TWICE-TOLD TALES

by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

PHILADELPHIA:
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER,
23 SOUTH NINTH STREET

1889


CONTENTS

 THE GRAY CHAMPION
 SUNDAY AT HOME
 THE WEDDING-KNELL
 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL
 THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT
 THE GENTLE BOY
 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE
 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE
 WAKEFIELD
 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP
 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE
 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES
 DAVID SWAN
 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE
 THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS
 THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY
 THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN
 FANCY’S SHOW-BOX
 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT
 LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE:
     I. HOWE’S MASQUERADE
     II. EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT
     III. LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE
     IV. OLD ESTHER DUDLEY
 THE HAUNTED MIND
 THE VILLAGE UNCLE
 THE AMBITIOUS GUEST
 THE SISTER-YEARS
 SNOWFLAKES
 THE SEVEN VAGABONDS
 THE WHITE OLD MAID
 PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE
 CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL
 THE SHAKER BRIDAL
 NIGHT-SKETCHES
 ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS
 THE LILY’S QUEST
 FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE
 EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD
 THE THREEFOLD DESTINY




Twice-Told Tales




THE GRAY CHAMPION


There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual
pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on
the Revolution. James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the
Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent a
harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger
our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a
single characteristic of tyranny—a governor and council holding office
from the king and wholly independent of the country; laws made and
taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by their
representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and the titles
of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by
restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the
first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For
two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial
love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the
mother-country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector
or popish monarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had
been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying
far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects
of Great Britain.

At length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of Orange had
ventured on an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph of
civil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It was but
a doubtful whisper; it might be false or the attempt might fail, and in
either case the man that stirred against King James would lose his
head. Still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people
smiled mysteriously in the streets and threw bold glances at their
oppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued and silent
agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from
its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to
avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm
their despotism by yet harsher measures.

One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite
councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the
governor’s guard and made their appearance in the streets of Boston.
The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of the drum
at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets less as the
martial music of the soldiers than as a muster-call to the inhabitants
themselves. A multitude by various avenues assembled in King street,
which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterward, of
another encounter between the troops of Britain and a people struggling
against her tyranny.

Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this
crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features
of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency
than on happier occasions. There was the sober garb, the general
severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural
forms of speech and the confidence in Heaven’s blessing on a righteous
cause which would have marked a band of the original Puritans when
threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time
for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in the street
that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house was
reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the
Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their
aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here,
also, were the veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned villages
and slaughtered young and old with pious fierceness while the godly
souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several
ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs,
regarded them with such reverence as if there were sanctity in their
very garments. These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the
people, but not to disperse them.

Meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the
town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country
into a ferment was almost the Universal subject of inquiry, and
variously explained.

“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,” cried some, “because
he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to be
dragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King
street.”

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their
minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic
dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his
profession—a crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied at that period
that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take the place
of that worthy in the _Primer_.

“The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew,” cried
others. “We are to be massacred, man and male-child.”

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class
believed the governor’s object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor
under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first
settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing
that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of
military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing
himself of their chief.

“Stand firm for the old charter-governor!” shouted the crowd, seizing
upon the idea—“the good old Governor Bradstreet!”

While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the
well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly
ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with
characteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constituted
authorities.

“My children,” concluded this venerable person, “do nothing rashly. Cry
not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England and expect patiently
what the Lord will do in this matter.”

The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of the drum
had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with
reverberations from house to house and the regular tramp of martial
footsteps it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made
their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with
shouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as to present a row of
fires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress of a
machine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next,
moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a
party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros,
elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were his favorite
councillors and the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand
rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that “blasted wretch,” as Cotton
Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government
and was followed with a sensible curse-through life and to his grave.
On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he
rode along. Dudley came behind with a downcast look, dreading, as well
he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him,
their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native
land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor and two or three civil
officers under the Crown were also there. But the figure which most
attracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feeling was the
Episcopal clergyman of King’s Chapel riding haughtily among the
magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representative of
prelacy and persecution, the union of Church and State, and all those
abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Another
guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear.

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its
moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the
nature of things and the character of the people—on one side the
religious multitude with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the
other the group of despotic rulers with the high churchman in the midst
and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad,
flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority and scoffing at the
universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to
deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience
could be secured.

“O Lord of hosts,” cried a voice among the crowd, “provide a champion
for thy people!”

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald’s cry to
introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were
now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the
soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. The
intervening space was empty—a paved solitude between lofty edifices
which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly there was seen
the figure of an ancient man who seemed to have emerged from among the
people and was walking by himself along the centre of the street to
confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress—a dark cloak and
a steeple-crowned hat in the fashion of at least fifty years before,
with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist
the tremulous gait of age.

When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly
round, displaying a face of antique majesty rendered doubly venerable
by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at
once of encouragement and warning, then turned again and resumed his
way.

“Who is this gray patriarch?” asked the young men of their sires.

“Who is this venerable brother?” asked the old men among themselves.

But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of
fourscore years and upward, were disturbed, deeming it strange that
they should forget one of such evident authority whom they must have
known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop and all the old
councillors, giving laws and making prayers and leading them against
the savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with
locks as gray in their youth as their own were now. And the young! How
could he have passed so utterly from their memories—that hoary sire,
the relic of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had surely
been bestowed on their uncovered heads in childhood?

“Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who can this old man be?”
whispered the wondering crowd.

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his
solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near the
advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his
ear, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the
decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in
gray but unbroken dignity. Now he marched onward with a warrior’s step,
keeping time to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced on one
side and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other,
till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped
his staff by the middle and held it before him like a leader’s
truncheon.

“Stand!” cried he.

The eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike peal
of that voice—fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be
raised to God in prayer—were irresistible. At the old man’s word and
outstretched arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and the
advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the
multitude. That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so
gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some
old champion of the righteous cause whom the oppressor’s drum had
summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and
looked for the deliverance of New England.

The governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves
brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would
have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but, glancing his
severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it
sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the dark old
man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council with
soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of
the Crown, had no alternative but obedience.

“What does this old fellow here?” cried Edward Randolph, fiercely.—“On,
Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same
choice that you give all his countrymen—to stand aside or be trampled
on.”

“Nay, nay! Let us show respect to the good grandsire,” said Bullivant,
laughing. “See you not he is some old round-headed dignitary who hath
lain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change of
times? Doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old
Noll’s name.”

“Are you mad, old man?” demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh
tones. “How dare you stay the march of King James’s governor?”

“I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now,” replied the gray
figure, with stern composure. “I am here, Sir Governor, because the cry
of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and,
beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to
appear once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints. And
what speak ye of James? There is no longer a popish tyrant on the
throne of England, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-word in
this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. Back, thou
that wast a governor, back! With this night thy power is ended.
To-morrow, the prison! Back, lest I foretell the scaffold!”

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer and drinking in the words
of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one
unaccustomed to converse except with the dead of many years ago. But
his voice stirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers, not wholly
without arms and ready to convert the very stones of the street into
deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then he cast
his hard and cruel eye over the multitude and beheld them burning with
that lurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to quench, and again he
fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurely in an open space
where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his thoughts
he uttered no word which might discover, but, whether the oppressor
were overawed by the Gray Champion’s look or perceived his peril in the
threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back and
ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before
another sunset the governor and all that rode so proudly with him were
prisoners, and long ere it was known that James had abdicated King
William was proclaimed throughout New England.

But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that when the troops had
gone from King street and the people were thronging tumultuously in
their rear, Bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace a form
more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed that while they
marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect the old man had faded
from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till where
he stood there was an empty space. But all agreed that the hoary shape
was gone. The men of that generation watched for his reappearance in
sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his
funeral passed nor where his gravestone was.

And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in the
records of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence too
mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times for its humbling
lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I have heard
that whenever the descendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of
their sires the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he
walked once more in King street. Five years later, in the twilight of
an April morning, he stood on the green beside the meeting-house at
Lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a slab of slate inlaid
commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers
were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through that night
the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be ere he comes
again! His hour is one of darkness and adversity and peril. But should
domestic tyranny oppress us or the invader’s step pollute our soil,
still may the Gray Champion come! for he is the type of New England’s
hereditary spirit, and his shadowy march on the eve of danger must ever
be the pledge that New England’s sons will vindicate their ancestry.




SUNDAY AT HOME


Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrust back the curtain to
watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite my
chamber window. First the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainter
lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower
and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold as it points to
the gilded figure of the hour. Now the loftiest window gleams, and now
the lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.
At length the morning glory in its descent from heaven comes down the
stone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing with fresh
radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the
nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks though the same sun brightens
it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of
brightness for the Sabbath.

By dwelling near a church a person soon contracts an attachment for the
edifice. We naturally personify it, and conceive its massy walls and
its dim emptiness to be instinct with a calm and meditative and
somewhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands foremost in our
thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses us as a giant with a mind
comprehensive and discriminating enough to care for the great and small
concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a moral to the few
that think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of their separate
and most secret affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the
hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither have gladness
and festivity found a better utterance than by its tongue; and when the
dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy
voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite of this connection with human
interests, what a moral loneliness on week-days broods round about its
stately height! It has no kindred with the houses above which it
towers; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare—the lonelier because
the crowd are elbowing their passage at its base. A glance at the body
of the church deepens this impression. Within, by the light of distant
windows, amid refracted shadows we discern the vacant pews and empty
galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit and the clock which
tells to solitude how time is passing. Time—where man lives not—what is
it but eternity? And in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up
throughout the week all thoughts and feelings that have reference to
eternity, until the holy day comes round again to let them forth. Might
not, then, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town,
with space for old trees to wave around it and throw their solemn
shadows over a quiet green? We will say more of this hereafter.

But on the Sabbath I watch the earliest sunshine and fancy that a
holier brightness marks the day when there shall be no buzz of voices
on the Exchange nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd nor business
anywhere but at church. Many have fancied so. For my own part, whether
I see it scattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across
the fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out the
figure of the casement on my chamber floor, still I recognize the
Sabbath sunshine. And ever let me recognize it! Some illusions—and this
among them—are the shadows of great truths. Doubts may flit around me
or seem to close their evil wings and settle down, but so long as I
imagine that the earth is hallowed and the light of heaven retains its
sanctity on the Sabbath—while that blessed sunshine lives within
me—never can my soul have lost the instinct of its faith. If it have
gone astray, it will return again.

I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths from morning till night behind
the curtain of my open window. Are they spent amiss? Every spot so near
the church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple
should be deemed consecrated ground to-day. With stronger truth be it
said that a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil
one may convert a temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has no such
holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious, potency. It must suffice
that, though my form be absent, my inner man goes constantly to church,
while many whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats have left
their souls at home. But I am there even before my friend the sexton.
At length he comes—a man of kindly but sombre aspect, in dark gray
clothes, and hair of the same mixture. He comes and applies his key to
the wide portal. Now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews or
ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy
the music of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too! All the steeples in
town are talking together aloft in the sunny air and rejoicing among
themselves while their spires point heavenward. Meantime, here are the
children assembling to the Sabbath-school, which is kept somewhere
within the church. Often, while looking at the arched portal, I have
been gladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys
in pink, blue, yellow and crimson frocks bursting suddenly forth into
the sunshine like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in
the solemn gloom. Or I might compare them to cherubs haunting that holy
place.

About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell
individuals of the congregation begin to appear. The earliest is
invariably an old woman in black whose bent frame and rounded shoulders
are evidently laden with some heavy affliction which she is eager to
rest upon the altar. Would that the Sabbath came twice as often, for
the sake of that sorrowful old soul! There is an elderly man, also, who
arrives in good season and leans against the corner of the tower, just
within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome brow. I
sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. After
these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes, either
disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity.
At last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the
steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower
to its foundation. As if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks
of the street, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with
two long lines of people, all converging hitherward and streaming into
the church. Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer—a deeper
thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness—until it sets
down the wealthy worshippers at the portal among their humblest
brethren. Beyond that entrance—in theory, at least—there are no
distinctions of earthly rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which
is flaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on the hither side.
Those pretty girls! Why will they disturb my pious meditations? Of all
days in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the
Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival
the blessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven. Were I the
minister himself, I must needs look. One girl is white muslin from the
waist upward and black silk downward to her slippers; a second blushes
from top-knot to shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a
pervading yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The
greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. Their
veils, especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the
general effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up
the steps and vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all—though it is
very strange that I should know it—wear white stockings, white as snow,
and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above
the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black
one.

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity,
needing no black silk gown to denote his office. His aspect claims my
reverence, but cannot win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter
keeping fast the gate of Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful,
on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. By middle
age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been
attempered by it. As the minister passes into the church the bell holds
its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away.
The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at my
window-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that he
has caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies
asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me,
and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties. Oh,
I ought to have gone to church! The bustle of the rising congregation
reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could I bring my heart
into unison with those who are praying in yonder church and lift it
heavenward with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct request,
would not that be the safest kind of prayer?—“Lord, look down upon me
in mercy!” With that sentiment gushing from my soul, might I not leave
all the rest to him?

Hark! the hymn! This, at least, is a portion of the service which I can
enjoy better than if I sat within the walls, where the full choir and
the massive melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon me. At
this distance it thrills through my frame and plays upon my
heart-strings with a pleasure both of the sense and spirit. Heaven be
praised! I know nothing of music as a science, and the most elaborate
harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse’s lullaby.
The strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my mind with fanciful
echoes till I start from my reverie and find that the sermon has
commenced. It is my misfortune seldom to fructify in a regular way by
any but printed sermons. The first strong idea which the preacher
utters gives birth to a train of thought and leads me onward step by
step quite out of hearing of the good man’s voice unless he be indeed a
son of thunder. At my open window, catching now and then a sentence of
the “parson’s saw,” I am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit
stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this one discourse will
be the texts of many sermons preached by those colleague
pastors—colleagues, but often disputants—my Mind and Heart. The former
pretends to be a scholar and perplexes me with doctrinal points; the
latter takes me on the score of feeling; and both, like several other
preachers, spend their strength to very little purpose. I, their sole
auditor, cannot always understand them.

Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind my
curtain just before the close of the afternoon service. The hour-hand
on the dial has passed beyond four o’clock. The declining sun is hidden
behind the steeple and throws its shadow straight across the street; so
that my chamber is darkened as with a cloud. Around the church door all
is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold. A
commotion is heard. The seats are slammed down and the pew doors thrown
back; a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles, and
the congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. Foremost scampers
a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown
men, and lastly a crowd of females with young children and a few
scattered husbands. This instantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness
is one of the pleasantest scenes of the day. Some of the good people
are rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped,
as it were, in a sort of holy trance by the fervor of their devotion.
There is a young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always
to flourish a white handkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair of
black silk pantaloons which shine as if varnished. They must have been
made of the stuff called “everlasting,” or perhaps of the same piece as
Christian’s garments in the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, for he put them on
two summers ago and has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken a
great liking to those black silk pantaloons. But now, with nods and
greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband’s arm and paces
gravely homeward, while the girls also flutter away after arranging
sunset walks with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve
of love. At length the whole congregation is dispersed. No; here, with
faces as glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sable
gentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens his severe
visage and bestows a kind word on each. Poor souls! To them the most
captivating picture of bliss in heaven is “There we shall be white!”

All is solitude again. But hark! A broken warbling of voices, and now,
attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ.
Who are the choristers? Let me dream that the angels who came down from
heaven this blessed morn to blend themselves with the worship of the
truly good are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. On the
wings of that rich melody they were borne upward.

This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A few of the
singing-men and singing-women had lingered behind their fellows and
raised their voices fitfully and blew a careless note upon the organ.
Yet it lifted my soul higher than all their former strains. They are
gone—the sons and daughters of Music—and the gray sexton is just
closing the portal. For six days more there will be no face of man in
the pews and aisles and galleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, nor music
in the choir. Was it worth while to rear this massive edifice to be a
desert in the heart of the town and populous only for a few hours of
each seventh day? Oh, but the church is a symbol of religion. May its
site, which was consecrated on the day when the first tree was felled,
be kept holy for ever, a spot of solitude and peace amid the trouble
and vanity of our week-day world! There is a moral, and a religion too,
even in the silent walls. And may the steeple still point heavenward
and be decked with the hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn!




THE WEDDING-KNELL


There is a certain church, in the city of New York which I have always
regarded with peculiar interest on account of a marriage there
solemnized under very singular circumstances in my grandmother’s
girlhood. That venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene,
and ever after made it her favorite narrative. Whether the edifice now
standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred I
am not antiquarian enough to know, nor would it be worth while to
correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error by reading the date of
its erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately church
surrounded by an enclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear
urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the
tributes of private affection or more splendid memorials of historic
dust. With such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath
its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest.

The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement,
though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady’s part and
forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five Mr.
Ellenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men
who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a
vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though always an
indolent one, because his studies had no definite object either of
public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and
fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable
relaxation in his behalf of the common rules of society. In truth,
there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinking
with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality
so often to become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity of
conduct, that people searched his lineage for a hereditary taint of
insanity. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their origin
in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and in
feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. If he were
mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and
abortive life.

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom in
everything but age as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquish
her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own
years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was
left in possession of a splendid fortune. A Southern gentleman
considerably younger than herself succeeded to her hand and carried her
to Charleston, where after many uncomfortable years she found herself
again a widow. It would have been singular if any uncommon delicacy of
feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney’s; it could not
but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of
her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart’s principles
consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her Southern
husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his
death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was that wisest but
unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the
heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that should have been her
happiness and making the best of what remained. Sage in most matters,
the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty that made
her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not remain beautiful by
proxy in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old
and ugly on any consideration; she struggled with Time, and held fast
her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have
relinquished the spoil as not worth the trouble of acquiring it.

The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an
unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s
return to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones,
seemed to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive
part in arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency
which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood,
and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance in
this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a
woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. All
the wonder was how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom and
agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a
measure at once so prudent and so laughable. But while people talked
the wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized according to
the Episcopalian forms and in open church, with a degree of publicity
that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the
galleries and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. It had
been arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the
parties should proceed separately to church. By some accident the
bridegroom was a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal
attendants, with whose arrival, after this tedious but necessary
preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence.

The clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and the
gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal-party came through the church
door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The
whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and
gayety. As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars
seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if
they mistook the church for a ball-room and were ready to dance hand in
hand to the altar. So brilliant was the spectacle that few took notice
of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the moment
when the bride’s foot touched the threshold the bell swung heavily in
the tower above her and sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations
died away, and returned with prolonged solemnity as she entered the
body of the church.

“Good heavens! What an omen!” whispered a young lady to her lover.

“On my honor,” replied the gentleman, “I believe the bell has the good
taste to toll of its own accord. What has she to do with weddings? If
you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out
its merriest peal. It has only a funeral-knell for her.”

The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the
bustle of entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell—or, at
least, to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar.
They therefore continued to advance with undiminished gayety. The
gorgeous dresses of the time—the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced
hats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery, the
buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the best advantage on
persons suited to such finery—made the group appear more like a
bright-colored picture than anything real. But by what perversity of
taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled
and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor
of attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age
and become a moral to the beautiful around her? On they went, however,
and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke
of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and
obscuring the bright-pageant till it shone forth again as from a mist.

This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together, while
a slight scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confused
whispering among the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might
have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenly
shaken by a puff of wind which threatened to scatter the leaves of an
old brown, withered rose on the same stalk with two dewy buds, such
being the emblem of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. But
her heroism was admirable. She had started with an irrepressible
shudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart;
then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she
took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. The bell continued to
swing, strike and vibrate with the same doleful regularity as when a
corpse is on its way to the tomb.

“My young friends here have their nerves a little shaken,” said the
widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. “But so many
weddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and
yet turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune under
such different auspices.”

“Madam,” answered the rector, in great perplexity, “this strange
occurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous Bishop
Taylor wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe
that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the
bridal-chamber in black and cut the wedding-garment out of a
coffin-pall. And it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse
something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death
in mind while contracting that engagement which is life’s chiefest
business. Thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from this
funeral-knell.”

But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener
point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire into the
mystery and stop those sounds so dismally appropriate to such a
marriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken
only by whispers and a few suppressed titterings among the
wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were
disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young
have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The
widow’s glance was observed to wander for an instant toward a window of
the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had
dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their
faded orbs and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave.
Two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off were calling
her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling,
she thought how much happier had been her fate if, after years of
bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral and she were followed
to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her
husband. But why had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank
from each other’s embrace?

Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to
fade in the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest
the windows, now spread through the church: a hearse with a train of
several coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man
to the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar.
Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were
heard at the door. The widow looked down the aisle and clenched the arm
of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious
violence that the fair girl trembled.

“You frighten me, my dear madam,” cried she. “For heaven’s sake, what
is the matter?”

“Nothing, my dear—nothing,” said the widow; then, whispering close to
her ear, “There is a foolish fancy that I cannot get rid of. I am
expecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two first
husbands for groomsmen.”

“Look! look!” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here? The funeral!”

As she spoke a dark procession paced into the church. First came an old
man and woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to
foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary hair,
he leaning on a staff and supporting her decrepit form with his
nerveless arm. Behind appeared another and another pair, as aged, as
black and mournful as the first. As they drew near the widow recognized
in every face some trait of former friends long forgotten, but now
returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare a shroud,
or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and
infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own
decay. Many a merry night had she danced with them in youth, and now in
joyless age she felt that some withered partner should request her hand
and all unite in a dance of death to the music of the funeral-bell.

While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle it was observed
that from pew to pew the spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe as
some object hitherto concealed by the intervening figures came full in
sight. Many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid
stare, and a young girl giggled hysterically and fainted with the
laughter on her lips. When the spectral procession approached the
altar, each couple separated and slowly diverged, till in the centre
appeared a form that had been worthily ushered in with all this gloomy
pomp, the death-knell and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his
shroud.

No garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a death-like
aspect. The eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all
else was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin.
The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that
seemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the
air while he spoke.

“Come, my bride!” said those pale lips. “The hearse is ready; the
sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us be
married, and then to our coffins!”

How shall the widow’s horror be represented? It gave her the
ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her youthful friends stood apart,
shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; the
whole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle of the
gilded vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow
and death.

The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.

“Mr. Ellenwood,” said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority,
“you are not well. Your mind has been agitated by the unusual
circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred.
As an old friend, let me entreat you to return home.”

“Home—yes; but not without my bride,” answered he, in the same hollow
accents. “You deem this mockery—perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my
aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had I forced my
withered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery
or madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come
hither without a wedding-garment—the bridegroom or the bride.”

He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow,
contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and
glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None
that beheld them could deny the terrible strength of the moral which
his disordered intellect had contrived to draw.

“Cruel! cruel!” groaned the heartstricken bride.

“Cruel?” repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild
bitterness, “Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! In
youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away
all the substance of my life and made it a dream without reality enough
even to grieve at—with only a pervading gloom, through which I walked
wearily and cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have built
my tomb and would not give up the thought of resting there—no, not for
such a life as we once pictured—you call me to the altar. At your
summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your
beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termed your life.
What is there for me but your decay and death? And therefore I have
bidden these funeral-friends, and bespoken the sexton’s deepest knell,
and am come in my shroud to wed you as with a burial-service, that we
may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre and enter it together.”

It was not frenzy, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion
in a heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. The stern
lesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. She
seized the bridegroom’s hand.

“Yes!” cried she; “let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. My
life is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its close there is one
true feeling. It has made me what I was in youth: it makes me worthy of
you. Time is no more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity.”

With a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while
a tear was gathering in his own. How strange that gush of human feeling
from the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the tear, even with
his shroud.

“Beloved of my youth,” said he, “I have been wild. The despair of my
whole lifetime had returned at once and maddened me. Forgive and be
forgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none of
our morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the
altar as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated through life,
yet who meet again as they are leaving it and find their earthly
affection changed into something holy as religion. And what is time to
the married of eternity?”

Amid the tears of many and a swell of exalted sentiment in those who
felt aright was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. The train
of withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale
features of the aged bride and the death-bell tolling through the whole
till its deep voice overpowered the marriage-words,—all marked the
funeral of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as
if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene, poured forth an
anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier
strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when the awful rite
was finished and with cold hand in cold hand the married of eternity
withdrew, the organ’s peal of solemn triumph drowned the wedding-knell.




 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL

A PARABLE[1]

The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house pulling lustily
at the bell-rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the
street. Children with bright faces tripped merrily beside their parents
or mimicked a graver gait in the conscious dignity of their Sunday
clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and
fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on week-days.
When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to
toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper’s door. The
first glimpse of the clergyman’s figure was the signal for the bell to
cease its summons.

“But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?” cried the sexton,
in astonishment.

All within hearing immediately turned about and beheld the semblance of
Mr. Hooper pacing slowly his meditative way toward the meeting-house.
With one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some
strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper’s
pulpit.

“Are you sure it is our parson?” inquired Goodman Gray of the sexton.

“Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,” replied the sexton. “He was to
have exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute of Westbury, but Parson Shute
sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon.”

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr.
Hooper, a gentlemanly person of about thirty, though still a bachelor,
was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had
starched his band and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday’s garb.
There was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his
forehead and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his
breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to
consist of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his features
except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight
further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate
things. With this gloomy shade before him good Mr. Hooper walked onward
at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground,
as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his
parishioners who still waited on the meeting-house steps. But so
wonder-struck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return.

“I can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face was behind that piece
of crape,” said the sexton.

“I don’t like it,” muttered an old woman as she hobbled into the
meeting-house. “He has changed himself into something awful only by
hiding his face.”

“Our parson has gone mad!” cried Goodman Gray, following him across the
threshold.

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into
the meeting-house and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain
from twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright and
turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon the
seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. There was a general
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and shuffling of the men’s
feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend
the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the
perturbation of his people. He entered with an almost noiseless step,
bent his head mildly to the pews on each side and bowed as he passed
his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an
arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe how
slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the
appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the
prevailing wonder till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs and showed
himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation except for
the black veil. That mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It
shook with his measured breath as he gave out the psalm, it threw its
obscurity between him and the holy page as he read the Scriptures, and
while he prayed the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did
he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing?

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape that more than one
woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet
perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to
the minister as his black veil to them.

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic
one: he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive
influences rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the
word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same
characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit
oratory, but there was something either in the sentiment of the
discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors which made it
greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their
pastor’s lips. It was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the
gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper’s temperament. The subject had reference to
secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and
dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even
forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was
breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most
innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher
had crept upon them behind his awful veil and discovered their hoarded
iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their
bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said—at least, no
violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy voice the hearers
quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible were
the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister that they
longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing
that a stranger’s visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture
and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.

At the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous
confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious
of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths
all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapped in
silent meditation; some talked loudly and profaned the Sabbath-day with
ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious heads, intimating
that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or two affirmed that
there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper’s eyes were so
weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade.

After a brief interval forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of
his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid
due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind
dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with
mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children’s
heads to bless them. Such was always his custom on the Sabbath-day.
Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on
former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor’s
side. Old Squire Saunders—doubtless by an accidental lapse of
memory—neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good
clergyman had been wont to bless the food almost every Sunday since his
settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and at the moment
of closing the door was observed to look back upon the people, all of
whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed
faintly from beneath the black veil and flickered about his mouth,
glimmering as he disappeared.

