human purposes, lie unaccomplished; and I
have only further to say, that any lady or gentlemen who may feel
dissatisfied with the evening’s entertainment shall receive back the
admission fee at the door.

“Then give me mine,” cries the critic, stretching out his palm. “I said
that your exhibition would prove a humbug, and so it has turned out.
So, hand over my quarter!”




ETHAN BRAND:
A CHAPTER FROM AN ABORTIVE ROMANCE


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.

“Father, what is that?” asked the little boy, leaving his play, and
pressing betwixt his father’s knees.

“Oh, some drunken man, I suppose,” answered the lime-burner; “some
merry fellow from the bar-room in the village, who dared not laugh loud
enough within doors lest he should blow the roof of the house off. So
here he is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of Graylock.”

“But, father,” said the child, more sensitive than the obtuse,
middle-aged clown, “he does not laugh like a man that is glad. So the
noise frightens me!”

“Don’t be a fool, child!” cried his father, gruffly. “You will never
make a man, I do believe; there is too much of your mother in you. I
have known the rustling of a leaf startle you. Hark! Here comes the
merry fellow now. You shall see that there is no harm in him.”

Bartram and his little son, while they were talking thus, sat watching
the same lime-kiln that had been the scene of Ethan Brand’s solitary
and meditative life, before he began his search for the Unpardonable
Sin. Many years, as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that
portentous night when the IDEA 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.

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.

The man who now watched the fire was of a different order, and troubled
himself with no thoughts save the very few that were requisite to his
business. At frequent intervals, he flung back the clashing weight of
the iron door, and, turning his face from the insufferable glare,
thrust in huge logs of oak, or stirred the immense brands with a long
pole. Within the furnace were seen the curling and riotous flames, and
the burning marble, almost molten with the intensity of heat; while
without, the reflection of the fire quivered on the dark intricacy of
the surrounding forest, and showed in the foreground a bright and ruddy
little picture of the hut, the spring beside its door, the athletic and
coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner, and the half-frightened child,
shrinking into the protection of his father’s shadow. And when, again,
the iron door was closed, then reappeared the tender light of the
half-full moon, which vainly strove to trace out the indistinct shapes
of the neighboring mountains; and, in the upper sky, there was a
flitting congregation of clouds, still faintly tinged with the rosy
sunset, though thus far down into the valley the sunshine had vanished
long and long ago.

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.

“Halloo! who is it?” cried the lime-burner, vexed at his son’s
timidity, yet half infected by it. “Come forward, and show yourself,
like a man, or I’ll fling this chunk of marble at your head!”

“You offer me a rough welcome,” said a gloomy voice, as the unknown man
drew nigh. “Yet I neither claim nor desire a kinder one, even at my own
fireside.”

To obtain a distincter view, Bartram threw open the iron door of the
kiln, whence immediately issued a gush of fierce light, that smote full
upon the stranger’s face and figure. To a careless eye there appeared
nothing very remarkable in his aspect, which was that of a man in a
coarse brown, country-made suit of clothes, tall and thin, with the
staff and heavy shoes of a wayfarer. As he advanced, he fixed his
eyes—which were very bright—intently upon the brightness of the
furnace, as if he beheld, or expected to behold, some object worthy of
note within it.

“Good evening, stranger,” said the lime-burner; “whence come you, so
late in the day?”

“I come from my search,” answered the wayfarer; “for, at last, it is
finished.”

“Drunk!—or crazy!” muttered Bartram to himself. “I shall have trouble
with the fellow. The sooner I drive him away, the better.”

The little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to his father, and begged
him to shut the door of the kiln, so that there might not be so much
light; for that there was something in the man’s face which he was
afraid to look at, yet could not look away from. And, indeed, even the
lime-burner’s dull and torpid sense began to be impressed by an
indescribable something in that thin, rugged, thoughtful visage, with
the grizzled hair hanging wildly about it, and those deeply sunken
eyes, which gleamed like fires within the entrance of a mysterious
cavern. But, as he closed the door, the stranger turned towards him,
and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, that made Bartram feel as if he
were a sane and sensible man, after all.

“Your task draws to an end, I see,” said he. “This marble has already
been burning three days. A few hours more will convert the stone to
lime.”

“Why, who are you?” exclaimed the lime-burner. “You seem as well
acquainted with my business as I am myself.”

“And well I may be,” said the stranger; “for I followed the same craft
many a long year, and here, too, on this very spot. But you are a
newcomer in these parts. Did you never hear of Ethan Brand?”

“The man that went in search of the Unpardonable Sin?” asked Bartram,
with a laugh.

“The same,” answered the stranger. “He has found what he sought, and
therefore he comes back again.”

“What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?” cried the lime-burner, in
amazement. “I am a new-comer here, as you say, and they call it
eighteen years since you left the foot of Graylock. But, I can tell
you, the good folks still talk about Ethan Brand, in the village
yonder, and what a strange errand took him away from his lime-kiln.
Well, and so you have found the Unpardonable Sin?”

“Even so!” said the stranger, calmly.

“If the question is a fair one,” proceeded Bartram, “where might it
be?”

Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart.

“Here!” replied he.

And then, without mirth in his countenance, but as if moved by an
involuntary recognition of the infinite absurdity of seeking throughout
the world for what was the closest of all things to himself, and
looking into every heart, save his own, for what was hidden in no other
breast, he broke into a laugh of scorn. It was the same slow, heavy
laugh, that had almost appalled the lime-burner when it heralded the
wayfarer’s approach.

The solitary mountain-side was made dismal by it. Laughter, when out of
place, mistimed, or bursting forth from a disordered state of feeling,
may be the most terrible modulation of the human voice. The laughter of
one asleep, even if it be a little child,—the madman’s laugh,—the wild,
screaming laugh of a born idiot,—are sounds that we sometimes tremble
to hear, and would always willingly forget. Poets have imagined no
utterance of fiends or hobgoblins so fearfully appropriate as a laugh.
And even the obtuse lime-burner felt his nerves shaken, as this strange
man looked inward at his own heart, and burst into laughter that rolled
away into the night, and was indistinctly reverberated among the hills.

“Joe,” said he to his little son, “scamper down to the tavern in the
village, and tell the jolly fellows there that Ethan Brand has come
back, and that he has found the Unpardonable Sin!”

The boy darted away on his errand, to which Ethan Brand made no
objection, nor seemed hardly to notice it. He sat on a log of wood,
looking steadfastly at the iron door of the kiln. When the child was
out of sight, and his swift and light footsteps ceased to be heard
treading first on the fallen leaves and then on the rocky
mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret his departure. He felt
that the little fellow’s presence had been a barrier between his guest
and himself, and that he must now deal, heart to heart, with a man who,
on his own confession, had committed the one only crime for which
Heaven could afford no mercy. That crime, in its indistinct blackness,
seemed to overshadow him, and made his memory riotous with a throng of
evil shapes that asserted their kindred with the Master Sin, whatever
it might be, which it was within the scope of man’s corrupted nature to
conceive and cherish. They were all of one family; they went to and fro
between his breast and Ethan Brand’s, and carried dark greetings from
one to the other.

Then Bartram remembered the stories which had grown traditionary in
reference to this strange man, who had come upon him like a shadow of
the night, and was making himself at home in his old place, after so
long absence, that the dead people, dead and buried for years, would
have had more right to be at home, in any familiar spot, than he. Ethan
Brand, it was said, had conversed with Satan himself in the lurid blaze
of this very kiln. The legend had been matter of mirth heretofore, but
looked grisly now. According to this tale, before Ethan Brand departed
on his search, he had been accustomed to evoke a fiend from the hot
furnace of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order to confer with
him about the Unpardonable Sin; the man and the fiend each laboring to
frame the image of some mode of guilt which could neither be atoned for
nor forgiven. And, with the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top,
the fiend crept in at the iron door, there to abide the intensest
element of fire until again summoned forth to share in the dreadful
task of extending man’s possible guilt beyond the scope of Heaven’s
else infinite mercy.

While the lime-burner was struggling with the horror of these thoughts,
Ethan Brand rose from the log, and flung open the door of the kiln. The
action was in such accordance with the idea in Bartram’s mind, that he
almost expected to see the Evil One issue forth, red-hot, from the
raging furnace.

“Hold! hold!” cried he, with a tremulous attempt to laugh; for he was
ashamed of his fears, although they overmastered him. “Don’t, for
mercy’s sake, bring out your Devil now!”

“Man!” sternly replied Ethan Brand, “what need have I of the Devil? I
have left him behind me, on my track. It is with such half-way sinners
as you that he busies himself. Fear not, because I open the door. I do
but act by old custom, and am going to trim your fire, like a
lime-burner, as I was once.”

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.

“I have looked,” said he, “into many a human heart that was seven times
hotter with sinful passions than yonder furnace is with fire. But I
found not there what I sought. No, not the Unpardonable Sin!”

“What is the Unpardonable Sin?” asked the lime-burner; and then he
shrank farther from his companion, trembling lest his question should
be answered.

“It is a sin that grew within my own breast,” replied Ethan Brand,
standing erect with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his
stamp. “A sin that grew nowhere else! The sin of an intellect that
triumphed over the sense of brotherhood with man and reverence for God,
and sacrificed everything to its own mighty claims! The only sin that
deserves a recompense of immortal agony! Freely, were it to do again,
would I incur the guilt. Unshrinkingly I accept the retribution!”

“The man’s head is turned,” muttered the lime-burner to himself. “He
may be a sinner like the rest of us,—nothing more likely,—but, I’ll be
sworn, he is a madman too.”

Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at his situation, alone with Ethan
Brand on the wild mountain-side, and was right glad to hear the rough
murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty numerous
party, stumbling over the stones and rustling through the underbrush.
Soon appeared the whole lazy regiment that was wont to infest the
village tavern, comprehending three or four individuals who had drunk
flip beside the bar-room fire through all the winters, and smoked their
pipes beneath the stoop through all the summers, since Ethan Brand’s
departure. Laughing boisterously, and mingling all their voices
together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the moonshine and
narrow streaks of firelight that illuminated the open space before the
lime-kiln. Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the spot with
light, that the whole company might get a fair view of Ethan Brand, and
he of them.

There, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous man, now
almost extinct, but whom we were formerly sure to encounter at the
hotel of every thriving village throughout the country. It was the
stage-agent. The present specimen of the genus was a wilted and
smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed, in a smartly cut, brown,
bobtailed coat, with brass buttons, who, for a length of time unknown,
had kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and was still puffing
what seemed to be the same cigar that he had lighted twenty years
before. He had great fame as a dry joker, though, perhaps, less on
account of any intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of
brandy-toddy and tobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and
expressions, as well as his person. Another well-remembered, though
strangely altered, face was that of Lawyer Giles, as people still
called him in courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, in his soiled
shirtsleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This poor fellow had been an
attorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and
in great vogue among the village litigants; but flip, and sling, and
toddy, and cocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night,
had caused him to slide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees
of bodily labor, till at last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a
soap-vat. In other words, Giles was now a soap-boiler, in a small way.
He had come to be but the fragment of a human being, a part of one foot
having been chopped off by an axe, and an entire hand torn away by the
devilish grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though the corporeal hand was
gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth the stump,
Giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingers
with as vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. A
maimed and miserable wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the
world could not trample on, and had no right to scorn, either in this
or any previous stage of his misfortunes, since he had still kept up
the courage and spirit of a man, asked nothing in charity, and with his
one hand—and that the left one—fought a stern battle against want and
hostile circumstances.

Among the throng, too, came another personage, who, with certain points
of similarity to Lawyer Giles, had many more of difference. It was the
village doctor; a man of some fifty years, whom, at an earlier period
of his life, we introduced as paying a professional visit to Ethan
Brand during the latter’s supposed insanity. He was now a
purple-visaged, rude, and brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with
something wild, ruined, and desperate in his talk, and in all the
details of his gesture and manners. Brandy possessed this man like an
evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as a wild beast, and as
miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be in him such
wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any which medical
science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would not
let him sink out of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his horse,
and grumbling thick accents at the bedside, he visited all the
sick-chambers for miles about among the mountain towns, and sometimes
raised a dying man, as it were, by miracle, or quite as often, no
doubt, sent his patient to a grave that was dug many a year too soon.
The doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, and, as somebody said,
in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was always alight with
hell-fire.

These three worthies pressed forward, and greeted Ethan Brand each
after his own fashion, earnestly inviting him to partake of the
contents of a certain black bottle, in which, as they averred, he would
find something far better worth seeking than the Unpardonable Sin. No
mind, which has wrought itself by intense and solitary meditation into
a high state of enthusiasm, can endure the kind of contact with low and
vulgar modes of thought and feeling to which Ethan Brand was now
subjected. It made him doubt—and, strange to say, it was a painful
doubt—whether he had indeed found the Unpardonable Sin, and found it
within himself. The whole question on which he had exhausted life, and
more than life, looked like a delusion.

“Leave me,” he said bitterly, “ye brute beasts, that have made
yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery liquors! I have
done with you. Years and years ago, I groped into your hearts and found
nothing there for my purpose. Get ye gone!”

“Why, you uncivil scoundrel,” cried the fierce doctor, “is that the way
you respond to the kindness of your best friends? Then let me tell you
the truth. You have no more found the Unpardonable Sin than yonder boy
Joe has. You are but a crazy fellow,—I told you so twenty years
ago,—neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit
companion of old Humphrey, here!”

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.

The white-haired father now approached Ethan Brand, and gazed
unsteadily into his face.

“They tell me you have been all over the earth,” said he, wringing his
hands with earnestness. “You must have seen my daughter, for she makes
a grand figure in the world, and everybody goes to see her. Did she
send any word to her old father, or say when she was coming back?”

Ethan Brand’s eye quailed beneath the old man’s. That daughter, from
whom he so earnestly desired a word of greeting, was the Esther of our
tale, the very girl whom, with such cold and remorseless purpose, Ethan
Brand had made the subject of a psychological experiment, and wasted,
absorbed, and perhaps annihilated her soul, in the process.

“Yes,” he murmured, turning away from the hoary wanderer, “it is no
delusion. There is an Unpardonable Sin!”

While these things were passing, a merry scene was going forward in the
area of cheerful light, beside the spring and before the door of the
hut. A number of the youth of the village, young men and girls, had
hurried up the hill-side, impelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand, the
hero of so many a legend familiar to their childhood. Finding nothing,
however, very remarkable in his aspect,—nothing but a sunburnt
wayfarer, in plain garb and dusty shoes, who sat looking into the fire
as if he fancied pictures among the coals,—these young people speedily
grew tired of observing him. As it happened, there was other amusement
at hand. An old German Jew travelling with a diorama on his back, was
passing down the mountain-road towards the village just as the party
turned aside from it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits of the
day, the showman had kept them company to the lime-kiln.

“Come, old Dutchman,” cried one of the young men, “let us see your
pictures, if you can swear they are worth looking at!”

“Oh yes, Captain,” answered the Jew,—whether as a matter of courtesy or
craft, he styled everybody Captain,—“I shall show you, indeed, some
very superb pictures!”

So, placing his box in a proper position, he invited the young men and
girls to look through the glass orifices of the machine, and proceeded
to exhibit a series of the most outrageous scratchings and daubings, as
specimens of the fine arts, that ever an itinerant showman had the face
to impose upon his circle of spectators. The pictures were worn out,
moreover, tattered, full of cracks and wrinkles, dingy with
tobacco-smoke, and otherwise in a most pitiable condition. Some
purported to be cities, public edifices, and ruined castles in Europe;
others represented Napoleon’s battles and Nelson’s sea-fights; and in
the midst of these would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy hand,—which
might have been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny, though, in truth, it
was only the showman’s,—pointing its forefinger to various scenes of
the conflict, while its owner gave historical illustrations. When, with
much merriment at its abominable deficiency of merit, the exhibition
was concluded, the German bade little Joe put his head into the box.
Viewed through the magnifying-glasses, the boy’s round, rosy visage
assumed the strangest imaginable aspect of an immense Titanic child,
the mouth grinning broadly, and the eyes and every other feature
overflowing with fun at the joke. Suddenly, however, that merry face
turned pale, and its expression changed to horror, for this easily
impressed and excitable child had become sensible that the eye of Ethan
Brand was fixed upon him through the glass.

“You make the little man to be afraid, Captain,” said the German Jew,
turning up the dark and strong outline of his visage from his stooping
posture. “But look again, and, by chance, I shall cause you to see
somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!”

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.

“I remember you now,” muttered Ethan Brand to the showman.

“Ah, Captain,” whispered the Jew of Nuremberg, with a dark smile, “I
find it to be a heavy matter in my show-box,—this Unpardonable Sin! By
my faith, Captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry
it over the mountain.”

“Peace,” answered Ethan Brand, sternly, “or get thee into the furnace
yonder!”

The Jew’s exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderly
dog—who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laid
claim to him—saw fit to render himself the object of public notice.
Hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old dog,
going round from one to another, and, by way of being sociable,
offering his rough head to be patted by any kindly hand that would take
so much trouble. But now, all of a sudden, this grave and venerable
quadruped, of his own mere motion, and without the slightest suggestion
from anybody else, began to run round after his tail, which, to
heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal shorter than
it should have been. Never was seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit
of an object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such
a tremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping,—as
if one end of the ridiculous brute’s body were at deadly and most
unforgivable enmity with the other. Faster and faster, round about went
the cur; and faster and still faster fled the unapproachable brevity of
his tail; and louder and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animosity;
until, utterly exhausted, and as far from the goal as ever, the foolish
old dog ceased his performance as suddenly as he had begun it. The next
moment he was as mild, quiet, sensible, and respectable in his
deportment, as when he first scraped acquaintance with the company.

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.

Meanwhile, Ethan Brand had resumed his seat upon the log, and moved, as
it might be, by a perception of some remote analogy between his own
case and that of this self-pursuing cur, he broke into the awful laugh,
which, more than any other token, expressed the condition of his inward
being. From that moment, the merriment of the party was at an end; they
stood aghast, dreading lest the inauspicious sound should be
reverberated around the horizon, and that mountain would thunder it to
mountain, and so the horror be prolonged upon their ears. Then,
whispering one to another that it was late,—that the moon was almost
down,-that the August night was growing chill,—they hurried homewards,
leaving the lime-burner and little Joe to deal as they might with their
unwelcome guest. Save for these three human beings, the open space on
the hill-side was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of forest. Beyond
that darksome verge, the firelight glimmered on the stately trunks and
almost black foliage of pines, intermixed with the lighter verdure of
sapling oaks, maples, and poplars, while here and there lay the
gigantic corpses of dead trees, decaying on the leaf-strewn soil. And
it seemed to little Joe—a timorous and imaginative child—that the
silent forest was holding its breath until some fearful thing should
happen.

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.

“For myself, I cannot sleep,” said he. “I have matters that it concerns
me to meditate upon. I will watch the fire, as I used to do in the old
time.”

“And call the Devil out of the furnace to keep you company, I suppose,”
muttered Bartram, who had been making intimate acquaintance with the
black bottle above mentioned. “But watch, if you like, and call as many
devils as you like! For my part, I shall be all the better for a
snooze. Come, Joe!”

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.

When they had gone, Ethan Brand sat listening to the crackling of the
kindled wood, and looking at the little spirts of fire that issued
through the chinks of the door. These trifles, however, once so
familiar, had but the slightest hold of his attention, while deep
within his mind he was reviewing the gradual but marvellous change that
had been wrought upon him by the search to which he had devoted
himself. He remembered how the night dew had fallen upon him,—how the
dark forest had whispered to him,—how the stars had gleamed upon him,—a
simple and loving man, watching his fire in the years gone by, and ever
musing as it burned. He remembered with what tenderness, with what love
and sympathy for mankind and what pity for human guilt and woe, he had
first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards became the
inspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into
the heart of man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and,
however desecrated, still to be held sacred by a brother; with what
awful fear he had deprecated the success of his pursuit, and prayed
that the Unpardonable Sin might never be revealed to him. Then ensued
that vast intellectual development, which, in its progress, disturbed
the counterpoise between his mind and heart. The Idea that possessed
his life had operated as a means of education; it had gone on
cultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were
susceptible; it had raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer
to stand on a star-lit eminence, whither the philosophers of the earth,
laden with the lore of universities, might vainly strive to clamber
after him. So much for the intellect! But where was the heart? That,
indeed, had withered,—had contracted,—had hardened,—had perished! It
had ceased to partake of the universal throb. He had lost his hold of
the magnetic chain of humanity. He was no longer a brother-man, opening
the chambers or the dungeons of our common nature by the key of holy
sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all its secrets; he was
now a cold observer, looking on mankind as the subject of his
experiment, and, at length, converting man and woman to be his puppets,
and pulling the wires that moved them to such degrees of crime as were
demanded for his study.

Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He began to be so from the moment that
his moral nature had ceased to keep the pace of improvement with his
intellect. And now, as his highest effort and inevitable
development,—as the bright and gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious
fruit of his life’s labor,—he had produced the Unpardonable Sin!

“What more have I to seek? what more to achieve?” said Ethan Brand to
himself. “My task is done, and well done!”

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.

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.

“O Mother Earth,” cried he, “who art no more my Mother, and into whose
bosom this frame shall never be resolved! O mankind, whose brotherhood
I have cast off, and trampled thy great heart beneath my feet! O stars
of heaven, that shone on me of old, as if to light me onward and
upward!—farewell all, and forever. Come, deadly element of
Fire,-henceforth my familiar friend! Embrace me, as I do thee!”

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.

“Up, boy, up!” cried the lime-burner, staring about him. “Thank Heaven,
the night is gone, at last; and rather than pass such another, I would
watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for a twelvemonth. This Ethan Brand,
with his humbug of an Unpardonable Sin, has done me no such mighty
favor, in taking my place!”

He issued from the hut, followed by little Joe, who kept fast hold of
his father’s hand. The early sunshine was already pouring its gold upon
the mountain-tops, and though the valleys were still in shadow, they
smiled cheerfully in the promise of the bright day that was hastening
onward. The village, completely shut in by hills, which swelled away
gently about it, looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hollow of
the great hand of Providence. Every dwelling was distinctly visible;
the little spires of the two churches pointed upwards, and caught a
fore-glimmering of brightness from the sun-gilt skies upon their gilded
weather-cocks. The tavern was astir, and the figure of the old,
smoke-dried stage-agent, cigar in mouth, was seen beneath the stoop.
Old Graylock was glorified with a golden cloud upon his head. Scattered
likewise over the breasts of the surrounding mountains, there were
heaps of hoary mist, in fantastic shapes, some of them far down into
the valley, others high up towards the summits, and still others, of
the same family of mist or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the
upper atmosphere. Stepping from one to another of the clouds that
rested on the hills, and thence to the loftier brotherhood that sailed
in air, it seemed almost as if a mortal man might thus ascend into the
heavenly regions. Earth was so mingled with sky that it was a day-dream
to look at it.

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.

Little Joe’s face brightened at once.

“Dear father,” cried he, skipping cheerily to and fro, “that strange
man is gone, and the sky and the mountains all seem glad of it!”

“Yes,” growled the lime-burner, with an oath, “but he has let the fire
go down, and no thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime are not
spoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts again, I shall feel like
tossing him into the furnace!”

With his long pole in his hand, he ascended to the top of the kiln.
After a moment’s pause, he called to his son.

“Come up here, Joe!” said he.

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

“Was the fellow’s heart made of marble?” cried Bartram, in some
perplexity at this phenomenon. “At any rate, it is burnt into what
looks like special good lime; and, taking all the bones together, my
kiln is half a bushel the richer for him.”

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.




A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY


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.

This bell—for we may as well drop our quaint personification—is of
antique French manufacture, and the symbol of the cross betokens that
it was meant to be suspended in the belfry of a Romish place of
worship. The old people hereabout have a tradition, that a considerable
part of the metal was supplied by a brass cannon, captured in one of
the victories of Louis the Fourteenth over the Spaniards, and that a
Bourbon princess threw her golden crucifix into the molten mass. It is
said, likewise, that a bishop baptized and blessed the bell, and prayed
that a heavenly influence might mingle with its tones. When all due
ceremonies had been performed, the Grand Monarque bestowed the
gift—than which none could resound his beneficence more loudly—on the
Jesuits, who were then converting the American Indians to the spiritual
dominion of the Pope. So the bell,—our self-same bell, whose familiar
voice we may hear at all hours, in the streets,—this very bell sent
forth its first-born accents from the tower of a log-built chapel,
westward of Lake Champlain, and near the mighty stream of the St.
Lawrence. It was called Our Lady’s Chapel of the Forest. The peal went
forth as if to redeem and consecrate the heathen wilderness. The wolf
growled at the sound, as he prowled stealthily through the underbrush;
the grim bear turned his back, and stalked sullenly away; the startled
doe leaped up, and led her fawn into a deeper solitude. The red men
wondered what awful voice was speaking amid the wind that roared
through the tree-tops; and, following reverentially its summons, the
dark-robed fathers blessed them, as they drew near the cross-crowned
chapel. In a little time, there was a crucifix on every dusky bosom.
The Indians knelt beneath the lowly roof, worshipping in the same forms
that were observed under the vast dome of St. Peter’s, when the Pope
performed high mass in the presence of kneeling princes. All the
religious festivals, that awoke the chiming bells of lofty cathedrals,
called forth a peal from Our Lady’s Chapel of the Forest. Loudly rang
the bell of the wilderness while the streets of Paris echoed with
rejoicings for the birthday of the Bourbon, or whenever France had
triumphed on some European battle-field. And the solemn woods were
saddened with a melancholy knell, as often as the thick-strewn leaves
were swept away from the virgin soil, for the burial of an Indian
chief.

Meantime, the bells of a hostile people and a hostile faith were
ringing on Sabbaths and lecture-days, at Boston and other Puritan
towns. Their echoes died away hundreds of miles southeastward of Our
Lady’s Chapel. But scouts had threaded the pathless desert that lay
between, and, from behind the huge tree-trunks, perceived the Indians
assembling at the summons of the bell. Some bore flaxen-haired scalps
at their girdles, as if to lay those bloody trophies on Our Lady’s
altar. It was reported, and believed, all through New England, that the
Pope of Rome, and the King of France, had established this little
chapel in the forest, for the purpose of stirring up the red men to a
crusade against the English settlers. The latter took energetic
measures to secure their religion and their lives. On the eve of an
especial fast of the Romish Church, while the bell tolled dismally, and
the priests were chanting a doleful stave, a band of New England
rangers rushed from the surrounding woods. Fierce shouts, and the
report of musketry, pealed suddenly within the chapel. The ministering
priests threw themselves before the altar, and were slain even on its
steps. If, as antique traditions tell us, no grass will grow where the
blood of martyrs has been shed, there should be a barren spot, to this
very day, on the site of that desecrated altar.

While the blood was still plashing from step to step, the leader of the
rangers seized a torch, and applied it to the drapery of the shrine.
The flame and smoke arose, as from a burnt-sacrifice, at once
illuminating and obscuring the whole interior of the chapel,—now hiding
the dead priests in a sable shroud, now revealing them and their
slayers in one terrific glare. Some already wished that the altar-smoke
could cover the deed from the sight of Heaven. But one of the rangers—a
man of sanctified aspect, though his hands were bloody—approached the
captain.

“Sir,” said he, “our village meeting-house lacks a bell, and hitherto
we have been fain to summon the good people to worship by beat of drum.
Give me, I pray you, the bell of this popish chapel, for the sake of
the godly Mr. Rogers, who doubtless hath remembered us in the prayers
of the congregation, ever since we began our march. Who can tell what
share of this night’s good success we owe to that holy man’s wrestling
with the Lord?”

“Nay, then,” answered the captain, “if good Mr. Rogers hath holpen our
enterprise, it is right that he should share the spoil. Take the bell
and welcome, Deacon Lawson, if you will be at the trouble of carrying
it home. Hitherto it hath spoken nothing but papistry, and that too in
the French or Indian gibberish; but I warrant me, if Mr. Rogers
consecrate it anew, it will talk like a good English and Protestant
bell.”

So Deacon Lawson and half a score of his townsmen took down the bell,
suspended it on a pole, and bore it away on their sturdy shoulders,
meaning to carry it to the shore of Lake Champlain, and thence homeward
by water. Far through the woods gleamed the flames of Our Lady’s
Chapel, flinging fantastic shadows from the clustered foliage, and
glancing on brooks that had never caught the sunlight. As the rangers
traversed the midnight forest, staggering under their heavy burden, the
tongue of the bell gave many a tremendous stroke,—clang, clang,
clang!—a most doleful sound, as if it were tolling for the slaughter of
the priests and the ruin of the chapel. Little dreamed Deacon Lawson
and his townsmen that it was their own funeral knell. A war-party of
Indians had heard the report, of musketry, and seen the blaze of the
chapel, and now were on the track of the rangers, summoned to vengeance
by the bell’s dismal murmurs. In the midst of a deep swamp, they made a
sudden onset on the retreating foe. Good Deacon Lawson battled stoutly,
but had his skull cloven by a tomahawk, and sank into the depths of the
morass, with the ponderous bell above him. And, for many a year
thereafter, our hero’s voice was heard no more on earth, neither at the
hour of worship, nor at festivals nor funerals.

And is he still buried in that unknown grave? Scarcely so, dear reader.
Hark! How plainly we hear him at this moment, the spokesman of Time,
proclaiming that it is nine o’clock at night! We may therefore safely
conclude that some happy chance has restored him to upper air.

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?

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.

Ever since that period, our hero has occupied the same elevated
station, and has put in his word on all matters of public importance,
civil, military, or religious. On the day when Independence was first
proclaimed in the street beneath, he uttered a peal which many deemed
ominous and fearful, rather than triumphant. But he has told the same
story these sixty years, and none mistake his meaning now. When
Washington, in the fulness of his glory, rode through our flower-strewn
streets, this was the tongue that bade the Father of his Country
welcome! Again the same voice was heard, when La Fayette came to gather
in his half-century’s harvest of gratitude. Meantime, vast changes have
been going on below. His voice, which once floated over a little
provincial seaport, is now reverberated between brick edifices, and
strikes the ear amid the buzz and tumult of a city. On the Sabbaths of
olden time, the summons of the bell was obeyed by a picturesque and
varied throng; stately gentlemen in purple velvet coats, embroidered
waistcoats, white wigs, and gold-laced hats, stepping with grave
courtesy beside ladies in flowered satin gowns, and hoop-petticoats of
majestic circumference; while behind followed a liveried slave or
bondsman, bearing the psalm-book, and a stove for his mistress’s feet.
The commonalty, clad in homely garb, gave precedence to their betters
at the door of the meetinghouse, as if admitting that there were
distinctions between them, even in the sight of God. Yet, as their
coffins were borne one after another through the street, the bell has
tolled a requiem for all alike. What mattered it, whether or no there
were a silver scutcheon on the coffin-lid? “Open thy bosom, Mother
Earth!” Thus spake the bell. “Another of thy children is coming to his
long rest. Take him to thy bosom, and let him slumber in peace.” Thus
spake the bell, and Mother Earth received her child. With the self-same
tones will the present generation be ushered to the embraces of their
mother; and Mother Earth will still receive her children. Is not thy
tongue a-weary, mournful talker of two centuries? O funeral bell! wilt
thou never be shattered with thine own melancholy strokes? Yea, and a
trumpet-call shall arouse the sleepers, whom thy heavy clang could
awake no more!

Again—again thy voice, reminding me that I am wasting the “midnight
oil.” In my lonely fantasy, I can scarce believe that other mortals
have caught the sound, or that it vibrates elsewhere than in my secret
soul. But to many hast thou spoken. Anxious men have heard thee on
their sleepless pillows, and bethought themselves anew of to-morrow’s
care. In a brief interval of wakefulness, the sons of toil have heard
thee, and say, “Is so much of our quiet slumber spent?—is the morning
so near at hand?” Crime has heard thee, and mutters, “Now is the very
hour!” Despair answers thee, “Thus much of this weary life is gone!”
The young mother, on her bed of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy
echoing strokes, and dates from them her first-born’s share of life and
immortality. The bridegroom and the bride have listened, and feel that
their night of rapture flits like a dream away. Thine accents have
fallen faintly on the ear of the dying man, and warned him that, ere
thou speakest again, his spirit shall have passed whither no voice of
time can ever reach. Alas for the departing traveller, if thy voice—the
voice of fleeting time—have taught him no lessons for Eternity!




SYLPH ETHEREGE


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.

“The charm works!” said he, in a low, but emphatic whisper.

“Do you know, Edward Hamilton,—since so you choose to be named,—do you
know,” said the lady beside him, “that I have almost a mind to break
the spell at once? What if the lesson should prove too severe! True, if
my ward could be thus laughed out of her fantastic nonsense, she might
be the better for it through life. But then, she is such a delicate
creature! And, besides, are you not ruining your own chance, by putting
forward this shadow of a rival?”

“But will he not vanish into thin air, at my bidding?” rejoined Edward
Hamilton. “Let the charm work!”

The girl’s slender and sylph-like figure, tinged with radiance from the
sunset clouds, and overhung with the rich drapery of the silken
curtains, and set within the deep frame of the window, was a perfect
picture; or, rather, it was like the original loveliness in a painter’s
fancy, from which the most finished picture is but an imperfect copy.
Though her occupation excited so much interest in the two spectators,
she was merely gazing at a miniature which she held in her hand,
encased in white satin and red morocco; nor did there appear to be any
other cause for the smile of mockery and malice with which Hamilton
regarded her.

“The charm works!” muttered he, again. “Our pretty Sylvia’s scorn will
have a dear retribution!”

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.

Sylvia Etherege was an orphan girl, who had spent her life, till within
a few months past, under the guardianship, and in the secluded
dwelling, of an old bachelor uncle. While yet in her cradle, she had
been the destined bride of a cousin, who was no less passive in the
betrothal than herself. Their future union had been projected, as the
means of uniting two rich estates, and was rendered highly expedient,
if not indispensable, by the testamentary dispositions of the parents
on both sides. Edgar Vaughan, the promised bridegroom, had been bred
from infancy in Europe, and had never seen the beautiful girl whose
heart he was to claim as his inheritance. But already, for several
years, a correspondence had been kept up between tine cousins, and had
produced an intellectual intimacy, though it could but imperfectly
acquaint them with each other’s character.

Sylvia was shy, sensitive, and fanciful; and her guardian’s secluded
habits had shut her out from even so much of the world as is generally
open to maidens of her age. She had been left to seek associates and
friends for herself in the haunts of imagination, and to converse with
them, sometimes in the language of dead poets, oftener in the poetry of
her own mind. The companion whom she chiefly summoned up was the cousin
with whose idea her earliest thoughts had been connected. She made a
vision of Edgar Vaughan, and tinted it with stronger hues than a mere
fancy-picture, yet graced it with so many bright and delicate
perfections, that her cousin could nowhere have encountered so
dangerous a rival. To this shadow she cherished a romantic fidelity.
With its airy presence sitting by her side, or gliding along her
favorite paths, the loneliness of her young life was blissful; her
heart was satisfied with love, while yet its virgin purity was
untainted by the earthliness that the touch of a real lover would have
left there. Edgar Vaughan seemed to be conscious of her character; for,
in his letters, he gave her a name that was happily appropriate to the
sensitiveness of her disposition, the delicate peculiarity of her
manners, and the ethereal beauty both of her mind and person. Instead
of Sylvia, he called her Sylph,—with the prerogative of a cousin and a
lover,—his dear Sylph Etherege.

When Sylvia was seventeen, her guardian died, and she passed under the
care of Mrs. Grosvenor, a lady of wealth and fashion, and Sylvia’s
nearest relative, though a distant one. While an inmate of Mrs.
Grosvenor’s family, she still preserved somewhat of her life-long
habits of seclusion, and shrank from a too familiar intercourse with
those around her. Still, too, she was faithful to her cousin, or to the
shadow which bore his name.

The time now drew near when Edgar Vaughan, whose education had been
completed by an extensive range of travel, was to revisit the soil of
his nativity. Edward Hamilton, a young gentleman, who had been
Vaughan’s companion, both in his studies and rambles, had already
recrossed the Atlantic, bringing letters to Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia
Etherege. These credentials insured him an earnest welcome, which,
however, on Sylvia’s part, was not followed by personal partiality, or
even the regard that seemed due to her cousin’s most intimate friend.
As she herself could have assigned no cause for her repugnance, it
might be termed instinctive. Hamilton’s person, it is true, was the
reverse of attractive, especially when beheld for the first time. Yet,
in the eyes of the most fastidious judges, the defect of natural grace
was compensated by the polish of his manners, and by the intellect
which so often gleamed through his dark features. Mrs. Grosvenor, with
whom he immediately became a prodigious favorite, exerted herself to
overcome Sylvia’s dislike. But, in this matter, her ward could neither
be reasoned with nor persuaded. The presence of Edward Hamilton was
sure to render her cold, shy, and distant, abstracting all the vivacity
from her deportment, as if a cloud had come betwixt her and the
sunshine.

The simplicity of Sylvia’s demeanor rendered it easy for so keen an
observer as Hamilton to detect her feelings. Whenever any slight
circumstance made him sensible of them, a smile might be seen to flit
over the young man’s sallow visage. None, that had once beheld this
smile, were in any danger of forgetting it; whenever they recalled to
memory the features of Edward Hamilton, they were always duskily
illuminated by this expression of mockery and malice.

In a few weeks after Hamilton’s arrival, he presented to Sylvia
Etherege a miniature of her cousin, which, as he informed her, would
have been delivered sooner, but was detained with a portion of his
baggage. This was the miniature in the contemplation of which we beheld
Sylvia so absorbed, at the commencement of our story. Such, in truth,
was too often the habit of the shy and musing girl. The beauty of the
pictured countenance was almost too perfect to represent a human
creature, that had been born of a fallen and world-worn race, and had
lived to manhood amid ordinary troubles and enjoyments, and must become
wrinkled with age and care. It seemed too bright for a thing formed of
dust, and doomed to crumble into dust again. Sylvia feared that such a
being would be too refined and delicate to love a simple girl like her.
Yet, even while her spirit drooped with that apprehension, the picture
was but the masculine counterpart of Sylph Etherege’s sylphlike beauty.
There was that resemblance between her own face and the miniature which
is said often to exist between lovers whom Heaven has destined for each
other, and which, in this instance, might be owing to the kindred blood
of the two parties. Sylvia felt, indeed, that there was something
familiar in the countenance, so like a friend did the eyes smile upon
her, and seem to imply a knowledge of her thoughts. She could account
for this impression only by supposing that, in some of her day-dreams,
imagination had conjured up the true similitude of her distant and
unseen lover.

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.

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.