“How strange,” said a lady, “that a simple black veil, such as any
woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on
Mr. Hooper’s face!”

“Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper’s intellects,” observed
her husband, the physician of the village. “But the strangest part of
the affair is the effect of this vagary even on a sober-minded man like
myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor’s face, throws
its influence over his whole person and makes him ghost-like from head
to foot. Do you not feel it so?”

“Truly do I,” replied the lady; “and I would not be alone with him for
the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself.”

“Men sometimes are so,” said her husband.

The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its
conclusion the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The
relatives and friends were assembled in the house and the more distant
acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of
the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr.
Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate
emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid,
and bent over the coffin to take a last farewell of his deceased
parishioner. As he stooped the veil hung straight down from his
forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been closed for ever, the
dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of
her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who
watched the interview between the dead and living scrupled not to
affirm that at the instant when the clergyman’s features were disclosed
the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap,
though the countenance retained the composure of death. A superstitious
old woman was the only witness of this prodigy.

From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and
thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was
a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued
with celestial hopes that the music of a heavenly harp swept by the
fingers of the dead seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest
accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly
understood him, when he prayed that they and himself, and all of mortal
race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the
dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers
went heavily forth and the mourners followed, saddening all the street,
with the dead before them and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind.

“Why do you look back?” said one in the procession to his partner.

“I had a fancy,” replied she, “that the minister and the maiden’s
spirit were walking hand in hand.”

“And so had I at the same moment,” said the other.

That night the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined
in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid
cheerfulness for such occasions which often excited a sympathetic smile
where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There was no
quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. The
company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting
that the strange awe which had gathered over him throughout the day
would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper
came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible
black veil which had added deeper gloom to the funeral and could
portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate effect
on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath
the black crape and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair
stood up before the minister, but the bride’s cold fingers quivered in
the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her death-like paleness
caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before
was come from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so
dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding-knell.

After performing the ceremony Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his
lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild
pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests
like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a
glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his
own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon
the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the Earth too had on
her black veil.

The next day the whole village of Milford talked of little else than
Parson Hooper’s black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it,
supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the
street and good women gossipping at their open windows. It was the
first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The
children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp
covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting
his playmates that the panic seized himself and he wellnigh lost his
wits by his own waggery.

It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people in
the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper
wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the
slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers nor
shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at
all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust that even the
mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a
crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no
individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a
subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither
plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift
the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient
to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper
about the mystery before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an
embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister received them with
friendly courtesy, but became silent after they were seated, leaving to
his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business.
The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the
black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper’s forehead and concealing every
feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive
the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to their
imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a
fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they
might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a
considerable time, speechless, confused and shrinking uneasily from Mr.
Hooper’s eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible
glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents,
pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled except by a council of
the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a General Synod.

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with
which the black veil had impressed all besides herself. When the
deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand
one, she with the calm energy of her character determined to chase away
the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper every
moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife it should be her
privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the minister’s
first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct
simplicity which made the task easier both for him and her. After he
had seated himself she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but
could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the
multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his
forehead to his mouth and slightly stirring with his breath.

“No,” said she, aloud, and smiling, “there is nothing terrible in this
piece of crape, except that it hides a face which I am always glad to
look upon. Come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind the cloud.
First lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on.”

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly.

“There is an hour to come,” said he, “when all of us shall cast aside
our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of
crape till then.”

“Your words are a mystery too,” returned the young lady. “Take away the
veil from them, at least.”

“Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “so far as my vow may suffer me. Know,
then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever,
both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of
multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No
mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me
from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it.”

“What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she earnestly inquired,
“that you should thus darken your eyes for ever?”

“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, “I, perhaps, like
most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black
veil.”

“But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an
innocent sorrow?” urged Elizabeth. “Beloved and respected as you are,
there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness
of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office do away this scandal.”

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the
rumors that were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper’s
mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again—that same sad smile
which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light proceeding from
the obscurity beneath the veil.

“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough,” he merely
replied; “and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do
the same?” And with this gentle but unconquerable obstinacy did he
resist all her entreaties.

At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in
thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to
withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other
meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer
character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But in an
instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes
were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when like a sudden twilight in
the air its terrors fell around her. She arose and stood trembling
before him.

“And do you feel it, then, at last?” said he, mournfully.

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand and turned to
leave the room. He rushed forward and caught her arm.

“Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried he, passionately. “Do not
desert me though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be mine,
and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between
our souls. It is but a mortal veil; it is not for eternity. Oh, you
know not how lonely I am, and how frightened to be alone behind my
black veil! Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity for ever.”

“Lift the veil but once and look me in the face,” said she.

“Never! It cannot be!” replied Mr. Hooper.

“Then farewell!” said Elizabeth.

She withdrew her arm from his grasp and slowly departed, pausing at the
door to give one long, shuddering gaze that seemed almost to penetrate
the mystery of the black veil. But even amid his grief Mr. Hooper
smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from
happiness, though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn
darkly between the fondest of lovers.

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper’s black veil
or by a direct appeal to discover the secret which it was supposed to
hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice it was
reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober
actions of men otherwise rational and tinges them all with its own
semblance of insanity. But with the multitude good Mr. Hooper was
irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of
mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to
avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw
themselves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class compelled
him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial-ground; for
when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces
behind the gravestones peeping at his black veil. A fable went the
rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved
him to the very depth of his kind heart to observe how the children
fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports while his
melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused him
to feel more strongly than aught else that a preternatural horror was
interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his own
antipathy to the veil was known to be so great that he never willingly
passed before a mirror nor stooped to drink at a still fountain lest in
its peaceful bosom he should be affrighted by himself. This was what
gave plausibility to the whispers that Mr. Hooper’s conscience tortured
him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed or
otherwise than so obscurely intimated. Thus from beneath the black veil
there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow,
which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never
reach him. It was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there.
With self-shudderings and outward terrors he walked continually in its
shadow, groping darkly within his own soul or gazing through a medium
that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed,
respected his dreadful secret and never blew aside the veil. But still
good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng
as he passed by.

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable
effect of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of
his mysterious emblem—for there was no other apparent cause—he became a
man of awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. His converts
always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming,
though but figuratively, that before he brought them to celestial light
they had been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed,
enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried
aloud for Mr. Hooper and would not yield their breath till he appeared,
though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at
the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the black
veil even when Death had bared his visage. Strangers came long
distances to attend service at his church with the mere idle purpose of
gazing at his figure because it was forbidden them to behold his face.
But many were made to quake ere they departed. Once, during Governor
Belcher’s administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the
election sermon. Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief
magistrate, the council and the representatives, and wrought so deep an
impression that the legislative measures of that year were
characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral
sway.

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward
act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved
and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and
joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore
on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name
throughout the New England churches, and they called him Father Hooper.
Nearly all his parishioners who were of mature age when he was settled
had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one congregation in the
church and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and, having wrought so
late into the evening and done his work so well, it was now good Father
Hooper’s turn to rest.

Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight in the
death-chamber of the old clergyman. Natural connections he had none.
But there was the decorously grave though unmoved physician, seeking
only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save.
There were the deacons and other eminently pious members of his church.
There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark of Westbury, a young and
zealous divine who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the
expiring minister. There was the nurse—no hired handmaiden of Death,
but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in
solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish even at the
dying-hour. Who but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head of good
Father Hooper upon the death-pillow with the black veil still swathed
about his brow and reaching down over his face, so that each more
difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All through life
that piece of crape had hung between him and the world; it had
separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman’s love and kept him
in that saddest of all prisons his own heart; and still it lay upon his
face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber and shade him
from the sunshine of eternity.

For some time previous his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully
between the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at
intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. There had been
feverish turns which tossed him from side to side and wore away what
little strength he had. But in his most convulsive struggles and in the
wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its
sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black
veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have
forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow who with averted
eyes would have covered that aged face which she had last beheld in the
comeliness of manhood.

At length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of
mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse and breath
that grew fainter and fainter except when a long, deep and irregular
inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit.

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.

“Venerable Father Hooper,” said he, “the moment of your release is at
hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from
eternity?”

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head;
then—apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful—he
exerted himself to speak.

“Yea,” said he, in faint accents; “my soul hath a patient weariness
until that veil be lifted.”

“And is it fitting,” resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, “that a man so
given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought,
so far as mortal judgment may pronounce,—is it fitting that a father in
the Church should leave a shadow on his memory that may seem to blacken
a life so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing
be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to
your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted let me cast aside
this black veil from your face;” and, thus speaking, the Reverend Mr.
Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years.

But, exerting a sudden energy that made all the beholders stand aghast,
Father Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes and
pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle if the
minister of Westbury would contend with a dying man.

“Never!” cried the veiled clergyman. “On earth, never!”

“Dark old man,” exclaimed the affrighted minister, “with what horrible
crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?”

Father Hooper’s breath heaved: it rattled in his throat; but, with a
mighty effort grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life
and held it back till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed,
and there he sat shivering with the arms of Death around him, while the
black veil hung down, awful at that last moment in the gathered terrors
of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile so often there now seemed
to glimmer from its obscurity and linger on Father Hooper’s lips.

“Why do you tremble at me alone?” cried he, turning his veiled face
round the circle of pale spectators. “Tremble also at each other. Have
men avoided me and women shown no pity and children screamed and fled
only for my black veil? What but the mystery which it obscurely
typifies has made this piece of crape so awful? When the friend shows
his inmost heart to his friend, the lover to his best-beloved; when man
does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely
treasuring up the secret of his sin,—then deem me a monster for the
symbol beneath which I have lived and die. I look around me, and, lo!
on every visage a black veil!”

While his auditors shrank from one another in mutual affright, Father
Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse with a faint smile
lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a
veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass of many years has
sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown,
and good Mr. Hooper’s face is dust; but awful is still the thought that
it mouldered beneath the black veil.




 THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT


There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the
curious history of the early settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry
Mount. In the slight sketch here attempted the facts recorded on the
grave pages of our New England annalists have wrought themselves almost
spontaneously into a sort of allegory. The masques, mummeries and
festive customs described in the text are in accordance with the
manners of the age. Authority on these points may be found in Strutt’s
_Book of English Sports and Pastimes_.

Bright were the days at Merry Mount when the Maypole was the
banner-staff of that gay colony. They who reared it, should their
banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New England’s rugged
hills and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom
were contending for an empire. Midsummer eve had come, bringing deep
verdure to the forest, and roses in her lap of a more vivid hue than
the tender buds of spring. But May, or her mirthful spirit, dwelt all
the year round at Merry Mount, sporting with the summer months and
revelling with autumn and basking in the glow of winter’s fireside.
Through a world of toil and care she flitted with a dream-like smile,
and came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts of Merry
Mount.

Never had the Maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on Midsummer
eve. This venerated emblem was a pine tree which had preserved the
slender grace of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the
old wood-monarchs. From its top streamed a silken banner colored like
the rainbow. Down nearly to the ground the pole was dressed with
birchen boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some with
silvery leaves fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots of
twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Garden-flowers and blossoms
of the wilderness laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and
dewy that they must have grown by magic on that happy pine tree. Where
this green and flowery splendor terminated the shaft of the Maypole was
stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the
lowest green bough hung an abundant wreath of roses—some that had been
gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and others, of still
richer blush, which the colonists had reared from English seed. O
people of the Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry was to raise
flowers!

But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the Maypole?
It could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their
classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all
the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West. These were Gothic
monsters, though perhaps of Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a
comely youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a stag; a second,
human in all other points, had the grim visage of a wolf; a third,
still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and
horns of a venerable he-goat. There was the likeness of a bear erect,
brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with pink silk
stockings. And here, again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of
the dark forest, lending each of his forepaws to the grasp of a human
hand and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. His inferior
nature rose halfway to meet his companions as they stooped. Other faces
wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted or extravagant, with
red noses pendulous before their mouths, which seemed of awful depth
and stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. Here might
be seen the salvage man—well known in heraldry—hairy as a baboon and
girdled with green leaves. By his side—a nobler figure, but still a
counterfeit—appeared an Indian hunter with feathery crest and
wampum-belt. Many of this strange company wore foolscaps and had little
bells appended to their garments, tinkling with a silvery sound
responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some
youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their
places in the irregular throng by the expression of wild revelry upon
their features.

Such were the colonists of Merry Mount as they stood in the broad smile
of sunset round their venerated Maypole. Had a wanderer bewildered in
the melancholy forest heard their mirth and stolen a half-affrighted
glance, he might have fancied them the crew of Comus, some already
transformed to brutes, some midway between man and beast, and the
others rioting in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change;
but a band of Puritans who watched the scene, invisible themselves,
compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls with whom their
superstition peopled the black wilderness.

Within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had
ever trodden on any more solid footing than a purple-and-golden cloud.
One was a youth in glistening apparel with a scarf of the rainbow
pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand held a gilded staff—the
ensign of high dignity among the revellers—and his left grasped the
slender fingers of a fair maiden not less gayly decorated than himself.
Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls of each,
and were scattered round their feet or had sprung up spontaneously
there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to the Maypole that its
boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an English priest,
canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen fashion, and
wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his rolling
eye and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest
monster there, and the very Comus of the crew.

“Votaries of the Maypole,” cried the flower-decked priest, “merrily all
day long have the woods echoed to your mirth. But be this your merriest
hour, my hearts! Lo! here stand the Lord and Lady of the May, whom I, a
clerk of Oxford and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently to join in
holy matrimony.—Up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, green
men and glee-maidens, bears and wolves and horned gentlemen! Come! a
chorus now rich with the old mirth of Merry England and the wilder glee
of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to show the youthful pair what
life is made of and how airily they should go through it!—All ye that
love the Maypole, lend your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and
Lady of the May!”

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where
jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. The
Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down at
sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life,
beginning the measure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses that
hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole had been twined for
them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of their
flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar
burst from the rout of monstrous figures.

“Begin you the stave, reverend sir,” cried they all, “and never did the
woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the Maypole shall send up.”

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with practised
minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such a mirthful
cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound. But the
May-lord—he of the gilded staff—chancing to look into his lady’s eyes,
was wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own.

“Edith, sweet Lady of the May,” whispered he, reproachfully, “is yon
wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so
sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be
brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing.”

“That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind
too?” said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high
treason to be sad at Merry Mount. “Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream, and
fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and their
mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the May. What is
the mystery in my heart?”

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower
of withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers!
No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former
pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From
the moment that they truly loved they had subjected themselves to
earth’s doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a
home at Merry Mount. That was Edith’s mystery. Now leave we the priest
to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole till the
last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the forest
mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay
people were.

Two hundred years ago, and more, the Old World and its inhabitants
became mutually weary of each other. Men voyaged by thousands to the
West—some to barter glass and such like jewels for the furs of the
Indian hunter, some to conquer virgin empires, and one stern band to
pray. But none of these motives had much weight with thecolonists of
Merry Mount. Their leaders were men who had sported so long with life,
that when Thought and Wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led
astray by the crowd of vanities which they should have put to flight.
Erring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made to put on masques, and
play the fool. The men of whom we speak, after losing the heart’s fresh
gayety, imagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act
out their latest day-dream. They gathered followers from all that giddy
tribe whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer men. In their
train were minstrels, not unknown in London streets; wandering players,
whose theatres had been the halls of noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers,
and mountebanks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and
fairs; in a word, mirth makers of every sort, such as abounded in that
age, but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid growth of
Puritanism. Light had their footsteps been on land, and as lightly they
came across the sea. Many had been maddened by their previous troubles
into a gay despair; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth,
like the May Lord and his Lady; but whatever might be the quality of
their mirth, old and young were gay at Merry Mount. The young deemed
themselves happy. The elder spirits, if they knew that mirth was but
the counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wilfully,
because at least her garments glittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a
lifetime, they would not venture among the sober truths of life not
even to be truly blest.

All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were transplanted hither.
The King of Christmas was duly crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore
potent sway. On the Eve of St. John, they felled whole acres of the
forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all night, crowned
with garlands, and throwing flowers into the flame. At harvest time,
though their crop was of the smallest, they made an image with the
sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal garlands, and
bore it home triumphantly. But what chiefly characterized the colonists
of Merry Mount was their veneration for the Maypole. It has made their
true history a poet’s tale. Spring decked the hallowed emblem with
young blossoms and fresh green boughs; Summer brought roses of the
deepest blush, and the perfected foliage of the forest; Autumn enriched
it with that red and yellow gorgeousness which converts each wildwood
leaf into a painted flower; and Winter silvered it with sleet, and hung
it round with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a
frozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did homage to the Maypole,
and paid it a tribute of its own richest splendor. Its votaries danced
round it, once, at least, in every month; sometimes they called it
their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the banner staff of
Merry Mount.

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a sterner faith than
those Maypole worshippers. Not far from Merry Mount was a settlement of
Puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight,
and then wrought in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it
prayer time again. Their weapons were always at hand to shoot down the
straggling savage. When they met in conclave, it was never to keep up
the old English mirth, but to hear sermons three hours long, or to
proclaim bounties on the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians.
Their festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the singing of
psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who did but dream of a dance! The
selectman nodded to the constable; and there sat the light-heeled
reprobate in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the
whipping-post, which might be termed the Puritan Maypole.

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the difficult woods,
each with a horseload of iron armor to burden his footsteps, would
sometimes draw near the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the
silken colonists, sporting round their Maypole; perhaps teaching a bear
to dance, or striving to communicate their mirth to the grave Indian,
or masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves which they had hunted
for that especial purpose. Often the whole colony were playing at
Blindman’s Buff, magistrates and all with their eyes bandaged, except a
single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of
the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, they were seen following a
flower-decked corpse with merriment and festive music to his grave. But
did the dead man laugh? In their quietest times they sang ballads and
told tales for the edification of their pious visitors, or perplexed
them with juggling tricks, or grinned at them through horse-collars;
and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their own
stupidity and began a yawning-match. At the very least of these
enormities the men of iron shook their heads and frowned so darkly that
the revellers looked up, imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast
the sunshine which was to be perpetual there. On the other hand, the
Puritans affirmed that when a psalm was pealing from their place of
worship the echo which the forest sent them back seemed often like the
chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of laughter. Who but the
fiend and his bond-slaves the crew of Merry Mount had thus disturbed
them? In due time a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as
serious on the other as anything could be among such light spirits as
had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future complexion of New
England was involved in this important quarrel. Should the grisly
saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would
their spirits darken all the clime and make it a land of clouded
visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm for ever; but should the
banner-staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the
hills, and flowers would beautify the forest and late posterity do
homage to the Maypole.

After these authentic passages from history we return to the nuptials
of the Lord and Lady of the May. Alas! we have delayed too long, and
must darken our tale too suddenly. As we glance again at the Maypole a
solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint
golden tinge blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim
light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of Merry Mount
to the evening gloom which has rushed so instantaneously from the black
surrounding woods. But some of these black shadows have rushed forth in
human shape.

Yes, with the setting sun the last day of mirth had passed from Merry
Mount. The ring of gay masquers was disordered and broken; the stag
lowered his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the
bells of the morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. The
Puritans had played a characteristic part in the Maypole mummeries.
Their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their
foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment when waking thoughts
start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the
hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while the rout of
monsters cowered around him like evil spirits in the presence of a
dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So
stern was the energy of his aspect that the whole man, visage, frame
and soul, seemed wrought of iron gifted with life and thought, yet all
of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan
of Puritans: it was Endicott himself.

“Stand off, priest of Baal!” said he, with a grim frown and laying no
reverent hand upon the surplice. “I know thee, Blackstone![2] Thou art
the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted
Church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity and to give example of
it in thy life. But now shall it be seen that the Lord hath sanctified
this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would
defile it! And first for this flower-decked abomination, the altar of
thy worship!”

And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hallowed Maypole. Nor
long did it resist his arm. It groaned with a dismal sound, it showered
leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast, and finally, with
all its green boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed
pleasures, down fell the banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it sank,
tradition says, the evening sky grew darker and the woods threw forth a
more sombre shadow.

“There!” cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on his work; “there lies
the only Maypole in New England. The thought is strong within me that
by its fall is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirthmakers
amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith John Endicott!”

“Amen!” echoed his followers.

But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for their idol. At the
sound the Puritan leader glanced at the crew of Comus, each a figure of
broad mirth, yet at this moment strangely expressive of sorrow and
dismay.

“Valiant captain,” quoth Peter Palfrey, the ancient of the band, “what
order shall be taken with the prisoners?”

“I thought not to repent me of cutting down a Maypole,” replied
Endicott, “yet now I could find in my heart to plant it again and give
each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. It would
have served rarely for a whipping-post.”

“But there are pine trees enow,” suggested the lieutenant.

“True, good ancient,” said the leader. “Wherefore bind the heathen crew
and bestow on them a small matter of stripes apiece as earnest of our
future justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves
so soon as Providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered
settlements where such accommodations may be found. Further penalties,
such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter.”

“How many stripes for the priest?” inquired Ancient Palfrey.

“None as yet,” answered Endicott, bending his iron frown upon the
culprit. “It must be for the Great and General Court to determine
whether stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may
atone for his transgressions. Let him look to himself. For such as
violate our civil order it may be permitted us to show mercy, but woe
to the wretch that troubleth our religion!”

“And this dancing bear?” resumed the officer. “Must he share the
stripes of his fellows?”

“Shoot him through the head!” said the energetic Puritan. “I suspect
witchcraft in the beast.”

“Here be a couple of shining ones,” continued Peter Palfrey, pointing
his weapon at the Lord and Lady of the May. “They seem to be of high
station among these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be fitted
with less than a double share of stripes.”

Endicott rested on his sword and closely surveyed the dress and aspect
of the hapless pair. There they stood, pale, downcast and apprehensive,
yet there was an air of mutual support and of pure affection seeking
aid and giving it that showed them to be man and wife with the sanction
of a priest upon their love. The youth in the peril of the moment, had
dropped his gilded staff and thrown his arm about the Lady of the May,
who leaned against his breast too lightly to burden him, but with
weight enough to express that their destinies were linked together for
good or evil. They looked first at each other and then into the grim
captain’s face. There they stood in the first hour of wedlock, while
the idle pleasures of which their companions were the emblems had given
place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark Puritans.
But never had their youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its
glow was chastened by adversity.

“Youth,” said Endicott, “ye stand in an evil case—thou and thy
maiden-wife. Make ready presently, for I am minded that ye shall both
have a token to remember your wedding-day.”

“Stern man,” cried the May-lord, “how can I move thee? Were the means
at hand, I would resist to the death; being powerless, I entreat. Do
with me as thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched.”

“Not so,” replied the immitigable zealot. “We are not wont to show an
idle courtesy to that sex which requireth the stricter discipline.—What
sayest thou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share of the
penalty besides his own?”

“Be it death,” said Edith, “and lay it all on me.”

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woeful case.
Their foes were triumphant, their friends captive and abased, their
home desolate, the benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous
destiny in the shape of the Puritan leader their only guide. Yet the
deepening twilight could not altogether conceal that the iron man was
softened. He smiled at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost
sighed for the inevitable blight of early hopes.

“The troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple,” observed
Endicott. “We will see how they comport themselves under their present
trials ere we burden them with greater. If among the spoil there be any
garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this May-lord
and his Lady instead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of
you.”

“And shall not the youth’s hair be cut?” asked Peter Palfrey, looking
with abhorrence at the lovelock and long glossy curls of the young man.

“Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell fashion,”
answered the captain. “Then bring them along with us, but more gently
than their fellows. There be qualities in the youth which may make him
valiant to fight and sober to toil and pious to pray, and in the maiden
that may fit her to become a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in
better nurture than her own hath been.—Nor think ye, young ones, that
they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment, who misspend
it in dancing round a Maypole.”

And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid the rock-foundation
of New England, lifted the wreath of roses from the ruin of the Maypole
and threw it with his own gauntleted hand over the heads of the Lord
and Lady of the May. It was a deed of prophecy. As the moral gloom of
the world overpowers all systematic gayety, even so was their home of
wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. They returned to it no
more. But as their flowery garland was wreathed of the brightest roses
that had grown there, so in the tie that united them were intertwined
all the purest and best of their early joys. They went heavenward
supporting each other along the difficult path which it was their lot
to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of
Merry Mount.




 THE GENTLE BOY


In the course of the year 1656 several of the people called
Quakers—led, as they professed, by the inward movement of the
spirit—made their appearance in New England. Their reputation as
holders of mystic and pernicious principles having spread before them,
the Puritans early endeavored to banish and to prevent the further
intrusion of the rising sect. But the measures by which it was intended
to purge the land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous,
were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming persecution as a
divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage unknown
to the Puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross by providing for
the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness.
Though it was the singular fact that every nation of the earth rejected
the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace toward all men, the place
of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes the most
eligible, was the province of Massachusetts Bay.

The fines, imprisonments and stripes liberally distributed by our pious
forefathers, the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a
hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as
powerful for the Quakers as peace, honor and reward would have been for
the worldly-minded. Every European vessel brought new cargoes of the
sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to
share; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from
affording them passage, they made long and circuitous journeys through
the Indian country, and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a
supernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by
the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the
rules of decency as well as of rational religion, and presented a
singular contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sectarian
successors of the present day. The command of the Spirit, inaudible
except to the soul and not to be controverted on grounds of human
wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions which,
abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the
rod. These extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their
cause and consequence, continued to increase, till in the year 1659 the
government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker sect
with the crown of martyrdom.

An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to
this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon
the person then at the head of the government. He was a man of narrow
mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made
hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions; he exerted his
influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the
enthusiasts, and his whole conduct in respect to them was marked by
brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less
deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates
in after-times. The historian of the sect affirms that by the wrath of
Heaven a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the “bloody town”
of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand,
as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and
triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook them in old age or at
the parting-hour. He tells us that they died suddenly and violently and
in madness, but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he
records the loathsome disease and “death by rottenness” of the fierce
and cruel governor.


On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of
two men of the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from
the metropolis to the neighboring country-town in which he resided. The
air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made
brighter by the rays of a young moon which had now nearly reached the
verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a
gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts
of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him
and his home. The low straw-thatched houses were scattered at
considerable intervals along the road, and, the country having been
settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still
bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind
wandered among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except
the pine trees and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it
was the instrument. The road had penetrated the mass of woods that lay
nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the
traveller’s ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than even that
of the wind. It was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it
seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir tree in the centre
of a cleared but unenclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could
not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made
accursed a few hours before by the execution of the Quakers, whose
bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave beneath the tree
on which they suffered. He struggled, however, against the
superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to
pause and listen.

“The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be
otherwise,” thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight.
“Methinks it is like the wailing of a child—some infant, it may be,
which has strayed from its mother and chanced upon this place of death.
For the ease of mine own conscience I must search this matter out.” He
therefore left the path and walked somewhat fearfully across the field.
Though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by the
thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that
day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness.

The traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the middle
upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been
erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death.
Under this unhappy tree—which in after-times was believed to drop
poison with its dew—sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It
was a slender and light-clad little boy who leaned his face upon a
hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth and wailed bitterly, yet
in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of
crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand
upon the child’s shoulder and addressed him compassionately.