Before the close of summer, it was told Sylvia Etherege that Vaughan
had arrived from France, and that she would meet him—would meet, for
the first time, the loved of years—that very evening. We will not tell
how often and how earnestly she gazed upon the miniature, thus
endeavoring to prepare herself for the approaching interview, lest the
throbbing of her timorous heart should stifle the words of welcome.
While the twilight grew deeper and duskier, she sat with Mrs. Grosvenor
in an inner apartment, lighted only by the softened gleam from an
alabaster lamp, which was burning at a distance on the centre-table of
the drawing-room. Never before had Sylph Etherege looked so sylph-like.
She had communed with a creature of imagination, till her own
loveliness seemed but the creation of a delicate and dreamy fancy.
Every vibration of her spirit was visible in her frame, as she listened
to the rattling of wheels and the tramp upon the pavement, and deemed
that even the breeze bore the sound of her lover’s footsteps, as if he
trode upon the viewless air. Mrs. Grosvenor, too, while she watched the
tremulous flow of Sylvia’s feelings, was deeply moved; she looked
uneasily at the agitated girl, and was about to speak, when the opening
of the street-door arrested the words upon her lips.

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.

“Sylph!” cried a voice. “Dearest Sylph! Where are you, sweet Sylph
Etherege? Here is your Edgar Vaughan!”

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

“Who is it?” gasped she. “Who calls me Sylph?”

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.

“Is not the miniature an admirable likeness?” inquired he.

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.

“There, my sweet Sylph,” he exclaimed. “It was I that created your
phantom-lover, and now I annihilate him! Your dream is rudely broken.
Awake, Sylph Etherege, awake to truth! I am the only Edgar Vaughan!”

“We have gone too far, Edgar Vaughan,” said Mrs. Grosvenor, catching
Sylvia in her arms. The revengeful freak, which Vaughan’s wounded
vanity had suggested, had been countenanced by this lady, in the hope
of curing Sylvia of her romantic notions, and reconciling her to the
truths and realities of life. “Look at the poor child!” she continued.
“I protest I tremble for the consequences!”

“Indeed, madam!” replied Vaughan, sneeringly, as he threw the light of
the lamp on Sylvia’s closed eyes and marble features. “Well, my
conscience is clear. I did but look into this delicate creature’s
heart; and with the pure fantasies that I found there, I made what
seemed a man,—and the delusive shadow has wiled her away to
Shadow-land, and vanished there! It is no new tale. Many a sweet maid
has shared the lot of poor Sylph Etherege!”

“And now, Edgar Vaughan,” said Mrs. Grosvenor, as Sylvia’s heart began
faintly to throb again, “now try, in good earnest, to win back her love
from the phantom which you conjured up. If you succeed, she will be the
better, her whole life long, for the lesson we have given her.”

Whether the result of the lesson corresponded with Mrs. Grosvenor’s
hopes, may be gathered from the closing scene of our story. It had been
made known to the fashionable world that Edgar Vaughan had returned
from France, and, under the assumed name of Edward Hamilton, had won
the affections of the lovely girl to whom he had been affianced in his
boyhood. The nuptials were to take place at an early date. One evening,
before the day of anticipated bliss arrived, Edgar Vaughan entered Mrs.
Grosvenor’s drawing-room, where he found that lady and Sylph Etherege.

“Only that Sylvia makes no complaint,” remarked Mrs. Grosvenor, “I
should apprehend that the town air is ill-suited to her constitution.
She was always, indeed, a delicate creature; but now she is a mere
gossamer. Do but look at her! Did you ever imagine anything so
fragile?”

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.

“Yes,” he said, to Mrs. Grosvenor. “I can scarcely deem her of the
earth, earthy. No wonder that I call her Sylph! Methinks she will fade
into the moonlight, which falls upon her through the window. Or, in the
open air, she might flit away upon the breeze, like a wreath of mist!”

Sylvia’s eyes grew yet brighter. She waved her hand to Edgar Vaughan,
with a gesture of ethereal triumph.

“Farewell!” she said. “I will neither fade into the moonlight, nor flit
away upon the breeze. Yet you cannot keep me here!”

There was something in Sylvia’s look and tones that startled Mrs.
Grosvenor with a terrible apprehension. But, as she was rushing towards
the girl, Vaughan held her back.

“Stay!” cried he, with a strange smile of mockery and anguish. “Can our
sweet Sylph be going to heaven, to seek the original of the miniature?”




THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS


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.

While the moon was hanging almost perpendicularly over this spot, two
figures appeared on the summit of the hill, and came with noiseless
footsteps down towards the spring. They were then in the first
freshness of youth; nor is there a wrinkle now on either of their
brows, and yet they wore a strange, old-fashioned garb. One, a young
man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath the canopy of a broad-brimmed
gray hat; he seemed to have inherited his great-grandsire’s
square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat that extended its immense flaps to
his knees; his brown locks, also, hung down behind, in a mode unknown
to our times. By his side was a sweet young damsel, her fair features
sheltered by a prim little bonnet, within which appeared the vestal
muslin of a cap; her close, long-waisted gown, and indeed her whole
attire, might have been worn by some rustic beauty who had faded half a
century before. But that there was something too warm and life-like in
them, I would here have compared this couple to the ghosts of two young
lovers who had died long since in the glow of passion, and now were
straying out of their graves, to renew the old vows, and shadow forth
the unforgotten kiss of their earthly lips, beside the moonlit spring.

“Thee and I will rest here a moment, Miriam,” said the young man, as
they drew near the stone cistern, “for there is no fear that the elders
know what we have done; and this may be the last time we shall ever
taste this water.”

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.

“Nay, Josiah,” said she, giving him a timid push with her maiden hand,
“thee must sit farther off, on that other stone, with the spring
between us. What would the sisters say, if thee were to sit so close to
me?”

“But we are of the world’s people now, Miriam,” answered Josiah.

The girl persisted in her prudery, nor did the youth, in fact, seem
altogether free from a similar sort of shyness; so they sat apart from
each other, gazing up the hill, where the moonlight discovered the tops
of a group of buildings. While their attention was thus occupied, a
party of travellers, who had come wearily up the long ascent, made a
halt to refresh themselves at the spring. There were three men, a
woman, and a little girl and boy. Their attire was mean, covered with
the dust of the summer’s day, and damp with the night-dew; they all
looked woebegone, as if the cares and sorrows of the world had made
their steps heavier as they climbed the hill; even the two little
children appeared older in evil days than the young man and maiden who
had first approached the spring.

“Good evening to you, young folks,” was the salutation of the
travellers; and “Good evening, friends,” replied the youth and damsel.

“Is that white building the Shaker meeting-house?” asked one of the
strangers. “And are those the red roofs of the Shaker village?”

“Friend, it is the Shaker village,” answered Josiah, after some
hesitation.

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.

“It is true, friends,” replied the young man, summoning up his courage.
“Miriam and I have a gift to love each other, and we are going among
the world’s people, to live after their fashion. And ye know that we do
not transgress the law of the land; and neither ye, nor the elders
themselves, have a right to hinder us.”

“Yet you think it expedient to depart without leave-taking,” remarked
one of the travellers.

“Yea, ye-a,” said Josiah, reluctantly, “because father Job is a very
awful man to speak with; and being aged himself, he has but little
charity for what he calls the iniquities of the flesh.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “we will neither use force to bring you back
to the village, nor will we betray you to the elders. But sit you here
awhile, and when you have heard what we shall tell you of the world
which we have left, and into which you are going, perhaps you will turn
back with us of your own accord. What say you?” added he, turning to
his companions. “We have travelled thus far without becoming known to
each other. Shall we tell our stories, here by this pleasant spring,
for our own pastime, and the benefit of these misguided young lovers?”

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.

“In me,” said he, with a certain majesty of utterance,—“in me, you
behold a poet.”

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.

“A poet!” repeated the young Shaker, a little puzzled how to understand
such a designation, seldom heard in the utilitarian community where he
had spent his life. “Oh, ay, Miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must
know.”

This remark jarred upon the susceptible nerves of the poet; nor could
he help wondering what strange fatality had put into this young man’s
mouth an epithet, which ill-natured people had affirmed to be more
proper to his merit than the one assumed by himself.

“True, I am a verse-maker,” he resumed, “but my verse is no more than
the material body into which I breathe the celestial soul of thought.
Alas! how many a pang has it cost me, this same insensibility to the
ethereal essence of poetry, with which you have here tortured me again,
at the moment when I am to relinquish my profession forever! O Fate!
why hast thou warred with Nature, turning all her higher and more
perfect gifts to the ruin of me, their possessor? What is the voice of
song, when the world lacks the ear of taste? How can I rejoice in my
strength and delicacy of feeling, when they have but made great sorrows
out of little ones? Have I dreaded scorn like death, and yearned for
fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middle
state between obscurity and infamy? But I have my revenge! I could have
given existence to a thousand bright creations. I crush them into my
heart, and there let them putrefy! I shake off the dust of my feet
against my countrymen! But posterity, tracing my footsteps up this
weary hill, will cry shame upon the unworthy age that drove one of the
fathers of American song to end his days in a Shaker village!”

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.

“Friend,” said the young Shaker, in some perplexity, “thee seemest to
have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, I should pity them, if—if
I could but understand what they were.”

“Happy in your ignorance!” replied the poet, with an air of sublime
superiority. “To your coarser mind, perhaps, I may seem to speak of
more important griefs when I add, what I had well-nigh forgotten, that
I am out at elbows, and almost starved to death. At any rate, you have
the advice and example of one individual to warn you back; for I am
come hither, a disappointed man, flinging aside the fragments of my
hopes, and seeking shelter in the calm retreat which you are so anxious
to leave.”

“I thank thee, friend,” rejoined the youth, “but I do not mean to be a
poet, nor, Heaven be praised! do I think Miriam ever made a varse in
her life. So we need not fear thy disappointments. But, Miriam,” he
added, with real concern, “thee knowest that the elders admit nobody
that has not a gift to be useful. Now, what under the sun can they do
with this poor varse-maker?”

“Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man,” said the girl, in
all simplicity and kindness. “Our hymns are very rough, and perhaps
they may trust him to smooth them.”

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.

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.

“Young man,” said he, abruptly, “what quantity of land do the Shakers
own here, in Canterbury?”

“That is more than I can tell thee, friend,” answered Josiah, “but it
is a very rich establishment, and for a long way by the roadside thee
may guess the land to be ours, by the neatness of the fences.”

“And what may be the value of the whole,” continued the stranger, “with
all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in round numbers?”

“Oh, a monstrous sum,—more than I can reckon,” replied the young
Shaker.

“Well, sir,” said the pilgrim, “there was a day, and not very long ago,
neither, when I stood at my counting-room window, and watched the
signal flags of three of my own ships entering the harbor, from the
East Indies, from Liverpool, and from up the Straits, and I would not
have given the invoice of the least of them for the title-deeds of this
whole Shaker settlement. You stare. Perhaps, now, you won’t believe
that I could have put more value on a little piece of paper, no bigger
than the palm of your hand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass,
and pasture-land would sell for?”

“I won’t dispute it, friend,” answered Josiah, “but I know I had rather
have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet of thy paper.”

“You may say so now,” said the ruined merchant, bitterly, “for my name
would not be worth the paper I should write it on. Of course, you must
have heard of my failure?”

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.

“Not heard of my failure!” exclaimed the merchant, considerably piqued.
“Why, it was spoken of on ’Change in London, and from Boston to New
Orleans men trembled in their shoes. At all events, I did fail, and you
see me here on my road to the Shaker village, where, doubtless (for the
Shakers are a shrewd sect), they will have a due respect for my
experience, and give me the management of the trading part of the
concern, in which case I think I can pledge myself to double their
capital in four or five years. Turn back with me, young man; for though
you will never meet with my good luck, you can hardly escape my bad.”

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

“Nothing more, Josiah,” said the girl, quietly.

“Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, if God send
them,” observed the simple Shaker lad.

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.

“Well, now, youngster,” he began, “these folks have had their say, so
I’ll take my turn. My story will cut but a poor figure by the side of
theirs; for I never supposed that I could have a right to meat and
drink, and great praise besides, only for tagging rhymes together, as
it seems this man does; nor ever tried to get the substance of hundreds
into my own hands, like the trader there. When I was about of your
years, I married me a wife,—just such a neat and pretty young woman as
Miriam, if that’s her name,—and all I asked of Providence was an
ordinary blessing on the sweat of my brow, so that we might be decent
and comfortable, and have daily bread for ourselves, and for some other
little mouths that we soon had to feed. We had no very great prospects
before us; but I never wanted to be idle; and I thought it a matter of
course that the Lord would help me, because I was willing to help
myself.”

“And didn’t He help thee, friend?” demanded Josiah, with some
eagerness.

“No,” said the yeoman, sullenly; “for then you would not have seen me
here. I have labored hard for years; and my means have been growing
narrower, and my living poorer, and my heart colder and heavier, all
the time; till at last I could bear it no longer. I set myself down to
calculate whether I had best go on the Oregon expedition, or come here
to the Shaker village; but I had not hope enough left in me to begin
the world over again; and, to make my story short, here I am. And now,
youngster, take my advice, and turn back; or else, some few years
hence, you’ll have to climb this hill, with as heavy a heart as mine.”

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.

“But thy wife, friend?” exclaimed the younger man. “What became of the
pretty girl, like Miriam? Oh, I am afraid she is dead!”

“Yea, poor man, she must be dead,—she and the children, too,” sobbed
Miriam.

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.

“I am his wife,” said she, a shade of irritability just perceptible in
the sadness of her tone. “These poor little things, asleep on the
ground, are two of our children. We had two more, but God has provided
better for them than we could, by taking them to Himself.”

“And what would thee advise Josiah and me to do?” asked Miriam, this
being the first question which she had put to either of the strangers.

“’Tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to part true
lovers,” answered the yeoman’s wife, after a pause; “but I’ll speak as
truly to you as if these were my dying words. Though my husband told
you some of our troubles, he didn’t mention the greatest, and that
which makes all the rest so hard to bear. If you and your sweetheart
marry, you’ll be kind and pleasant to each other for a year or two, and
while that’s the case, you never will repent; but, by and by, he’ll
grow gloomy, rough, and hard to please, and you’ll be peevish, and full
of little angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the fireside, when
he comes to rest himself from his troubles out of doors; so your love
will wear away by little and little, and leave you miserable at last.
It has been so with us; and yet my husband and I were true lovers once,
if ever two young folks were .”

As she ceased, the yeoman and his wife exchanged a glance, in which
there was more and warmer affection than they had supposed to have
escaped the frost of a wintry fate, in either of their breasts. At that
moment, when they stood on the utmost verge of married life, one word
fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiar look, had they had mutual
confidence enough to reciprocate it, might have renewed all their old
feelings, and sent them back, resolved to sustain each other amid the
struggles of the world. But the crisis passed and never came again.
Just then, also, the children, roused by their mother’s voice, looked
up, and added their wailing accents to the testimony borne by all the
Canterbury pilgrims against the world from which they fled.

“We are tired and hungry!” cried they. “Is it far to the Shaker
village?”

The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other’s eyes.
They had but stepped across the threshold of their homes, when lo! the
dark array of cares and sorrows that rose up to warn them back. The
varied narratives of the strangers had arranged themselves into a
parable; they seemed not merely instances of woful fate that had
befallen others, but shadowy omens of disappointed hope and unavailing
toil, domestic grief and estranged affection, that would cloud the
onward path of these poor fugitives. But after one instant’s
hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed their resolve with as
pure and fond an embrace as ever youthful love had hallowed.

“We will not go back,” said they. “The world never can be dark to us,
for we will always love one another.”

Then the Canterbury pilgrims went up the hill, while the poet chanted a
drear and desperate stanza of the Farewell to his Harp, fitting music
for that melancholy band. They sought a home where all former ties of
nature or society would be sundered, and all old distinctions levelled,
and a cold and passionless security be substituted for mortal hope and
fear, as in that other refuge of the world’s weary outcasts, the grave.
The lovers drank at the Shaker spring, and then, with chastened hopes,
but more confiding affections, went on to mingle in an untried life.




OLD NEWS


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.

It is pleasant to take one of these little dingy half-sheets between
the thumb and finger, and picture forth the personage who, above ninety
years ago, held it, wet from the press, and steaming, before the fire.
Many of the numbers bear the name of an old colonial dignitary. There
he sits, a major, a member of the council, and a weighty merchant, in
his high-backed arm-chair, wearing a solemn wig and grave attire, such
as befits his imposing gravity of mien, and displaying but little
finery, except a huge pair of silver shoe-buckles, curiously carved.
Observe the awful reverence of his visage, as he reads his Majesty’s
most gracious speech; and the deliberate wisdom with which he ponders
over some paragraph of provincial politics, and the keener intelligence
with which he glances at the ship-news and commercial advertisements.
Observe, and smile! He may have been a wise man in his day; but, to us,
the wisdom of the politician appears like folly, because we can compare
its prognostics with actual results; and the old merchant seems to have
busied himself about vanities, because we know that the expected ships
have been lost at sea, or mouldered at the wharves; that his imported
broadcloths were long ago worn to tatters, and his cargoes of wine
quaffed to the lees; and that the most precious leaves of his ledger
have become waste-paper. Yet, his avocations were not so vain as our
philosophic moralizing. In this world we are the things of a moment,
and are made to pursue momentary things, with here and there a thought
that stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps may endure as
long. All philosophy that would abstract mankind from the present is no
more than words.

The first pages of most of these old papers are as soporific as a bed
of poppies. Here we have an erudite clergyman, or perhaps a Cambridge
professor, occupying several successive weeks with a criticism on Tate
and Brady, as compared with the New England version of the Psalms. Of
course, the preference is given to the native article. Here are doctors
disagreeing about the treatment of a putrid fever then prevalent, and
blackguarding each other with a characteristic virulence that renders
the controversy not altogether unreadable. Here are President
Wigglesworth and the Rev. Dr. Colman, endeavoring to raise a fund for
the support of missionaries among the Indians of Massachusetts Bay.
Easy would be the duties of such a mission now! Here—for there is
nothing new under the sun—are frequent complaints of the disordered
state of the currency, and the project of a bank with a capital of five
hundred thousand pounds, secured on lands. Here are literary essays,
from the Gentleman’s Magazine; and squibs against the Pretender, from
the London newspapers. And here, occasionally, are specimens of New
England honor, laboriously light and lamentably mirthful, as if some
very sober person, in his zeal to be merry, were dancing a jig to the
tune of a funeral-psalm. All this is wearisome, and we must turn the
leaf.