“You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you
weep,” said he. “But dry your eyes and tell me where your mother
dwells; I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you
in her arms tonight.”

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to
the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not
more than six years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much
of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy’s frightened
gaze and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to
reassure him:

“Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were
to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on
a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch? Take heart,
child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home.”

“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice,
“they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.”

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the
moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made
the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung
up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the apparition
stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm
which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational
supposition. “The poor child is stricken in his intellect,” thought he,
“but verily his words are fearful in a place like this.” He then spoke
soothingly, intending to humor the boy’s fantasy:

“Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn
night, and I fear you are ill-provided with food. I am hastening to a
warm supper and bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share them.”

“I thank thee, friend, but, though I be hungry and shivering with cold,
thou wilt not give me food nor lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet
tone which despair had taught him even so young. “My father was of the
people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of earth,
and here is my home.”

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished
it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he possessed a
compassionate heart which not even religious prejudice could harden
into stone. “God forbid that I should leave this child to perish,
though he comes of the accursed sect,” said he to himself. “Do we not
all spring from an evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light
doth shine upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body nor, if prayer
and instruction may avail for him, in soul.” He then spoke aloud and
kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the
grave:

“Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have
wandered to this unhallowed spot?”

“They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence,”
said the boy, “and I stood afar off watching the crowd of people; and
when they were gone, I came hither, and found only this grave. I knew
that my father was sleeping here, and I said, ‘This shall be my home.’”

“No, child, no, not while I have a roof over my head or a morsel to
share with you,” exclaimed the Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully
excited. “Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.”

The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold
heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. The
traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and, seeming to
acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose; but his slender
limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned
against the tree of death for support.

“My poor boy, are you so feeble?” said the Puritan. “When did you taste
food last?”

“I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,” replied
Ilbrahim, “but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day,
saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey’s end.
Trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked food
many times ere now.”

The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about
him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the
gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. In the
awakened warmth of his feelings he resolved that at whatever risk he
would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom Heaven had
confided to his care. With this determination he left the accursed
field and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy
had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his
progress, and he soon beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the
cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the Western
wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated
ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a wood-covered
hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection.

“Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head had
sunk upon his shoulder; “there is our home.”

At the word “home” a thrill passed through the child’s frame, but he
continued silent. A few moments brought them to the cottage door, at
which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were
wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were
indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The summons was answered
by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity,
who, after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the
door and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him in. Farther back
in the passageway the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no
little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their father’s
return.

As the Puritan entered he thrust aside his cloak and displayed
Ilbrahim’s face to the female.

“Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence hath put into our
hands,” observed he. “Be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear
ones who have departed from us.”

“What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?” she inquired.
“Is he one whom the wilderness-folk have ravished from some Christian
mother?”

“No, Dorothy; this poor child is no captive from the wilderness,” he
replied. “The heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty
morsel and to drink of his birchen cup, but Christian men, alas! had
cast him out to die.” Then he told her how he had found him beneath the
gallows, upon his father’s grave, and how his heart had prompted him
like the speaking of an inward voice to take the little outcast home
and be kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe
him as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction
which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into
his infant mind.

Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and
she approved of all his doings and intentions.

“Have you a mother, dear child?” she inquired.

The tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply, but
Dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who like the rest of
her sect was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from the prison
a short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness and left
to perish there by hunger or wild beasts. This was no uncommon method
of disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed to boast that the
inhabitants of the desert were more hospitable to them than civilized
man.

“Fear not, little boy; you shall not need a mother, and a kind one,”
said Dorothy, when she had gathered this information. “Dry your tears,
Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I will be your mother.”

The good woman prepared the little bed from which her own children had
successively been borne to another resting-place. Before Ilbrahim would
consent to occupy it he knelt down, and as Dorothy listed to his simple
and affecting prayer she marvelled how the parents that had taught it
to him could have been judged worthy of death. When the boy had fallen
asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a
kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and
went away with a pensive gladness in her heart.

Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the old
country. He had remained in England during the first years of the Civil
War, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons under
Cromwell. But when the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop
themselves, he quitted the army of the Parliament and sought a refuge
from the strife which was no longer holy among the people of his
persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. A more worldly consideration
had perhaps an influence in drawing him thither, for New England
offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes as well as to
dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had hitherto found it difficult
to provide for a wife and increasing family. To this supposed impurity
of motive the more bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the removal
by death of all the children for whose earthly good the father had been
over-thoughtful. They had left their native country blooming like
roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those
expounders of the ways of Providence, who had thus judged their brother
and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more
charitable when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the
void in their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect.
Nor did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to Tobias, but
the latter in reply merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy,
whose appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as
could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. Even his beauty,
however, and his winning manners sometimes produced an effect
ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces of
their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that
no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them. Their antipathy
to the poor infant was also increased by the ill-success of divers
theological discussions in which it was attempted to convince him of
the errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful
controversialist, but the feeling of his religion was strong as
instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed nor driven from the
faith which his father had died for.

The odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great measure by the
child’s protectors, insomuch that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began
to experience a most bitter species of persecution in the cold regards
of many a friend whom they had valued. The common people manifested
their opinions more openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration,
being a representative to the General Court and an approved lieutenant
in the train-bands, yet within a week after his adoption of Ilbrahim he
had been both hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walking through a
solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible
speaker, and it cried, “What shall be done to the backslider? Lo! the
scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord
three knots.” These insults irritated Pearson’s temper for the moment;
they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible but powerful
workers toward an end which his most secret thought had not yet
whispered.


On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member of their family,
Pearson and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear with them
at public worship. They had anticipated some opposition to this measure
from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed
hour was clad in the new mourning-suit which Dorothy had wrought for
him. As the parish was then, and during many subsequent years,
unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement of religious
exercises was the beat of a drum. At the first sound of that martial
call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts Tobias and Dorothy set
forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like two parents linked
together by the infant of their love. On their path through the
leafless woods they were overtaken by many persons of their
acquaintance, all of whom avoided them and passed by on the other side;
but a severer trial awaited their constancy when they had descended the
hill and drew near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer.
Around the door, from which the drummer still sent forth his thundering
summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, including several of the
oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle-aged and nearly
all the younger males. Pearson found it difficult to sustain their
united and disapproving gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently
circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her and faltered not in
her approach. As they entered the door they overheard the muttered
sentiments of the assemblage; and when the reviling voices of the
little children smote Ilbrahim’s ear, he wept.

The interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. The low ceiling, the
unplastered walls, the naked woodwork and the undraperied pulpit
offered nothing to excite the devotion which without such external aids
often remains latent in the heart. The floor of the building was
occupied by rows of long cushionless benches, supplying the place of
pews, and the broad aisle formed a sexual division impassable except by
children beneath a certain age.

Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house, and
Ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy, was retained under the
care of the latter. The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their
rusty cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured maidens seemed to
dread contamination; and many a stern old man arose and turned his
repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the
sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a sweet infant of the
skies that had strayed away from his home, and all the inhabitants of
this miserable world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew
back their earth-soiled garments from his touch and said, “We are
holier than thou.”

Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother and retaining fast
hold of her hand, assumed a grave and decorous demeanor such as might
befit a person of matured taste and understanding who should find
himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which he did not
recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. The exercises had not yet
commenced, however, when the boy’s attention was arrested by an event
apparently of trifling interest. A woman having her face muffled in a
hood and a cloak drawn completely about her form advanced slowly up the
broad aisle and took place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim’s faint
color varied, his nerves fluttered; he was unable to turn his eyes from
the muffled female.

When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister arose,
and, having turned the hour-glass which stood by the great Bible,
commenced his discourse. He was now well stricken in years, a man of
pale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely covered by a
black velvet skull-cap. In his younger days he had practically learned
the meaning of persecution from Archbishop Laud, and he was not now
disposed to forget the lesson against which he had murmured then.
Introducing the often-discussed subject of the Quakers, he gave a
history of that sect and a description of their tenets in which error
predominated and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. He
adverted to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned his
hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the just severity
which God-fearing magistrates had at length been compelled to exercise.
He spoke of the danger of pity—in some cases a commendable and
Christian virtue, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. He observed
that such was their devilish obstinacy in error that even the little
children, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate heretics. He
affirmed that no man without Heaven’s especial warrant should attempt
their conversion lest while he lent his hand to draw them from the
slough he should himself be precipitated into its lowest depths.

The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the
glass when the sermon concluded. An approving murmur followed, and the
clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat with much
self-congratulation, and endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence
in the visages of the people. But while voices from all parts of the
house were tuning themselves to sing a scene occurred which, though not
very unusual at that period in the province, happened to be without
precedent in this parish.

The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank
of the audience, now arose and with slow, stately and unwavering step
ascended the pulpit stairs. The quaverings of incipient harmony were
hushed and the divine sat in speechless and almost terrified
astonishment while she undid the door and stood up in the sacred desk
from which his maledictions had just been thundered. She then divested
herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most singular array. A
shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist with a knotted
cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness
was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had strewn upon her
head. Her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, added to the deathly
whiteness of a countenance which, emaciated with want and wild with
enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty.
This figure stood gazing earnestly on the audience, and there was no
sound nor any movement except a faint shuddering which every man
observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious of in himself. At
length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke for the first few
moments in a low voice and not invariably distinct utterance. Her
discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her
reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however,
seemed to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer’s soul, and to
move his feelings by some influence unconnected with the words. As she
proceeded beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen like
bright things moving in a turbid river, or a strong and singularly
shaped idea leapt forth and seized at once on the understanding or the
heart. But the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the
persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was short to her own
peculiar sorrows. She was naturally a woman of mighty passions, and
hatred and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety. The
character of her speech was changed; her images became distinct though
wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness.

“The governor and his mighty men,” she said, “have gathered together,
taking counsel among themselves and saying, ‘What shall we do unto this
people—even unto the people that have come into this land to put our
iniquity to the blush?’ And, lo! the devil entereth into the
council-chamber like a lame man of low stature and gravely apparelled,
with a dark and twisted countenance and a bright, downcast eye. And he
standeth up among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to
each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is ‘Slay! Slay!rsquo;
But I say unto ye, Woe to them that slay! Woe to them that shed the
blood of saints! Woe to them that have slain the husband and cast forth
the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless and hungry and cold
till he die, and have saved the mother alive in the cruelty of their
tender mercies! Woe to them in their lifetime! Cursed are they in the
delight and pleasure of their hearts! Woe to them in their death-hour,
whether it come swiftly with blood and violence or after long and
lingering pain! Woe in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave,
when the children’s children shall revile the ashes of the fathers!
Woe, woe, woe, at the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the
slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother and the child,
shall await them in a day that they cannot escape! Seed of the faith,
seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know
not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! Lift your voices,
chosen ones, cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judgment with me!”

Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook for
inspiration, the speaker was silent. Her voice was succeeded by the
hysteric shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience
generally had not been drawn onward in the current with her own. They
remained stupefied, stranded, as it were, in the midst of a torrent
which deafened them by its roaring, but might not move them by its
violence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have ejected the
usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now addressed her
in the tone of just indignation and legitimate authority.

“Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane,” he said,
“Is it to the Lord’s house that you come to pour forth the foulness of
your heart and the inspiration of the devil? Get you down, and remember
that the sentence of death is on you—yea, and shall be executed, were
it but for this day’s work.”

“I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,” replied
she, in a depressed, and even mild, tone. “I have done my mission unto
thee and to thy people; reward me with stripes, imprisonment or death,
as ye shall be permitted.” The weakness of exhausted passion caused her
steps to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs.

The people, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of
the house, whispering among themselves and glancing toward the
intruder. Many of them now recognized her as the woman who had
assaulted the governor with frightful language as he passed by the
window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was adjudged to suffer
death, and had been preserved only by an involuntary banishment into
the wilderness. The new outrage by which she had provoked her fate
seemed to render further lenity impossible, and a gentleman in military
dress, with a stout man of inferior rank, drew toward the door of the
meetinghouse and awaited her approach. Scarcely did her feet press the
floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment of
her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy threw
his arms round his mother.

“I am here, mother; it is I, and I will go with thee to prison,” he
exclaimed.

She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for
she knew that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she had not
hoped to see his face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one
of the happy visions with which her excited fancy had often deceived
her in the solitude of the desert or in prison; but when she felt his
hand warm within her own and heard his little eloquence of childish
love, she began to know that she was yet a mother.

“Blessed art thou, my son!” she sobbed. “My heart was withered—yea,
dead with thee and with thy father—and now it leaps as in the first
moment when I pressed thee to my bosom.”

She knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that
could find no words expressed itself in broken accents, like the
bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. The
sorrows of past years and the darker peril that was nigh cast not a
shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment. Soon, however, the
spectators saw a change upon her face as the consciousness of her sad
estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy had
opened. By the words she uttered it would seem that the indulgence of
natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its errors, and
made her know how far she had strayed from duty in following the
dictates of a wild fanaticism.

“In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy,” she said, “for
thy mother’s path has gone darkening onward, till now the end is death.
Son, son, I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering,
and I have fed thee with the food that I was fainting for; yet I have
ill-performed a mother’s part by thee in life, and now I leave thee no
inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the world,
and find all hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections
turned to bitterness for my sake. My child, my child, how many a pang
awaits thy gentle spirit, and I the cause of all!”

She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long raven hair,
discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a
veil. A low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart’s anguish,
and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their
involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs were audible in the female section
of the house, and every man who was a father drew his hand across his
eyes.

Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the
consciousness of guilt oppressed him; so that he could not go forth and
offer himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had
watched her husband’s eye. Her mind was free from the influence that
had begun to work on his, and she drew near the Quaker woman and
addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation.

“Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother,” she said,
taking Ilbrahim’s hand. “Providence has signally marked out my husband
to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our roof
now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. Leave
the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare.”

The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while
she gazed earnestly in Dorothy’s face. Her mild but saddened features
and neat matronly attire harmonized together and were like a verse of
fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far
as mortal could be so, in respect to God and man, while the enthusiast,
in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently
violated the duties of the present life and the future by fixing her
attention wholly on the latter. The two females, as they held each a
hand of Ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory: it was rational piety
and unbridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a young heart.

“Thou art not of our people,” said the Quaker, mournfully.

“No, we are not of your people,” replied Dorothy, with mildness, “but
we are Christians looking upward to the same heaven with you. Doubt not
that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our
tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I trust, my own children
have gone before me, for I also have been a mother. I am no longer so,”
she added, in a faltering tone, “and your son will have all my care.”

“But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?”
demanded the Quaker. “Can ye teach him the enlightened faith which his
father has died for, and for which I—even I—am soon to become an
unworthy martyr? The boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the
mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?”

“I will not deceive you,” answered Dorothy. “If your child become our
child, we must breed him up in the instruction which Heaven has
imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we
must do toward him according to the dictates of our own consciences,
and not of yours. Were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust,
even in complying with your wishes.”

The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and
then turned her eyes upward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally,
and the contention of her soul was evident.

“Friend,” she said, at length, to Dorothy, “I doubt not that my son
shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. Nay, I will believe
that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for
surely thou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband.
Doth he stand here among this multitude of people? Let him come forth,
for I must know to whom I commit this most precious trust.”

She turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary delay
Tobias Pearson came forth from among them. The Quaker saw the dress
which marked his military rank, and shook her head; but then she noted
the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled with her own and were
vanquished, the color that went and came and could find no
resting-place. As she gazed an unmirthful smile spread over her
features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some desolate spot.
Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake:

“I hear it, I hear it! The voice speaketh within me and saith, ‘Leave
thy child, Catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for I have
other work for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy
love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.’
I go, friends, I go. Take ye my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence
trusting that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands
there is a labor in the vineyard.”

She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first struggled and
clung to his mother with sobs and tears, but remained passive when she
had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her hands
over his head in mental prayer, she was ready to depart.

“Farewell, friends in mine extremity,” she said to Pearson and his
wife; “the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in heaven,
to be returned a thousandfold hereafter.—And farewell, ye mine enemies,
to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor
to stay my footsteps even for a moment. The day is coming when ye shall
call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and I will
rise up and answer.”

She turned her steps toward the door, and the men who had stationed
themselves to guard it withdrew and suffered her to pass. A general
sentiment of pity overcame the virulence of religious hatred.
Sanctified by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and all the
people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill and was lost
behind its brow. She went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to
renew the wanderings of past years. For her voice had been already
heard in many lands of Christendom, and she had pined in the cells of a
Catholic Inquisition before she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons
of the Puritans. Her mission had extended also to the followers of the
Prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which
all the contending sects of our purer religion united to deny her. Her
husband and herself had resided many months in Turkey, where even the
sultan’s countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too, was
Ilbrahim’s birthplace, and his Oriental name was a mark of gratitude
for the good deeds of an unbeliever.


When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over
Ilbrahim that could be delegated, their affection for him became, like
the memory of their native land or their mild sorrow for the dead, a
piece of the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after
a week or two of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors by
many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents and their
house as home. Before the winter snows were melted the persecuted
infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed
native in the New England cottage and inseparable from the warmth and
security of its hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment, and in
the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim’s demeanor lost a
premature manliness which had resulted from his earlier situation; he
became more childlike and his natural character displayed itself with
freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered
imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a
certain unhealthiness in the mind of the boy. In his general state
Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most trifling events and from
every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of
happiness by a faculty analogous to that of the witch-hazel, which
points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. His airy gayety,
coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the
family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening moody
countenances and chasing away the gloom from the dark corners of the
cottage.

On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of
pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy’s prevailing temper
sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not
always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently
they appeared to flow—though Ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a
cause—from wounded love. The flightiness of his mirth rendered him
often guilty of offences against the decorum of a Puritan household,
and on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. But the
slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in
distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and
poison all his enjoyments till he became sensible that he was entirely
forgiven. Of the malice which generally accompanies a superfluity of
sensitiveness Ilbrahim was altogether destitute. When trodden upon, he
would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was wanting in
the stamina of self-support. It was a plant that would twine
beautifully round something stronger than itself; but if repulsed or
torn away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. Dorothy’s
acuteness taught her that severity would crush the spirit of the child,
and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one who handles a
butterfly. Her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew
daily less productive of familiar caresses.

The feelings of the neighboring people in regard to the Quaker infant
and his protectors had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of
the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their
sympathies. The scorn and bitterness of which he was the object were
very grievous to Ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made him
sensible that the children his equals in age partook of the enmity of
their parents. His tender and social nature had already overflowed in
attachments to everything about him, and still there was a residue of
unappropriated love which he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who
were taught to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on Ilbrahim
was accustomed to remain for hours silent and inactive within hearing
of the children’s voices at their play, yet with his usual delicacy of
feeling he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from
the smallest individual among them. Chance, however, at length seemed
to open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was
by means of a boy about two years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured
by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of Pearson’s habitation. As the
sufferer’s own home was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received
him under her roof and became his tender and careful nurse.

Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy,
and it would have deterred him in other circumstances from attempting
to make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter immediately
impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some examination to
discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the mouth and
the irregular, broken line and near approach of the eyebrows.
Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities was an almost
imperceptible twist of every joint and the uneven prominence of the
breast, forming a body regular in its general outline, but faulty in
almost all its details. The disposition of the boy was sullen and
reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in
intellect, although at a later period of life he evinced ambition and
very peculiar talents. But, whatever might be his personal or moral
irregularities, Ilbrahim’s heart seized upon and clung to him from the
moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of
persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of the sufferer,
and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort
of relationship between them. Food, rest and the fresh air for which he
languished were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of the
little stranger and with a fond jealousy endeavored to be the medium of
all the cares that were bestowed upon him. As the boy became
convalescent Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to his situation or
amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air
of his barbaric birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary
adventures on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible
succession. His tales were, of course, monstrous, disjointed and
without aim, but they were curious on account of a vein of human
tenderness which ran through them all and was like a sweet familiar
face encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The
auditor paid much attention to these romances and sometimes interrupted
them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness above
his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which grated very harshly
against Ilbrahim’s instinctive rectitude. Nothing, however, could
arrest the progress of the latter’s affection, and there were many
proofs that it met with a response from the dark and stubborn nature on
which it was lavished. The boy’s parents at length removed him to
complete his cure under their own roof.

Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure, but he made
anxious and continual inquiries respecting him and informed himself of
the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleasant
summer afternoon the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the
little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the
recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a score
of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced
among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this
weary world as they journeyed by the spot marvelled why life, beginning
in such brightness, should proceed in gloom, and their hearts or their
imaginations answered them and said that the bliss of childhood gushes
from its innocence. But it happened that an unexpected addition was
made to the heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came toward the
children with a look of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual
face, as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no
longer to fear a repulse from their society. A hush came over their
mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each
other while he drew nigh; but all at once the devil of their fathers
entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and, sending up a fierce, shrill
cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an instant he was the
centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted
him with stones and displayed an instinct of destruction far more
loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood.

The invalid, in the mean while, stood apart from the tumult, crying out
with a loud voice, “Fear not, Ilbrahim; come hither and take my hand,”
and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching the
victim’s struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the
foul-hearted little villain lifted his staff and struck Ilbrahim on the
mouth so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child’s
arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of blows, but now
he dropped them at once. His persecutors beat him down, trampled upon
him, dragged him by his long fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point
of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven.
The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put
themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of
conveying him to Pearson’s door.

Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing
accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was
more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a
negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had
previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, even and unvaried
by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion which had once corresponded
to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its
former play of expression—the dance of sunshine reflected from moving
water—was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was
attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to
find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him than at a
happier period. A stranger founding his judgment upon these
circumstances would have said that the dulness of the child’s intellect
widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in
the direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which were brooding within him
when they should naturally have been wandering abroad. An attempt of
Dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on
which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he
burst into passionate weeping and ran and hid himself, for his heart
had become so miserably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it
like fire. Sometimes at night, and probably in his dreams, he was heard
to cry, “Mother! Mother!” as if her place, which a stranger had
supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his
extreme affliction. Perhaps among the many life-weary wretches then
upon the earth there was not one who combined innocence and misery like
this poor broken-hearted infant so soon the victim of his own heavenly
nature.

While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an
earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection in
his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences found
Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted and
longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. The first effect of
his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, an
incipient love for the child’s whole sect, but joined to this, and
resulting, perhaps, from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious
contempt of their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of
much thought, however—for the subject struggled irresistibly into his
mind—the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the
points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another
aspect or vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go on
even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt when he laid down
to rest would often hold the place of a truth confirmed by some
forgotten demonstration when he recalled his thoughts in the morning.
But, while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his
contempt, in nowise decreasing toward them, grew very fierce against
himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a
sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such was his
state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim’s misfortune, and the emotions
consequent upon that event completed the change of which the child had
been the original instrument.

In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors nor the
infatuation of their victims had decreased. The dungeons were never
empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash;
the life of a woman whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could
embitter had been sacrificed, and more innocent blood was yet to
pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the
Restoration the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that a “vein
of blood was open in his dominions,” but, though the displeasure of the
voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt. And now
the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson to
encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife, to a firm endurance of a
thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim, to pine and droop like a cankered
rose-bud; his mother, to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the
holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.


A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson’s
habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from
his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a
ruddy light, and large logs dripping with half-melted snow lay ready to
cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect by
the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it, for
the exaction of repeated fines and his own neglect of temporal affairs
had greatly impoverished the owner. And with the furniture of peace the
implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was broken, the
helm and cuirass were cast away for ever: the soldier had done with
battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard his
head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested was
drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought comfort
from its pages.

He who listened while the other read was the master of the house, now
emaciated in form and altered as to the expression and healthiness of
his countenance, for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The
hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he
was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to
the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat
and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page the
snow drifted against the windows or eddied in at the crevices of the
door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney and the blaze leaped
fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at
a certain angle and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain,
its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the
past were speaking, as if the dead had contributed each a whisper, as
if the desolation of ages were breathed in that one lamenting sound.

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, his hand
between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked
steadfastly at Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might
have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on
his hands, his teeth were firmly closed and his frame was tremulous at
intervals with a nervous agitation.

“Friend Tobias,” inquired the old man, compassionately, “hast thou
found no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture?”

“Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,”
replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. “Yea; and when I have
hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless and intended
for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book,” he added,
in a tone of sullen bitterness; “I have no part in its consolations,
and they do but fret my sorrow the more.”

“Nay, feeble brother; be not as one who hath never known the light,”
said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. “Art thou he that
wouldst be content to give all and endure all for conscience’ sake,
desiring even peculiar trials that thy faith might be purified and thy
heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink beneath an
affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here
below and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy
burden is yet light.”

“It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!” exclaimed Pearson, with
the impatience of a variable spirit. “From my youth upward I have been
a man marked out for wrath, and year by year—yea, day after day—I have
endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. And now I
speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want and
nakedness. All this I could have borne and counted myself blessed. But
when my heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon the child
of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and
now he too must die as if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed
man, and I will lay me down in the dust and lift up my head no more.”

“Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee, for I also
have had my hours of darkness wherein I have murmured against the
cross,” said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of
distracting his companion’s thoughts from his own sorrows: “Even of
late was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had
banished me on pain of death and the constables led me onward from
village to village toward the wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was
wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou
mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood
that followed. As we went on—”

“Have I not borne all this, and have I murmured?” interrupted Pearson,
impatiently.

“Nay, friend, but hear me,” continued the other. “As we journeyed on
night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of the
persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid that
I should glory therein. The lights began to glimmer in the cottage
windows, and I could discern the inmates as they gathered in comfort
and security, every man with his wife and children by their own evening
hearth. At length we came to a tract of fertile land. In the dim light
the forest was not visible around it, and, behold, there was a
straw-thatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of my home far over
the wild ocean—far in our own England. Then came bitter thoughts upon
me—yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. The happiness of
my early days was painted to me, the disquiet of my manhood, the
altered faith of my declining years. I remembered how I had been moved
to go forth a wanderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of
my flock, lay on her dying-bed, and—”

“Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?” exclaimed Pearson,
shuddering.

“Yea! yea!” replied the old man, hurriedly. “I was kneeling by her
bedside when the voice spoke loud within me, but immediately I rose and
took my staff and gat me gone. Oh that it were permitted me to forget
her woeful look when I thus withdrew my arm and left her journeying
through the dark valley alone! for her soul was faint and she had
leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed by
the thought that I had been an erring Christian and a cruel parent;
yea, even my daughter with her pale dying features seemed to stand by
me and whisper, ‘Father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your
gray head.’—O Thou to whom I have looked in my furthest wanderings,”
continued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, “inflict not
upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul
when I believed that all I had done and suffered for thee was at the
instigation of a mocking fiend!—But I yielded not; I knelt down and
wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the
flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on in peace and joy toward the
wilderness.”

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of
reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale, and his unwonted
emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat
in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its
red embers new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. The snow
still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of
the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed
upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a
neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both
Quakers to the door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous gust
of wind had led his thoughts by a natural association to homeless
travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation.

“I have wellnigh sunk under my own share of this trial,” observed he,
sighing heavily; “yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if so the
child’s mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, but
this will be the sorest of all.”

“Fear not for Catharine,” replied the old Quaker, “for I know that
valiant woman and have seen how she can bear the cross. A mother’s
heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has
been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and
she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her.
Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into
peace!”

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound: it
was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson’s wan
countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him
what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his
glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy.

“The men of blood have come to seek me,” he observed, with calmness.
“They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment, and now am
I to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long
looked for. I will open unto them lest they say, ‘Lo, he
feareth!rsquo;”

“Nay; I will present myself before them,” said Pearson, with recovered
fortitude. “It may be that they seek me alone and know not that thou
abidest with me.”

“Let us go boldly, both one and the other,” rejoined his companion. “It
is not fitting that thou or I should shrink.”

They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they
opened, bidding the applicant “Come in, in God’s name!” A furious blast
of wind drove the storm into their faces and extinguished the lamp;
they had barely time to discern a figure so white from head to foot
with the drifted snow that it seemed like Winter’s self come in human
shape to seek refuge from its own desolation.

“Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may,” said Pearson.
“It must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter night.”

“Peace be with this household!” said the stranger, when they stood on
the floor of the inner apartment.

Pearson started; the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the
fire till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze. It was a female voice
that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry,
in that comfortable light.

“Catharine, blessed woman,” exclaimed the old man, “art thou come to
this darkened land again? Art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as
in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from
the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant, but strengthen, strengthen
now thy heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once ere
thou go to thy reward.”

“Rejoice, friends!” she replied. “Thou who hast long been of our
people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! Lo, I
come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is
over-past. The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved in
gentleness toward us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the
hands of the men of blood. A ship’s company of our friends hath arrived
at yonder town, and I also sailed joyfully among them.”

As Catharine spoke her eyes were roaming about the room in search of
him for whose sake security was dear to her. Pearson made a silent
appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task
assigned him.

“Sister,” he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, “thou
tellest us of his love manifested in temporal good, and now must we
speak to thee of that selfsame love displayed in chastenings. Hitherto,
Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult
path and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked
heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have
drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. Sister, go on
rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine own no more.”

But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled. She shook like a
leaf; she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her
hair. The firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his
eye upon hers as if to repress any outbreak of passion.

“I am a woman—I am but a woman; will He try me above my strength?” said
Catharine, very quickly and almost in a whisper. “I have been wounded
sore; I have suffered much—many things in the body, many in the mind;
crucified in myself and in them that were dearest to me. Surely,” added
she, with a long shudder, “he hath spared me in this one thing.” She
broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence: “Tell me, man of
cold heart, what has God done to me? Hath he cast me down never to rise
again? Hath he crushed my very heart in his hand?—And thou to whom I
committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the
boy well, sound, alive—alive—or earth and heaven shall avenge me!”

The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by the faint—the very
faint—voice of a child.

On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest and to
Dorothy that Ilbrahim’s brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its
close. The two former would willingly have remained by him to make use
of the prayers and pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to
the time, and which, if they be impotent as to the departing
traveller’s reception in the world whither he goes, may at least
sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. But, though Ilbrahim uttered no
complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon him; so that
Dorothy’s entreaties and their own conviction that the child’s feet
might tread heaven’s pavement and not soil it had induced the two
Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, and,
except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have
been thought to slumber. As nightfall came on, however, and the storm
began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy’s mind
and to render his sense of hearing active and acute. If a passing wind
lingered to shake the casement, he strove to turn his head toward it;
if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and
anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man as he read the
Scriptures rose but a little higher, the child almost held his
dying-breath to listen; if a snowdrift swept by the cottage with a
sound like the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that
some visitant should enter. But after a little time he relinquished
whatever secret hope had agitated him and with one low complaining
whisper turned his cheek upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy
with his usual sweetness and besought her to draw near him; she did so,
and Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle
pressure, as if to assure himself that he retained it. At intervals,
and without disturbing the repose of his countenance, a very faint
trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat
cool wind had breathed upon him and made him shiver.

As the boy thus led her by the hand in his quiet progress over the
borders of eternity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the
near though dim delightfulness of the home he was about to reach; she
would not have enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned
herself that she must leave him and return. But just when Ilbrahim’s
feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise he heard a voice behind him,
and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had
travelled. As Dorothy looked upon his features she perceived that their
placid expression was again disturbed. Her own thoughts had been so
wrapped in him that all sounds of the storm and of human speech were
lost to her; but when Catharine’s shriek pierced through the room, the
boy strove to raise himself.

“Friend, she is come! Open unto her!” cried he.

In a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew Ilbrahim
to her bosom, and he nestled there with no violence of joy, but
contentedly as if he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her
face, and, reading its agony, said with feeble earnestness,

“Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now;” and with these words the
gentle boy was dead.


The king’s mandate to stay the New England persecutors was effectual in
preventing further martyrdoms, but the colonial authorities, trusting
in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed
instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their severities
in all other respects. Catharine’s fanaticism had become wilder by the
sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted, there
was she to receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon was unbarred,
thither she came to cast herself upon the floor. But in process of time
a more Christian spirit—a spirit of forbearance, though not of
cordiality or approbation—began to pervade the land in regard to the
persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather
in pity than in wrath, when the matrons fed her with the fragments of
their children’s food and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly
bed, when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast
stones after the roving enthusiast,—then did Catharine return to
Pearson’s dwelling, and made that her home.

As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his ashes, as if his
gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true
religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same
griefs which had once irritated it. When the course of years had made
the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement, she
became a subject of not deep but general interest—a being on whom the
otherwise superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. Every one
spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is pleasant to
experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses which
are not costly, yet manifest good-will; and when at last she died, a
long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her with decent
sadness and tears that were not painful to her place by Ilbrahim’s
green and sunken grave.




 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE


A young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on his way from
Morristown, where he had dealt largely with the deacon of the Shaker
settlement, to the village of Parker’s Falls, on Salmon River. He had a
neat little cart painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each
side-panel, and an Indian chief holding a pipe and a golden
tobacco-stalk on the rear. The pedler drove a smart little mare and was
a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the
worse liked by the Yankees, who, as I have heard them say, would rather
be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he beloved
by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favor he used to court
by presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his stock, knowing well that
the country-lasses of New England are generally great performers on
pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedler
was inquisitive and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the
news and anxious to tell it again.

After an early breakfast at Morristown the tobacco-pedler—whose name
was Dominicus Pike—had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece
of woods without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little
gray mare. It being nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager to hold a
morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. An
opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a
sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man coming over the brow of the
hill at the foot of which the pedler had stopped his green cart.
Dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a
bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick and travelled with a
weary yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had started in the
freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do
the same all day.

“Good-morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when within speaking-distance.
“You go a pretty good jog. What’s the latest news at Parker’s Falls?”

The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over his eyes, and
answered, rather sullenly, that he did not come from Parker’s Falls,
which, as being the limit of his own day’s journey, the pedler had
naturally mentioned in his inquiry.

“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have the latest news
where you did come from. I’m not particular about Parker’s Falls. Any
place will answer.”

Being thus importuned, the traveller—who was as ill-looking a fellow as
one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods—appeared to
hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news or
weighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mounting on the step of
the cart, he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he might have
shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him.

“I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he. “Old Mr.
Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchard at eight o’clock
last night by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the
branch of a St. Michael’s pear tree where nobody would find him till
the morning.”

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated the stranger
betook himself to his journey again with more speed than ever, not even
turning his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar
and relate all the particulars. The pedler whistled to his mare and
went up the hill, pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham,
whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of
long nines and a great deal of pig-tail, lady’s twist and fig tobacco.
He was rather astonished at the rapidity with which the news had
spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line;
the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o’clock the preceding
night, yet Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when, in
all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham’s own family had but just
discovered his corpse hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree. The
stranger on foot must have worn seven-league boots, to travel at such a
rate.

“Ill-news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus Pike, “but this
beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired to go express with the
President’s message.”

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a
mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend
did not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and
country-store along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish
wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. He found himself
invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered
with questions that he could not avoid filling up the outline till it
became quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece of
corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader, and a former
clerk of his to whom Dominicus related the facts testified that the old
gentleman was accustomed to return home through the orchard about
nightfall with the money and valuable papers of the store in his
pocket. The clerk manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham’s
catastrophe, hinting—what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings
with him—that he was a crusty old fellow as close as a vise. His
property would descend to a pretty niece who was now keeping school in
Kimballton.

What with telling the news for the public good and driving bargains for
his own, Dominicus was so much delayed on the road that he chose to put
up at a tavern about five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After supper,
lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room and
went through the story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it
took him half an hour to tell. There were as many as twenty people in
the room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. But the
twentieth was an elderly farmer who had arrived on horseback a short
time before and was now seated in a corner, smoking his pipe. When the
story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair
right in front of Dominicus and stared him full in the face, puffing
out the vilest tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt.

“Will you make affidavit,” demanded he, in the tone of a
country-justice taking an examination, “that old Squire Higginbotham of
Kimballton was murdered in his orchard the night before last and found
hanging on his great pear tree yesterday morning?”

“I tell the story as I heard it, mister,” answered Dominicus, dropping
his half-burnt cigar. “I don’t say that I saw the thing done, so I
can’t take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way.”

“But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “that if Squire Higginbotham
was murdered night before last I drank a glass of bitters with his
ghost this morning. Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his
store as I was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a
little business for him on the road. He didn’t seem to know any more
about his own murder than I did.”

“Why, then it can’t be a fact!” exclaimed Dominicus Pike.

“I guess he’d have mentioned, if it was,” said the old farmer; and he
removed his chair back to the corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in
the mouth.

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham! The pedler had no
heart to mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself
with a glass of gin and water and went to bed, where all night long he
dreamed of hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree.

To avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested that his suspension would
have pleased him better than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in the
gray of the morning, put the little mare into the green cart and
trotted swiftly away toward Parker’s Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy
road and the pleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, and might have
encouraged him to repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to
bear it, but he met neither ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman nor
foot-traveller till, just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came
trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his shoulder, on the end
of a stick.

“Good-morning, mister,” said the pedler, reining in his mare. “If you
come from Kimballton or that neighborhood, maybe you can tell me the
real fact about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow
actually murdered two or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger?”

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe at first that the
stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. On hearing this
sudden question the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow
hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and stammering, he thus
replied:

“No, no! There was no colored man. It was an Irishman that hanged him
last night at eight o’clock; I came away at seven. His folks can’t have
looked for him in the orchard yet.”

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted himself and,
though he seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace
which would have kept the pedler’s mare on a smart trot. Dominicus
stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder had not been
committed till Tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretold it
in all its circumstances on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham’s
corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto,
at above thirty miles’ distance, to know that he was hanging in the
orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton before the unfortunate
man was hanged at all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the
stranger’s surprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a
hue-and-cry after him as an accomplice in the murder, since a murder,
it seemed, had really been perpetrated.

“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “I don’t want his
black blood on my head, and hanging the nigger wouldn’t unhang Mr.
Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentleman? It’s a sin, I know, but I
should hate to have him come to life a second time and give me the
lie.”

With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into the street of Parker’s
Falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three
cotton-factories and a slitting-mill can make it. The machinery was not
in motion and but a few of the shop doors unbarred when he alighted in
the stable-yard of the tavern and made it his first business to order
the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart
Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the hostler. He deemed it advisable,
however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and
also to be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a
mulatto or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relate
it on his own authority or that of any one person, but mentioned it as
a report generally diffused.

The story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and
became so much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it had
originated. Mr. Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls as any
citizen of the place, being part-owner of the slitting-mill and a
considerable stockholder in the cotton-factories. The inhabitants felt
their own prosperity interested in his fate. Such was the excitement
that the Parker’s Falls _Gazette_ anticipated its regular day of
publication, and came out with half a form of blank paper and a column
of double pica emphasized with capitals and headed “HORRID MURDER OF
MR. HIGGINBOTHAM!” Among other dreadful details, the printed account
described the mark of the cord round the dead man’s neck and stated the
number of thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; there was much
pathos, also, about the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one
fainting-fit to another ever since her uncle was found hanging on the
St. Michael’s pear tree with his pockets inside out. The village poet
likewise commemorated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a
ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and in consideration of Mr.
Higginbotham’s claims on the town determined to issue handbills
offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his
murderers and the recovery of the stolen property.

Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consisting of
shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory-girls, mill-men and
schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up such a terrible
loquacity as more than compensated for the silence of the
cotton-machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect to
the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his
untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult.

Our friend Dominicus in his vanity of heart forgot his intended
precautions, and, mounting on the town-pump, announced himself as the
bearer of the authentic intelligence which had caused so wonderful a
sensation. He immediately became the great man of the moment, and had
just begun a new edition of the narrative with a voice like a
field-preacher when the mail-stage drove into the village street. It
had travelled all night, and must have shifted horses at Kimballton at
three in the morning.

“Now we shall hear all the particulars!” shouted the crowd.

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern followed by a thousand
people; for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he
now left it at sixes and sevens to hear the news. The pedler, foremost
in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled
from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every
man assailing them with separate questions, all propounded at once, the
couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a
young lady.

“Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us the particulars about old
Mr. Higginbotham!” bawled the mob. “What is the coroner’s verdict? Are
the murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s niece come out of her
fainting-fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!”

The coachman said not a word except to swear awfully at the hostler for
not bringing him a fresh team of horses. The lawyer inside had
generally his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did
after learning the cause of the excitement was to produce a large red
pocketbook. Meantime, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely polite young
man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as
glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out of the coach. She was a
fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, and had such a
sweet, pretty mouth that Dominicus would almost as lief have heard a
love-tale from it as a tale of murder.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the
mill-men and the factory-girls, “I can assure you that some
unaccountable mistake—or, more probably, a wilful falsehood maliciously
contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit—has excited this singular
uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and
most certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been
perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s
own oral testimony in the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit
of his in the Connecticut courts which was delivered me from that
gentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock last evening.”

So saying, the lawyer, exhibited the date and signature of the note,
which irrefragably proved either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham
was alive when he wrote it, or, as some deemed the more probable case
of two doubtful ones, that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to
continue to transact it even after his death. But unexpected evidence
was forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler’s
explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her
curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.

“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s niece.”

A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy
and bright—that same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the
authority of the Parker’s Falls _Gazette_, to be lying at death’s door
in a fainting-fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubted all along
whether a young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a
rich old uncle.

“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, “that this
strange story is quite unfounded as to myself, and I believe I may
affirm it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He
has the kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to
my own support by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to
spend the vacation of commencement-week with a friend about five miles
from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs,
called me to his bedside and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay
my stage-fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid
his pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to
take some biscuit in my bag instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative alive, and trust
that I shall find him so on my return.”

The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so
sensible and well worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety,
that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in
the State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was
an object of abhorrence at Parker’s Falls and that a thanksgiving had
been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the
inhabitants on learning their mistake. The mill-men resolved to bestow
public honors on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to tar and
feather him, ride him on a rail or refresh him with an ablution at the
town-pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of
the news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting
him for a misdemeanor in circulating unfounded reports, to the great
disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus
either from mob-law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made
by the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out
of town under a discharge of artillery from the schoolboys, who found
plenty of ammunition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he
turned his head to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s
niece a ball of the consistence of hasty-pudding hit him slap in the
mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mind to
ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town-pump;
for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of
charity.

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud—an emblem
of all stains of undeserved opprobrium—was easily brushed off when dry.
Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain
from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. The
handbills of the selectmen would cause the commitment of all the
vagabonds in the State, the paragraph in the Parker’s Falls _Gazette_
would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in
the London newspapers, and many a miser would tremble for his moneybags
and life on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler
meditated with much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress,
and swore that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel
as Miss Higginbotham while defending him from the wrathful populace at
Parker’s Falls.

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along
determined to visit that place, though business had drawn, him out of
the most direct road from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind,
and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Had
nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it
might now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was
evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact, and there was
a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned.
When to this singular combination of incidents it was added that the
rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of
life, and that he had an orchard and a St. Michael’s pear tree, near
which he always passed at nightfall, the circumstantial evidence
appeared so strong that Dominicus doubted whether the autograph
produced by the lawyer, or even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to
be equivalent. Making cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler
further learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of
doubtful character whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the
score of economy.

“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike, aloud, on reaching
the top of a lonely hill, “if I’ll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged
till I see him with my own eyes and hear it from his own mouth. And, as
he’s a real shaver, I’ll have the minister, or some other responsible
man, for an endorser.”

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton
turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His
little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback who
trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the
toll-gatherer and kept on towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted
with the toll-man, and while making change the usual remarks on the
weather passed between them.

“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash to bring it
down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen anything of
old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”

“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just before you
drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk.
He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale
there. The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with
me, but to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged
on; for, wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”

“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.

“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,”
continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself tonight, ‘He’s more like
a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.’”

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just
discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to
recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham, but through the evening shadows
and amid the dust from the horse’s feet the figure appeared dim and
unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly
moulded of darkness and gray light.

Dominicus shivered. “Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other
world by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought he. He shook the
reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of
the gray old shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend of the
road. On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on
horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far
from a number of stores and two taverns clustered round the
meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the
boundary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard, farther still a
mowing-field, and last of all a house. These were the premises of Mr.
Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been
left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike.

Dominicus knew the place, and the little mare stopped short by
instinct, for he was not conscious of tightening the reins. “For the
soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!” said he, trembling. “I never
shall be my own man again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree.” He leaped from the cart, gave
the rein a turn round the gate-post, and ran along the green path of
the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village
clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh
bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of
the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree. One great branch stretched
from the old contorted trunk across the path and threw the darkest
shadow on that one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the
branch.

The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of
peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful
emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a
sturdy Irishman with the butt-end of his whip, and found—not, indeed,
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree, but trembling beneath it with a
halter round his neck—the old identical Mr. Higginbotham.

“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus, tremulously, “you’re an honest man,
and I’ll take your word for it. Have you been hanged, or not?”

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the
simple machinery by which this “coming event” was made to cast its
“shadow before.” Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.
Higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each
delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in
the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of
Dominicus Pike.

It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedler into high
favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and
settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the
interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors
by dying a Christian death in bed; since which melancholy event,
Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large
tobacco-manufactory in my native village.




 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE


Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little Annie
stands on her father’s doorsteps trying to hear what the man with the
loud voice is talking about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling the
people that an elephant and a lion and a royal tiger and a horse with
horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to
town and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them.
Perhaps little Annie would like to go? Yes, and I can see that the
pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street with the green
trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine and the pavements
and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept them
with her broom. She feels that impulse to go strolling away—that
longing after the mystery of the great world—which many children feel,
and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a ramble with
me. See! I do but hold out my hand, and like some bright bird in the
sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upward from her white
pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street.

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie, and let me tie on your bonnet, and
we will set forth. What a strange couple to go on their rambles
together! One walks in black attire, with a measured step and a heavy
brow and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl trips
lightly along as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lest her
feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy between
us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have a smile that
children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown ladies that
could entice me from the side of little Annie, for I delight to let my
mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless child. So come, Annie;
but if I moralize as we go, do not listen to me: only look about you
and be merry.

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses and
stage-coaches with four thundering to meet each other, and trucks and
carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from
the wharves; and here are rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashed
to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a
wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a
tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on
with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grown
people who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way for
little Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her
claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure. A
street-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church and
pours forth his strains to the busy town—a melody that has gone astray
among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices and the war of passing
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None but myself and little
Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune, as if
she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. But where
would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in their toes or the
rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeble with
disease; some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and others of
such ponderous size that their agility would crack the flagstones; but
many, many have leaden feet because their hearts are far heavier than
lead. It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon. What a company of
dancers should we be! For I too am a gentleman of sober footsteps, and
therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately on.

It is a question with me whether this giddy child or my sage self have
most pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. We love the silks of
sunny hue that glow within the darkened premises of the spruce
dry-goods men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver and
the chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments,
glistening at the window of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks
for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glasses at the
hardware-stores. All that is bright and gay attracts us both.

Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood as well as
present partialities give a peculiar magic. How delightful to let the
fancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner—those pies with such
white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether rich
mince with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple delicately
rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty
pyramid; those sweet little circlets sweetly named kisses; those dark
majestic masses fit to be bridal-loaves at the wedding of an heiress,
mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar! Then
the mighty treasures of sugarplums, white and crimson and yellow, in
large glass vases, and candy of all varieties, and those little
cockles—or whatever they are called—much prized by children for their
sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick
maids and bachelors! Oh, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so doth
yours, but we will not be tempted except to an imaginary feast; so let
us hasten onward devouring the vision of a plum-cake.

Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind,
in the window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is
deeply read in Peter Parley’s tomes and has an increasing love for
fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe
next year to the _Juvenile Miscellany_. But, truth to tell, she is apt
to turn away from the printed page and keep gazing at the pretty
pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop-window the
continual loitering-place of children. What would Annie think if, in
the book which I mean to send her on New Year’s day, she should find
her sweet little self bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges,
there to remain till she become a woman grown with children of her own
to read about their mother’s childhood? That would be very queer.

Little Annie is weary of pictures and pulls me onward by the hand, till
suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my
stars! Is this a toyshop, or is it fairy-land? For here are gilded
chariots in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side by
side, while their courtiers on these small horses should gallop in
triumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are
dishes of chinaware fit to be the dining-set of those same princely
personages when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest hall of
their palace—full five feet high—and behold their nobles feasting adown
the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and queen should
sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. Here stands a
turbaned Turk threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he
is, and next a Chinese mandarin who nods his head at Annie and myself.
Here we may review a whole army of horse and foot in red-and-blue
uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless
music; they have halted on the shelf of this window after their weary
march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for soldiers? No conquering
queen is she—neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine; her whole heart is
set upon that doll who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. This
is the little girl’s true plaything. Though made of wood, a doll is a
visionary and ethereal personage endowed by childish fancy with a
peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a
sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that
wild world with which children ape the real one. Little Annie does not
understand what I am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in
the window. We will invite her home with us as we return.—Meantime,
good-bye, Dame Doll! A toy yourself, you look forth from your window
upon many ladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and
upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave visages. Oh,
with your never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize on
all that flits before them, what a wise doll would you be!—Come, little
Annie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may.

Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is curious in the most
crowded part of a town to meet with living creatures that had their
birthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature in
the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird hanging out
of the window in his cage. Poor little fellow! His golden feathers are
all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened twice as
brightly among the summer islands, but still he has become a citizen in
all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so well without the
uproar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not know how
miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, calling out, “Pretty Poll!
Pretty Poll!” as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her
prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, though
gaudily dressed in green and yellow! If she had said “Pretty Annie!”
there would have been some sense in it. See that gray squirrel at the
door of the fruit-shop whirling round and round so merrily within his
wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an amusement.
Admirable philosophy!

Here comes a big, rough dog—a countryman’s dog—in search of his master,
smelling at everybody’s heels and touching little Annie’s hand with his
cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted
him.—Success to your search, Fidelity!—And there sits a great yellow
cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, gazing at
this transitory world with owl’s eyes, and making pithy comments,
doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast.—Oh, sage puss, make
room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers.

Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier and his
ding-dong-bell. Look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air,
pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they had met together to
choose a king, according to their custom in the days of Æsop. But they
are choosing neither a king nor a President, else we should hear a most
horrible snarling! They have come from the deep woods and the wild
mountains and the desert sands and the polar snows only to do homage to
my little Annie. As we enter among them the great elephant makes us a
bow in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his
mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind. Annie
returns the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who is
certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. The lion and the
lioness are busy with two beef-bones. The royal tiger, the beautiful,
the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a haughty step,
unmindful of the spectators or recalling the fierce deeds of his former
life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior animals from
the jungles of Bengal.

Here we see the very same wolf—do not go near him, Annie!—the selfsame
wolf that devoured little Red Riding-Hood and her grandmother. In the
next cage a hyena from Egypt who has doubtless howled around the
pyramids and a black bear from our own forests are fellow-prisoners and
most excellent friends. Are there any two living creatures who have so
few sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends? Here sits a great
white bear whom common observers would call a very stupid beast, though
I perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of
his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the vicinity
of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the
eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But oh those
unsentimental monkeys! The ugly, grinning, aping, chattering,
ill-natured, mischievous and queer little brutes! Annie does not love
the monkeys; their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of
taste and makes her mind unquiet because it bears a wild and dark
resemblance to humanity. But here is a little pony just big enough for
Annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time
with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here, with a laced
coat and a cocked hat, and a riding-whip in his hand—here comes a
little gentleman small enough to be king of the fairies and ugly enough
to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle.
Merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and
merrily rides the little old gentleman.—Come, Annie, into the street
again; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there.

Mercy on us! What a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie ever
read the cries of London city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man
proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes another,
mounted on a cart and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin
horn, as much as to say, “Fresh fish!” And hark! a voice on high, like
that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some
chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot and darksome caverns
into the upper air. What cares the world for that? But, well-a-day, we
hear a shrill voice of affliction—the scream of a little child, rising
louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound
produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, though
without experience of such direful woe.

Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will
he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book or a show of
beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than
any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in
his right hand and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried
motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the
sounds are scattered forth in quick succession far and near.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town. It
drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues and draws each man’s mind from
his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends
to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the
cellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who of
all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-house or
hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier! What
saith the people’s orator?

“Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL of five years old, in a blue silk
frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes.
Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother—”

Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found.—Oh, my pretty Annie, we
forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair and has
sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old
and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my
hand? Well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go forget not to thank
Heaven, my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the world you
may return at the first summons with an untainted and unwearied heart,
and be a happy child again. But I have gone too far astray for the
town-crier to call me back.

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit throughout my ramble
with little Annie. Say not that it has been a waste of precious
moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk and a reverie of
childish imaginations about topics unworthy of a grown man’s notice.
Has it been merely this? Not so—not so. They are not truly wise who
would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple
thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth for little cause or
none, their grief soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us
is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost
forgotten and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as
yesterday, when life settles darkly down upon us and we doubt whether
to call ourselves young any more,—then it is good to steal away from
the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an
hour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains of still
fresh existence we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to
struggle onward and do our part in life—perhaps as fervently as ever,
but for a time with a kinder and purer heart and a spirit more lightly
wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!




WAKEFIELD


In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth,
of a man—let us call him Wakefield—who absented himself for a long time
from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very
uncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be
condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far
from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on record
of marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be
found in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived in
London. The man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in
the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or
friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment,
dwelt upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his home
every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so
great a gap in his matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory and his
wife long, long ago resigned to her autumnal widowhood—he entered the
door one evening quietly as from a day’s absence, and became a loving
spouse till death.

This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of the
purest originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is
one, I think, which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. We
know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly,
yet feel as if some other might. To my own contemplations, at least, it
has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that the
story must be true and a conception of its hero’s character. Whenever
any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in
thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or
if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of Wakefield’s
vagary, I bid him welcome, trusting that there will be a pervading
spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly
and condensed into the final sentence. Thought has always its efficacy
and every striking incident its moral.

What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our own idea
and call it by his name. He was now in the meridian of life; his
matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm,
habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most
constant, because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart at rest
wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so;
his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings that tended to no
purpose or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom so
energetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning
of the term, made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With a cold but not
depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous
thoughts nor perplexed with originality, who could have anticipated
that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among the
doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances been asked who was the
man in London the surest to perform nothing to-day which should be
remembered on the morrow, they would have thought of Wakefield. Only
the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. She, without having
analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness that
had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sort of vanity, the
most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition to craft which had
seldom produced more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets
hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she called a little
strangeness sometimes in the good man. This latter quality is
indefinable, and perhaps non-existent.

Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. It is the dusk
of an October evening. His equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered
with an oil-cloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a small
portmanteau in the other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that he is to
take the night-coach into the country. She would fain inquire the
length of his journey, its object and the probable time of his return,
but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates him only
by a look. He tells her not to expect him positively by the
return-coach nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days, but,
at all events, to look for him at supper on Friday evening. Wakefield,
himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. He
holds out his hand; she gives her own and meets his parting kiss in the
matter-of-course way of a ten years’ matrimony, and forth goes the
middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by
a whole week’s absence. After the door has closed behind him, she
perceives it thrust partly open and a vision of her husband’s face
through the aperture, smiling on her and gone in a moment. For the time
this little incident is dismissed without a thought, but long
afterward, when she has been more years a widow than a wife, that smile
recurs and flickers across all her reminiscences of Wakefield’s visage.
In her many musings she surrounds the original smile with a multitude
of fantasies which make it strange and awful; as, for instance, if she
imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen on his pale
features; or if she dreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit
wears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet for its sake, when all others have
given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow.

But our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him along the
street ere he lose his individuality and melt into the great mass of
London life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let us follow
close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns
and doublings, we find him comfortably established by the fireside of a
small apartment previously bespoken. He is in the next street to his
own and at his journey’s end. He can scarcely trust his good-fortune in
having got thither unperceived, recollecting that at one time he was
delayed by the throng in the very focus of a lighted lantern, and again
there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from
the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon he heard a voice shouting
afar and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless a dozen busybodies
had been watching him and told his wife the whole affair.

Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this
great world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy
bed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee
home to good Mrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself
even for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she for
a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly divided from
her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy true wife
for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human affections—not
that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly close again.

Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, Wakefield
lies down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreads forth his
arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed, “No,”
thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him; “I will not sleep alone
another night.” In the morning he rises earlier than usual and sets
himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are his loose and
rambling modes of thought that he has taken this very singular step
with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to
define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The vagueness of the
project and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the
execution of it are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man.
Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds
himself curious to know the progress of matters at home—how his
exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and, briefly, how
the little sphere of creatures and circumstances in which he was a
central object will be affected by his removal. A morbid vanity,
therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But how is he to
attain his ends? Not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable
lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in the next street to his
home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach had been
whirling him away all night. Yet should he reappear, the whole project
is knocked in the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with
this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the
head of the street and send one hasty glance toward his forsaken
domicile. Habit—for he is a man of habits—takes him by the hand and
guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at the
critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his foot upon the
step.—Wakefield, whither are you going?

At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. Little dreaming of
the doom to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurries away,
breathless with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his
head at the distant corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight of him?
Will not the whole household—the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart
maid-servant and the dirty little footboy—raise a hue-and-cry through
London streets in pursuit of their fugitive lord and master? Wonderful
escape! He gathers courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed
with a sense of change about the familiar edifice such as affects us
all when, after a separation of months or years, we again see some hill
or lake or work of art with which we were friends of old. In ordinary
cases this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and
contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In
Wakefield the magic of a single night has wrought a similar
transformation, because in that brief period a great moral change has
been effected. But this is a secret from himself. Before leaving the
spot he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wife passing athwart
the front window with her face turned toward the head of the street.
The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea that
among a thousand such atoms of mortality her eye must have detected
him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when
he finds himself by the coal-fire of his lodgings.

So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham. After the initial
conception and the stirring up of the man’s sluggish temperament to put
it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. We
may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig
of reddish hair and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his
customary suit of brown, from a Jew’s old-clothes bag. It is
accomplished: Wakefield is another man. The new system being now
established, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost as
difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position.
Furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness occasionally
incident to his temper and brought on at present by the inadequate
sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs.
Wakefield. He will not go back until she be frightened half to death.
Well, twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a
heavier step, a paler cheek and more anxious brow, and in the third
week of his non-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering the
house in the guise of an apothecary. Next day the knocker is muffled.
Toward nightfall comes the chariot of a physician and deposits its
big-wigged and solemn burden at Wakefield’s door, whence after a
quarter of an hour’s visit he emerges, perchance the herald of a
funeral. Dear woman! will she die?

By this time Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling,
but still lingers away from his wife’s bedside, pleading with his
conscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. If aught
else restrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a few weeks
she gradually recovers. The crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps,
but quiet, and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish
for him again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield’s mind
and render him indistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulf
divides his hired apartment from his former home. “It is but in the
next street,” he sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto
he has put off’ his return from one particular day to another;
henceforward he leaves the precise time undetermined—not to-morrow;
probably next week; pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as much
chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the self-banished
Wakefield.

Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen
pages! Then might I exemplify how an influence beyond our control lays
its strong hand on every deed which we do and weaves its consequences
into an iron tissue of necessity.

Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for ten years or so to haunt
around his house without once crossing the threshold, and to be
faithful to his wife with all the affection of which his heart is
capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be
remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct.

Now for a scene. Amid the throng of a London street we distinguish a
man, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless
observers, yet bearing in his whole aspect the handwriting of no common
fate for such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre; his low and
narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless,
sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to look
inward. He bends his head and moves with an indescribable obliquity of
gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to the world. Watch him
long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow that
circumstances—which often produce remarkable men from Nature’s ordinary
handiwork—have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to sidle along
the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a portly
female considerably in the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her
hand, is proceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien of
settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away or have become so
essential to her heart that they would be poorly exchanged for joy.
Just as the lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing a slight
obstruction occurs and brings these two figures directly in contact.
Their hands touch; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against
his shoulder; they stand face to face, staring into each other’s eyes.
After a ten years’ separation thus Wakefield meets his wife. The throng
eddies away and carries them asunder. The sober widow, resuming her
former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the portal and throws a
perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, however, opening her
prayer-book as she goes.

And the man? With so wild a face that busy and selfish London stands to
gaze after him he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door and throws
himself upon the bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his
feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all the
miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance, and
he cries out passionately, “Wakefield, Wakefield! You are mad!” Perhaps
he was so. The singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to
itself that, considered in regard to his fellow-creatures and the
business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. He
had contrived—or, rather, he had happened—to dissever himself from the
world, to vanish, to give up his place and privileges with living men
without being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is nowise
parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the city as of old, but the
crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always
beside his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of
the one nor the affection of the other. It was Wakefield’s
unprecedented fate to retain his original share of human sympathies and
to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his
reciprocal influence on them. It would be a most curious speculation to
trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect
separately and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be
conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the
truth, indeed, would come, but only for the moment, and still he would
keep saying, “I shall soon go back,” nor reflect that he had been
saying so for twenty years.

I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear in the
retrospect scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had at
first limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more than
an interlude in the main business of his life. When, after a little
while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his parlor, his wife
would clap her hands for joy on beholding the middle-aged Mr.
Wakefield. Alas, what a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our
favorite follies, we should be young men—all of us—and till Doomsday.

One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wakefield is
taking his customary walk toward the dwelling which he still calls his
own. It is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter
down upon the pavement and are gone before a man can put up his
umbrella. Pausing near the house, Wakefield discerns through the
parlor-windows of the second floor the red glow and the glimmer and
fitful flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a grotesque
shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and chin and the broad
waist form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the
up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost too merrily for the shade
of an elderly widow. At this instant a shower chances to fall, and is
driven by the unmannerly gust full into Wakefield’s face and bosom. He
is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand wet and
shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm him and his
own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes which
doubtless she has kept carefully in the closet of their bedchamber? No;
Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends the steps—heavily, for twenty
years have stiffened his legs since he came down, but he knows it
not.—Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home that is left you?
Then step into your grave.—The door opens. As he passes in we have a
parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile which was
the precursor of the little joke that he has ever since been playing
off at his wife’s expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed the poor
woman! Well, a good night’s rest to Wakefield!

This happy event—supposing it to be such—could only have occurred at an
unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across the
threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which
shall lend its wisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. Amid the
seeming confusion of our mysterious world individuals are so nicely
adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that
by stepping aside for a moment a man exposes himself to a fearful risk
of losing his place for ever. Like Wakefield, he may become, as it
were, the outcast of the universe.




A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP


(SCENE, _the corner of two principal streets_,[3] _the_ TOWN-PUMP
_talking through its nose_.)

Noon by the north clock! Noon by the east! High noon, too, by these hot
sunbeams, which full, scarcely aslope, upon my head and almost make the
water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public
characters have a tough time of it! And among all the town-officers
chosen at March meeting, where is he that sustains for a single year
the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity upon
the town-pump? The title of “town-treasurer” is rightfully mine, as
guardian of the best treasure that the town has. The overseers of the
poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide bountifully for
the pauper without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of
the fire department and one of the physicians to the board of health.
As a keeper of the peace all water-drinkers will confess me equal to
the constable. I perform some of the duties of the town-clerk by
promulgating public notices when they are posted on my front. To speak
within bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit,
moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother-officers by the cool,
steady, upright, downright and impartial discharge of my business and
the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody
seeks me in vain, for all day long I am seen at the busiest corner,
just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike,
and at night I hold a lantern over my head both to show where I am and
keep people out of the gutters. At this sultry noontide I am cupbearer
to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to
my waist. Like a dramseller on the mall at muster-day, I cry aloud to
all and sundry in my plainest accents and at the very tiptop of my
voice.

Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up,
gentlemen! Walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the
unadulterated ale of Father Adam—better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica,
strong beer or wine of any price; here it is by the hogshead or the
single glass, and not a cent to pay! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and
help yourselves!

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they
come.—A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff and away again, so as to keep
yourselves in a nice cool sweat.—You, my friend, will need another
cupful to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as
it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score
of miles to-day, and like a wise man have passed by the taverns and
stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat
without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder or
melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink
and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the
fiery fever of last night’s potations, which he drained from no cup of
mine.—Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers
hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a
closer intimacy till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent.
Mercy on you, man! the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet
and is converted quite to steam in the miniature Tophet which you
mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an
honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a
dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for a swig half so
delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor
of cold water. Good-bye; and whenever you are thirsty, remember that I
keep a constant supply at the old stand.—Who next?—Oh, my little
friend, you are let loose from school and come hither to scrub your
blooming face and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and
other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the town-pump? Take it,
pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and
tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear
child! put down the cup and yield your place to this elderly gentleman
who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones that I suspect he is
afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by without so much as thanking
me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no
wine-cellars.—Well, well, sir, no harm done, I hope? Go draw the cork,
tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it
will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation
of the gout, it is all one to the town-pump. This thirsty dog with his
red tongue lolling out does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his
hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers
away again!—Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout?

Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and
while my spout has a moment’s leisure I will delight the town with a
few historical remniscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome
shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn
earth in the very spot where you now behold me on the sunny pavement.
The water was as bright and clear and deemed as precious as liquid
diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it from time immemorial till
the fatal deluge of the firewater burst upon the red men and swept
their whole race away from the cold fountains. Endicott and his
followers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long
beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch-bark.
Governor Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here out of
the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here wet his palm and laid
it on the brow of the first town-born child. For many years it was the
watering-place, and, as it were, the washbowl, of the vicinity, whither
all decent folks resorted to purify their visages and gaze at them
afterward—at least, the pretty maidens did—in the mirror which it made.
On Sabbath-days, whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled
his basin here and placed it on the communion-table of the humble
meeting-house, which partly covered the site of yonder stately brick
one. Thus one generation after another was consecrated to Heaven by its
waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its glassy bosom,
and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life were but a flitting
image in a fountain. Finally the fountain vanished also. Cellars were
dug on all sides and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence
oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two
streets. In the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, the
dust flew in clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now
their grave. But in the course of time a town-pump was sunk into the
source of the ancient spring; and when the first decayed, another took
its place, and then another, and still another, till here stand I,
gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink and be
refreshed. The water is as pure and cold as that which slaked the
thirst of the red sagamore beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem
of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow
falls but from the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story
that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized
again, so shall the virtues of cold water—too little valued since your
fathers’ days—be recognized by all.

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence and
spout forth a stream of water to replenish the trough for this teamster
and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere
along that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering
of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of
the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon
or two apiece and they can afford time to breathe it in with sighs of
calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their
monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper.

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the
remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of
modesty if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own
multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. The better you
think of me, the better men and women you will find yourselves. I shall
say nothing of my all-important aid on washing-days, though on that
account alone I might call myself the household god of a hundred
families. Far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at
the show of dirty faces which you would present without my pains to
keep you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight
bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the
town-pump and found me always at my post firm amid the confusion and
ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth
while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma as the
physician whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the
nauseous lore which has found men sick, or left them so, since the days
of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence
on mankind.

No; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede
to me—if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a class—of
being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as
mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast
portion of its crime and anguish which has gushed from the fiery
fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise the cow shall be my
great confederate. Milk and water—the TOWN-PUMP and the Cow! Such is
the glorious copartnership that shall tear down the distilleries and
brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the
tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolize the whole business of
quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away
from the land, finding no hovel so wretched where her squalid form may
shelter herself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw
its own heart and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her
strength. Until now the frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the
human blood, transmitted from sire to son and rekindled in every
generation by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire
shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and
war—the drunkenness of nations—perhaps will cease. At least, there will
be no war of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of
peaceful joy—a calm bliss of temperate affections—shall pass hand in
hand through life and lie down not reluctantly at its protracted close.
To them the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an
eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their
dead faces shall express what their spirits were and are to be by a
lingering smile of memory and hope.

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying, especially to an unpractised orator.
I never conceived till now what toil the temperance lecturers undergo
for my sake; hereafter they shall have the business to themselves.—Do,
some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my
whistle.—Thank you, sir!—My dear hearers, when the world shall have
been regenerated by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless
vats and liquor-casks into one great pile and make a bonfire in honor
of the town-pump. And when I shall have decayed like my predecessors,
then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain richly sculptured
take my place upon this spot. Such monuments should be erected
everywhere and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions
of my cause. Now, listen, for something very important is to come next.

There are two or three honest friends of mine—and true friends I know
they are—who nevertheless by their fiery pugnacity in my behalf do put
me in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even a total overthrow upon
the pavement and the loss of the treasure which I guard.—I pray you,
gentlemen, let this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get
tipsy with zeal for temperance and take up the honorable cause of the
town-pump in the style of a toper fighting for his brandy-bottle? Or
can the excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified
than by plunging slapdash into hot water and woefully scalding
yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may. In the moral warfare
which you are to wage—and, indeed, in the whole conduct of your
lives—you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never
permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold
disquietudes, of the world around me to reach that deep, calm well of
purity which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul,
it is to cool earth’s fever or cleanse its stains.

One o’clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I may as
well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance
with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband while
drawing her water, as Rachel did of old!—Hold out your vessel, my dear!
There it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet
image in the pitcher as you go, and forget not in a glass of my own
liquor to drink “SUCCESS TO THE TOWN-PUMP.”




THE GREAT CARBUNCLE[4]

A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

At nightfall once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the
Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers were refreshing themselves after
a toilsome and fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come
thither, not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save
one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and solitary longing for
this wondrous gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong
enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hut
of branches and kindling a great fire of shattered pines that had
drifted down the headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank
of which they were to pass the night. There was but one of their
number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies by
the absorbing spell of the pursuit as to acknowledge no satisfaction at
the sight of human faces in the remote and solitary region whither they
had ascended. A vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the
nearest settlement, while scant a mile above their heads was that bleak
verge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle of forest-trees and
either robe themselves in clouds or tower naked into the sky. The roar
of the Amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance if only a
solitary man had listened while the mountain-stream talked with the
wind.

The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings and welcomed
one another to the hut where each man was the host and all were the
guests of the whole company. They spread their individual supplies of
food on the flat surface of a rock and partook of a general repast; at
the close of which a sentiment of good-fellowship was perceptible among
the party, though repressed by the idea that the renewed search for the
Great Carbuncle must make them strangers again in the morning. Seven
men and one young woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire,
which extended its bright wall along the whole front of their wigwam.
As they observed the various and contrasted figures that made up the
assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of himself in the
unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the
conclusion that an odder society had never met in city or wilderness,
on mountain or plain.

The eldest of the group—a tall, lean, weatherbeaten man some sixty
years of age—was clad in the skins of wild animals whose fashion of
dress he did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf and the bear had
long been his most intimate companions. He was one of those ill-fated
mortals, such as the Indians told of, whom in their early youth the
Great Carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness and became the passionate
dream of their existence. All who visited that region knew him as “the
Seeker,” and by no other name. As none could remember when he first
took up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the Saco that
for his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle he had been condemned
to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with the same
feverish hopes at sunrise, the same despair at eve. Near this miserable
Seeker sat a little elderly personage wearing a high-crowned hat shaped
somewhat like a crucible. He was from beyond the sea—a Doctor
Cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by
continually stooping over charcoal-furnaces and inhaling unwholesome
fumes during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. It was told of
him—whether truly or not—that at the commencement of his studies he had
drained his body of all its richest blood and wasted it, with other
inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccessful experiment, and had never
been a well man since. Another of the adventurers was Master Ichabod
Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman of Boston, and an elder of
the famous Mr. Norton’s church. His enemies had a ridiculous story that
Master Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour after prayer-time
every morning and evening in wallowing naked among an immense quantity
of pine-tree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of
Massachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his
companions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a sneer that
always contorted his thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of
spectacles which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face of
nature to this gentleman’s perception. The fifth adventurer likewise
lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet.
He was a bright-eyed man, but woefully pined away, which was no more
than natural if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary diet was fog,
morning mist and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, sauced
with moonshine whenever he could get it. Certain it is that the poetry
which flowed from him had a smack of all these dainties. The sixth of
the party was a young man of haughty mien and sat somewhat apart from
the rest, wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the
fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress and gleamed
intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. This was the lord De
Vere, who when at home was said to spend much of his time in the
burial-vault of his dead progenitors rummaging their mouldy coffins in
search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among
bones and dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected
haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. Lastly, there was a handsome
youth in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person in whom
a delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow
of a young wife’s affection. Her name was Hannah, and her husband’s
Matthew—two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair
who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose
wits had been set agog by the Great Carbuncle.

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the same fire,
sat this varied group of adventurers, all so intent upon a single
object that of whatever else they began to speak their closing words
were sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. Several related
the circumstances that brought them thither. One had listened to a
traveller’s tale of this marvellous stone in his own distant country,
and had immediately been seized with such a thirst for beholding it as
could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. Another, so long ago as
when the famous Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing
far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening years till now
that he took up the search. A third, being encamped on a
hunting-expedition full forty miles south of the White Mountains, awoke
at midnight and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so
that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. They spoke of the
innumerable attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the
singular fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all
adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to its source a
light that overpowered the moon and almost matched the sun. It was
observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every other in
anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a
scarcely-hidden conviction that he would himself be the favored one. As
if to allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian
traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem and bewildered those
who sought it either by removing it from peak to peak of the higher
hills or by calling up a mist from the enchanted lake over which it
hung. But these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to
believe that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or
perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might
naturally obstruct the passage to any given point among the intricacies
of forest, valley and mountain.

In a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious spectacles
looked round upon the party, making each individual in turn the object
of the sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance.

“So, fellow-pilgrims,” said he, “here we are, seven wise men and one
fair damsel, who doubtless is as wise as any graybeard of the company.
Here we are, I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Methinks,
now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do
with the Great Carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch
it.—What says our friend in the bearskin? How mean you, good sir, to
enjoy the prize which you have been seeking the Lord knows how long
among the Crystal Hills?”

“How enjoy it!” exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly. “I hope for no
enjoyment from it--that folly has past, long ago! I keep up the search
for this accursed stone, because the vain ambition of my youth has
become a fate upon me, in old age. The pursuit alone is my
strength--the energy of my soul--the warmth of my blood, and the pith
and marrow of my bones! Were I to turn my back upon it, I should fall
down dead, on the hither side of the Notch, which is the gate-way of
this mountain region. Yet, not to have my wasted life time back again,
would I give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having found it, I
shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it
in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried with me for ever.”

“Oh, wretch, regardless of the interests of science!” cried Doctor
Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation. “Thou art not worthy to
behold, even from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that
ever was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is the sole
purpose for which a wise man may desire the possession of the Great
Carbuncle. Immediately on obtaining it--for I have a presentiment, good
people, that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputation--I
shall return to Europe, and employ my remaining years in reducing it to
its first elements. A portion of the stone will I grind to impalpable
powder; other parts shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents
will act upon so admirable a composition; and the remainder I design to
melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. By these
various methods, I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow
the result of my labours upon the world, in a folio volume.”

“Excellent!” quoth the man with the spectacles. “Nor need you hesitate,
learned Sir, on account of the necessary destruction of the gem; since
the perusal of your folio may teach every mother’s son of us to concoct
a Great Carbuncle of his own.”

“But, verily,” said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, “for mine own part, I
object to the making of these counterfeits, as being calculated to
reduce the marketable value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, Sirs, I
have an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I quitted my
regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks, and
putting my credit to great hazard, and furthermore, have put myself to
peril of death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages--and all
this without daring to ask the prayers of the congregation, because the
quest for the Great Carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic
with the evil one. Now think ye that I would have done this grievous
wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate, without a reasonable
chance of profit?”

“Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,” said the man with the spectacles. “I
never laid such a great folly to thy charge.”

“Truly, I hope not,” said the merchant. “Now, as touching this Great
Carbuncle, I am free to own that I have never had a glimpse of it, but,
be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely
outvalue the Great Mogul’s best diamond, which he holds at an
incalculable sum; wherefore I am minded to put the Great Carbuncle on
shipboard and voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or into
heathendom if Providence should send me thither, and, in a word,
dispose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates of the
earth, that he may place it among his crown-jewels. If any of ye have a
wiser plan, let him expound it.”

“That have I, thou sordid man!” exclaimed the poet. “Dost thou desire
nothing brighter than gold, that thou wouldst transmute all this
ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For
myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my
attic-chamber in one of the darksome alleys of London. There night and
day will I gaze upon it. My soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be
diffused throughout my intellectual powers and gleam brightly in every
line of poesy that I indite. Thus long ages after I am gone the
splendor of the Great Carbuncle will blaze around my name.”

“Well said, Master Poet!” cried he of the spectacles. “Hide it under
thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, it will gleam through the holes and make
thee look like a jack-o’-lantern!”

“To think,” ejaculated the lord De Vere, rather to himself than his
companions, the best of whom he held utterly unworthy of his
intercourse—“to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of
conveying the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grubb street! Have not I
resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament
for the great hall of my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for
ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of armor,
the banners and escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and keeping
bright the memory of heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers
sought the prize in vain but that I might win it and make it a symbol
of the glories of our lofty line? And never on the diadem of the White
Mountains did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is
reserved for it in the hall of the De Veres.”

“It is a noble thought,” said the cynic, with an obsequious sneer.
“Yet, might I presume to say so, the gem would make a rare sepulchral
lamp, and would display the glories of Your Lordship’s progenitors more
truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle-hall.”

“Nay, forsooth,” observed Matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand in
hand with his bride, “the gentleman has bethought himself of a
profitable use for this bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it
for a like purpose.”

“How, fellow?” exclaimed His Lordship, in surprise. “What castle-hall
hast thou to hang it in?”

“No castle,” replied Matthew, “but as neat a cottage as any within
sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must know, friends, that Hannah and I,
being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the Great
Carbuncle because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings
and it will be such a pretty thing to show the neighbors when they
visit us! It will shine through the house, so that we may pick up a pin
in any corner, and will set all the windows a-glowing as if there were
a great fire of pine-knots in the chimney. And then how pleasant, when
we awake in the night, to be able to see one another’s faces!”

There was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of
the young couple’s project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable
stone, with which the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud
to adorn his palace. Especially the man with spectacles, who had
sneered at all the company in turn, now twisted his visage into such an
expression of ill-natured mirth that Matthew asked him rather peevishly
what he himself meant to do with the Great Carbuncle.

“The Great Carbuncle!” answered the cynic, with ineffable scorn. “Why,
you blockhead, there is no such thing in _rerum naturâ_. I have come
three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of
these mountains and poke my head into every chasm for the sole purpose
of demonstrating to the satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass
than thyself that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug.”

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the
adventurers to the Crystal Hills, but none so vain, so foolish, and so
impious too, as that of the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He
was one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings are downward to
the darkness instead of heavenward, and who, could they but extinguish
the lights which God hath kindled for us, would count the midnight
gloom their chiefest glory.

As the cynic spoke several of the party were startled by a gleam of red
splendor that showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and
the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with an illumination
unlike that of their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of the
forest-trees. They listened for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing,
and were glad that the tempest came not near them. The stars—those
dial-points of heaven—now warned the adventurers to close their eyes on
the blazing logs and open them in dreams to the glow of the Great
Carbuncle.

The young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest
corner of the wigwam, and were separated from the rest of the party by
a curtain of curiously-woven twigs such as might have hung in deep
festoons around the bridal-bower of Eve. The modest little wife had
wrought this piece of tapestry while the other guests were talking. She
and her husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from
visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed light of one
another’s eyes. They awoke at the same instant and with one happy smile
beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their
consciousness of the reality of life and love. But no sooner did she
recollect where they were than the bride peeped through the interstices
of the leafy curtain and saw that the outer room of the hut was
deserted.

“Up, dear Matthew!” cried she, in haste. “The strange folk are all
gone. Up this very minute, or we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!”

In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty
prize which had lured them thither that they had slept peacefully all
night and till the summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine,
while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish
wakefulness or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set off to realize
their dreams with the curliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah
after their calm rest were as light as two young deer, and merely
stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of the
Amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food ere they turned their
faces to the mountain-side. It was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection
as they toiled up the difficult ascent gathering strength from the
mutual aid which they afforded.

After several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe and
the entanglement of Hannah’s hair in a bough, they reached the upper
verge of the forest and were now to pursue a more adventurous course.
The innumerable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut
in their thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind
and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine that rose immeasurably
above them. They gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had
traversed, and longed to be buried again in its depths rather than
trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude.

“Shall we go on?” said Matthew, throwing his arm round Hannah’s waist
both to protect her and to comfort his heart by drawing her close to
it.

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman’s love of jewels,
and could not forego the hope of possessing the very brightest in the
world, in spite of the perils with which it must be won.

“Let us climb a little higher,” whispered she, yet tremulously, as she
turned her face upward to the lonely sky.

“Come, then,” said Matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing her
along with him; for she became timid again the moment that he grew
bold.

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, now
treading upon the tops and thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines
which by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had barely
reached three feet in altitude. Next they came to masses and fragments
of naked rock heaped confusedly together like a cairn reared by giants
in memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air nothing
breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but what was concentred in
their two hearts; they had climbed so high that Nature herself seemed
no longer to keep them company. She lingered beneath them within the
verge of the forest-trees, and sent a farewell glance after her
children as they strayed where her own green footprints had never been.
But soon they were to be hidden from her eye. Densely and dark the
mists began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow on the vast
landscape and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest
mountain-peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds. Finally the
vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, presenting the
appearance of a pavement over which the wanderers might have trodden,
but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth
which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to behold that green earth
again—more intensely, alas! than beneath a clouded sky they had ever
desired a glimpse of heaven. They even felt it a relief to their
desolation when the mists, creeping gradually up the mountain,
concealed its lonely peak, and thus annihilated—at least, for them—the
whole region of visible space. But they drew closer together with a
fond and melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should
snatch them from each other’s sight. Still, perhaps, they would have
been resolute to climb as far and as high between earth and heaven as
they could find foothold if Hannah’s strength had not begun to fail,
and with that her courage also. Her breath grew short. She refused to
burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against his
side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. At last she
sank down on one of the rocky steps of the acclivity.