There is a good deal of amusement, and some profit, in the perusal of
those little items which characterize the manners and circumstances of
the country. New England was then in a state incomparably more
picturesque than at present, or than it has been within the memory of
man; there being, as yet, only a narrow strip of civilization along the
edge of a vast forest, peopled with enough of its original race to
contrast the savage life with the old customs of another world. The
white population, also, was diversified by the influx of all sorts of
expatriated vagabonds, and by the continual importation of
bond-servants from Ireland and elsewhere, so that there was a wild and
unsettled multitude, forming a strong minority to the sober descendants
of the Puritans. Then, there were the slaves, contributing their dark
shade to the picture of society. The consequence of all this was a
great variety and singularity of action and incident, many instances of
which might be selected from these columns, where they are told with a
simplicity and quaintness of style that bring the striking points into
very strong relief. It is natural to suppose, too, that these
circumstances affected the body of the people, and made their course of
life generally less regular than that of their descendants. There is no
evidence that the moral standard was higher then than now; or, indeed,
that morality was so well defined as it has since become. There seem to
have been quite as many frauds and robberies, in proportion to the
number of honest deeds; there were murders, in hot-blood and in malice;
and bloody quarrels over liquor. Some of our fathers also appear to
have been yoked to unfaithful wives, if we may trust the frequent
notices of elopements from bed and board. The pillory, the
whipping-post, the prison, and the gallows, each had their use in those
old times; and, in short, as often as our imagination lives in the
past, we find it a ruder and rougher age than our own, with hardly any
perceptible advantages, and much that gave life a gloomier tinge. In
vain we endeavor to throw a sunny and joyous air over our picture of
this period; nothing passes before our fancy but a crowd of sad-visaged
people, moving duskily through a dull gray atmosphere. It is certain
that winter rushed upon them with fiercer storms than now, blocking up
the narrow forest-paths, and overwhelming the roads along the sea-coast
with mountain snow drifts; so that weeks elapsed before the newspaper
could announce how many travellers had perished, or what wrecks had
strewn the shore. The cold was more piercing then, and lingered further
into the spring, making the chimney-corner a comfortable seat till long
past May-day. By the number of such accidents on record, we might
suppose that the thunder-stone, as they termed it, fell oftener and
deadlier on steeples, dwellings, and unsheltered wretches. In fine, our
fathers bore the brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than we.
There were forebodings, also, of a more fearful tempest than those of
the elements. At two or three dates, we have stories of drums,
trumpets, and all sorts of martial music, passing athwart the midnight
sky, accompanied with the—roar of cannon and rattle of musketry,
prophetic echoes of the sounds that were soon to shake the land.
Besides these airy prognostics, there were rumors of French fleets on
the coast, and of the march of French and Indians through the
wilderness, along the borders of the settlements. The country was
saddened, moreover, with grievous sicknesses. The small-pox raged in
many of the towns, and seems, though so familiar a scourge, to have
been regarded with as much affright as that which drove the throng from
Wall Street and Broadway at the approach of a new pestilence. There
were autumnal fevers too, and a contagious and destructive
throat-distemper,—diseases unwritten in medical hooks. The dark
superstition of former days had not yet been so far dispelled as not to
heighten the gloom of the present times. There is an advertisement,
indeed, by a committee of the Legislature, calling for information as
to the circumstances of sufferers in the “late calamity of 1692,” with
a view to reparation for their losses and misfortunes. But the
tenderness with which, after above forty years, it was thought
expedient to allude to the witchcraft delusion, indicates a good deal
of lingering error, as well as the advance of more enlightened
opinions. The rigid hand of Puritanism might yet be felt upon the reins
of government, while some of the ordinances intimate a disorderly
spirit on the part of the people. The Suffolk justices, after a
preamble that great disturbances have been committed by persons
entering town and leaving it in coaches, chaises, calashes, and other
wheel-carriages, on the evening before the Sabbath, give notice that a
watch will hereafter be set at the “fortification-gate,” to prevent
these outrages. It is amusing to see Boston assuming the aspect of a
walled city, guarded, probably, by a detachment of church-members, with
a deacon at their head. Governor Belcher makes proclamation against
certain “loose and dissolute people” who have been wont to stop
passengers in the streets, on the Fifth of November, “otherwise called
Pope’s Day,” and levy contributions for the building of bonfires. In
this instance, the populace are more puritanic than the magistrate.

The elaborate solemnities of funerals were in accordance with the
sombre character of the times. In cases of ordinary death, the printer
seldom fails to notice that the corpse was “very decently interred.”
But when some mightier mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of
the “worshipful” such-a-one is announced, with all his titles of
deacon, justice, councillor, and colonel; then follows an heraldic
sketch of his honorable ancestors, and lastly an account of the black
pomp of his funeral, and the liberal expenditure of scarfs, gloves, and
mourning rings. The burial train glides slowly before us, as we have
seen it represented in the woodcuts of that day, the coffin, and the
bearers, and the lamentable friends, trailing their long black
garments, while grim Death, a most misshapen skeleton, with all kinds
of doleful emblems, stalks hideously in front. There was a coach maker
at this period, one John Lucas, who scents to have gained the chief of
his living by letting out a sable coach to funerals. It would not be
fair, however, to leave quite so dismal an impression on the reader’s
mind; nor should it be forgotten that happiness may walk soberly in
dark attire, as well as dance lightsomely in a gala-dress. And this
reminds us that there is an incidental notice of the “dancing-school
near the Orange-Tree,” whence we may infer that the salutatory art was
occasionally practised, though perhaps chastened into a characteristic
gravity of movement. This pastime was probably confined to the
aristocratic circle, of which the royal governor was the centre. But we
are scandalized at the attempt of Jonathan Furness to introduce a more
reprehensible amusement: he challenges the whole country to match his
black gelding in a race for a hundred pounds, to be decided on Metonomy
Common or Chelsea Beach. Nothing as to the manners of the times can be
inferred from this freak of an individual. There were no daily and
continual opportunities of being merry; but sometimes the people
rejoiced, in their own peculiar fashion, oftener with a calm, religious
smile than with a broad laugh, as when they feasted, like one great
family, at Thanksgiving time, or indulged a livelier mirth throughout
the pleasant days of Election-week. This latter was the true holiday
season of New England. Military musters were too seriously important in
that warlike time to be classed among amusements; but they stirred up
and enlivened the public mind, and were occasions of solemn festival to
the governor and great men of the province, at the expense of the
field-offices. The Revolution blotted a feast-day out of our calendar;
for the anniversary of the king’s birth appears to have been celebrated
with most imposing pomp, by salutes from Castle William, a military
parade, a grand dinner at the town-house, and a brilliant illumination
in the evening. There was nothing forced nor feigned in these
testimonials of loyalty to George the Second. So long as they dreaded
the re-establishment of a popish dynasty, the people were fervent for
the house of Hanover: and, besides, the immediate magistracy of the
country was a barrier between the monarch and the occasional
discontents of the colonies; the waves of faction sometimes reached the
governor’s chair, but never swelled against the throne. Thus, until
oppression was felt to proceed from the king’s own hand, New England
rejoiced with her whole heart on his Majesty’s birthday.

But the slaves, we suspect, were the merriest part of the population,
since it was their gift to be merry in the worst of circumstances; and
they endured, comparatively, few hardships, under the domestic sway of
our fathers. There seems to have been a great trade in these human
commodities. No advertisements are more frequent than those of “a negro
fellow, fit for almost any household work”; “a negro woman, honest,
healthy, and capable”; “a negro wench of many desirable qualities”; “a
negro man, very fit for a taylor.” We know not in what this natural
fitness for a tailor consisted, unless it were some peculiarity of
conformation that enabled him to sit cross-legged. When the slaves of a
family were inconveniently prolific,—it being not quite orthodox to
drown the superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens,—notice was
promulgated of “a negro child to be given away.” Sometimes the slaves
assumed the property of their own persons, and made their escape; among
many such instances, the governor raises a hue-and-cry after his negro
Juba. But, without venturing a word in extenuation of the general
system, we confess our opinion that Caesar, Pompey, Scipio, and all
such great Roman namesakes, would have been better advised had they
stayed at home, foddering the cattle, cleaning dishes,—in fine,
performing their moderate share of the labors of life, without being
harassed by its cares. The sable inmates of the mansion were not
excluded from the domestic affections: in families of middling rank,
they had their places at the board; and when the circle closed round
the evening hearth, its blaze glowed on their dark shining faces,
intermixed familiarly with their master’s children. It must have
contributed to reconcile them to their lot, that they saw white men and
women imported from Europe as they had been from Africa, and sold,
though only for a term of years, yet as actual slaves to the highest
bidder. Slave labor being but a small part of the industry of the
country, it did not change the character of the people; the latter, on
the contrary, modified and softened the institution, making it a
patriarchal, and almost a beautiful, peculiarity of the times.

Ah! We had forgotten the good old merchant, over whose shoulder we were
peeping, while he read the newspaper. Let us now suppose him putting on
his three-cornered gold-laced hat, grasping his cane, with a head
inlaid of ebony and mother-of-pearl, and setting forth, through the
crooked streets of Boston, on various errands, suggested by the
advertisements of the day. Thus he communes with himself: I must be
mindful, says he, to call at Captain Scut’s, in Creek Lane, and examine
his rich velvet, whether it be fit for my apparel on Election-day,—that
I may wear a stately aspect in presence of the governor and my brethren
of the council. I will look in, also, at the shop of Michael Cario, the
jeweller: he has silver buckles of a new fashion; and mine have lasted
me some half-score years. My fair daughter Miriam shall have an apron
of gold brocade, and a velvet mask,—though it would be a pity the wench
should hide her comely visage; and also a French cap, from Robert
Jenkins’s, on the north side of the town-house. He hath beads, too, and
ear-rings, and necklaces, of all sorts; these are but vanities,
nevertheless, they would please the silly maiden well. My dame desireth
another female in the kitchen; wherefore, I must inspect the lot of
Irish lasses, for sale by Samuel Waldo, aboard the schooner Endeavor;
as also the likely negro wench, at Captain Bulfinch’s. It were not
amiss that I took my daughter Miriam to see the royal waxwork, near the
town-dock, that she may learn to honor our most gracious King and
Queen, and their royal progeny, even in their waxen images; not that I
would approve of image-worship. The camel, too, that strange beast from
Africa, with two great humps, to be seen near the Common; methinks I
would fain go thither, and see how the old patriarchs were wont to
ride. I will tarry awhile in Queen Street, at the bookstore of my good
friends Kneeland & Green, and purchase Dr. Colman’s new sermon, and the
volume of discourses by Mr. Henry Flynt; and look over the controversy
on baptism, between the Rev. Peter Clarke and an unknown adversary; and
see whether this George Whitefield be as great in print as he is famed
to be in the pulpit. By that time, the auction will have commenced at
the Royal Exchange, in King Street. Moreover, I must look to the
disposal of my last cargo of West India rum and muscovado sugar; and
also the lot of choice Cheshire cheese, lest it grow mouldy. It were
well that I ordered a cask of good English beer, at the lower end of
Milk Street.

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.

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.

II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR.

At a period about twenty years subsequent to that of our former sketch,
we again attempt a delineation of some of the characteristics of life
and manners in New England. Our text-book, as before, is a file of
antique newspapers. The volume which serves us for a writing-desk is a
folio of larger dimensions than the one before described; and the
papers are generally printed on a whole sheet, sometimes with a
supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. They have a venerable
appearance, being overspread with a duskiness of more than seventy
years, and discolored, here and there, with the deeper stains of some
liquid, as if the contents of a wineglass had long since been splashed
upon the page. Still, the old book conveys an impression that, when the
separate numbers were flying about town, in the first day or two of
their respective existences, they might have been fit reading for very
stylish people. Such newspapers could have been issued nowhere but in a
metropolis the centre, not only of public and private affairs, but of
fashion and gayety. Without any discredit to the colonial press, these
might have been, and probably were, spread out on the tables of the
British coffee-house, in king Street, for the perusal of the throng of
officers who then drank their wine at that celebrated establishment. To
interest these military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the war
between Prussia and Austria; between England and France, on the old
battle-plains of Flanders; and between the same antagonists, in the
newer fields of the East Indies,—and in our own trackless woods, where
white men never trod until they came to fight there. Or, the travelled
American, the petit-maitre of the colonies,—the ape of London foppery,
as the newspaper was the semblance of the London journals,—he, with his
gray powdered periwig, his embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy
silk stockings, golden-clocked,—his buckles of glittering paste, at
knee-band and shoe-strap,—his scented handkerchief, and chapeau beneath
his arm, even such a dainty figure need not have disdained to glance at
these old yellow pages, while they were the mirror of passing times.
For his amusement, there were essays of wit and humor, the light
literature of the day, which, for breadth and license, might have
proceeded from the pen of Fielding or Smollet; while, in other columns,
he would delight his imagination with the enumerated items of all sorts
of finery, and with the rival advertisements of half a dozen
peruke-makers. In short, newer manners and customs had almost entirely
superseded those of the Puritans, even in their own city of refuge.

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.

The people at large had been somewhat changed in character, since the
period of our last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest of
Louisburg. After that event, the New-Englanders never settled into
precisely the same quiet race which all the world had imagined them to
be. They had done a deed of history, and were anxious to add new ones
to the record. They had proved themselves powerful enough to influence
the result of a war, and were thenceforth called upon, and willingly
consented, to join their strength against the enemies of England; on
those fields, at least, where victory would redound to their peculiar
advantage. And now, in the heat of the Old French War, they might well
be termed a martial people. Every man was a soldier, or the father or
brother of a soldier; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll
of the drum, either beating up for recruits among the towns and
villages, or striking the march towards the frontiers. Besides the
provincial troops, there were twenty-three British regiments in the
northern colonies. The country has never known a period of such
excitement and warlike life; except during the Revolution,—perhaps
scarcely then; for that was a lingering war, and this a stirring and
eventful one.

One would think that no very wonderful talent was requisite for an
historical novel, when the rough and hurried paragraphs of these
newspapers can recall the past so magically. We seem to be waiting in
the street for the arrival of the post-rider—who is seldom more than
twelve hours beyond his time—with letters, by way of Albany, from the
various departments of the army. Or, we may fancy ourselves in the
circle of listeners, all with necks stretched out towards an old
gentleman in the centre, who deliberately puts on his spectacles,
unfolds the wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the broken and
contradictory reports, which have been flying from mouth to mouth, ever
since the courier alighted at Secretary Oliver’s office. Sometimes we
have an account of the Indian skirmishes near Lake George, and how a
ranging party of provincials were so closely pursued, that they threw
away their arms, and eke their shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely
reaching the camp in their shirts, which also were terribly tattered by
the bushes. Then, there is a journal of the siege of Fort Niagara, so
minute that it almost numbers the cannon-shot and bombs, and describes
the effect of the latter missiles on the French commandant’s stone
mansion, within the fortress. In the letters of the provincial
officers, it is amusing to observe how some of them endeavor to catch
the careless and jovial turn of old campaigners. One gentleman tells us
that he holds a brimming glass in his hand, intending to drink the
health of his correspondent, unless a cannon ball should dash the
liquor from his lips; in the midst of his letter he hears the bells of
the French churches ringing, in Quebec, and recollects that it is
Sunday; whereupon, like a good Protestant, he resolves to disturb the
Catholic worship by a few thirty-two pound shot. While this wicked man
of war was thus making a jest of religion, his pious mother had
probably put up a note, that very Sabbath-day, desiring the “prayers of
the congregation for a son gone a soldiering.” We trust, however, that
there were some stout old worthies who were not ashamed to do as their
fathers did, but went to prayer, with their soldiers, before leading
them to battle; and doubtless fought none the worse for that. If we had
enlisted in the Old French War, it should have been under such a
captain; for we love to see a man keep the characteristics of his
country.*

[* 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.]


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.

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.

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.

It must not be supposed that the martial character of the times
interrupted all pursuits except those connected with war. On the
contrary, there appears to have been a general vigor and vivacity
diffused into the whole round of colonial life. During the winter of
1759, it was computed that about a thousand sled-loads of country
produce were daily brought into Boston market. It was a symptom of an
irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innumerable lotteries
were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvements, such
as roads and bridges. Many females seized the opportunity to engage in
business: as, among others, Alice Quick, who dealt in crockery and
hosiery, next door to Deacon Beautineau’s; Mary Jackson, who sold
butter, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill; Abigail Hiller, who taught
ornamental work, near the Orange-Tree, where also were to be seen the
King and Queen, in wax-work; Sarah Morehead, an instructor in
glass-painting, drawing, and japanning; Mary Salmon, who shod horses,
at the South End; Harriet Pain, at the Buck and Glove, and Mrs.
Henrietta Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashionable milliners;
Anna Adams, who advertises Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks,
and scarlet cardinals, opposite the old brick meeting-house; besides a
lady at the head of a wine and spirit establishment. Little did these
good dames expect to reappear before the public, so long after they had
made their last courtesies behind the counter. Our great-grandmothers
were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not to have been utterly despised
by the gentlemen at the British coffee-house; at least, some gracious
bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of his willingness to
take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possess brown
hair, regular features, a brisk eye, and a fortune. Now, this was great
condescension towards the ladies of Massachusetts Bay, in a threadbare
lieutenant of foot.

Polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. Few native
works were advertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of
controversial divinity; nor were the English authors of the day much
known on this side of the Atlantic. But catalogues were frequently
offered at auction or private sale, comprising the standard English
books, history, essays, and poetry, of Queen Anne’s age, and the
preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of a novel, unless it
be “The Two Mothers, price four coppers.” There was an American poet,
however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved no specimen,—the author of
“War, an Heroic Poem”; he publishes by subscription, and threatens to
prosecute his patrons for not taking their books. We have discovered a
periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claim to be recorded
here, since it bore the title of “THE NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE,” a
forgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and
take its excellence on trust. The fine arts, too, were budding into
existence. At the “old glass and picture shop,” in Cornhill, various
maps, plates, and views are advertised, and among them a “Prospect of
Boston,” a copperplate engraving of Quebec, and the effigies of all the
New England ministers ever done in mezzotinto. All these must have been
very salable articles. Other ornamental wares were to be found at the
same shop; such as violins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, English
and Dutch toys, and London babies. About this period, Mr. Dipper gives
notice of a concert of vocal and instrumental music. There had already
been an attempt at theatrical exhibitions.

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.

Take my arm, gentle reader, and come with me into some street, perhaps
trodden by your daily footsteps, but which now has such an aspect of
half-familiar strangeness, that you suspect yourself to be walking
abroad in a dream. True, there are some brick edifices which you
remember from childhood, and which your father and grandfather
remembered as well; but you are perplexed by the absence of many that
were here only an hour or two since; and still more amazing is the
presence of whole rows of wooden and plastered houses, projecting over
the sidewalks, and bearing iron figures on their fronts, which prove
them to have stood on the same sites above a century. Where have your
eyes been that you never saw them before? Along the ghostly
street,—for, at length, you conclude that all is unsubstantial, though
it be so good a mockery of an antique town,—along the ghostly street,
there are ghostly people too. Every gentleman has his three-cornered
hat, either on his head or under his arm; and all wear wigs in infinite
variety,—the Tie, the Brigadier, the Spencer, the Albemarle, the Major,
the Ramillies, the grave Full-bottom, or the giddy Feather-top. Look at
the elaborate lace-ruffles, and the square-skirted coats of gorgeous
hues, bedizened with silver and gold! Make way for the phantom-ladies,
whose hoops require such breadth of passage, as they pace majestically
along, in silken gowns, blue, green, or yellow, brilliantly
embroidered, and with small satin hats surmounting their powdered hair.
Make way; for the whole spectral show will vanish, if your earthly
garments brush against their robes. Now that the scene is brightest,
and the whole street glitters with imaginary sunshine,—now hark to the
bells of the Old South and the Old North, ringing out with a sudden and
merry peal, while the cannon of Castle William thunder below the town,
and those of the Diana frigate repeat the sound, and the Charlestown
batteries reply with a nearer roar! You see the crowd toss up their
hats in visionary joy. You hear of illuminations and fire-works, and of
bonfires, built oil scaffolds, raised several stories above the ground,
that are to blaze all night in King Street and on Beacon Hill. And here
come the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of the
Boston troop of horseguards, escorting the governor to King’s Chapel,
where he is to return solemn thanks for the surrender of Quebec. March
on, thou shadowy troop! and vanish, ghostly crowd! and change again,
old street! for those stirring times are gone.

Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on the
twentieth of March, 1760, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill, and consumed
nearly four hundred buildings. Similar disasters have always been
epochs in the chronology of Boston. That of 1711 had hitherto been
termed the Great Fire, but now resigned its baleful dignity to one
which has ever since retained it. Did we desire to move the reader’s
sympathies on this subject, we would not be grandiloquent about the sea
of billowy flame, the glowing and crumbling streets, the broad, black
firmament of smoke, and the blast or wind that sprang up with the
conflagration and roared behind it. It would be more effective to mark
out a single family at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle
of their dwelling: then would ensue the removal of the bedridden
grandmother, the cradle with the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of
all, the dying man just at the extremity of a lingering disease. Do but
imagine the confused agony of one thus awfully disturbed in his last
hour; his fearful glance behind at the consuming fire raging after him,
from house to house, as its devoted victim; and, finally, the almost
eagerness with which he would seize some calmer interval to die! The
Great Fire must have realized many such a scene.