“We are lost, dear Matthew,” said she, mournfully; “we shall never find
our way to the earth again. And oh how happy we might have been in our
cottage!”

“Dear heart, we will yet be happy there,” answered Matthew. “Look! In
this direction the sunshine penetrates the dismal mist; by its aid I
can direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go back,
love, and dream no more of the Great Carbuncle.”

“The sun cannot be yonder,” said Hannah, with despondence. “By this
time it must be noon; if there could ever be any sunshine here, it
would come from above our heads.”

“But look!” repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. “It is
brightening every moment. If not sunshine, what can it be?”

Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking
through the mist and changing its dim hue to a dusky red, which
continually grew more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused
with the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll away from the
mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object after another
started out of its impenetrable obscurity into sight with precisely the
effect of a new creation before the indistinctness of the old chaos had
been completely swallowed up. As the process went on they saw the
gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very
border of a mountain-lake, deep, bright, clear and calmly beautiful,
spreading from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the
solid rock. A ray of glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims
looked whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes, with a thrill
of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from
the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake.

For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery and found the
long-sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle. They threw their arms around
each other and trembled at their own success, for as the legends of
this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory they felt themselves
marked out by fate, and the consciousness was fearful. Often from
childhood upward they had seen it shining like a distant star, and now
that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. They
seemed changed to one another’s eyes in the red brilliancy that flamed
upon their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks
and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its power. But
with their next glance they beheld an object that drew their attention
even from the mighty stone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath
the Great Carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man with his arms
extended in the act of climbing and his face turned upward as if to
drink the full gush of splendor. But he stirred not, no more than if
changed to marble.

“It is the Seeker,” whispered Hannah, convulsively grasping her
husband’s arm. “Matthew, he is dead.”

“The joy of success has killed him,” replied Matthew, trembling
violently. “Or perhaps the very light of the Great Carbuncle was
death.”

“‘The Great Carbuncle’!” cried a peevish voice behind them. “The great
humbug! If you have found it, prithee point it out to me.”

They turned their heads, and there was the cynic with his prodigious
spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at
the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great
Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all
the scattered clouds were condensed about his person. Though its
radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet as
he turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced
that there was the least glimmer there.

“Where is your great humbug?” he repeated. “I challenge you to make me
see it.”

“There!” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and turning
the cynic round toward the illuminated cliff. “Take off those
abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it.”

Now, these colored spectacles probably darkened the cynic’s sight in at
least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze
at an eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from
his nose and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great
Carbuncle. But scarcely had he encountered it when, with a deep,
shuddering groan, he dropped his head and pressed both hands across his
miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was in very truth no light of the
Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on earth, nor light of heaven
itself, for the poor cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects
through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a
single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked
vision, had blinded him for ever.

“Matthew,” said Hannah, clinging to him, “let us go hence.”

Matthew saw that she was faint, and, kneeling down, supported her in
his arms while he threw some of the thrillingly-cold water of the
enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. It revived her, but could not
renovate her courage.

“Yes, dearest,” cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his
breast; “we will go hence and return to our humble cottage. The blessed
sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. We will
kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth at eventide and be happy in its
light. But never again will we desire more light than all the world may
share with us.”

“No,” said his bride, “for how could we live by day or sleep by night
in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle?”

Out of the hollow of their hands they drank each a draught from the
lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip.
Then, lending their guidance to the blinded cynic, who uttered not a
word, and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they
began to descend the mountain. Yet as they left the shore, till then
untrodden, of the spirit’s lake, they threw a farewell glance toward
the cliff and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through
which the gem burned duskily.

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, the legend goes
on to tell that the worshipful Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the
quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself
again to his warehouse, near the town-dock, in Boston. But as he passed
through the Notch of the mountains a war-party of Indians captured our
unlucky merchant and carried him to Montreal, there holding him in
bondage till by the payment of a heavy ransom he had woefully
subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence,
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that for the rest of his
life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence-worth of
copper. Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to powder,
dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible and burnt with the blowpipe,
and published the result of his experiments in one of the heaviest
folios of the day. And for all these purposes the gem itself could not
have answered better than the granite. The poet, by a somewhat similar
mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice which he found in a sunless
chasm of the mountains, and swore that it corresponded in all points
with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The critics say that, if his
poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness of
the ice. The lord De Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he
contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled in due
course of time another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the funeral
torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need of the
Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly pomp.

The cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world a
miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of light
for the wilful blindness of his former life. The whole night long he
would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned
his face eastward at sunrise as duly as a Persian idolater; he made a
pilgrimage to Rome to witness the magnificent illumination of Saint
Peter’s church, and finally perished in the Great Fire of London, into
the midst of which he had thrust himself with the desperate idea of
catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and
heaven.

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years and were fond of
telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle. The tale, however, toward
the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full
credence that had been accorded to it by those who remembered the
ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that from the hour when
two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel
which would have dimmed all earthly things its splendor waned. When our
pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone with
particles of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a tradition
that as the youthful pair departed the gem was loosened from the
forehead of the cliff and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at
noontide the Seeker’s form may still be seen to bend over its
quenchless gleam.

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and
say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer
lightning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that many a
mile from the Crystal Hills I saw a wondrous light around their
summits, and was lured by the faith of poesy to be the latest pilgrim
of the Great Carbuncle.




THE PROPHETIC PICTURES[5]


“But this painter!” cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. “He not only
excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all
other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather and gives
lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the
best-instructed man among us on his own ground. Moreover, he is a
polished gentleman, a citizen of the world—yes, a true cosmopolite; for
he will speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe,
except our own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this what I
most admire in him.”

“Indeed!” said Elinor, who had listened with a women’s interest to the
description of such a man. “Yet this is admirable enough.”

“Surely it is,” replied her lover, “but far less so than his natural
gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that
all men—and all women too, Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves in
this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told.”

“Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these,” said Elinor,
laughing, “Boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. Are you
telling me of a painter, or a wizard?”

“In truth,” answered he, “that question might be asked much more
seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man’s
features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and
passions and throws them upon the canvas like sunshine, or perhaps, in
the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is
an awful gift,” added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of
enthusiasm. “I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.”

“Walter, are you in earnest?” exclaimed Elinor.

“For Heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look which
you now wear,” said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed.
“There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemed
frightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing, nothing!” answered Elinor, hastily. “You paint my face with
your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this
wonderful artist.”

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a
remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face
of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance
with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of
wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

“A look!” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder that it startled him if it
expressed what I sometimes feel. I know by my own experience how
frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it
at the time; I have seen nothing of it since; I did but dream it;” and
she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which she meant
that her portrait should be taken.

The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native
artists who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from the
Indians and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his destiny,
he might have chosen to belong to that school without a master in the
hope of being at least original, since there were no works of art to
imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and educated in
Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur or beauty of
conception and every touch of the master-hand in all the most famous
pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls of churches till
there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. Art could add
nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. He had, therefore, visited a
world whither none of his professional brethren had preceded him, to
feast his eyes on visible images that were noble and picturesque, yet
had never been transferred to canvas. America was too poor to afford
other temptations to an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial
gentry on the painter’s arrival had expressed a wish to transmit their
lineaments to posterity by moans of his skill. Whenever such proposals
were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant and seemed to
look him through and through. If he beheld only a sleek and comfortable
visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture and
golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the
reward; but if the face were the index of anything uncommon in thought,
sentiment or experience, or if he met a beggar in the street with a
white beard and a furrowed brow, or if sometimes a child happened to
look up and smile, he would exhaust all the art on them that he denied
to wealth.

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an
object of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate the
technical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard to
which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment
of the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced on
such untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, while
they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him
who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must be owned, was
tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it an
offence against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of the
Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of his creatures.
Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at will and
keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider
the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man of old
witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. These foolish fancies
were more than half believed among the mob. Even in superior circles
his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising like
smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused by the
varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his
profession.

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to
obtain their portraits as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,
would be a long series of family pictures. The day after the
conversation above recorded they visited the painter’s rooms. A servant
ushered them into an apartment where, though the artist himself was not
visible, there were personages whom they could hardly forbear greeting
with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole assembly were but
pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea of life and
intellect from such striking counterfeits. Several of the portraits
were known to them either as distinguished characters of the day or
their private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett, looking as if
he had just received an undutiful communication from the House of
Representatives and were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung
beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy and somewhat puritanical, as
befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed
them from the wall in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old dame not
unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, then a very young man, wore
the expression of warlike enterprise which long afterward made him a
distinguished general. Their personal friends were recognized at a
glance. In most of the pictures the whole mind and character were
brought out on the countenance and concentrated into a single look; so
that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled themselves
so strikingly as the portraits did.

Among these modern worthies there were two old bearded saints who had
almost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale but
unfaded Madonna who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, and now
regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to
worship too.

“How singular a thought,” observed Walter Ludlow, “that this beautiful
face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty
would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?”

“If earth were heaven, I might,” she replied. “But, where all things
fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!”

“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he
be,” continued Walter; “he troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at
us.”

“Yes, but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor.

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that
had been recently commenced. After a little inspection they began to
recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.

“Kind old man!” exclaimed Elinor. “He gazes at me as if he were about
to utter a word of paternal advice.”

“And at me,” said Walter, “as if he were about to shake his head and
rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. I
shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before
him to be married.”

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and, turning, beheld the
painter, who had been some moments in the room and had listened to a
few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged man with a countenance well
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque though careless
arrangement of his rich dress, and perhaps because his soul dwelt
always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait
himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist and
his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the
canvas to salute them.

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the
object of their visit. While he spoke a sunbeam was falling athwart his
figure and Elinor’s with so happy an effect that they also seemed
living pictures of youth and beauty gladdened by bright fortune. The
artist was evidently struck.

“My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston
must be brief,” said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance,
he added, “But your wishes shall be gratified though I disappoint the
chief-justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose this opportunity for
the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade.”

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into
one picture and represent them engaged in some appropriate action. This
plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected
because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for the room
which it was intended to decorate. Two half-length portraits were
therefore fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over their
fates the painter was about to acquire.

“The old women of Boston affirm,” continued he, “that after he has once
got possession of a person’s face and figure he may paint him in any
act or situation whatever, and the picture will be prophetic. Do you
believe it?”

“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling. “Yet if he has such magic, there is
something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it well.”

It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the portraits at the
same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he
sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.
Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter and now to Elinor, and the
features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that it
appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them from
the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their
phantom selves, but, though the likeness promised to be perfect, they
were not quite satisfied with the expression: it seemed more vague than
in most of the painter’s works. He, however, was satisfied with the
prospect of success, and, being much interested in the lovers, employed
his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of
their two figures. During their sittings he engaged them in
conversation and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,
which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and
fix. At length he announced that at their next visit both the portraits
would be ready for delivery.

“If my pencil will but be true to my conception in the few last touches
which I meditate,” observed he, “these two pictures will be my very
best performances. Seldom indeed has an artist such subjects.” While
speaking he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor withdrew it
till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing in the whole circle of human vanities takes stronger hold of
the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why
should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the
andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,
continually present us with portraits—or, rather, ghosts—of ourselves
which we glance at and straightway forget them. But we forget them only
because they vanish. It is the idea of duration—of earthly
immortality—that gives such a mysterious interest to our own portraits.

Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to
the painter’s room punctually at the appointed hour to meet those
pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity.
The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left it
somewhat gloomy as they closed the door. Their eyes were immediately
attracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of
the room. At the first glance through the dim light and the distance,
seeing themselves in precisely their natural attitudes and with all the
air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous
exclamation of delight.

“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in sunshine
for ever. No dark passions can gather on our faces.”

“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can sadden us.”

This was said while they were approaching and had yet gained only an
imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting them,
busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his
visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. At
intervals he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching
their countenances in profile with his pencil suspended over the
sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s
picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without
uttering a word. At length Walter stepped forward, then back, viewing
Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.

“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone.
“Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer I look. It is
certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress, the
features, all are the same, and yet something is altered.”

“Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired the
painter, now drawing near with irrepressible interest.

“The features are perfect Elinor,” answered Walter, “and at the first
glance the expression seemed also hers; but I could fancy that the
portrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it. The
eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression.
Nay, it is grief and terror. Is this like Elinor?”

“Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter.

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. Motionless and
absorbed, fascinated, as it were, in contemplation of Walter’s
portrait, Elinor’s face had assumed precisely the expression of which
he had just been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours before
a mirror, she could not have caught the look so successfully. Had the
picture itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present
aspect with stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared quite
unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.

“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “what change has come over
you?”

She did not hear him nor desist from her fixed gaze till he seized her
hand, and thus attracted her notice; then with a sudden tremor she
looked from the picture to the face of the original.

“Do you see no change in your portrait?” asked she.

“In mine? None,” replied Walter, examining it. “But let me see. Yes;
there is a slight change—an improvement, I think, in the picture,
though none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression than
yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes and
about to be uttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look, it
becomes very decided.”

While he was intent on these observations Elinor turned to the painter.
She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid her with
sympathy and commiseration, though wherefore she could but vaguely
guess.

“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered. “How came it there?”

“Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand and leading her
apart, “in both these pictures I have painted what I saw. The
artist—the true artist—must look beneath the exterior. It is his
gift—his proudest, but often a melancholy one—to see the inmost soul,
and by a power indefinable even to himself to make it glow or darken
upon the canvas in glances that express the thought and sentiment of
years. Would that I might convince myself of error in the present
instance!”

They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands
almost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatched
cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and
all such picturesque vagaries of an artist’s idle moments. Turning them
over with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures was
disclosed.

“If I have failed,” continued he—“if your heart does not see itself
reflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to trust my
delineation of the other—it is not yet too late to alter them. I might
change the action of these figures too. But would it influence the
event?” He directed her notice to the sketch.

A thrill ran through Elinor’s frame; a shriek was upon her lips, but
she stifled it with the self-command that becomes habitual to all who
hide thoughts of fear and anguish within their bosoms. Turning from the
table, she perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to have seen
the sketch, though she could not determine whether it had caught his
eye.

“We will not have the pictures altered,” said she, hastily. “If mine is
sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.”

“Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing. “May your griefs be such
fanciful ones that only your pictures may mourn for them! For your
joys, may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely
face till it quite belie my art!”

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the pictures formed the two
most splendid ornaments of their abode. They hung side by side,
separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly,
yet always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemen who
professed a knowledge of such subjects reckoned these among the most
admirable specimens of modern portraiture, while common observers
compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were
rapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was on a third
class—neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people
of natural sensibility—that the pictures wrought their strongest
effect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming
interested, would return day after day and study these painted faces
like the pages of a mystic volume. Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted
their earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his bride they
sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended
to throw upon the features, all agreeing that there was a look of
earnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was less
diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture. They differed,
indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom
that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom and alien from
the natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful
person announced as the result of much scrutiny that both these
pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of
feeling in Elinor’s countenance bore reference to the more vivid
emotion—or, as he termed it, the wild passion—in that of Walter. Though
unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch in which the action of the
two figures was to correspond with their mutual expression.

It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor’s face was
assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness which threatened soon to render
her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the
other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had
given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward
flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. In course
of time Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk wrought with
flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels before the pictures,
under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues or the light dim
them. It was enough. Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the
silk must never be withdrawn nor the portraits mentioned in her
presence.

Time wore on, and the painter came again. He had been far enough to the
north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over
the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of New England’s
loftiest mountain. But he did not profane that scene by the mockery of
his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George,
making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur till not a
picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection. He had
gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, had flung
his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could as soon
paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous
cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery
except as a framework for the delineations of the human form and face,
instinct with thought, passion or suffering. With store of such his
adventurous ramble had enriched him. The stern dignity of Indian
chiefs, the dusky loveliness of Indian girls, the domestic life of
wigwams, the stealthy march, the battle beneath gloomy pine trees, the
frontier fortress with its garrison, the anomaly of the old French
partisan bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts,—such were
the scenes and portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous
moments, flashes of wild feeling, struggles of fierce power, love,
hate, grief, frenzy—in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old
earth—had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio was
filled with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory which
genius would transmute into its own substance and imbue with
immortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in his art which he had
sought so far was found.

But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest or its
overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the
companions of his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossing
purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of humankind.
He had no aim, no pleasure, no sympathies, but what were ultimately
connected with his art. Though gentle in manner and upright in intent
and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold: no
living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm. For
these two beings, however, he had felt in its greatest intensity the
sort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of his pencil.
He had pried into their souls with his keenest insight and pictured the
result upon their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall
short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own severe
conception. He had caught from the duskiness of the future—at least, so
he fancied—a fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the
portraits. So much of himself—of his imagination and all other
powers—had been lavished on the study of Walter and Elinor that he
almost regarded them as creations of his own, like the thousands with
which he had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did they flit
through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of waterfalls,
look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the noontide
sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life nor
pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with an
unalterable expression which his magic had evoked from the caverns of
the soul. He could not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld
the originals of those airy pictures.

“O glorious Art!” Thus mused the enthusiastic painter as he trod the
street. “Thou art the image of the Creator’s own. The innumerable forms
that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. The dead live
again; thou recallest them to their old scenes and givest their gray
shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou
snatchest back the fleeting moments of history. With thee there is no
past, for at thy touch all that is great becomes for ever present, and
illustrious men live through long ages in the visible performance of
the very deeds which made them what they are. O potent Art! as thou
bringest the faintly-revealed past to stand in that narrow strip of
sunlight which we call ‘now,’ canst thou summon the shrouded future to
meet her there? Have I not achieved it? Am I not thy prophet?”

Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud as he
passed through the toilsome street among people that knew not of his
reveries nor could understand nor care for them. It is not good for man
to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless there be those around him by
whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires and hopes
will become extravagant and he the semblance—perhaps the reality—of a
madman. Reading other bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural,
the painter failed to see the disorder of his own.

“And this should be the house,” said he, looking up and down the front
before he knocked. “Heaven help my brains! That picture! Methinks it
will never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it
is framed within them, painted strongly and glowing in the richest
tints—the faces of the portraits, the figures and action of the
sketch!”

He knocked.

“The portraits—are they within?” inquired he of the domestic; then,
recollecting himself, “Your master and mistress—are they at home?”

“They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he noticed that
picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself,
“and the portraits too.”

The guest was admitted into a parlor communicating by a central door
with an interior room of the same size. As the first apartment was
empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes
were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured
representatives, who had long been the objects of so singular an
interest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold.

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standing
before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich
and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. The pictures,
concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor,
appearing to throw a sombre light across the room rather than to be
disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had been almost
prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively
dwelt upon her countenance, deepening with the lapse of time into a
quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made it the very
expression of the portrait. Walter’s face was moody and dull or
animated only by fitful flashes which left a heavier darkness for their
momentary illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, and
thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood
absorbed.

The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him
on its progress toward its victims. A strange thought darted into his
mind. Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had embodied
itself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he had
foreshadowed?

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it as
with his own heart and abandoning himself to the spell of evil
influence that the painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his
eyes kindled, while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his
face her own assumed a look of terror; and when, at last, he turned
upon her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.

“Our fate is upon us!” howled Walter. “Die!”

Drawing a knife, he sustained her as she was sinking to the ground, and
aimed it at her bosom. In the action and in the look and attitude of
each the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with
all its tremendous coloring, was finished.

“Hold, madman!” cried he, sternly.

He had advanced from the door and interposed himself between the
wretched beings with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny
as to alter a scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician
controlling the phantoms which he had evoked.

“What!” muttered Walter Ludlow as he relapsed from fierce excitement
into sullen gloom. “Does Fate impede its own decree?”

“Wretched lady,” said the painter, “did I not warn you?”

“You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the
quiet grief which it had disturbed. “But I loved him.”

Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one or all
our deeds be shadowed forth and set before us, some would call it fate
and hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate desires,
and none be turned aside by the prophetic pictures.




DAVID SWAN

A FANTASY

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually
influence our course through life and our final destiny. There are
innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close
upon us, yet pass away without actual results or even betraying their
near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our
minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would
be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford
us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a
page from the secret history of David Swan.

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of
twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of Boston,
where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him
behind the counter. Be it enough to say that he was a native of New
Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary
school education with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy.
After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer’s
day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down
in the first convenient shade and await the coming up of the
stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a
little tuft of maples with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a
fresh bubbling spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any
wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty
lips and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon
some shirts and a pair of pantaloons tied up in a striped cotton
handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet
rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday, and his grassy
lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. The spring
murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the
blue sky overhead, and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its
depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events which he did
not dream of.

While he lay sound asleep in the shade other people were wide awake,
and passed to and fro, afoot, on horseback and in all sorts of
vehicles, along the sunny road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither
to the right hand nor the left and knew not that he was there; some
merely glanced that way without admitting the slumberer among their
busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept, and several
whose hearts were brimming full of scorn ejected their venomous
superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was
near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the
young fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw
him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his evening’s discourse
as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside.

But censure, praise, merriment, scorn and indifference were all one—or,
rather, all nothing—to David Swan. He had slept only a few moments when
a brown carriage drawn by a handsome pair of horses bowled easily along
and was brought to a standstill nearly in front of David’s
resting-place. A linch-pin had fallen out and permitted one of the
wheels to slide off. The damage was slight and occasioned merely a
momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning
to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a servant were
replacing the wheel the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath
the maple trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain and David Swan
asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper
usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout
would allow, and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown
lest David should start up all of a sudden.

“How soundly he sleeps!” whispered the old gentleman. “From what a
depth he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without
an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would
suppose health and an untroubled mind.”

“And youth besides,” said the lady. “Healthy and quiet age does not
sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness.”

The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel
interested in the unknown youth to whom the wayside and the maple shade
were as a secret chamber with the rich gloom of damask curtains
brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon
his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside so as to intercept
it, and, having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel
like a mother to him.

“Providence seems to have laid him here,” whispered she to her husband,
“and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in
our cousin’s son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry.
Shall we waken him?”

“To what purpose?” said the merchant, hesitating. “We know nothing of
the youth’s character.”

“That open countenance!” replied his wife, in the same hushed voice,
yet earnestly. “This innocent sleep!”

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper’s heart did not throb,
nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token
of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a
burden of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir
to his wealth except a distant relative with whose conduct he was
dissatisfied. In such cases people sometimes do stranger things than to
act the magician and awaken a young man to splendor who fell asleep in
poverty.

“Shall we not waken him?” repeated the lady, persuasively.

“The coach is ready, sir,” said the servant, behind.

The old couple started, reddened and hurried away, mutually wondering
that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very
ridiculous. The merchant threw himself back in the carriage and
occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate
men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap.

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two when a pretty
young girl came along with a tripping pace which showed precisely how
her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry
kind of motion that caused—is there any harm in saying it?—her garter
to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth—if silk it were—was
relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple
trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring. Blushing as
red as any rose that she should have intruded into a gentleman’s
bedchamber, and for such a purpose too, she was about to make her
escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a
bee had been wandering overhead—buzz, buzz, buzz—now among the leaves,
now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark
shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David
Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she
was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief,
brushed him soundly and drove him from beneath the maple shade. How
sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath and
a deeper blush she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she
had been battling with a dragon in the air.

“He is handsome!” thought she, and blushed redder yet.

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him that,
shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder and allow him to
perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of
welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul,
according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own,
and whom in all his vague but passionate desires he yearned to meet.
Her only could he love with a perfect love, him only could she receive
into the depths of her heart, and now her image was faintly blushing in
the fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would
never gleam upon his life again.

“How sound he sleeps!” murmured the girl. She departed, but did not
trip along the road so lightly as when she came.

Now, this girl’s father was a thriving country merchant in the
neighborhood, and happened at that identical time to be looking out for
just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father’s
clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good
fortune—the best of fortunes—stolen so near that her garments brushed
against him, and he knew nothing of the matter.

The girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the
maple shade. Both had dark faces set off by cloth caps, which were
drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had
a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals who got their
living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of
other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of
villainy on a game of cards which was to have been decided here under
the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues
whispered to his fellow:

“Hist! Do you see that bundle under his head?”

The other villain nodded, winked and leered.

“I’ll bet you a horn of brandy,” said the first, “that the chap has
either a pocketbook or a snug little hoard of small change stowed away
amongst his shirts. And if not there, we will find it in his pantaloons
pocket.”

“But how if he wakes?” said the other.

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a
dirk and nodded.

“So be it!” muttered the second villain.

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the
dagger toward his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath
his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled and ghastly with guilt and
fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken
for fiends should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced
aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as
reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect,
even when asleep on his mother’s breast.

“I must take away the bundle,” whispered one.

“If he stirs, I’ll strike,” muttered the other.

But at this moment a dog scenting along the ground came in beneath the
maple trees and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men and then
at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

“Pshaw!” said one villain. “We can do nothing now. The dog’s master
must be close behind.”

“Let’s take a drink and be off,” said the other.

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom and drew
forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single
discharge. It was a flask of liquor with a block-tin tumbler screwed
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot with
so many jests and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness that
they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours
they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the
recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their
souls in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still
slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung
over him nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was
withdrawn. He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour’s
repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which
many hours of toil had burdened it. Now he stirred, now moved his lips
without a sound, now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres
of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder
along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David’s
slumber; and there was the stagecoach. He started up with all his ideas
about him.

“Halloo, driver! Take a passenger?” shouted he.

“Room on top!” answered the driver.

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily toward Boston without so much
as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew
not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters,
nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of
Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood, all in the brief
hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the
airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not
argue a superintending Providence that, while viewless and unexpected
events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should
still be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even
partially available?




SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE


So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. Here I stand with
wearied knees—earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far,
far beyond me still. Oh that I could soar up into the very zenith,
where man never breathed nor eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal
azure melts away from the eye and appears only a deepened shade of
nothingness! And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What
clouds are gathering in the golden west with direful intent against the
brightness and the warmth of this summer afternoon? They are ponderous
air-ships, black as death and freighted with the tempest, and at
intervals their thunder—the signal-guns of that unearthly
squadron—rolls distant along the deep of heaven. These nearer heaps of
fleecy vapor—methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day
long—seem scattered here and there for the repose of tired pilgrims
through the sky. Perhaps—for who can tell?—beautiful spirits are
disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the
brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light and laughing
faces fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. Or where the
floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the color of the firmament a
slender foot and fairy limb resting too heavily upon the frail support
may be thrust through and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy
follows them in vain. Yonder, again, is an airy archipelago where the
sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. Every one
of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance which
the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion like water
wrung from a sea-maid’s hair. Bright they are as a young man’s visions,
and, like them, would be realized in dullness, obscurity and tears. I
will look on them no more.