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.

III. THE OLD TORY.

Again we take a leap of about twenty years, and alight in the midst of
the Revolution. Indeed, having just closed a volume of colonial
newspapers, which represented the period when monarchical and
aristocratic sentiments were at the highest,—and now opening another
volume printed in the same metropolis, after such sentiments had long
been deemed a sin and shame,—we feel as if the leap were more than
figurative. Our late course of reading has tinctured us, for the
moment, with antique prejudices; and we shrink from the strangely
contrasted times into which we emerge, like one of those immutable old
Tories, who acknowledge no oppression in the Stamp Act. It may be the
most effective method of going through the present file of papers, to
follow out this idea, and transform ourself, perchance, from a modern
Tory into such a sturdy King-man as once wore that pliable nickname.

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.

We have remained, therefore, enduring to be outwardly a freeman, but
idolizing King George in secrecy and silence,—one true old heart
amongst a host of enemies. We watch, with a weary hope, for the moment
when all this turmoil shall subside, and the impious novelty that has
distracted our latter years, like a wild dream, give place to the
blessed quietude of royal sway, with the king’s name in every
ordinance, his prayer in the church, his health at the board, and his
love in the people’s heart. Meantime, our old age finds little honor.
Hustled have we been, till driven from town-meetings; dirty water has
been cast upon our ruffles by a Whig chambermaid; John Hancock’s
coachman seizes every opportunity to bespatter us with mud; daily are
we hooted by the unbreeched rebel brats; and narrowly, once, did our
gray hairs escape the ignominy of tar and feathers. Alas! only that we
cannot bear to die till the next royal governor comes over, we would
fain be in our quiet grave.

Such an old man among new things are we who now hold at arm’s-length
the rebel newspaper of the day. The very figure-head, for the
thousandth time, elicits it groan of spiteful lamentation. Where are
the united heart and crown, the loyal emblem, that used to hallow the
sheet on which it was impressed, in our younger days? In its stead we
find a continental officer, with the Declaration of Independence in one
hand, a drawn sword in the other, and above his head a scroll, bearing
the motto, “WE APPEAL TO HEAVEN.” 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!

Glancing down the page, our eyes are greeted everywhere by the offer of
lands at auction, for sale or to be leased, not by the rightful owners,
but a rebel committee; notices of the town constable, that he is
authorized to receive the taxes on such all estate, in default of
which, that also is to be knocked down to the highest bidder; and
notifications of complaints filed by the attorney-general against
certain traitorous absentees, and of confiscations that are to ensue.
And who are these traitors? Our own best friends; names as old, once as
honored, as any in the land where they are no longer to have a
patrimony, nor to be remembered as good men who have passed away. We
are ashamed of not relinquishing our little property, too; but comfort
ourselves because we still keep our principles, without gratifying the
rebels with our plunder. Plunder, indeed, they are seizing
everywhere,—by the strong hand at sea, as well as by legal forms oil
shore. Here are prize-vessels for sale; no French nor Spanish
merchantmen, whose wealth is the birthright of British subjects, but
hulls of British oak, from Liverpool, Bristol, and the Thames, laden
with the king’s own stores, for his army in New York. And what a fleet
of privateers—pirates, say we—are fitting out for new ravages, with
rebellion in their very names! The Free Yankee, the General Greene, the
Saratoga, the Lafayette, and the Grand Monarch! Yes, the Grand Monarch;
so is a French king styled, by the sons of Englishmen. And here we have
an ordinance from the Court of Versailles, with the Bourbon’s own
signature affixed, as if New England were already a French province.
Everything is French,—French soldiers, French sailors, French surgeons,
and French diseases too, I trow; besides French dancing-masters and
French milliners, to debauch our daughters with French fashions!
Everything in America is French, except the Canadas, the loyal Canadas,
which we helped to wrest, from France. And to that old French province
the Englishman of the colonies must go to find his country!

O, the misery of seeing the whole system of things changed in my old
days, when I would be loath to change even a pair of buckles! The
British coffee-house, where oft we sat, brimful of wine and loyalty,
with the gallant gentlemen of Amherst’s army, when we wore a redcoat
too,—the British coffee-house, forsooth, must now be styled the
American, with a golden eagle instead of the royal arms above the door.
Even the street it stands in is no longer King Street! Nothing is the
king’s, except this heavy heart in my old bosom. Wherever I glance my
eyes, they meet something that pricks them like a needle. This
soap-maker, for instance, this Hobert Hewes, has conspired against my
peace, by notifying that his shop is situated near Liberty Stump. But
when will their misnamed liberty have its true emblem in that Stump,
hewn down by British steel?

Where shall we buy our next year’s almanac? Not this of Weatherwise’s,
certainly; for it contains a likeness of George Washington, the upright
rebel, whom we most hate, though reverentially, as a fallen angel, with
his heavenly brightness undiminished, evincing pure fame in an
unhallowed cause. And here is a new book for my evening’s recreation,—a
History of the War till the close of the year 1779, with the heads of
thirteen distinguished officers, engraved on copperplate. A plague upon
their heads! We desire not to see them till they grin at us from the
balcony before the town-house, fixed on spikes, as the heads of
traitors. How bloody-minded the villains make a peaceable old man! What
next? An Oration, on the Horrid Massacre of 1770. When that blood was
shed,—the first that the British soldier ever drew from the bosoms of
our countrymen,—we turned sick at heart, and do so still, as often as
they make it reek anew from among the stones in King Street. The pool
that we saw that night has swelled into a lake,—English blood and
American,—no! all British, all blood of my brethren. And here come down
tears. Shame on me, since half of them are shed for rebels! Who are not
rebels now! Even the women are thrusting their white hands into the
war, and come out in this very paper with proposals to form a
society—the lady of George Washington at their head—for clothing the
continental troops. They will strip off their stiff petticoats to cover
the ragged rascals, and then enlist in the ranks themselves.

What have we here? Burgoyne’s proclamation turned into Hudibrastic
rhyme! And here, some verses against the king, in which the scribbler
leaves a blank for the name of George, as if his doggerel might yet
exalt him to the pillory. Such, after years of rebellion, is the
heart’s unconquerable reverence for the Lord’s anointed! In the next
column, we have scripture parodied in a squib against his sacred
Majesty. What would our Puritan great-grandsires have said to that?
They never laughed at God’s word, though they cut off a king’s head.

Yes; it was for us to prove how disloyalty goes hand in hand with
irreligion, and all other vices come trooping in the train. Nowadays
men commit robbery and sacrilege for the mere luxury of wickedness, as
this advertisement testifies. Three hundred pounds reward for the
detection of the villains who stole and destroyed the cushions and
pulpit drapery of the Brattle Street and Old South churches. Was it a
crime? I can scarcely think our temples hallowed, since the king ceased
to be prayed for. But it is not temples only that they rob. Here a man
offers a thousand dollars—a thousand dollars, in Continental rags!—for
the recovery of his stolen cloak, and other articles of clothing.
Horse-thieves are innumerable. Now is the day when every beggar gets on
horseback. And is not the whole land like a beggar on horseback riding
post to the Davil? Ha! here is a murder, too. A woman slain at
midnight, by all unknown ruffian, and found cold, stiff, and bloody, in
her violated bed! Let the hue-and-cry follow hard after the man in the
uniform of blue and buff who last went by that way. My life on it, he
is the blood-stained ravisher! These deserters whom we see proclaimed
in every column,—proof that the banditti are as false to their Stars
and Stripes as to the Holy Red Cross,—they bring the crimes of a rebel
camp into a soil well suited to them; the bosom of a people, without
the heart that kept them virtuous,—their king!

Here flaunting down a whole column, with official seal and signature,
here comes a proclamation. By whose authority? Ah! the United
States,—these thirteen little anarchies, assembled in that one grand
anarchy, their Congress. And what the import? A general Fast. By
Heaven! for once the traitorous blockheads have legislated wisely! Yea;
let a misguided people kneel down in sackcloth and ashes, from end to
end, from border to border, of their wasted country. Well may they fast
where there is no food, and cry aloud for whatever remnant of God’s
mercy their sins may not have exhausted. We too will fast, even at a
rebel summons. Pray others as they will, there shall be at least an old
man kneeling for the righteous cause. Lord, put down the rebels! God
save the king!

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.

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.




THE MAN OF ADAMANT: AN APOLOGUE


In the old times of religious gloom and intolerance lived Richard
Digby, the gloomiest and most intolerant of a stern brotherhood. His
plan of salvation was so narrow, that, like a plank in a tempestuous
sea, it could avail no sinner but himself, who bestrode it
triumphantly, and hurled anathemas against the wretches whom he saw
struggling with the billows of eternal death. In his view of the
matter, it was a most abominable crime—as, indeed, it is a great
folly—for men to trust to their own strength, or even to grapple to any
other fragment of the wreck, save this narrow plank, which, moreover,
he took special care to keep out of their reach. In other words, as his
creed was like no man’s else, and being well pleased that Providence
had intrusted him alone, of mortals, with the treasure of a true faith,
Richard Digby determined to seclude himself to the sole and constant
enjoyment of his happy fortune.

“And verily,” thought he, “I deem it a chief condition of Heaven’s
mercy to myself, that I hold no communion with those abominable myriads
which it hath cast off to perish. Peradventure, were I to tarry longer
in the tents of Kedar, the gracious boon would be revoked, and I also
be swallowed up in the deluge of wrath, or consumed in the storm of
fire and brimstone, or involved in whatever new kind of ruin is
ordained for the horrible perversity of this generation.”

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.

In this manner, he journeyed onward three days and two nights, and
came, on the third evening, to the mouth of a cave, which, at first
sight, reminded him of Elijah’s cave at Horeb, though perhaps it more
resembled Abraham’s sepulchral cave at Machpelah. It entered into the
heart of a rocky hill. There was so dense a veil of tangled foliage
about it, that none but a sworn lover of gloomy recesses would have
discovered the low arch of its entrance, or have dared to step within
its vaulted chamber, where the burning eyes of a panther might
encounter him. If Nature meant this remote and dismal cavern for the
use of man, it could only be to bury in its gloom the victims of a
pestilence, and then to block up its mouth with stones, and avoid the
spot forever after. There was nothing bright nor cheerful near it,
except a bubbling fountain, some twenty paces off, at which Richard
Digby hardly threw away a glance. But he thrust his head into the cave,
shivered, and congratulated himself.

“The finger of Providence hath pointed my way!” cried he, aloud, while
the tomb-like den returned a strange echo, as if some one within were
mocking him. “Here my soul will be at peace; for the wicked will not
find me. Here I can read the Scriptures, and be no more provoked with
lying interpretations. Here I can offer up acceptable prayers, because
my voice will not be mingled with the sinful supplications of the
multitude. Of a truth, the only way to heaven leadeth through the
narrow entrance of this cave,—and I alone have found it!”

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.

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.

“Good evening, Richard,” said the girl; “I have come from afar to find
thee.”

The slender grace and gentle loveliness of this young woman were at
once recognized by Richard Digby. Her name was Mary Goffe. She had been
a convert to his preaching of the word in England, before he yielded
himself to that exclusive bigotry which now enfolded him with such an
iron grasp that no other sentiment could reach his bosom. When he came
a pilgrim to America, she had remained in her father’s hall; but now,
as it appeared, had crossed the ocean after him, impelled by the same
faith that led other exiles hither, and perhaps by love almost as holy.
What else but faith and love united could have sustained so delicate a
creature, wandering thus far into the forest, with her golden hair
dishevelled by the boughs, and her feet wounded by the thorns? Yet,
weary and faint though she must have been, and affrighted at the
dreariness of the cave, she looked on the lonely man with a mild and
pitying expression, such as might beam from an angel’s eyes, towards an
afflicted mortal. But the recluse, frowning sternly upon her, and
keeping his finger between the leaves of his half-closed Bible,
motioned her away with his hand.

“Off!” cried he. “I am sanctified, and thou art sinful. Away!”

“O Richard,” said she, earnestly, “I have come this weary way because I
heard that a grievous distemper had seized upon thy heart; and a great
Physician hath given me the skill to cure it. There is no other remedy
than this which I have brought thee. Turn me not away, therefore, nor
refuse my medicine; for then must this dismal cave be thy sepulchre.”

“Away!” replied Richard Digby, still with a dark frown. “My heart is in
better condition than thine own. Leave me, earthly one; for the sun is
almost set; and when no light reaches the door of the cave, then is my
prayer-time.”

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.

“Come back with me!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands,—“come back to
thy fellow-men; for they need thee, Richard, and thou hast tenfold need
of them. Stay not in this evil den; for the air is chill, and the damps
are fatal; nor will any that perish within it ever find the path to
heaven. Hasten hence, I entreat thee, for thine own soul’s sake; for
either the roof will fall upon thy head, or some other speedy
destruction is at hand.”

“Perverse woman!” answered Richard Digby, laughing aloud,—for he was
moved to bitter mirth by her foolish vehemence,—“I tell thee that the
path to heaven leadeth straight through this narrow portal where I sit.
And, moreover, the destruction thou speakest of is ordained, not for
this blessed cave, but for all other habitations of mankind, throughout
the earth. Get thee hence speedily, that thou mayst have thy share!”

So saving, he opened his Bible again, and fixed his eyes intently on
the page, being resolved to withdraw his thoughts from this child of
sin and wrath, and to waste no more of his holy breath upon her. The
shadow had now grown so deep, where he was sitting, that he made
continual mistakes in what he read, converting all that was gracious
and merciful to denunciations of vengeance and unutterable woe on every
created being but himself. Mary Goffe, meanwhile, was leaning against a
tree, beside the sepulchral cave, very sad, yet with something heavenly
and ethereal in her unselfish sorrow. The light from the setting sun
still glorified her form, and was reflected a little way within the
darksome den, discovering so terrible a gloom that the maiden shuddered
for its self-doomed inhabitant. Espying the bright fountain near at
hand, she hastened thither, and scooped up a portion of its water, in a
cup of birchen bark. A few tears mingled with the draught, and perhaps
gave it all its efficacy. She then returned to the mouth of the cave,
and knelt down at Richard Digby’s feet.

“Richard,” she said, with passionate fervor, yet a gentleness in all
her passion, “I pray thee, by thy hope of heaven, and as thou wouldst
not dwell in this tomb forever, drink of this hallowed water, be it but
a single drop! Then, make room for me by thy side, and let us read
together one page of that blessed volume; and, lastly, kneel down with
me and pray! Do this, and thy stony heart shall become softer than a
babe’s, and all be well.”

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.

“Tempt me no more, accursed woman,” exclaimed he, still with his marble
frown, “lest I smite thee down also! What hast thou to do with my
Bible?—what with my prayers?—what with my heaven?”

No sooner had he spoken these dreadful words, than Richard Digby’s
heart ceased to beat; while—so the legend says-the form of Mary Goffe
melted into the last sunbeams, and returned from the sepulchral cave to
heaven. For Mary Golfe had been buried in an English churchyard, months
before; and either it was her ghost that haunted the wild forest, or
else a dream-like spirit, typifying pure Religion.

Above a century afterwards, when the trackless forest of Richard
Digby’s day had long been interspersed with settlements, the children
of a neighboring farmer were playing at the foot of a hill. The trees,
on account of the rude and broken surface of this acclivity, had never
been felled, and were crowded so densely together as to hide all but a
few rocky prominences, wherever their roots could grapple with the
soil. A little boy and girl, to conceal themselves from their
playmates, had crept into the deepest shade, where not only the
darksome pines, but a thick veil of creeping plants suspended from an
overhanging rock, combined to make a twilight at noonday, and almost a
midnight at all other seasons. There the children hid themselves, and
shouted, repeating the cry at intervals, till the whole party of
pursuers were drawn thither, and, pulling aside the matted foliage, let
in a doubtful glimpse of daylight. But scarcely was this accomplished,
when the little group uttered a simultaneous shriek, and tumbled
headlong down the hill, making the best of their way homeward, without
a second glance into the gloomy recess. Their father, unable to
comprehend what had so startled them, took his axe, and, by felling one
or two trees, and tearing away the creeping plants, laid the mystery
open to the day. He had discovered the entrance of a cave, closely
resembling the mouth of a sepulchre, within which sat the figure of a
man, whose gesture and attitude warned the father and children to stand
back, while his visage wore a most forbidding frown. This repulsive
personage seemed to have been carved in the same gray stone that formed
the walls and portal of the cave. On minuter inspection, indeed, such
blemishes were observed, as made it doubtful whether the figure were
really a statue, chiselled by human art and somewhat worn and defaced
by the lapse of ages, or a freak of Nature, who might have chosen to
imitate, in stone, her usual handiwork of flesh. Perhaps it was the
least unreasonable idea, suggested by this strange spectacle, that the
moisture of the cave possessed a petrifying quality, which had thus
awfully embalmed a human corpse.

There was something so frightful in the aspect of this Man of Adamant,
that the farmer, the moment that he recovered from the fascination of
his first gaze, began to heap stones into the mouth of the cavern. His
wife, who had followed him to the hill, assisted her husband’s efforts.
The children, also, approached as near as they durst, with their little
hands full of pebbles, and cast them on the pile. Earth was then thrown
into the crevices, and the whole fabric overlaid with sods. Thus all
traces of the discovery were obliterated, leaving only a marvellous
legend, which grew wilder from one generation to another, as the
children told it to their grandchildren, and they to their posterity,
till few believed that there had ever been a cavern or a statue, where
now they saw but a grassy patch on the shadowy hillside. Yet, grown
people avoid the spot, nor do children play there. Friendship, and
Love, and Piety, all human and celestial sympathies, should keep aloof
from that hidden cave; for there still sits, and, unless an earthquake
crumble down the roof upon his head, shall sit forever, the shape of
Richard Digby, in the attitude of repelling the whole race of
mortals,—not from heaven,—but from the horrible loneliness of his dark,
cold sepulchre!




THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT


On a bitter evening of December, I arrived by mail in a large town,
which was then the residence of an intimate friend, one of those gifted
youths who cultivate poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves
students at law. My first business, after supper, was to visit him at
the office of his distinguished instructor. As I have said, it was a
bitter night, clear starlight, but cold as Nova Zembla,—the
shop-windows along the street being frosted, so as almost to hide the
lights, while the wheels of coaches thundered equally loud over frozen
earth and pavements of stone. There was no snow, either on the ground
or the roofs of the houses. The wind blew so violently, that I had but
to spread my cloak like a main-sail, and scud along the street at the
rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navigators, who were beating
slowly up, with the gale right in their teeth. One of these I capsized,
but was gone on the wings of the wind before he could even vociferate
an oath.

After this picture of an inclement night, behold us seated by a great
blazing fire, which looked so comfortable and delicious that I felt
inclined to lie down and roll among the hot coals. The usual furniture
of a lawyer’s office was around us,—rows of volumes in sheepskin, and a
multitude of writs, summonses, and other legal papers, scattered over
the desks and tables. But there were certain objects which seemed to
intimate that we had little dread of the intrusion of clients, or of
the learned counsellor himself, who, indeed, was attending court in a
distant town. A tall, decanter-shaped bottle stood on the table,
between two tumblers, and beside a pile of blotted manuscripts,
altogether dissimilar to any law documents recognized in our courts. My
friend, whom I shall call Oberon,—it was a name of fancy and friendship
between him and me,—my friend Oberon looked at these papers with a
peculiar expression of disquietude.

“I do believe,” said he, soberly, “or, at least, I could believe, if I
chose, that there is a devil in this pile of blotted papers. You have
read them, and know what I mean,—that conception in which I endeavored
to embody the character of a fiend, as represented in our traditions
and the written records of witchcraft. Oh, I have a horror of what was
created in my own brain, and shudder at the manuscripts in which I gave
that dark idea a sort of material existence! Would they were out of my
sight!”

“And of mine, too,” thought I.

“You remember,” continued Oberon, “how the hellish thing used to suck
away the happiness of those who, by a simple concession that seemed
almost innocent, subjected themselves to his power. Just so my peace is
gone, and all by these accursed manuscripts. Have you felt nothing of
the same influence?”

“Nothing,” replied I, “unless the spell be hid in a desire to turn
novelist, after reading your delightful tales.”

“Novelist!” exclaimed Oberon, half seriously. “Then, indeed, my devil
has his claw on you! You are gone! You cannot even pray for
deliverance! But we will be the last and only victims; for this night I
mean to burn the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his retribution
in the flames.”

“Burn your tales!” repeated I, startled at the desperation of the idea.

“Even so,” said the author, despondingly. “You cannot conceive what an
effect the composition of these tales has had on me. I have become
ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. I am
surrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the
realities of life. They have drawn me aside from the beaten path of the
world, and led me into a strange sort of solitude,—a solitude in the
midst of men,-where nobody wishes for what I do, nor thinks nor feels
as I do. The tales have done all this. When they are ashes, perhaps I
shall be as I was before they had existence. Moreover, the sacrifice is
less than you may suppose, since nobody will publish them.”

“That does make a difference, indeed,” said I.

“They have been offered, by letter,” continued Oberon, reddening with
vexation, “to some seventeen booksellers. It would make you stare to
read their answers; and read them you should, only that I burnt them as
fast as they arrived. One man publishes nothing but school-books;
another has five novels already under examination.”

“What a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of America must be!”
cried I.

“Oh, the Alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!” said my friend.
“Well, another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, I
verily believe, to escape publishing my book. Several, however, would
not absolutely decline the agency, on my advancing half the cost of an
edition, and giving bonds for the remainder, besides a high percentage
to themselves, whether the book sells or not. Another advises a
subscription.”

“The villain!” exclaimed I.

“A fact!” said Oberon. “In short, of all the seventeen booksellers,
only one has vouchsafed even to read my tales; and he—a literary
dabbler himself, I should judge—has the impertinence to criticise them,
proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, after a
general sentence of condemnation, with the definitive assurance that he
will not be concerned on any terms.”

“It might not be amiss to pull that fellow’s nose,” remarked I.

“If the whole ‘trade’ had one common nose, there would be some
satisfaction in pulling it,” answered the author. “But, there does seem
to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he
tells me fairly, that no American publisher will meddle with an
American work,—seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new
one,—unless at the writer’s risk.”

“The paltry rogues!” cried I. “Will they live by literature, and yet
risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your
own account.”

“And so I might,” replied Oberon. “But the devil of the business is
this. These people have put me so out of conceit with the tales, that I
loathe the very thought of them, and actually experience a physical
sickness of the stomach, whenever I glance at them on the table. I tell
you there is a demon in them! I anticipate a wild enjoyment in seeing
them in the blaze; such as I should feel in taking vengeance on an
enemy, or destroying something noxious.”

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.

“Pooh! Pish! Pshaw!” exclaimed he, holding them at arm’s-length. “It
was Gray’s idea of heaven, to lounge on a sofa and read new novels.
Now, what more appropriate torture would Dante himself have contrived,
for the sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be continually
turning over the manuscript?”

“It would fail of effect,” said I, “because a bad author is always his
own great admirer.”

“I lack that one characteristic of my tribe,—the only desirable one,”
observed Oberon. “But how many recollections throng upon me, as I turn
over these leaves! This scene came into my fancy as I walked along a
hilly road, on a starlight October evening; in the pure and bracing
air, I became all soul, and felt as if I could climb the sky, and run a
race along the Milky Way. Here is another tale, in which I wrapt myself
during a dark and dreary night-ride in the month of March, till the
rattling of the wheels and the voices of my companions seemed like
faint sounds of a dream, and my visions a bright reality. That
scribbled page describes shadows which I summoned to my bedside at
midnight: they would not depart when I bade them; the gray dawn came,
and found me wide awake and feverish, the victim of my own
enchantments!”

“There must have been a sort of happiness in all this,” said I, smitten
with a strange longing to make proof of it.

“There may be happiness in a fever fit,” replied the author. “And then
the various moods in which I wrote! Sometimes my ideas were like
precious stones under the earth, requiring toil to dig them up, and
care to polish and brighten them; but often a delicious stream of
thought would gush out upon the page at once, like water sparkling up
suddenly in the desert; and when it had passed, I gnawed my pen
hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and miserable toil, as if there
were a wall of ice between me and my subject.”

“Do you now perceive a corresponding difference,” inquired I, “between
the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid flashes of the
mind?”

“No,” said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table. “I find no
traces of the golden pen with which I wrote in characters of fire. My
treasure of fairy coin is changed to worthless dross. My picture,
painted in what seemed the loveliest hues, presents nothing but a faded
and indistinguishable surface. I have been eloquent and poetical and
humorous in a dream,—and behold! it is all nonsense, now that I am
awake.”

My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and
seeing it blaze like Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, seized the champagne
bottle, and drank two or three brimming bumpers, successively. The
heady liquor combined with his agitation to throw him into a species of
rage. He laid violent hands on the tales. In one instant more, their
faults and beauties would alike have vanished in a glowing purgatory.
But, all at once, I remembered passages of high imagination, deep
pathos, original thoughts, and points of such varied excellence, that
the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly. I caught his
arm.

“Surely, you do not mean to burn them!” I exclaimed.

“Let me alone!” cried Oberon, his eyes flashing fire. “I will burn
them! Not a scorched syllable shall escape! Would you have me a damned
author?—To undergo sneers, taunts, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint
praise, bestowed, for pity’s sake, against the giver’s conscience! A
hissing and a laughing-stock to my own traitorous thoughts! An outlaw
from the protection of the grave,—one whose ashes every careless foot
might spurn, unhonored in life, and remembered scornfully in death! Am
I to bear all this, when yonder fire will insure me from the whole? No!
There go the tales! May my hand wither when it would write another!”

The deed was done. He had thrown the manuscripts into the hottest of
the fire, which at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled around
them, and made them a part of its own fervent brightness. Oberon stood
gazing at the conflagration, and shortly began to soliloquize, in the
wildest strain, as if Fancy resisted and became riotous, at the moment
when he would have compelled her to ascend that funeral pile. His words
described objects which he appeared to discern in the fire, fed by his
own precious thoughts; perhaps the thousand visions which the writer’s
magic had incorporated with these pages became visible to him in the
dissolving heat, brightening forth ere they vanished forever; while the
smoke, the vivid sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening coals, caught
the aspect of a varied scenery.

“They blaze,” said he, “as if I had steeped them in the intensest
spirit of genius. There I see my lovers clasped in each other’s arms.
How pure the flame that bursts from their glowing hearts! And yonder
the features of a villain writhing in the fire that shall torment him
to eternity. My holy men, my pious and angelic women, stand like
martyrs amid the flames, their mild eyes lifted heavenward. Ring out
the bells! A city is on fire. See!—destruction roars through my dark
forests, while the lakes boil up in steaming billows, and the mountains
are volcanoes, and the sky kindles with a lurid brightness! All
elements are but one pervading flame! Ha! The fiend!”

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.

“You saw him? You must have seen him!” cried Oberon. “How he glared at
me and laughed, in that last sheet of flame, with just the features
that I imagined for him! Well! The tales are gone.”

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.

“What is more potent than fire!” said he, in his gloomiest tone. “Even
thought, invisible and incorporeal as it is, cannot escape it. In this
little time, it has annihilated the creations of long nights and days,
which I could no more reproduce, in their first glow and freshness,
than cause ashes and whitened bones to rise up and live. There, too, I
sacrificed the unborn children of my mind. All that I had
accomplished—all that I planned for future years—has perished by one
common ruin, and left only this heap of embers! The deed has been my
fate. And what remains? A weary and aimless life,—a long repentance of
this hour,—and at last an obscure grave, where they will bury and
forget me!”

As the author concluded his dolorous moan, the extinguished embers
arose and settled down and arose again, and finally flew up the
chimney, like a demon with sable wings. Just as they disappeared, there
was a loud and solitary cry in the street below us. “Fire!” Fire! Other
voices caught up that terrible word, and it speedily became the shout
of a multitude. Oberon started to his feet, in fresh excitement.

“A fire on such a night!” cried he. “The wind blows a gale, and
wherever it whirls the flames, the roofs will flash up like gunpowder.
Every pump is frozen up, and boiling water would turn to ice the moment
it was flung from the engine. In an hour, this wooden town will be one
great bonfire! What a glorious scene for my next—Pshaw!”

The street was now all alive with footsteps, and the air full of
voices. We heard one engine thundering round a corner, and another
rattling from a distance over the pavements. The bells of three
steeples clanged out at once, spreading the alarm to many a neighboring
town, and expressing hurry, confusion, and terror, so inimitably that I
could almost distinguish in their peal the burden of the universal
cry,—“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

“What is so eloquent as their iron tongues!” exclaimed Oberon. “My
heart leaps and trembles, but not with fear. And that other sound,
too,—deep and awful as a mighty organ,—the roar and thunder of the
multitude on the pavement below! Come! We are losing time. I will cry
out in the loudest of the uproar, and mingle my spirit with the wildest
of the confusion, and be a bubble on the top of the ferment!”

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.

“My tales!” cried Oberon. “The chimney! The roof! The Fiend has gone
forth by night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder from their
beds! Here I stand,—a triumphant author! Huzza! Huzza! My brain has set
the town on fire! Huzza!”




JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING


On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith,
sat in his elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at
his board. Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire
threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening
his rough visage, so that it looked like the head of an iron statue,
all aglow, from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned
on his own anvil. At John Inglefield’s right hand was an empty chair.
The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the
family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic
merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of the
group was John Inglefield’s son, who had been bred at college, and was
now a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of
sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost
blossomed. The only other person at the fireside was Robert Moore,
formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and
who seemed more like an own son of John Inglefield than did the pale
and slender student.

Only these four had kept New England’s festival beneath that roof. The
vacant chair at John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of his wife,
whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With
a feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the
bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own;
and often did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible
that the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful
fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he cherish the grief
that was dear to him. But there was another grief which he would fain
have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it
too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance. Within the
past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not to
the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her.

While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with
the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened,
and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner
door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in,
wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off, and laid on the table
beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside
circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield’s right
hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.

“Here I am, at last, father,” said she. “You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you.”

Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it
with a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many months of her absence
in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her
gentle aspect. She could not have looked less altered, had she merely
stepped away from her father’s fireside for half an hour, and returned
while the blaze was quivering upwards from the same brands that were
burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was the very image
of his buried wife, such as he remembered her on the first Thanksgiving
which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore, though naturally
a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinful
child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.

“You are welcome home, Prudence,” said he, glancing sideways at her,
and his voice faltered. “Your mother would have rejoiced to see you,
but she has been gone from us these four months.”

“I know it, father, I know it,” replied Prudence, quickly. “And yet,
when I first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight, that
she seemed to be sitting in this very chair!”

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.

“Sister Prudence,” said he, earnestly, “I rejoice that a merciful
Providence hath turned your steps homeward, in time for me to bid you a
last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to
the far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved faces
that I shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. O, may I see all
of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!”

A shadow flitted across the girl’s countenance.

“The grave is very dark, brother,” answered she, withdrawing her hand
somewhat hastily from his grasp. “You must look your last at me by the
light of this fire.”

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.

“No, Mary,--no, my sister,” cried she, “do not you touch me. Your bosom
must not be pressed to mine!”

Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than
the grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near
each other in the light of their father’s hearth, where they had grown
up together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room, in
search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn from
his seat by the fireside, and was standing near the door, with his face
averted, so that his features could be discerned only by the flickering
shadow of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence called to him, in a
cheerful and kindly tone:--

“Come, Robert,” said she, “won’t you shake hands with your old friend?”

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.

“There, there, Robert!” said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her
hand, “you must not give me too warm a welcome.”

And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family,
Prudence again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield’s right
hand. She was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities,
gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused
among her merriest words and deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that
she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings,
like a spell, over her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends, in the surprise
and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left
them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection.
In the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered
eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own
Prudence had come back to them, and were thankful. John Inglefleld’s
rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and
merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang
again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. The grave
young minister became as frolicsome as a school-boy. Mary, too, the
rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem,
and trampled in the dust. And as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence
with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet
maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him.

In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own
depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. When
the clock struck eight, Prudence poured out her father’s customary
draught of herb-tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since
twilight.

“God bless you, child!” said John Inglefield, as he took the cup from
her hand; “you have made your old father happy again. But we miss your
mother sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be here
now.”

“Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence.

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.

“Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?” cried they all, with one
voice.

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.

“Daughter,” cried John Inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, “stay and
be your father’s blessing, or take his curse with you!”

For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted
room, while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were
struggling with a fiend, who had power to seize his victim even within
the hallowed precincts of her father’s hearth. The fiend prevailed; and
Prudence vanished into the outer darkness. When the family rushed to
the door, they could see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels
rattling over the frozen ground.

That same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a
neighboring city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed
inconsistent with any sympathy for pure affections, and for the joys
and griefs which are hallowed by them. Yet this was Prudence
Inglefield. Her visit to the Thanksgiving fireside was the realization
of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will sometimes
stray back to its innocence. But Sin, alas! is careful of her
bond-slaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and
are constrained to go whither she summons them. The same dark power
that drew Prudence Inglefleld from her father’s hearth--the same in its
nature, though heightened then to a dread necessity--would snatch a
guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its
punishment alike eternal.




OLD TICONDEROGA

A PICTURE OF THE PAST

The greatest attraction, in this vicinity, is the famous old fortress
of Ticonderoga, the remains of which are visible from the piazza of the
tavern, on a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake.
Those celebrated heights, Mount Defiance and Mount Independence,
familiar to all Americans in history, stand too prominent not to be
recognized, though neither of them precisely corresponds to the images
excited by their names. In truth, the whole scene, except the interior
of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defiance, which one pictures as
a steep, lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable aspect, frowning
down with the grim visage of a precipice on old Ticonderoga, is merely
a long and wooded ridge; and bore, at some former period, the gentle
name of Sugar Hill. The brow is certainly difficult to climb, and high
enough to look into every corner of the fortress. St. Clair’s most
probable reason, however, for neglecting to occupy it, was the
deficiency of troops to man the works already constructed, rather than
the supposed inaccessibility of Mount Defiance. It is singular that the
French never fortified this height, standing, as it does, in the
quarter whence they must have looked for the advance of a British army.

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.

I should have been glad of a hoary veteran to totter by my side, and
tell me, perhaps, of the French garrisons and their Indian allies,—of
Abercrombie, Lord Howe, and Amherst,—of Ethan Allen’s triumph and St.
Clair’s surrender. The old soldier and the old fortress would be
emblems of each other. His reminiscences, though vivid as the image of
Ticonderoga in the lake, would harmonize with the gray influence of the
scene. A survivor of the long-disbanded garrisons, though but a private
soldier, might have mustered his dead chiefs and comrades,—some from
Westminster Abbey, and English churchyards, and battle-fields in
Europe,—others from their graves here in America,—others, not a few,
who lie sleeping round the fortress; he might have mustered them all,
and bid them march through the ruined gateway, turning their old
historic faces on me, as they passed. Next to such a companion, the
best is one’s own fancy.

At another visit I was alone, and, after rambling all over the
ramparts, sat down to rest myself in one of the roofless barracks.
These are old French structures, and appear to have occupied three
sides of a large area, now overgrown with grass, nettles, and thistles.
The one in which I sat was long and narrow, as all the rest had been,
with peaked gables. The exterior walls were nearly entire, constructed
of gray, flat, unpicked stones, the aged strength of which promised
long to resist the elements, if no other violence should precipitate
their fall.—The roof, floors, partitions, and the rest of the wood-work
had probably been burnt, except some bars of stanch old oak, which were
blackened with fire, but still remained imbedded into the window-sills
and over the doors. There were a few particles of plastering near the
chimney, scratched with rude figures, perhaps by a soldier’s hand. A
most luxuriant crop of weeds had sprung up within the edifice, and hid
the scattered fragments of the wall. Grass and weeds grew in the
windows, and in all the crevices of the stone, climbing, step by step,
till a tuft of yellow flowers was waving on the highest peak of the
gable. Some spicy herb diffused a pleasant odor through the ruin. A
verdant heap of vegetation had covered the hearth of the second floor,
clustering on the very spot where the huge logs had mouldered to
glowing coals, and flourished beneath the broad flue, which had so
often puffed the smoke over a circle of French or English soldiers. I
felt that there was no other token of decay so impressive as that bed
of weeds in the place of the backlog.

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.

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.

I tried to make a series of pictures from the old French war, when
fleets were on the lake and armies in the woods, and especially of
Abercrombie’s disastrous repulse, where thousands of lives were utterly
thrown away; but, being at a loss how to order the battle, I chose an
evening scene in the barracks, after the fortress had surrendered to
Sir Jeffrey Amherst. What an immense fire blazes on that hearth,
gleaming on swords, bayonets, and musket-barrels, and blending with the
hue of the scarlet coats till the whole barrack-room is quivering with
ruddy light! One soldier has thrown himself down to rest, after a
deer-hunt, or perhaps a long run through the woods with Indians on his
trail. Two stand up to wrestle, and are on the point of coming to
blows. A fifer plays a shrill accompaniment to a drummer’s song,—a
strain of light love and bloody war, with a chorus thundered forth by
twenty voices. Meantime, a veteran in the corner is prosing about
Dettingen and Fontenoy, and relates camp-traditions of Marlborough’s
battles, till his pipe, having been roguishly charged with gunpowder,
makes a terrible explosion under his nose. And now they all vanish in a
puff of smoke from the chimney.

I merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, which glided peacefully
over the frontier fortress, till Ethan Allen’s shout was heard,
summoning it to surrender “in the name of the great Jehovah and of the
Continental Congress.” Strange allies! thought the British captain.
Next came the hurried muster of the soldiers of liberty, when the
cannon of Burgoyne, pointing down upon their stronghold from the brow
of Mount Defiance, announced a new conqueror of Ticonderoga. No virgin
fortress, this! Forth rushed the motley throng from the barracks, one
man wearing the blue and buff of the Union, another the red coat of
Britain, a third a dragoon’s jacket, and a fourth a cotton frock; here
was a pair of leather breeches, and striped trousers there; a
grenadier’s cap on one head, and a broad-brimmed hat, with a tall
feather, on the next; this fellow shouldering a king’s arm, that might
throw a bullet to Crown Point, and his comrade a long fowling-piece,
admirable to shoot ducks on the lake. In the midst of the bustle, when
the fortress was all alive with its last warlike scene, the ringing of
a bell on the lake made me suddenly unclose my eyes, and behold only
the gray and weed-grown ruins. They were as peaceful in the sun as a
warrior’s grave.

Hastening to the rampart, I perceived that the signal had been given by
the steamboat Franklin, which landed a passenger from Whitehall at the
tavern, and resumed its progress northward, to reach Canada the next
morning. A sloop was pursuing the same track; a little skiff had just
crossed the ferry; while a scow, laden with lumber, spread its huge
square sail, and went up the lake. The whole country was a cultivated
farm. Within musket-shot of the ramparts lay the neat villa of Mr.
Pell, who, since the Revolution, has become proprietor of a spot for
which France, England, and America have so often struggled. How
forcibly the lapse of time and change of circumstances came home to my
apprehension! Banner would never wave again, nor cannon roar, nor blood
be shed, nor trumpet stir up a soldier’s heart, in this old fort of
Ticonderoga. Tall trees have grown upon its ramparts, since the last
garrison marched out, to return no more, or only at some dreamer’s
summons, gliding from the twilight past to vanish among realities.




THE WIVES OF THE DEAD


The following story, the simple and domestic incidents of which may be
deemed scarcely worth relating, after such a lapse of time, awakened
some degree of interest, a hundred years ago, in a principal seaport of
the Bay Province. The rainy twilight of an autumn day,—a parlor on the
second floor of a small house, plainly furnished, as beseemed the
middling circumstances of its inhabitants, yet decorated with little
curiosities from beyond the sea, and a few delicate specimens of Indian
manufacture,—these are the only particulars to be premised in regard to
scene and season. Two young and comely women sat together by the
fireside, nursing their mutual and peculiar sorrows. They were the
recent brides of two brothers, a sailor and a landsman, and two
successive days had brought tidings of the death of each, by the
chances of Canadian warfare and the tempestuous Atlantic. The universal
sympathy excited by this bereavement drew numerous condoling guests to
the habitation of the widowed sisters. Several, among whom was the
minister, had remained till the verge of evening; when, one by one,
whispering many comfortable passages of Scripture, that were answered
by more abundant tears, they took their leave, and departed to their
own happier homes. The mourners, though not insensible to the kindness
of their friends, had yearned to be left alone. United, as they had
been, by the relationship of the living, and now more closely so by
that of the dead, each felt as if whatever consolation her grief
admitted were to be found in the bosom of the other. They joined their
hearts, and wept together silently. But after an hour of such
indulgence, one of the sisters, all of whose emotions were influenced
by her mild, quiet, yet not feeble character, began to recollect the
precepts of resignation and endurance which piety had taught her, when
she did not think to need them. Her misfortune, besides, as earliest
known, should earliest cease to interfere with her regular course of
duties; accordingly, having placed the table before the fire, and
arranged a frugal meal, she took the hand of her companion.

“Come, dearest sister; you have eaten not a morsel to-day,” she said.
“Arise, I pray you, and let us ask a blessing on that which is provided
for us.”

Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable temperament, and the
first pangs of her sorrow had been expressed by shrieks and passionate
lamentation. She now shrunk from Mary’s words, like a wounded sufferer
from a hand that revives the throb.

“There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask it!” cried
Margaret, with a fresh burst of tears. “Would it were His will that I
might never taste food more!”

Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, almost as soon as
they were uttered, and, by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her
sister’s mind nearer to the situation of her own. Time went on, and
their usual hour of repose arrived. The brothers and their brides,
entering the married state with no more than the slender means which
then sanctioned such a step, had confederated themselves in one
household, with equal rights to the parlor, and claiming exclusive
privileges in two sleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thither the widowed
ones retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying embers of their fire,
and placing a lighted lamp upon the hearth. The doors of both chambers
were left open, so that a part of the interior of each, and the beds
with their unclosed curtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not
steal upon the sisters at one and the same time. Mary experienced the
effect often consequent upon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into
temporary forgetfulness, while Margaret became more disturbed and
feverish, in proportion as the night advanced with its deepest and
stillest hours. She lay listening to the drops of rain, that came down
in monotonous succession, unswayed by a breath of wind; and a nervous
impulse continually caused her to lift her head from the pillow, and
gaze into Mary’s chamber and the intermediate apartment. The cold light
of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture up against the wall,
stamping them immovably there, except when they were shaken by a sudden
flicker of the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were in their old positions
on opposite sides of the hearth, where the brothers had been wont to
sit in young and laughing dignity, as heads of families; two humbler
seats were near them, the true thrones of that little empire, where
Mary and herself had exercised in love a power that love had won. The
cheerful radiance of the fire had shone upon the happy circle, and the
dead glimmer of the lamp might have befitted their reunion now. While
Margaret groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at the street door.

“How would my heart have leapt at that sound but yesterday!” thought
she, remembering the anxiety with which she had long awaited tidings
from her husband.

“I care not for it now; let them begone, for I will not arise.”

But even while a sort of childish fretfulness made her thus resolve,
she was breathing hurriedly, and straining her ears to catch a
repetition of the summons. It is difficult to be convinced of the death
of one whom we have deemed another self. The knocking was now renewed
in slow and regular strokes, apparently given with the soft end of a
doubled fist, and was accompanied by words, faintly heard through
several thicknesses of wall. Margaret looked to her sister’s chamber,
and beheld her still lying in the depths of sleep. She arose, placed
her foot upon the floor, and slightly arrayed herself, trembling
between fear and eagerness as she did so.

“Heaven help me!” sighed she. “I have nothing left to fear, and
methinks I am ten times more a coward than ever.”

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.

“What would you have, Goodman Parker?” cried the widow.

“Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret?” replied the innkeeper. “I was
afraid it might be your sister Mary; for I hate to see a young woman in
trouble, when I have n’t a word of comfort to whisper her.”

“For Heaven’s sake, what news do you bring?” screamed Margaret.

“Why, there has been an express through the town within this
half-hour,” said Goodman Parker, “travelling from the eastern
jurisdiction with letters from the governor and council. He tarried at
my house to refresh himself with a drop and a morsel, and I asked him
what tidings on the frontiers. He tells me we had the better in the
skirmish you wot of, and that thirteen men reported slain are well and
sound, and your husband among them. Besides, he is appointed of the
escort to bring the captivated Frenchers and Indians home to the
province jail. I judged you would n’t mind being broke of your rest,
and so I stepped over to tell you. Good night.”

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.

“Poor Mary!” said she to herself. “Shall I waken her, to feel her
sorrow sharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own
bosom till the morrow.”

She approached the bed, to discover if Mary’s sleep were peaceful. Her
face was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there
to weep; but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it,
as if her heart, like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had
sunk down so far within. Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter
sorrows are those from which dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret
shrunk from disturbing her sister-in-law, and felt as if her own better
fortune had rendered her involuntarily unfaithful, and as if altered
and diminished affection must be the consequence of the disclosure she
had to make. With a sudden step she turned away. But joy could not long
be repressed, even by circumstances that would have excited heavy grief
at another moment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, till
sleep stole on, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and
more wild, like the breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!)
working fantastic tracery upon a window.

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.

“Who’s there?” asked Mary, trembling as she looked forth.

The storm was over, and the moon was up; it shone upon broken clouds
above, and below upon houses black with moisture, and upon little lakes
of the fallen rain, curling into silver beneath the quick enchantment
of a breeze. A young man in a sailor’s dress, wet as if he had come out
of the depths of the sea, stood alone under the window. Mary recognized
him as one whose livelihood was gained by short voyages along the
coast; nor did she forget that, previous to her marriage, he had been
an unsuccessful wooer of her own.

“What do you seek here, Stephen?” said she.

“Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you,” answered the rejected
lover. “You must know I got home not ten minutes ago, and the first
thing my good mother told me was the news about your husband. So,
without saying a word to the old woman, I clapped on my hat, and ran
out of the house. I could n’t have slept a wink before speaking to you,
Mary, for the sake of old times.”

“Stephen, I thought better of you!” exclaimed the widow, with gushing
tears and preparing to close the lattice; for she was no whit inclined
to imitate the first wife of Zadig.

“But stop, and hear my story out,” cried the young sailor. “I tell you
we spoke a brig yesterday afternoon, bound in from Old England. And who
do you think I saw standing on deck, well and hearty, only a bit
thinner than he was five months ago?”

Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. “Why, it was your
husband himself,” continued the generous seaman. “He and three others
saved themselves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom upwards.
The brig will beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, and you’ll
see him here to-morrow. There’s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so
good night.”

He hurried away, while Mary watched him with a doubt of waking reality,
that seemed stronger or weaker as he alternately entered the shade of
the houses, or emerged into the broad streaks of moonlight. Gradually,
however, a blessed flood of conviction swelled into her heart, in
strength enough to overwhelm her, had its increase been more abrupt.
Her first impulse was to rouse her sister-in-law, and communicate the
new-born gladness. She opened the chamber-door, which had been closed
in the course of the night, though not latched, advanced to the
bedside, and was about to lay her hand upon the slumberer’s shoulder.
But then she remembered that Margaret would awake to thoughts of death
and woe, rendered not the less bitter by their contrast with her own
felicity. She suffered the rays of the lamp to fall upon the
unconscious form of the bereaved one. Margaret lay in unquiet sleep,
and the drapery was displaced around her; her young cheek was
rosy-tinted, and her lips half opened in a vivid smile; an expression
of joy, debarred its passage by her sealed eyelids, struggled forth
like incense from the whole countenance.

“My poor sister! you will waken too soon from that happy dream,”
thought Mary.

Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and endeavored to arrange the
bedclothes so that the chill air might not do harm to the feverish
slumberer. But her hand trembled against Margaret’s neck, a tear also
fell upon her cheek, and she suddenly awoke.




LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY


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.

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.

“This will never do for me,” thought Daffydowndilly.

Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly’s life had hitherto been passed with
his dear mother, who had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who
had always been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, therefore,
that poor Daffydowndilly found it a woful change, to be sent away from
the good lady’s side, and put under the care of this ugly-visaged
schoolmaster, who never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed to
think that little boys were created only to get lessons.

“I can’t bear it any longer,” said Daffydowndilly to himself, when he
had been at school about a week. “I’ll run away, and try to find my
dear mother; and, at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so
disagreeable as this old Mr. Toil!”

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.

“Good morning, my fine lad,” said the stranger; and his voice seemed
hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it; “whence do you
come so early, and whither are you going?”

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.

“O, very well, my little friend!” answered the stranger. “Then we will
go together; for I, likewise, have had a good deal to do with Mr. Toil,
and should be glad to find some place where he was never heard of.”

Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better pleased with a
companion of his own age, with whom he might have gathered flowers
along the roadside, or have chased butterflies, or have done many other
things to make the journey pleasant. But he had wisdom enough to
understand that he should get along through the world much easier by
having a man of experience to show him the way. So he accepted the
stranger’s proposal, and they walked on very sociably together.

They had not gone far, when the road passed by a field where some
haymakers were at work, mowing down the tall grass, and spreading it
out in the sun to dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet
smell of the new-mown grass, and thought how much pleasanter it must be
to make hay in the sunshine, under the blue sky, and with the birds
singing sweetly in the neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut up
in a dismal school-room, learning lessons all day long, and continually
scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, in the midst of these thoughts, while he
was stopping to peep over the stone wall, he started back and caught
hold of his companion’s hand.

“Quick, quick!” cried he. “Let us run away, or he will catch us!”

“Who will catch us?” asked the stranger.

“Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!” answered Daffydowndilly. “Don’t you
see him amongst the haymakers?”

And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, who seemed to be the
owner of the field, and the employer of the men at work there. He had
stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and was busily at work in his
shirt-sleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his brow; but he gave
himself not a moment’s rest, and kept crying out to the haymakers to
make hay while the sun shone. Now, strange to say, the figure and
features of this old farmer were precisely the same as those of old Mr.
Toil, who, at that very moment, must have been just entering his
school-room.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the stranger. “This is not Mr. Toil the
schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer; and people
say he is the most disagreeable man of the two. However, he won’t
trouble you, unless you become a laborer on the farm.”

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.

But, just while he was delighting himself with this idea, little
Daffydowndilly beheld something that made him catch hold of his
companion’s hand, all in a fright.

“Make haste. Quick, quick!” cried he. “There he is again!”

“Who?” asked the stranger, very quietly.

“Old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, trembling. “There! he that is
overseeing the carpenters. ‘T is my old schoolmaster, as sure as I’m
alive!”

The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly pointed his finger; and
he saw an elderly man, with a carpenter’s rule and compasses in his
hand. This person went to and fro about the unfinished house, measuring
pieces of timber, and marking out the work that was to be done, and
continually exhorting the other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever
he turned his hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed to feel that
they had a task-master over them, and sawed, and hammered, and planed,
as if for dear life.

“O no! this is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster,” said the stranger. “It
is another brother of his, who follows the trade of carpenter.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” quoth Daffydowndilly; “but if you please,
sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as possible.”

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.

“Quick step! Forward march!” shouted a gruff voice.

Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay; for this voice which
had spoken to the soldiers sounded precisely the same as that which he
had heard every day in Mr. Toil’s school-room, out of Mr. Toil’s own
mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should
he see but the very image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and
feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced
coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword,
instead of a birch rod, in his hand. And though he held his head so
high, and strutted like a turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly
and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the schoolroom.

“This is certainly old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, in a trembling
voice. “Let us run away, for fear he should make us enlist in his
company!”

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

“Well, well,” said little Daffydowndilly, “but, if you please, sir, I
don’t want to see the soldiers any more.”

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.

“O, let us stop here,” cried he to his companion; “for Mr. Toil will
never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where people
are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here!”

But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly’s tongue; for,
happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should be behold again,
but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a birch
rod, and flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he had
been a fiddler all his life! He had somewhat the air of a Frenchman,
but still looked exactly like the old schoolmaster; and Daffydowndilly
even fancied that he nodded and winked at him, and made signs for him
to join in the dance.

“O dear me!” whispered he, turning pale. “It seems as if there was
nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing
on a fiddle!”

“This is not your old schoolmaster,” observed the stranger, “but
another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the
profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally
calls himself Monsieur le Plaisir; but his real name is Toil, and those
who have known him best think him still more disagreeable than his
brothers.”

“Pray let us go a little farther,” said Daffydowndilly. “I don’t like
the looks of this fiddler at all.”

Well, thus the stranger and little Daffydowndilly went wandering along
the highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and
whithersoever they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil.
He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house,
he sat in the parlor; if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He
made himself at home in every cottage, and stole, under one disguise or
another, into the most splendid mansions. Everywhere there was sure to
be somebody wearing the likeness of Mr. Toil, and who, as the stranger
affirmed, was one of the old schoolmaster’s innumerable brethren.

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.

“Old Mr. Toil will never come here,” said he; “for he hates to see
people taking their ease.”

But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly’s eyes fell upon a person who
seemed the laziest, and heaviest, and most torpid of all those lazy and
heavy and torpid people who had lain down to sleep in the shade. Who
should it be, again, but the very image of Mr. Toil!

“There is a large family of these Toils,” remarked the stranger. “This
is another of the old schoolmaster’s brothers, who was bred in Italy,
where he acquired very idle habits, and goes by the name of Signor Far
Niente. He pretends to lead an easy life, but is really the most
miserable fellow in the family.”

“O, take me back!—take me back!” cried poor little Daffydowndilly,
bursting into tears. “If there is nothing but Toil all the world over,
I may just as well go back to the school-house!”

“Yonder it is,—there is the school-house!” said the stranger; for
though he and little Daffydowndilly had taken a great many steps, they
had travelled in a circle, instead of a straight line. “Come; we will
go back to school together.”

There was something in his companion’s voice that little Daffydowndilly
now remembered; and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner.
Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old
Mr. Toil; so that the poor child had been in company with Toil all day,
even while he was doing his best to run away from him. Some people, to
whom I have told little Daffydowndilly’s story, are of opinion that old
Mr. Toil was a magician, and possessed the power of multiplying himself
into as many shapes as he saw fit.

Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned a good lesson, and
from that time forward was diligent at his task, because he knew that
diligence is not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when
he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his
ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster’s
smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as even that of
Daffydowndilly’s mother.




MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX


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.

It was near nine o’clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed
the ferry with a single passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at
that unusual hour by the promise of an extra fare. While he stood on
the landing-place, searching in either pocket for the means of
fulfilling his agreement, the ferryman lifted a lantern, by the aid of
which, and the newly risen moon, he took a very accurate survey of the
stranger’s figure. He was a youth of barely eighteen years, evidently
country-bred, and now, as it should seem, upon his first visit to town.
He was clad in a coarse gray coat, well worn, but in excellent repair;
his under garments were durably constructed of leather, and fitted
tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs; his stockings of
blue yarn were the incontrovertible work of a mother or a sister; and
on his head was a three-cornered hat, which in its better days had
perhaps sheltered the graver brow of the lad’s father. Under his left
arm was a heavy cudgel formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part
of the hardened root; and his equipment was completed by a wallet, not
so abundantly stocked as to incommode the vigorous shoulders on which
it hung. Brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful
eyes were nature’s gifts, and worth all that art could have done for
his adornment.

The youth, one of whose names was Robin, finally drew from his pocket
the half of a little province bill of five shillings, which, in the
depreciation in that sort of currency, did but satisfy the ferryman’s
demand, with the surplus of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at
three pence. He then walked forward into the town, with as light a step
as if his day’s journey had not already exceeded thirty miles, and with
as eager an eye as if he were entering London city, instead of the
little metropolis of a New England colony. Before Robin had proceeded
far, however, it occurred to him that he knew not whither to direct his
steps; so he paused, and looked up and down the narrow street,
scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that were scattered on
either side.

“This low hovel cannot be my kinsman’s dwelling,” thought he, “nor
yonder old house, where the moonlight enters at the broken casement;
and truly I see none hereabouts that might be worthy of him. It would
have been wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and doubtless he
would have gone with me, and earned a shilling from the Major for his
pains. But the next man I meet will do as well.”

He resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now
became wider, and the houses more respectable in their appearance. He
soon discerned a figure moving on moderately in advance, and hastened
his steps to overtake it. As Robin drew nigh, he saw that the passenger
was a man in years, with a full periwig of gray hair, a wide-skirted
coat of dark cloth, and silk stockings rolled above his knees. He
carried a long and polished cane, which he struck down perpendicularly
before him at every step; and at regular intervals he uttered two
successive hems, of a peculiarly solemn and sepulchral intonation.
Having made these observations, Robin laid hold of the skirt of the old
man’s coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a
barber’s shop fell upon both their figures.

“Good evening to you, honored sir,” said he, making a low bow, and
still retaining his hold of the skirt. “I pray you tell me whereabouts
is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.”

The youth’s question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers,
whose razor was descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was
dressing a Ramillies wig, left their occupations, and came to the door.
The citizen, in the mean time, turned a long-favored countenance upon
Robin, and answered him in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His
two sepulchral hems, however, broke into the very centre of his rebuke,
with most singular effect, like a thought of the cold grave obtruding
among wrathful passions.

“Let go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak
of. What! I have authority, I have—hem, hem—authority; and if this be
the respect you show for your betters, your feet shall be brought
acquainted with the stocks by daylight, tomorrow morning!”

Robin released the old man’s skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an
ill-mannered roar of laughter from the barber’s shop. He was at first
considerably surprised by the result of his question, but, being a
shrewd youth, soon thought himself able to account for the mystery.

“This is some country representative,” was his conclusion, “who has
never seen the inside of my kinsman’s door, and lacks the breeding to
answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily—I might be tempted
to turn back and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even the
barber’s boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser
in time, friend Robin.”

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.

“Oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at
yonder table!” said Robin, with a sigh. “But the Major will make me
welcome to the best of his victuals; so I will even step boldly in, and
inquire my way to his dwelling.”

He entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the
fumes of tobacco to the public-room. It was a long and low apartment,
with oaken walls, grown dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which
was thickly sanded, but of no immaculate purity. A number of
persons—the larger part of whom appeared to be mariners, or in some way
connected with the sea—occupied the wooden benches, or leatherbottomed
chairs, conversing on various matters, and occasionally lending their
attention to some topic of general interest. Three or four little
groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which the West India trade
had long since made a familiar drink in the colony. Others, who had the
appearance of men who lived by regular and laborious handicraft,
preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more
taciturn under its influence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a
predilection for the Good Creature in some of its various shapes, for
this is a vice to which, as Fast Day sermons of a hundred years ago
will testify, we have a long hereditary claim. The only guests to whom
Robin’s sympathies inclined him were two or three sheepish countrymen,
who were using the inn somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish
caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of the
room, and heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the
bread of their own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own
chimney-smoke. But though Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these
strangers, his eyes were attracted from them to a person who stood near
the door, holding whispered conversation with a group of ill-dressed
associates. His features were separately striking almost to
grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on the memory.
The forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between;
the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of
more than a finger’s breadth; the eyebrows were deep and shaggy, and
the eyes glowed beneath them like fire in a cave.

While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman’s
dwelling, he was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained
white apron, who had come to pay his professional welcome to the
stranger. Being in the second generation from a French Protestant, he
seemed to have inherited the courtesy of his parent nation; but no
variety of circumstances was ever known to change his voice from the
one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin.

“From the country, I presume, sir?” said he, with a profound bow. “Beg
leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a long
stay with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and much that
may interest a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your commands in
respect to supper?”

“The man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that I am
related to the Major!” thought Robin, who had hitherto experienced
little superfluous civility.

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.

Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption of
confidence as befitted the Major’s relative. “My honest friend,” he
said, “I shall make it a point to patronize your house on some
occasion, when”—here he could not help lowering his voice—“when I may
have more than a parchment three-pence in my pocket. My present
business,” continued he, speaking with lofty confidence, “is merely to
inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.”

There was a sudden and general movement in the room, which Robin
interpreted as expressing the eagerness of each individual to become
his guide. But the innkeeper turned his eyes to a written paper on the
wall, which he read, or seemed to read, with occasional recurrences to
the young man’s figure.

“What have we here?” said he, breaking his speech into little dry
fragments. “‘Left the house of the subscriber, bounden servant,
Hezekiah Mudge,—had on, when he went away, gray coat, leather breeches,
master’s third-best hat. One pound currency reward to whosoever shall
lodge him in any jail of the providence.’ Better trudge, boy; better
trudge!”

Robin had begun to draw his hand towards the lighter end of the oak
cudgel, but a strange hostility in every countenance induced him to
relinquish his purpose of breaking the courteous innkeeper’s head. As
he turned to leave the room, he encountered a sneering glance from the
bold-featured personage whom he had before noticed; and no sooner was
he beyond the door, than he heard a general laugh, in which the
innkeeper’s voice might be distinguished, like the dropping of small
stones into a kettle.

“Now, is it not strange,” thought Robin, with his usual shrewdness, “is
it not strange that the confession of an empty pocket should outweigh
the name of my kinsman, Major Molineux? Oh, if I had one of those
grinning rascals in the woods, where I and my oak sapling grew up
together, I would teach him that my arm is heavy though my purse be
light!”

On turning the corner of the narrow lane, Robin found himself in a
spacious street, with an unbroken line of lofty houses on each side,
and a steepled building at the upper end, whence the ringing of a bell
announced the hour of nine. The light of the moon, and the lamps from
the numerous shop-windows, discovered people promenading on the
pavement, and amongst them Robin had hoped to recognize his hitherto
inscrutable relative. The result of his former inquiries made him
unwilling to hazard another, in a scene of such publicity, and he
determined to walk slowly and silently up the street, thrusting his
face close to that of every elderly gentleman, in search of the Major’s
lineaments. In his progress, Robin encountered many gay and gallant
figures. Embroidered garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs,
gold-laced hats, and silver-hilted swords glided past him and dazzled
his optics. Travelled youths, imitators of the European fine gentlemen
of the period, trod jauntily along, half dancing to the fashionable
tunes which they hummed, and making poor Robin ashamed of his quiet and
natural gait. At length, after many pauses to examine the gorgeous
display of goods in the shop-windows, and after suffering some rebukes
for the impertinence of his scrutiny into people’s faces, the Major’s
kinsman found himself near the steepled building, still unsuccessful in
his search. As yet, however, he had seen only one side of the thronged
street; so Robin crossed, and continued the same sort of inquisition
down the opposite pavement, with stronger hopes than the philosopher
seeking an honest man, but with no better fortune. He had arrived about
midway towards the lower end, from which his course began, when he
overheard the approach of some one who struck down a cane on the
flag-stones at every step, uttering at regular intervals, two
sepulchral hems.

“Mercy on us!” quoth Robin, recognizing the sound.

Turning a corner, which chanced to be close at his right hand, he
hastened to pursue his researches in some other part of the town. His
patience now was wearing low, and he seemed to feel more fatigue from
his rambles since he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of
several days on the other side. Hunger also pleaded loudly within him,
and Robin began to balance the propriety of demanding, violently, and
with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance from the first solitary
passenger whom he should meet. While a resolution to this effect was
gaining strength, he entered a street of mean appearance, on either
side of which a row of ill-built houses was straggling towards the
harbor. The moonlight fell upon no passenger along the whole extent,
but in the third domicile which Robin passed there was a half-opened
door, and his keen glance detected a woman’s garment within.

“My luck may be better here,” said he to himself.

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.

“Pretty mistress,” for I may call her so with a good conscience thought
the shrewd youth, since I know nothing to the contrary,—“my sweet
pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me whereabouts I must
seek the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?”

Robin’s voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothing
to be shunned in the handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and
came forth into the moonlight. She was a dainty little figure with a
white neck, round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which
her scarlet petticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing
in a balloon. Moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her hair dark
beneath the little cap, and her bright eyes possessed a sly freedom,
which triumphed over those of Robin.

“Major Molineux dwells here,” said this fair woman.

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.

“Now, truly, I am in luck,” replied Robin, cunningly, “and so indeed is
my kinsman, the Major, in having so pretty a housekeeper. But I prithee
trouble him to step to the door; I will deliver him a message from his
friends in the country, and then go back to my lodgings at the inn.”

“Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or more,” said the lady of the
scarlet petticoat; “and it would be to little purpose to disturb him
to-night, seeing his evening draught was of the strongest. But he is a
kind-hearted man, and it would be as much as my life’s worth to let a
kinsman of his turn away from the door. You are the good old
gentleman’s very picture, and I could swear that was his rainy-weather
hat. Also he has garments very much resembling those leather
small-clothes. But come in, I pray, for I bid you hearty welcome in his
name.”

So saying, the fair and hospitable dame took our hero by the hand; and
the touch was light, and the force was gentleness, and though Robin
read in her eyes what he did not hear in her words, yet the
slender-waisted woman in the scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the
athletic country youth. She had drawn his half-willing footsteps nearly
to the threshold, when the opening of a door in the neighborhood
startled the Major’s housekeeper, and, leaving the Major’s kinsman, she
vanished speedily into her own domicile. A heavy yawn preceded the
appearance of a man, who, like the Moonshine of Pyramus and Thisbe,
carried a lantern, needlessly aiding his sister luminary in the
heavens. As he walked sleepily up the street, he turned his broad, dull
face on Robin, and displayed a long staff, spiked at the end.

“Home, vagabond, home!” said the watchman, in accents that seemed to
fall asleep as soon as they were uttered. “Home, or we’ll set you in
the stocks by peep of day!”

“This is the second hint of the kind,” thought Robin. “I wish they
would end my difficulties, by setting me there to-night.”

Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the
guardian of midnight order, which at first prevented him from asking
his usual question. But just when the man was about to vanish behind
the corner, Robin resolved not to lose the opportunity, and shouted
lustily after him, “I say, friend! will you guide me to the house of my
kinsman, Major Molineux?”

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.

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.

“Halt, honest man, and answer me a question,” said he, very resolutely.
“Tell me, this instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman,
Major Molineux!”

“Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!” said a
deep, gruff voice, which Robin partly remembered. “Let me pass, or I’ll
strike you to the earth!”

“No, no, neighbor!” cried Robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then
thrusting its larger end close to the man’s muffled face. “No, no, I’m
not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass till I have an answer to
my question. Whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major
Molineux?” The stranger, instead of attempting to force his passage,
stepped back into the moonlight, unmuffled his face, and stared full
into that of Robin.

“Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux will pass by,” said he.

Robin gazed with dismay and astonishment on the unprecedented
physiognomy of the speaker. The forehead with its double prominence the
broad hooked nose, the shaggy eyebrows, and fiery eyes were those which
he had noticed at the inn, but the man’s complexion had undergone a
singular, or, more properly, a twofold change. One side of the face
blazed an intense red, while the other was black as midnight, the
division line being in the broad bridge of the nose; and a mouth which
seemed to extend from ear to ear was black or red, in contrast to the
color of the cheek. The effect was as if two individual devils, a fiend
of fire and a fiend of darkness, had united themselves to form this
infernal visage. The stranger grinned in Robin’s face, muffled his
party-colored features, and was out of sight in a moment.

“Strange things we travellers see!” ejaculated Robin.

He seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door,
resolving to wait the appointed time for his kinsman. A few moments
were consumed in philosophical speculations upon the species of man who
had just left him; but having settled this point shrewdly, rationally,
and satisfactorily, he was compelled to look elsewhere for his
amusement. And first he threw his eyes along the street. It was of more
respectable appearance than most of those into which he had wandered,
and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, a beautiful
strangeness in familiar objects, gave something of romance to a scene
that might not have possessed it in the light of day. The irregular and
often quaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were
broken into numerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and
narrow, into a single point, and others again were square; the pure
snow-white of some of their complexions, the aged darkness of others,
and the thousand sparklings, reflected from bright substances in the
walls of many; these matters engaged Robin’s attention for a while, and
then began to grow wearisome. Next he endeavored to define the forms of
distant objects, starting away, with almost ghostly indistinctness,
just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally he took a minute
survey of an edifice which stood on the opposite side of the street,
directly in front of the church-door, where he was stationed. It was a
large, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony,
which rested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window,
communicating therewith.

“Perhaps this is the very house I have been seeking,” thought Robin.

Then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which
swept continually along the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to
an unaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull, dreamy sound,
compounded of many noises, each of which was at too great a distance to
be separately heard. Robin marvelled at this snore of a sleeping town,
and marvelled more whenever its continuity was broken by now and then a
distant shout, apparently loud where it originated. But altogether it
was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off its drowsy influence,
Robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he might view the
interior of the church. There the moonbeams came trembling in, and fell
down upon the deserted pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. A
fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and one
solitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great Bible.
Had nature, in that deep hour, become a worshipper in the house which
man had builded? Or was that heavenly light the visible sanctity of the
place,—visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the
walls? The scene made Robin’s heart shiver with a sensation of
loneliness stronger than he had ever felt in the remotest depths of his
native woods; so he turned away and sat down again before the door.
There were graves around the church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded
into Robin’s breast. What if the object of his search, which had been
so often and so strangely thwarted, were all the time mouldering in his
shroud? What if his kinsman should glide through yonder gate, and nod
and smile to him in dimly passing by?

“Oh that any breathing thing were here with me!” said Robin.

Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent them over
forest, hill, and stream, and attempted to imagine how that evening of
ambiguity and weariness had been spent by his father’s household. He
pictured them assembled at the door, beneath the tree, the great old
tree, which had been spared for its huge twisted trunk and venerable
shade, when a thousand leafy brethren fell. There, at the going down of
the summer sun, it was his father’s custom to perform domestic worship
that the neighbors might come and join with him like brothers of the
family, and that the wayfaring man might pause to drink at that
fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening the memory of home.
Robin distinguished the seat of every individual of the little
audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding the Scriptures in
the golden light that fell from the western clouds; he beheld him close
the book and all rise up to pray. He heard the old thanksgivings for
daily mercies, the old supplications for their continuance to which he
had so often listened in weariness, but which were now among his dear
remembrances. He perceived the slight inequality of his father’s voice
when he came to speak of the absent one; he noted how his mother turned
her face to the broad and knotted trunk; how his elder brother scorned,
because the beard was rough upon his upper lip, to permit his features
to be moved; how the younger sister drew down a low hanging branch
before her eyes; and how the little one of all, whose sports had
hitherto broken the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer for her
playmate, and burst into clamorous grief. Then he saw them go in at the
door; and when Robin would have entered also, the latch tinkled into
its place, and he was excluded from his home.

“Am I here, or there?” cried Robin, starting; for all at once, when his
thoughts had become visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide,
solitary street shone out before him.

He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon
the large edifice which he had surveyed before. But still his mind kept
vibrating between fancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the
balcony lengthened into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to
human figures, settled again into their true shape and size, and then
commenced a new succession of changes. For a single moment, when he
deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a visage—one which he
seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as his kinsman’s—was
looking towards him from the Gothic window. A deeper sleep wrestled
with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound of footsteps along
the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a man passing
at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, and
lamentable cry.

“Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major
Molineux?”

The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the passenger,
barely able to discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of the
steeple, traversed the street to obtain a nearer view. He was himself a
gentleman in his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether
prepossessing countenance. Perceiving a country youth, apparently
homeless and without friends, he accosted him in a tone of real
kindness, which had become strange to Robin’s ears.

“Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?” inquired he. “Can I be
of service to you in any way?”

“I am afraid not, sir,” replied Robin, despondingly; “yet I shall take
it kindly, if you’ll answer me a single question. I’ve been searching,
half the night, for one Major Molineux, now, sir, is there really such
a person in these parts, or am I dreaming?”

“Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me,” said the
gentleman, smiling. “Have you any objection to telling me the nature of
your business with him?”

Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on
a small salary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and
Major Molineux were brothers’ children. The Major, having inherited
riches, and acquired civil and military rank, had visited his cousin,
in great pomp, a year or two before; had manifested much interest in
Robin and an elder brother, and, being childless himself, had thrown
out hints respecting the future establishment of one of them in life.
The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm which his father
cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore
determined that Robin should profit by his kinsman’s generous
intentions, especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was
thought to possess other necessary endowments.

“For I have the name of being a shrewd youth,” observed Robin, in this
part of his story.

“I doubt not you deserve it,” replied his new friend, good-naturedly;
“but pray proceed.”

“Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you
see,” continued Robin, drawing himself up to his full height, “I
thought it high time to begin in the world. So my mother and sister put
me in handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last
year’s salary, and five days ago I started for this place, to pay the
Major a visit. But, would you believe it, sir! I crossed the ferry a
little after dark, and have yet found nobody that would show me the way
to his dwelling; only, an hour or two since, I was told to wait here,
and Major Molineux would pass by.”

“Can you describe the man who told you this?” inquired the gentleman.

“Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir,” replied Robin, “with two
great bumps on his forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what struck
me as the strangest, his face was of two different colors. Do you
happen to know such a man, sir?”

“Not intimately,” answered the stranger, “but I chanced to meet him a
little time previous to your stopping me. I believe you may trust his
word, and that the Major will very shortly pass through this street. In
the mean time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting,
I will sit down here upon the steps and bear you company.”

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.

“What may be the meaning of this uproar?” asked he. “Truly, if your
town be always as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an
inhabitant.”

“Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous
fellows abroad to-night,” replied the gentleman. “You must not expect
all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. But the
watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and—”

“Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day,” interrupted Robin
recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. “But,
dear sir, if I may trust my ears, an army of watchmen would never make
head against such a multitude of rioters. There were at least a
thousand voices went up to make that one shout.”

“May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two complexions?”
said his friend.

“Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!” responded
the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the Major’s
housekeeper.

The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so
evident and continual, that Robin’s curiosity was strongly excited. In
addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from many instruments
of discord, and a wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals.
Robin rose from the steps, and looked wistfully towards a point whither
people seemed to be hastening.

“Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on,” exclaimed he “I have
laughed very little since I left home, sir, and should be sorry to lose
an opportunity. Shall we step round the corner by that darkish house
and take our share of the fun?”

“Sit down again, sit down, good Robin,” replied the gentleman, laying
his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. “You forget that we must wait
here for your kinsman; and there is reason to believe that he will pass
by, in the course of a very few moments.”

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.

“Will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?” inquired
the gentleman.

“Indeed, I can’t warrant it, sir; but I’ll take my stand here, and keep
a bright lookout,” answered Robin, descending to the outer edge of the
pavement.

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.

“The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me,” muttered Robin, with an
indefinite but an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part
in the pageantry.

The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon
the country youth, as the steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed
his eyes from those fiery ones, the musicians were passing before him,
and the torches were close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the
latter formed a veil which he could not penetrate. The rattling of
wheels over the stones sometimes found its way to his ear, and confused
traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and then melted into the
vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered a command to halt:
the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their peace; the
shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained only a
universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin’s eyes was an
uncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon
shone out like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his
kinsman, Major Molineux!

He was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square
features, betokening a steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies
had found means to shake it. His face was pale as death, and far more
ghastly; the broad forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his
eyebrows formed one grizzled line; his eyes were red and wild, and the
foam hung white upon his quivering lip. His whole frame was agitated by
a quick and continual tremor, which his pride strove to quell, even in
those circumstances of overwhelming humiliation. But perhaps the
bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of Robin; for he
evidently knew him on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing the
foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. They stared at each other
in silence, and Robin’s knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a
mixture of pity and terror. Soon, however, a bewildering excitement
began to seize upon his mind; the preceding adventures of the night,
the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the torches, the confused din
and the hush that followed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by that
great multitude,—all this, and, more than all, a perception of
tremendous ridicule in the whole scene, affected him with a sort of
mental inebriety. At that moment a voice of sluggish merriment saluted
Robin’s ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner of
the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily
enjoying the lad’s amazement. Then he heard a peal of laughter like the
ringing of silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met
his, and he saw the lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry
cachinnation appealed to his memory, and, standing on tiptoe in the
crowd, with his white apron over his head, he beheld the courteous
little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over the heads of the
multitude a great, broad laugh, broken in the midst by two sepulchral
hems; thus, “Haw, haw, haw,—hem, hem,—haw, haw, haw, haw!”

The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and
thither Robin turned his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood the
old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a
nightcap, which was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk
stockings hanging about his legs. He supported himself on his polished
cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, which manifested itself on his
solemn old features like a funny inscription on a tombstone. Then Robin
seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of the inn, and
of all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion was
spreading among the multitude, when all at once, it seized upon Robin,
and he sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the
street,—every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but
Robin’s shout was the loudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from
their silvery islands, as the congregated mirth went roaring up the
sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow. “Oho,” quoth he, “the
old earth is frolicsome to-night!”

When there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the
leader gave the sign, the procession resumed its march. On they went,
like fiends that throng in mockery around some dead potentate, mighty
no more, but majestic still in his agony. On they went, in
counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, in frenzied merriment,
trampling all on an old man’s heart. On swept the tumult, and left a
silent street behind.


“Well, Robin, are you dreaming?” inquired the gentleman, laying his
hand on the youth’s shoulder.

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.

“Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?” said he,
after a moment’s pause.

“You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?” observed his
companion, with a smile.

“Why, yes, sir,” replied Robin, rather dryly. “Thanks to you, and to my
other friends, I have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce desire
to see my face again. I begin to grow weary of a town life, sir. Will
you show me the way to the ferry?”

“No, my good friend Robin,—not to-night, at least,” said the gentleman.
“Some few days hence, if you wish it, I will speed you on your journey.
Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd
youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman,
Major Molineux.”




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