In three parts of the visible circle whose centre is this spire I
discern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the waving
lines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here and there a rising
ground that would fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea,
stretching away toward a viewless boundary, blue and calm except where
the passing anger of a shadow flits across its surface and is gone.
Hitherward a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of
the harbor formed by its extremity is a town, and over it am I, a
watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. Oh that the multitude of chimneys
could speak, like those of Madrid, and betray in smoky whispers the
secrets of all who since their first foundation have assembled at the
hearths within! Oh that the Limping Devil of Le Sage would perch beside
me here, extend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every
chamber and make me familiar with their inhabitants! The most desirable
mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry hovering
invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into
their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity and shade from
their sorrow, and retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. But none of
these things are possible; and if I would know the interior of brick
walls or the mystery of human bosoms, I can but guess.

Yonder is a fair street extending north and south. The stately mansions
are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of
steps descends from every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees—the
broadleafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful
but infrequent willow, and others whereof I know not the names—grow
thrivingly among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are
intercepted by these green citizens and by the houses, so that one side
of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk. On its whole extent there
is now but a single passenger, advancing from the upper end, and he,
unless distance and the medium of a pocket spyglass do him more than
justice, is a fine young man of twenty. He saunters slowly forward,
slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon
the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him.
Certainly he has a pensive air. Is he in doubt or in debt? Is he—if the
question be allowable—in love? Does he strive to be melancholy and
gentlemanlike, or is he merely overcome by the heat? But I bid him
farewell for the present. The door of one of the houses—an aristocratic
edifice with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows—is now
opened, and down the steps come two ladies swinging their parasols and
lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. Both are young, both are pretty;
but methinks the left-hand lass is the fairer of the twain, and, though
she be so serious at this moment, I could swear that there is a
treasure of gentle fun within her. They stand talking a little while
upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. Meantime, as their
faces are now turned from me, I may look elsewhere.

Upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is a busy contrast to
the quiet scene which I have just noticed. Business evidently has its
centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor
and anxiety, in losing riches or in gaining them, when he would be
wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village or shaded lake in
the forest or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at the
wharf and precious merchandise strown upon the ground abundantly as at
the bottom of the sea—that market whence no goods return, and where
there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of sales. Here
the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils and sailors ply
the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil
with cries long-drawn and roughly melodious till the bales and
puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance a group of
gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. Grave seniors be
they, and I would wager—if it were safe, in these times, to be
responsible for any one—that the least eminent among them might vie
with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can even
select the wealthiest of the company. It is the elderly personage in
somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair the superfluous whiteness of
which is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships are wafted
on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name,
I will venture to say, though I know it not, is a familiar sound among
the far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.

But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. On looking again
to the long and shady walk I perceive that the two fair girls have
encountered the young man. After a sort of shyness in the recognition,
he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned my taste in regard
to his companions by placing himself on the inner side of the pavement,
nearest the Venus to whom I, enacting on a steeple-top the part of
Paris on the top of Ida, adjudged the golden apple.

In two streets converging at right angles toward my watch-tower I
distinguish three different processions. One is a proud array of
voluntary soldiers in bright uniform, resembling, from the height
whence I look down, the painted veterans that garrison the windows of a
toy-shop. And yet it stirs my heart. Their regular advance, their
nodding plumes, the sun-flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the
roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon
piercing through,—these things have wakened a warlike fire, peaceful
though I be. Close to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys
ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping
a harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin and ridiculously
aping the intricate manoeuvres of the foremost band. Nevertheless, as
slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one
might be tempted to ask, “Which are the boys?” or, rather, “Which the
men?” But, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which,
though sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in the
thoughtful mind. It is a funeral—a hearse drawn by a black and bony
steed and covered by a dusty pall, two or three coaches rumbling over
the stones, their drivers half asleep, a dozen couple of careless
mourners in their every-day attire. Such was not the fashion of our
fathers when they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no
doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the King
of Terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom and
philosophy have been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is a
proof that he retains his proper majesty. The military men and the
military boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full
in the face. Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that
regulates each simultaneous footfall. The soldiers yield the path to
the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit their
ranks and cluster on the sidewalks with timorous and instinctive
curiosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the steeple
and pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; the lightning
glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder rattles
heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily, the shower is
near, and I tremble for the young man and the girls, who have now
disappeared from the long and shady street.

How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs
beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling
them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life and the
recent dead are in the chambers of these many mansions. The full of
hope, the happy, the miserable and the desperate dwell together within
the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam
so coldly guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a
debased and trodden virtue; guilt is on the very edge of commission,
and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the
criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts
struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they
would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the raindrops are descending.

The clouds within a little time have gathered over all the sky, hanging
heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At
intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers,
disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its
twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the
darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies to rebel against
the approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the funeral has
already vanished like its dead, and all people hurry homeward—all that
have a home—while a few lounge by the corners or trudge on desperately
at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communicates with the shady
street I discern the rich old merchant putting himself to the top of
his speed lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste.
Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence and painful moderation
wherewith he journeys, it is but too evident that Podagra has left its
thrilling tenderness in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid
pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the
young man unseasonably interrupted in their walk. Their footsteps are
supported by the risen dust, the wind lends them its velocity, they fly
like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestuous breeze. The
ladies would not thus rival Atalanta if they but knew that any one were
at leisure to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward, laughing in the
angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. At the corner
where the narrow lane enters into the street they come plump against
the old merchant, whose tortoise-motion has just brought him to that
point. He likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the whole air
gathers speedily upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides.
Finally he thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm
of each of the two girls, and plods onward like a magician with a prize
of captive fairies. All this is easy to be understood. How disconsolate
the poor lover stands, regardless of the rain that threatens an
exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till he catches a
backward glance of mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with
whatever comfort it conveys!

The old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the storm lets
loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the
chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous
shower and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare. The large drops
descend with force upon the slated roofs and rise again in smoke. There
is a rush and roar as of a river through the air, and muddy streams
bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the
kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I
love not my station here aloft in the midst of the tumult which I am
powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my
brow and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I
will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam
breaks out in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness or
boils up in far-distant points like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies
of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain and little
hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is striding in
robes of mist, and at the town whose obscured and desolate streets
might beseem a city of the dead; and, turning a single moment to the
sky, now gloomy as an author’s prospects, I prepare to resume my
station on lower earth. But stay! A little speck of azure has widened
in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage and go rejoicing
through the tempest, and on yonder darkest cloud, born like hallowed
hopes of the glory of another world and the trouble and tears of this,
brightens forth the rainbow.




THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS


In those strange old times when fantastic dreams and madmen’s reveries
were realized among the actual circumstances of life, two persons met
together at an appointed hour and place. One was a lady graceful in
form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled and smitten with an
untimely blight in what should have been the fullest bloom of her
years; the other was an ancient and meanly-dressed woman of ill-favored
aspect, and so withered, shrunken and decrepit that even the space
since she began to decay must have exceeded the ordinary term of human
existence. In the spot where they encountered no mortal could observe
them. Three little hills stood near each other, and down in the midst
of them sunk a hollow basin almost mathematically circular, two or
three hundred feet in breadth and of such depth that a stately cedar
might but just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines were numerous
upon the hills and partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate
hollow, within which there was nothing but the brown grass of October
and here and there a tree-trunk that had fallen long ago and lay
mouldering with no green successor from its roots. One of these masses
of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool
of green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. Such scenes as
this (so gray tradition tells) were once the resort of a power of evil
and his plighted subjects, and here at midnight or on the dim verge of
evening they were said to stand round the mantling pool disturbing its
putrid waters in the performance of an impious baptismal rite. The
chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops,
whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the hollow.

“Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,” said the aged crone,
“according as thou hast desired. Say quickly what thou wouldst have of
me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here.”

As the old withered woman spoke a smile glimmered on her countenance
like lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. The lady trembled and cast
her eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to return
with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was not so ordained.

“I am stranger in this land, as you know,” said she, at length. “Whence
I come it matters not, but I have left those behind me with whom my
fate was intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for ever. There
is a weight in my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come hither
to inquire of their welfare.”

“And who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the
ends of the earth?” cried the old woman, peering into the lady’s face.
“Not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet be thou bold, and
the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hilltop before thy wish be
granted.”

“I will do your bidding though I die,” replied the lady, desperately.

The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw
aside the hood that shrouded her gray locks and beckoned her companion
to draw near.

“Kneel down,” she said, “and lay your forehead on my knees.”

She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling
burned fiercely up within her. As she knelt down the border of her
garment was dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old
woman’s knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the lady’s face, so
that she was in darkness. Then she heard the muttered words of prayer,
in the midst of which she started and would have arisen.

“Let me flee! Let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon
me!” she cried. But, with returning recollection, she hushed herself
and was still as death, for it seemed as if other voices, familiar in
infancy and unforgotten through many wanderings and in all the
vicissitudes of her heart and fortune, were mingling with the accents
of the prayer. At first the words were faint and indistinct—not
rendered so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a book
which we strive to read by an imperfect and gradually brightening
light. In such a manner, as the prayer proceeded, did those voices
strengthen upon the ear, till at length the petition ended, and the
conversation of an aged man and of a woman broken and decayed like
himself became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. But those
strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three
hills. Their voices were encompassed and re-echoed by the walls of a
chamber the windows of which were rattling in the breeze; the regular
vibration of a clock, the crackling of a fire and the tinkling of the
embers as they fell among the ashes rendered the scene almost as vivid
as if painted to the eye. By a melancholy hearth sat these two old
people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and
their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a daughter, a wanderer
they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her and leaving shame
and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded
also to other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk their
voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully
among the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was
she kneeling in the hollow between three hills.

“A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it,” remarked the
old woman, smiling in the lady’s face.

“And did you also hear them?” exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable
humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear.

“Yea, and we have yet more to hear,” replied the old woman, “wherefore
cover thy face quickly.”

Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer
that was not meant to be acceptable in heaven, and soon in the pauses
of her breath strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually
increasing, so as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew.
Shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound and were succeeded by
the singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn gave way to a
wild roar of laughter broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming
altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains
were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats and the scourge
resounded at their command. All these noises deepened and became
substantial to the listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every
soft and dreamy accent of the love-songs that died causelessly into
funeral-hymns. She shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up
like the spontaneous kindling of flume, and she grew faint at the
fearful merriment raging miserably around her. In the midst of this
wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other in a drunken
career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious
voice it might once have been. He went to and fro continually, and his
feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that frenzied company
whose own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world he sought
an auditor for the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their
laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s
perfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart
made desolate. Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek,
the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful
and uneven sound of the wind as it fought among the pine trees on those
three lonely hills.

The lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in her
face.

“Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a mad-house?”
inquired the latter.

“True, true!” said the lady to herself; “there is mirth within its
walls, but misery, misery without.”

“Wouldst thou hear more?” demanded the old woman.

“There is one other voice I would fain listen to again,” replied the
lady, faintly.

“Then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst get
thee hence before the hour be past.”

The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep
shades obscured the hollow and the pool, as if sombre night were rising
thence to overspread the world. Again that evil woman began to weave
her spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell
stole in among the intervals of her words like a clang that had
travelled far over valley and rising ground and was just ready to die
in the air. The lady shook upon her companion’s knees as she heard that
boding sound. Stronger it grew, and sadder, and deepened into the tone
of a death-bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower and
bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to the hall and to
the solitary wayfarer, that all might weep for the doom appointed in
turn to them. Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as
of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so
that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy array. Before
them went the priest, reading the burial-service, while the leaves of
his book were rustling in the breeze. And though no voice but his was
heard to speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas,
whispered but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against the
daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents, the wife who had
betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband, the mother who had
sinned against natural affection and left her child to die. The
sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and
the wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin-pall, moaned
sadly round the verge of the hollow between three hills. But when the
old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not her head.

“Here has been a sweet hour’s sport!” said the withered crone,
chuckling to herself.




THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY

A SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE

Methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him rather to pore over the
current of life than to plunge into its tumultuous waves, no
undesirable retreat were a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare
of the land. In youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer to run
about the earth, to leave the track of his footsteps far and wide, to
mingle himself with the action of numberless vicissitudes, and,
finally, in some calm solitude to feed a musing spirit on all that he
has seen and felt. But there are natures too indolent or too sensitive
to endure the dust, the sunshine or the rain, the turmoil of moral and
physical elements, to which all the wayfarers of the world expose
themselves. For such a man how pleasant a miracle could life be made to
roll its variegated length by the threshold of his own hermitage, and
the great globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its
thousand scenes before his eyes without whirling him onward in its
course! If any mortal be favored with a lot analogous to this, it is
the toll-gatherer. So, at least, have I often fancied while lounging on
a bench at the door of a small square edifice which stands between
shore and shore in the midst of a long bridge. Beneath the timbers ebbs
and flows an arm of the sea, while above, like the life-blood through a
great artery, the travel of the north and east is continually
throbbing. Sitting on the aforesaid bench, I amuse myself with a
conception, illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air, of the
toll-gatherer’s day.

In the morning—dim, gray, dewy summer’s morn—the distant roll of
ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend’s slumbers,
creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream and
gradually replacing it with realities. Hardly conscious of the change
from sleep to wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing
wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The
timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman
stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the
glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house is seen
the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles
long. The toll is paid; creak, creak, again go the wheels, and the huge
hay-mow vanishes into the morning mist. As yet nature is but half
awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. But yonder, dashing from
the shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter
of hoofs, comes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onward at the
same headlong, restless rate all through the quiet night. The bridge
resounds in one continued peal as the coach rolls on without a pause,
merely affording the toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers,
who now bestir their torpid limbs and snuff a cordial in the briny air.
The morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they forget how wearily
the darkness toiled away. And behold now the fervid day in his bright
chariot, glittering aslant over the waves, nor scorning to throw a
tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer’s little hermitage.
The old man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) frames a simile
of the stage-coach and the sun.

While the world is rousing itself we may glance slightly at the scene
of our sketch. It sits above the bosom of the broad flood—a spot not of
earth, but in the midst of waters which rush with a murmuring sound
among the massive beams beneath. Over the door is a weatherbeaten board
inscribed with the rates of toll in letters so nearly effaced that the
gilding of the sunshine can hardly make them legible. Beneath the
window is a wooden bench on which a long succession of weary wayfarers
have reposed themselves. Peeping within-doors, we perceive the
whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and
advertisements of various import and the immense show-bill of a
wandering caravan. And there sits our good old toll-gatherer, glorified
by the early sunbeams. He is a man, as his aspect may announce, of
quiet soul and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who of the wisdom
which the passing world scatters along the wayside has gathered a
reasonable store.

Now the sun smiles upon the landscape and earth smiles back again upon
the sky. Frequent now are the travellers. The toll-gatherer’s practised
ear can distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number of its
wheels and how many horses beat the resounding timbers with their iron
tramp. Here, in a substantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to
take advantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and his wife with
their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting gladsomely between them. The
bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious bandboxes and
carpet-bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dusty with
yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four-wheeled carryall peopled with
a round half dozen of pretty girls, all drawn by a single horse and
driven by a single gentleman. Luckless wight doomed through a whole
summer day to be the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolicsome
maidens! Bolt upright in a sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man who as
he pays his toll hands the toll-gatherer a printed card to stick upon
the wall. The vinegar-faced traveller proves to be a manufacturer of
pickles. Now paces slowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in
black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, whithersoever his steed
might bear him, would still journey through a mist of brooding thought.
He is a country preacher going to labor at a protracted meeting. The
next object passing townward is a butcher’s cart canopied with its arch
of snow-white cotton. Behind comes a “sauceman” driving a wagon full of
new potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips and summer
squashes, and next two wrinkled, withered witch-looking old gossips in
an antediluvian chaise drawn by a horse of former generations and going
to peddle out a lot of huckleberries. See, there, a man trundling a
wheelbarrow-load of lobsters. And now a milk-cart rattles briskly
onward, covered with green canvas and conveying the contributions of a
whole herd of cows, in large tin canisters.

But let all these pay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that
causes the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers
brought sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome influence all
along the road. It is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished
panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama of the landscape, and
show a picture, likewise, of our friend with his visage broadened, so
that his meditative smile is transformed to grotesque merriment. Within
sits a youth fresh as the summer morn, and beside him a young lady in
white with white gloves upon her slender hands and a white veil flowing
down over her face. But methinks her blushing cheek burns through the
snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin sits in front. And who are these
on whom, and on all that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems
never to have settled? Two lovers whom the priest has blessed this
blessed morn and sent them forth, with one of the bride-maids, on the
matrimonial tour.—Take my blessing too, ye happy ones! May the sky not
frown upon you nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen rain!
May the hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts! May your whole life’s
pilgrimage be as blissful as this first day’s journey, and its close be
gladdened with even brighter anticipations than those which hallow your
bridal-night! They pass, and ere the reflection of their joy has faded
from his face another spectacle throws a melancholy shadow over the
spirit of the observing man. In a close carriage sits a fragile figure
muffled carefully and shrinking even from the mild breath of summer.
She leans against a manly form, and his arm enfolds her as if to guard
his treasure from some enemy. Let but a few weeks pass, and when he
shall strive to embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation
to his heart.

And now has Morning gathered up her dewy pearls and fled away. The sun
rolls blazing through the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his face
with. The horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave their
glistening sides in short quick pantings when the reins are tightened
at the toll-house. Glisten, too, the faces of the travellers. Their
garments are thickly bestrewn with dust; their whiskers and hair look
hoary; their throats are choked with the dusty atmosphere which they
have left behind them. No air is stirring on the road. Nature dares
draw no breath lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust. “A hot
and dusty day!” cry the poor pilgrims as they wipe their begrimed
foreheads and woo the doubtful breeze which the river bears along with
it.—“Awful hot! Dreadful dusty!” answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer.
They start again to pass through the fiery furnace, while he re-enters
his cool hermitage and besprinkles it with a pail of briny water from
the stream beneath. He thinks within himself that the sun is not so
fierce here as elsewhere, and that the gentle air doth not forget him
in these sultry days. Yes, old friend, and a quiet heart will make a
dog-day temperate. He hears a weary footstep, and perceives a traveller
with pack and staff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench and
removes the hat from his wet brow. The toll-gatherer administers a cup
of cold water, and, discovering his guest to be a man of homely sense,
he engages him in profitable talk, uttering the maxims of a philosophy
which he has found in his own soul, but knows not how it came there.
And as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey he tells him a
sovereign remedy for blistered feet.

Now comes the noontide hour—of all the hours, nearest akin to midnight,
for each has its own calmness and repose. Soon, however, the world
begins to turn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest epoch of
the day, when an accident impedes the march of sublunary things. The
draw being lifted to permit the passage of a schooner laden with wood
from the Eastern forests, she sticks immovably right athwart the
bridge. Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm a throng of impatient
travellers fret and fume. Here are two sailors in a gig with the top
thrown back, both puffing cigars and swearing all sorts of forecastle
oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly-dressed gentleman and
lady, he from a tailor’s shop-board and she from a milliner’s back
room—the aristocrats of a summer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest
of us but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer’s day? Here is a
tin-pedler whose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders like a
travelling meteor or opposition sun, and on the other side a seller of
spruce beer, which brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone
bottles. Here conic a party of ladies on horseback, in green ridings
habits, and gentlemen attendant, and there a flock of sheep for the
market, pattering over the bridge with a multitude nous clatter of
their little hoofs; here a Frenchman with a hand-organ on his shoulder,
and there an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On this side, heralded by a
blast of clarions and bugles, appears a train of wagons conveying all
the wild beasts of a caravan; and on that a company of summer soldiers
marching from village to village on a festival campaign, attended by
the “brass band.” Now look at the scene, and it presents an emblem of
the mysterious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in which
individuals, or the great world itself, seem often to be involved. What
miracle shall set all things right again?

But see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcase through the chasm;
the draw descends; horse and foot pass onward and leave the bridge
vacant from end to end. “And thus,” muses the toll-gatherer, “have I
found it with all stoppages, even though the universe seemed to be at a
stand.” The sage old man!

Far westward now the reddening sun throws a broad sheet of splendor
across the flood, and to the eyes of distant boatmen gleams brightly
among the timbers of the bridge. Strollers come from the town to quaff
the freshening breeze. One or two let down long lines and haul up
flapping flounders or cunners or small cod, or perhaps an eel. Others,
and fair girls among them, with the flush of the hot day still on their
cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of seaweed floating
upward with the flowing tide. The horses now tramp heavily along the
bridge and wistfully bethink them of their stables.—Rest, rest, thou
weary world! for to-morrow’s round of toil and pleasure will be as
wearisome as to-day’s has been, yet both shall bear thee onward a day’s
march of eternity.—Now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward and discerns
the lighthouse kindling on a far island, and the stars, too, kindling
in the sky, as if but a little way beyond; and, mingling reveries of
heaven with remembrances of earth, the whole procession of mortal
travellers, all the dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems like
a flitting show of phantoms for his thoughtful soul to muse upon.




THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN


At fifteen I became a resident in a country village more than a hundred
miles from home. The morning after my arrival—a September morning, but
warm and bright as any in July—I rambled into a wood of oaks with a few
walnut trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. The
ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young
saplings and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track which I chanced
to follow led me to a crystal spring with a border of grass as freshly
green as on May morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak.
One solitary sunbeam found its way down and played like a goldfish in
the water.

From my childhood I have loved to gaze into a spring. The water filled
a circular basin, small but deep and set round with stones, some of
which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked and of variegated
hue—reddish, white and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand,
which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam and seemed to illuminate the
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot the gush of the water
violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring the fountain or
breaking the glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living
creature were about to emerge—the naiad of the spring, perhaps, in the
shape of a beautiful young woman with a gown of filmy water-moss, a
belt of rainbow-drops and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How
would the beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see her sitting
on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples and
throwing up water to sparkle in the sun! Wherever she laid her hands on
grass and flowers, they would immediately be moist, as with morning
dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to
clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old
acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in
drinking, till the bright sand in the bright water were like a treasury
of diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too near, he would find
only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he
had seen her.

Reclining on the border of grass where the dewy goddess should have
been, I bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery
mirror. They were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and, lo!
another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct
in all the features, yet faint as thought. The vision had the aspect of
a fair young girl with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance,
till it seemed just what a fountain would be if, while dancing merrily
into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. Through the dim
rosiness of the cheeks I could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs,
the acorns and the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused
among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness and
became a glory round that head so beautiful.

My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus
tenanted and how soon it was left desolate. I breathed, and there was
the face; I held my breath, and it was gone. Had it passed away or
faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever been.

My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend where
that vision found and left me! For a long time I sat perfectly still,
waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion,
or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I
often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to
wile it back. Deep were my musings as to the race and attributes of
that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she the daughter of my
fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of
children’s eyes? And did her beauty gladden me for that one moment and
then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy or
woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some
forsaken maid who had drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had
a lovely girl with a warm heart and lips that would bear pressure
stolen softly behind me and thrown her image into the spring?

I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I departed, but with a
spell upon me which drew me back that same afternoon to the haunted
spring. There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling and the sunbeam
glimmering. There the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit
of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made
himself invisible—all except a pair of long legs—beneath a stone.
Methought he had a devilish look. I could have slain him as an
enchanter who kept the mysterious beauty imprisoned in the fountain.

Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between me and the
church-spire rose a little hill, and on its summit a group of trees
insulated from all the rest of the wood, with their own share of
radiance hovering on them from the west and their own solitary shadow
falling to the east. The afternoon being far declined, the sunshine was
almost pensive and the shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were
mingled in the placid light, as if the spirits of the Day and Evening
had met in friendship under those trees and found themselves akin. I
was admiring the picture when the shape of a young girl emerged from
behind the clump of oaks. My heart knew her: it was the vision, but so
distant and ethereal did she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued
with the pensive glory of the spot where she was standing, that my
spirit sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I ever reach her?

While I gazed a sudden shower came pattering down upon the leaves. In a
moment the air was full of brightness, each raindrop catching a portion
of sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing like a
mist, just substantial enough to bear the burden of radiance. A rainbow
vivid as Niagara’s was painted in the air. Its southern limb came down
before the group of trees and enveloped the fair vision as if the hues
of heaven were the only garment for her beauty. When the rainbow
vanished, she who had seemed a part of it was no longer there. Was her
existence absorbed in nature’s loveliest phenomenon, and did her pure
frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet I would not despair of her
return, for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem of Hope.

Thus did the vision leave me, and many a doleful day succeeded to the
parting moment. By the spring and in the wood and on the hill and
through the village, at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic
hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my sight, I sought her, but
in vain. Weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not
in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to and fro or sat
in solitude like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven and could take
no more joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world where my thoughts
lived and breathed, and the vision in the midst of them. Without
intending it, I became at once the author and hero of a romance,
conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my
own, and experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and
despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I the burning fancy of my early
youth with manhood’s colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts,
sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale.

In the middle of January I was summoned home. The day before my
departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, I
found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and
a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. “Let me hope,”
thought I, “or my heart will be as icy as the fountain and the whole
world as desolate as this snowy hill.” Most of the day was spent in
preparing for the journey, which was to commence at four o’clock the
next morning. About an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, I
descended from my chamber to the sitting-room to take leave of the old
clergyman and his family with whom I had been an inmate. A gust of wind
blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry.

According to their invariable custom—so pleasant a one when the fire
blazes cheerfully—the family were sitting in the parlor with no other
light than what came from the hearth. As the good clergyman’s scanty
stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of
his fires was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would
smoulder away from morning till night with a dull warmth and no flame.
This evening the heap of tan was newly put on and surmounted with three
sticks of red oak full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine that
had not yet kindled. There was no light except the little that came
sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even glimmering on the
andirons. But I knew the position of the old minister’s arm-chair, and
also where his wife sat with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his
two daughters—one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive
girl. Groping through the gloom, I found my own place next to that of
the son, a learned collegian who had come home to keep school in the
village during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was less room
than usual to-night between the collegian’s chair and mine.

As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some
time after my entrance. Nothing broke the stillness but the regular
click of the matron’s knitting-needles. At times the fire threw out a
brief and dusky gleam which twinkled on the old man’s glasses and
hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray
the individuals who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy as the
scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people
who had known and loved each other here would hold communion in
eternity? We were aware of each other’s presence, not by sight nor
sound nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. Would it not be so
among the dead?

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter addressing a
remark to some one in the circle whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous
and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that
made me start and bend toward the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I
ever heard that sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many
old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of things familiar
yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of her features who
had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom had my heart
recognized, that it throbbed so? I listened to catch her gentle
breathing, and strove by the intensity of my gaze to picture forth a
shape where none was visible.

Suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow, and
where the darkness had been, there was she—the vision of the fountain.
A spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow and
appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze and
be gone. Yet her cheek was rosy and lifelike, and her features, in the
bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my
recollection of them. She knew me. The mirthful expression that had
laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance when I beheld her
faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimpling there now. One
moment our glance mingled; the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon
the kindled wood, and darkness snatched away that daughter of the
light, and gave her back to me no more!

Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the simple mystery be
revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire and
had left home for a boarding-school the morning after I arrived and
returned the day before my departure? If I transformed her to an angel,
it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists
the essence of my story. But slight the change, sweet maids, to make
angels of yourselves.




FANCY’S SHOW-BOX

A MORALITY

What is guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is a point of vast
interest whether the soul may contract such stains in all their depth
and flagrancy from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon,
but which physically have never had existence. Must the fleshly hand
and visible frame of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul,
in order to give them their entire validity against the sinner? Or,
while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly
tribunal, will guilty thoughts—of which guilty deeds are no more than
shadows,—will these draw down the full weight of a condemning sentence
in the supreme court of eternity? In the solitude of a midnight chamber
or in a desert afar from men or in a church while the body is kneeling
the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes which we are
accustomed to deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a fearful
truth.

Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. A venerable
gentleman—one Mr. Smith—who had long been regarded as a pattern of
moral excellence was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of
generous wine. His children being gone forth about their worldly
business and his grandchildren at school, he sat alone in a deep
luxurious arm-chair with his feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany
table. Some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better
company may not be had rejoice even to hear the quiet breathing of a
babe asleep upon the carpet. But Mr. Smith, whose silver hair was the
bright symbol of a life unstained except by such spots as are
inseparable from human nature—he had no need of a babe to protect him
by its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own
soul. Nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood
must soothe him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his
chair, or his thoughts will stray into the misty region of the past and
the old man be chill and sad. Wine will not always cheer him.

Such might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when, through the
brilliant medium of his glass of old Madeira, he beheld three figures
entering the room. These were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and
aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her back; and
Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a pen behind her ear, an
inkhorn at her buttonhole and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm;
and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a dusky mantle
which concealed both face and form. But Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea
that it was Conscience. How kind of Fancy, Memory and Conscience to
visit the old gentleman just as he was beginning to imagine that the
wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor as when
himself and the liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of the
apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare of sunshine and
created a rich obscurity, the three guests drew near the silver-haired
old man. Memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge volume,
placed herself at his right hand; Conscience, with her face still
hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be
next his heart; while Fancy set down her picture-box upon the table
with the magnifying-glass convenient to his eye.

We can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many
pictures which at the pulling of a string successively peopled the box
with the semblances of living scenes. One was a moonlight picture, in
the background a lowly dwelling, and in front, partly shadowed by a
tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youthful figures,
male and female. The young man stood with folded arms, a haughty smile
upon his lip and a gleam of triumph in his eye as he glanced downward
at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate at his feet, evidently
sinking under a weight of shame and anguish which hardly allowed her to
lift her clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not lift.
But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was
depicted, nor the slender grace of the form which it convulsed,
appeared to soften the obduracy of the young man. He was the
personification of triumphant scorn.

Now, strange to say, as old Mr. Smith peeped through the
magnifying-glass, which made the objects start out from the canvas with
magical deception, he began to recognize the farmhouse, the tree and
both the figures of the picture. The young man in times long past had
often met his gaze within the looking-glass; the girl was the very
image of his first love—his cottage-love, his Martha Burroughs. Mr.
Smith was scandalized. “Oh, vile and slanderous picture!” he exclaims.
“When have I triumphed over ruined innocence? Was not Martha wedded in
her teens to David Tomkins, who won her girlish love and long enjoyed
her affection as a wife? And ever since his death she has lived a
reputable widow!”

Meantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, rustling
them to and fro with uncertain fingers, until among the earlier pages
she found one which had reference to this picture. She reads it close
to the old gentleman’s ear: it is a record merely of sinful thought
which never was embodied in an act, but, while Memory is reading,
Conscience unveils her face and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr.
Smith. Though not a death-blow, the torture was extreme.

The exhibition proceeded. One after another Fancy displayed her
pictures, all of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious
artist on purpose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have
been adduced in any earthly court that he was guilty of the slightest
of those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face. In one
scene there was a table set out, with several bottles and glasses half
filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring lamp.
There had been mirth and revelry until the hand of the clock stood just
at midnight, when Murder stepped between the boon-companions. A young
man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead with a ghastly wound
crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled
rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr.
Smith. The murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer. “What
does this rascal of a painter mean?” cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond
all patience. “Edward Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true
to me as I to him through more than half a century. Neither I nor any
other ever murdered him. Was he not alive within five years, and did he
not, in token of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane
and a mourning-ring?”

Again had Memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon
so confused a page that she surely must have scribbled it when she was
tipsy. The purport was, however, that while Mr. Smith and Edward
Spencer were heating their young blood with wine a quarrel had flashed
up between them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at
Spencer’s head. True, it missed its aim and merely smashed a
looking-glass; and the next morning, when the incident was imperfectly
remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. Yet, again,
while Memory was reading, Conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger
to the heart of Mr. Smith and quelled his remonstrance with her iron
frown. The pain was quite excruciating.

Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful a touch, and in
colors so faint and pale, that the subjects could barely be
conjectured. A dull, semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the
surface of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish while
the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. But in every scene, however
dubiously portrayed, Mr. Smith was invariably haunted by his own
lineaments at various ages as in a dusty mirror. After poring several
minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguishable
pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended to represent
him, now in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the
backs of three half-starved children. “Really, this puzzles me!” quoth
Mr. Smith, with the irony of conscious rectitude. “Asking pardon of the
painter, I pronounce him a fool as well as a scandalous knave. A man of
my standing in the world to be robbing little children of their
clothes! Ridiculous!”

But while he spoke Memory had searched her fatal volume and found a
page which with her sad calm voice she poured into his ear. It was not
altogether inapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had
been grievously tempted by many devilish sophistries, on the ground of
a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit against three orphan-children,
joint-heirs to a considerable estate. Fortunately, before he was quite
decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of law as justice.
As Memory ceased to read Conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and
would have struck her victim with the envenomed dagger only that he
struggled and clasped his hands before his heart. Even then, however,
he sustained an ugly gash.

Why should we follow Fancy through the whole series of those awful
pictures? Painted by an artist of wondrous power and terrible
acquaintance with the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the
never-perpetrated sins that had glided through the lifetime of Mr.
Smith. And could such beings of cloudy fantasy, so near akin to
nothingness, give valid evidence against him at the day of judgment? Be
that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one truly
penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture and left
the canvas white as snow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too
keen to be endured, bellowed aloud with impatient agony, and suddenly
discovered that his three guests were gone. There he sat alone, a
silver-haired and highly-venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the
crimsoned-curtained room, with no box of pictures on the table, but
only a decanter of most excellent Madeira. Yet his heart still seemed
to fester with the venom of the dagger.

Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have argued the
matter with Conscience and alleged many reasons wherefore she should
not smite him so pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should be
somewhat in the following fashion. A scheme of guilt, till it be put in
execution, greatly resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale.
The latter, in order to produce a sense of reality in the reader’s
mind, must be conceived with such proportionate strength by the author
as to seem in the glow of fancy more like truth, past, present or to
come, than purely fiction. The prospective sinner, on the other hand,
weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect certainty
that it will be executed. There is a dreaminess diffused about his
thoughts; in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his
victim’s heart and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand.
Thus a novel-writer or a dramatist, in creating a villain of romance
and fitting him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life in
projecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost meet each other
halfway between reality and fancy. It is not until the crime is
accomplished that Guilt clenches its gripe upon the guilty heart and
claims it for his own. Then, and not before, sin is actually felt and
acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousandfold
more virulent by its self-consciousness. Be it considered, also, that
men often overestimate their capacity for evil. At a distance, while
its attendant circumstances do not press upon their notice and its
results are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. They may take
the steps which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental
action as in working out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless with
compunction at the final moment. They knew not what deed it was that
they deemed themselves resolved to do. In truth, there is no such thing
in man’s nature as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil,
except at the very moment of execution. Let us hope, therefore, that
all the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred unless the
act have set its seal upon the thought.

Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have framed, some sad and
awful truths are interwoven. Man must not disclaim his brotherhood even
with the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart has
surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. He must feel
that when he shall knock at the gate of heaven no semblance of an
unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must kneel
and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or that golden gate
will never open.




DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT


That very singular man old Dr. Heidegger once invited four venerable
friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded
gentlemen—Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew and Mr. Gascoigne—and a
withered gentlewoman whose name was the widow Wycherly. They were all
melancholy old creatures who had been unfortunate in life, and whose
greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their graves.
Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant,
but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little
better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years
and his health and substance in the pursuit of sinful pleasures which
had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout and divers other
torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man
of evil fame—or, at least, had been so till time had buried him from
the knowledge of the present generation and made him obscure instead of
infamous. As for the widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a
great beauty in her day, but for a long while past she had lived in
deep seclusion on account of certain scandalous stories which had
prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance
worth mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen—Mr. Medbourne,
Colonel Killigrew and Mr. Gascoigne—were early lovers of the widow
Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other’s
throats for her sake. And before proceeding farther I will merely hint
that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be
a little beside themselves, as is not infrequently the case with old
people when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections.

“My dear old friends,” said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated,
“I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments
with which I amuse myself here in my study.”

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger’s study must have been a very
curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with
cobwebs and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with
rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with
little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a
bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities,
Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult
cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall
and narrow oaken closet with its door ajar, within which doubtfully
appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass,
presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame.
Among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that
the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased patients dwelt within its
verge and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward.
The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length
portrait of a young lady arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk,
satin and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half
a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this
young lady, but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had
swallowed one of her lover’s prescriptions and died on the
bridal-evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be
mentioned: it was a ponderous folio volume bound in black leather, with
massive silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody
could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of
magic, and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it merely to brush away
the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the
young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor and several ghastly
faces had peeped forth from the mirror, while the brazen head of
Hippocrates frowned and said, “Forbear!”

Such was Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a
small round table as black as ebony stood in the centre of the room,
sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate
workmanship. The sunshine came through the window between the heavy
festoons of two faded damask curtains and fell directly across this
vase, so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen
visages of the five old people who sat around. Four champagne-glasses
were also on the table.

“My dear old friends,” repeated Dr. Heidegger, “may I reckon on your
aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?”

Now, Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman whose eccentricity
had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these
fables—to my shame be it spoken—might possibly be traced back to mine
own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should
startle the reader’s faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a
fiction-monger.

When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his proposed
experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of
a mouse in an air-pump or the examination of a cobweb by the
microscope, or some similar nonsense with which he was constantly in
the habit of pestering his intimates. But without waiting for a reply
Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber and returned with the same
ponderous folio bound in black leather which common report affirmed to
be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume and
took from among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose,
though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish
hue and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the
doctor’s hands.

“This rose,” said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh—“this same withered and
crumbling flower—blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by
Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder, and I meant to wear it in my
bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured
between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible
that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?”

“Nonsense!” said the widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head.
“You might as well ask whether an old woman’s wrinkled face could ever
bloom again.”

“See!” answered Dr. Heidegger. He uncovered the vase and threw the
faded rose into the water which it contained. At first it lay lightly
on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture.
Soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. The crushed and
dried petals stirred and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if
the flower were reviving from a deathlike slumber, the slender stalk
and twigs of foliage became green, and there was the rose of half a
century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her
lover. It was scarcely full-blown, for some of its delicate red leaves
curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or three
dewdrops were sparkling.

“That is certainly a very pretty deception,” said the doctor’s
friends—carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at
a conjurer’s show. “Pray, how was it effected?”

“Did you never hear of the Fountain of Youth?” asked Dr. Heidegger,
“which Ponce de Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or
three centuries ago?”

“But did Ponce de Leon ever find it?” said the widow Wycherly.

“No,” answered Dr. Heidegger, “for he never sought it in the right
place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is
situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from
Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias
which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as
violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of
mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in
the vase.”

“Ahem!” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor’s
story; “and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?”

“You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,” replied Dr.
Heidegger.—“And all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so
much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth.
For my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no
hurry to grow young again. With your permission, therefore, I will
merely watch the progress of the experiment.”

While he spoke Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four
champagne-glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was
apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles
were continually ascending from the depths of the glasses and bursting
in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant
perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and
comfortable properties, and, though utter sceptics as to its
rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr.
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.

“Before you drink, my respectable old friends,” said he, “it would be
well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should
draw up a few general rules for your guidance in passing a second time
through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be if,
with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue
and wisdom to all the young people of the age!”

The doctor’s four venerable friends made him no answer except by a
feeble and tremulous laugh, so very ridiculous was the idea that,
knowing how closely Repentance treads behind the steps of Error, they
should ever go astray again.

“Drink, then,” said the doctor, bowing; “I rejoice that I have so well
selected the subjects of my experiment.”

With palsied hands they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor,
if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it,
could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more
woefully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure
was, but had been the offspring of Nature’s dotage, and always the
gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures who now sat stooping round
the doctor’s table without life enough in their souls or bodies to be
animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off
the water and replaced their glasses on the table.

Assuredly, there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of
the party—not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of
generous wine—together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine,
brightening over all their visages at once. There was a healthful
suffusion on their cheeks instead of the ashen hue that had made them
look so corpse-like. They gazed at one another, and fancied that some
magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad
inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving on their
brows. The widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a
woman again.

“Give us more of this wondrous water,” cried they, eagerly. “We are
younger, but we are still too old. Quick! give us more!”

“Patience, patience!” quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat, watching the
experiment with philosophic coolness. “You have been a long time
growing old; surely you might be content to grow young in half an hour.
But the water is at your service.” Again he filled their glasses with
the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn
half the old people in the city to the age of their own grandchildren.

While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim the doctor’s four
guests snatched their glasses from the table and swallowed the contents
at a single gulp. Was it delusion? Even while the draught was passing
down their throats it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole
systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among
their silvery locks: they sat around the table three gentlemen of
middle age and a woman hardly beyond her buxom prime.

“My dear widow, you are charming!” cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes
had been fixed upon her face while the shadows of age were flitting
from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak.

The fair widow knew of old that Colonel Killigrew’s compliments were
not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the
mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet
her gaze.

Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that
the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating
qualities—unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a
lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of
years. Mr. Gascoigne’s mind seemed to run on political topics, but
whether relating to the past, present or future could not easily be
determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these
fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about
patriotism, national glory and the people’s right; now he muttered some
perilous stuff or other in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously
that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now,
again, he spoke in measured accents and a deeply-deferential tone, as
if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel
Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle-song and
ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered
toward the buxom figure of the widow Wycherly. On the other side of the
table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents
with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East
Indies with ice by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs.
As for the widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and
simpering to her own image and greeting it as the friend whom she loved
better than all the world besides. She thrust her face close to the
glass to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow’s-foot had
indeed vanished; she examined whether the snow had so entirely melted
from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At
last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the
table.

“My dear old doctor,” cried she, “pray favor me with another glass.”

“Certainly, my dear madam—certainly,” replied the complaisant doctor.
“See! I have already filled the glasses.”

There, in fact, stood the four glasses brimful of this wonderful water,
the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface,
resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds.

It was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown duskier than
ever, but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase and
rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor’s venerable figure.
He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved oaken arm-chair with a gray
dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time
whose power had never been disputed save by this fortunate company.
Even while quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they
were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. But the
next moment the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their
veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its
miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only
as the trouble of a dream from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh
gloss of the soul, so early lost and without which the world’s
successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw
its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created
beings in a new-created universe.

“We are young! We are young!” they cried, exultingly.

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked
characteristics of middle life and mutually assimilated them all. They
were a group of merry youngsters almost maddened with the exuberant
frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety
was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had
so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned
attire—the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men
and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across
the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles
astride of his nose and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages
of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair and strove
to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted
mirthfully and leaped about the room.

The widow Wycherly—if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow—tripped
up to the doctor’s chair with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face.

“Doctor, you dear old soul,” cried she, “get up and dance with me;” and
then the four young people laughed louder than ever to think what a
queer figure the poor old doctor would cut.

“Pray excuse me,” answered the doctor, quietly. “I am old and
rheumatic, and my dancing-days were over long ago. But either of these
gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner.”

“Dance with me, Clara,” cried Colonel Killigrew.

“No, no! I will be her partner,” shouted Mr. Gascoigne.

“She promised me her hand fifty years ago,” exclaimed Mr. Medbourne.

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his
passionate grasp, another threw his arm about her waist, the third
buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the
widow’s cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm
breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage
herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a
livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the
prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the
chamber and the antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror
is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered
grand-sires ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a
shrivelled grandam. But they were young: their burning passions proved
them so.

Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither
granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to
interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize,
they grappled fiercely at one another’s throats. As they struggled to
and fro the table was overturned and the vase dashed into a thousand
fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across
the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly which, grown old in the
decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect fluttered
lightly through the chamber and settled on the snowy head of Dr.
Heidegger.

“Come, come, gentlemen! Come, Madam Wycherly!” exclaimed the doctor. “I
really must protest against this riot.”

They stood still and shivered, for it seemed as if gray Time were
calling them back from their sunny youth far down into the chill and
darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in
his carved armchair holding the rose of half a century, which he had
rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion
of his hand the four rioters resumed their seats—the more readily
because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they
were.

“My poor Sylvia’s rose!” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the
light of the sunset clouds. “It appears to be fading again.”

And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it the flower
continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the
doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of
moisture which clung to its petals.

“I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,” observed he,
pressing the withered rose to his withered lips.

While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor’s snowy
head and fell upon the floor. His guests shivered again. A strange
dullness—whether of the body or spirit they could not tell—was creeping
gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and fancied that
each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a deepening furrow
where none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a
lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four
aged people sitting with their old friend Dr. Heidegger?

“Are we grown old again so soon?” cried they, dolefully.

In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more
transient than that of wine; the delirium which it created had
effervesced away. Yes, they were old again. With a shuddering impulse
that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands
before her face and wished that the coffin-lid were over it, since it
could be no longer beautiful.

“Yes, friends, ye are old again,” said Dr. Heidegger, “and, lo! the
Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well, I bemoan it not;
for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to
bathe my lips in it—no, though its delirium were for years instead of
moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught me.”

But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves.
They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida and quaff at
morning, noon and night from the Fountain of Youth.




Legends of the Province-House




I.
HOWE’S MASQUERADE


One afternoon last summer, while walking along Washington street, my
eye was attracted by a sign-board protruding over a narrow archway
nearly opposite the Old South Church. The sign represented the front of
a stately edifice which was designated as the “OLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept
by Thomas Waite.” I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long
entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old royal
governors of Massachusetts, and, entering the arched passage which
penetrated through the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps
transported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into a small and
secluded court-yard. One side of this space was occupied by the square
front of the Province House, three stories high and surmounted by a
cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, with his
bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock
on the spire of the Old South. The figure has kept this attitude for
seventy years or more, ever since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver
of wood, first stationed him on his long sentinel’s watch over the
city.

The Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recently to
have been overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. A flight of red
freestone steps fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron
ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, over which is a
balcony with an iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship to
that beneath. These letters and figures—“16 P.S. 79”—are wrought into
the ironwork of the balcony, and probably express the date of the
edifice, with the initials of its founder’s name.

A wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, on
the right of which is the entrance to the bar-room. It was in this
apartment, I presume, that the ancient governors held their levees with
vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the counsellors, the
judges, and other officers of the Crown, while all the loyalty of the
province thronged to do them honor. But the room in its present
condition cannot boast even of faded magnificence. The panelled
wainscot is covered with dingy paint and acquires a duskier hue from
the deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown by the brick
block that shuts it in from Washington street. A ray of sunshine never
visits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches
which have been extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The most
venerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set round with Dutch
tiles of blue-figured china, representing scenes from Scripture, and,
for aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have sat beside
this fireplace and told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar
in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar-boxes
and network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump and a
soda-fount, extends along one side of the room.

At my entrance an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zest
which satisfied me that the cellars of the Province House still hold
good liquor, though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by
the old governors. After sipping a glass of port-sangaree prepared by
the skilful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy successor
and representative of so many historic personages to conduct me over
their time-honored mansion. He readily complied, but, to confess the
truth, I was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination in order to
find aught that was interesting in a house which, without its historic
associations, would have seemed merely such a tavern as is usually
favored by the custom of decent city boarders and old-fashioned country
gentlemen. The chambers, which were probably spacious in former times,
are now cut up by partitions and subdivided into little nooks, each
affording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair and dressing-table
of a single lodger: The great staircase, however, may be termed,
without much hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. It
winds through the midst of the house by flights of broad steps, each
flight terminating in a square landing-place, whence the ascent is
continued toward the cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in
the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the
staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined pillars, from top
to bottom. Up these stairs the military boots, or perchance the gouty
shoes, of many a governor have trodden as the wearers mounted to the
cupola which afforded them so wide a view over their metropolis and the
surrounding country. The cupola is an octagon with several windows, and
a door opening upon the roof. From this station, as I pleased myself
with imagining, Gage may have beheld his disastrous victory on Bunker
Hill (unless one of the tri-mountains intervened), and Howe have marked
the approaches of Washington’s besieging army, although the buildings
since erected in the vicinity have shut out almost every object save
the steeple of the Old South, which seems almost within arm’s length.
Descending from the cupola, I paused in the garret to observe the
ponderous white-oak framework, so much more massive than the frames of
modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick
walls, the materials of which were imported from Holland, and the
timbers of the mansion, are still as sound as ever, but, the floors and
other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut
the whole and build a new house within the ancient frame-and brickwork.
Among other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned
that any jar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of
the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that beneath it.

We stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony where in
old times it was doubtless the custom of the king’s representative to
show himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up
hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In those days the
front of the Province House looked upon the street, and the whole site
now occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the present
court-yard, was laid out in grass-plats overshadowed by trees and
bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now the old aristocratic edifice
hides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern building; at one of
the back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses sewing and chatting
and laughing, with now and then a careless glance toward the balcony.
Descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly
gentleman above mentioned—the smack of whose lips had spoken so
favorably for Mr. Waite’s good liquor—was still lounging in his chair.
He seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the
house who might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his
summer seat at the open window and his prescriptive corner at the
winter’s fireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address
him with a remark calculated to draw forth his historical
reminiscences, if any such were in his mind, and it gratified me to
discover that, between memory and tradition, the old gentleman was
really possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the Province House.
The portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of
the following legend. He professed to have received it at one or two
removes from an eye-witness, but this derivation, together with the
lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for many variations of
the narrative; so that, despairing of literal and absolute truth, I
have not scrupled to make such further changes as seemed conducive to
the reader’s profit and delight.


At one of the entertainments given at the province-house during the
latter part of the siege of Boston there passed a scene which has never
yet been satisfactorily explained. The officers of the British army and
the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collected within
the beleaguered town, had been invited to a masqued ball, for it was
the policy for Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the
period and the desperate aspect of the siege under an ostentation of
festivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the oldest members of the
provincial court circle might be believed, was the most gay and
gorgeous affair that had occurred in the annals of the government. The
brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemed
to have stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits or to have
flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at least to have
flown hither from one of the London theatres without a change of
garments. Steeled knights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen
Elizabeth and high-ruffed ladies of her court were mingled with
characters of comedy, such as a parti-colored Merry Andrew jingling his
cap and bells, a Falstaff almost as provocative of laughter as his
prototype, and a Don Quixote with a bean-pole for a lance and a pot-lid
for a shield.

But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures
ridiculously dressed in old regimentals which seemed to have been
purchased at a military rag-fair or pilfered from some receptacle of
the cast-off clothes of both the French and British armies. Portions of
their attire had probably been worn at the siege of Louisburg, and the
coats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by sword,
ball or bayonet as long ago as Wolfe’s victory. One of these worthies—a
tall, lank figure brandishing a rusty sword of immense
longitude—purported to be no less a personage than General George
Washington, and the other principal officers of the American army, such
as Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by
similar scarecrows. An interview in the mock-heroic style between the
rebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief was received with
immense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists of the
colony.

There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eying these
antics sternly and scornfully at once with a frown and a bitter smile.
It was an old man formerly of high station and great repute in the
province, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day. Some
surprise had been expressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe’s known
Whig principles, though now too old to take an active part in the
contest, should have remained in Boston during the siege, and
especially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion of Sir
William Howe. But thither he had come with a fair granddaughter under
his arm, and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern
old figure, the best-sustained character in the masquerade, because so
well representing the antique spirit of his native land. The other
guests affirmed that Colonel Joliffe’s black puritanical scowl threw a
shadow round about him, although, in spite of his sombre influence,
their gayety continued to blaze higher, like—an ominous comparison—the
flickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while to burn.

Eleven strokes full half an hour ago had pealed from the clock of the
Old South, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some new
spectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited which should put a
fitting close to the splendid festivities of the night.

“What new jest has Your Excellency in hand?” asked the Reverend Mather
Byles, whose Presbyterian scruples had not kept him from the
entertainment. “Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than beseems
my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general
of the rebels. One other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my
clerical wig and band.”

“Not so, good Dr. Byles,” answered Sir William Howe; “if mirth were a
crime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new
foolery, I know no more about it than yourself—perhaps not so much.
Honestly, now, doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some
of your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?”

“Perhaps,” slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, whose
high spirit had been stung by many taunts against New England—“perhaps
we are to have a masque of allegorical figures—Victory with trophies
from Lexington and Bunker Hill, Plenty with her overflowing horn to
typify the present abundance in this good town, and Glory with a wreath
for His Excellency’s brow.”

Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one
of his darkest frowns had they been uttered by lips that wore a beard.
He was spared the necessity of a retort by a singular interruption. A
sound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a
full band of military instruments stationed in the street, playing, not
such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow
funeral-march. The drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpets
poured forth a wailing breath which at once hushed the merriment of the
auditors, filling all with wonder and some with apprehension. The idea
occurred to many that either the funeral procession of some great
personage had halted in front of the province-house, or that a corpse
in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin was about to be
borne from the portal. After listening a moment, Sir William Howe
called in a stern voice to the leader of the musicians, who had
hitherto enlivened the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies.
The man was drum-major to one of the British regiments.

“Dighton,” demanded the general, “what means this foolery? Bid your
band silence that dead march, or, by my word, they shall have
sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains. Silence it, sirrah!”

“Please, Your Honor,” answered the drum-major, whose rubicund visage
had lost all its color, “the fault is none of mine. I and my band are
all here together, and I question whether there be a man of us that
could play that march without book. I never heard it but once before,
and that was at the funeral of his late Majesty, King George II.”

“Well, well!” said Sir William Howe, recovering his composure; “it is
the prelude to some masquerading antic. Let it pass.”

A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks that
were dispersed through the apartments none could tell precisely from
whence it came. It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge
and having the aspect of a steward or principal domestic in the
household of a nobleman or great English landholder. This figure
advanced to the outer door of the mansion, and, throwing both its
leaves wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back toward
the grand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. At the
same time, the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons.
The eyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being directed to the
staircase, there appeared on the uppermost landing-place, that was
discernible from the bottom, several personages descending toward the
door. The foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple-crowned
hat and a skull-cap beneath it, a dark cloak and huge wrinkled boots
that came halfway up his legs. Under his arm was a rolled-up banner
which seemed to be the banner of England, but strangely rent and torn;
he had a sword in his right hand and grasped a Bible in his left. The
next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad
ruff, over which descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet and a
doublet and hose of black satin; he carried a roll of manuscript in his
hand. Close behind these two came a young man of very striking
countenance and demeanor with deep thought and contemplation on his
brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye; his garb, like that
of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a stain
of blood upon his ruff. In the same group with these were three or four
others, all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing themselves
like personages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It
was the idea of the beholders that these figures went to join the
mysterious funeral that had halted in front of the province-house, yet
that supposition seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with
which they waved their hands as they crossed the threshold and vanished
through the portal.

“In the devil’s name, what is this?” muttered Sir William Howe to a
gentleman beside him. “A procession of the regicide judges of King
Charles the martyr?”

“These,” said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first
time that evening—“these, if I interpret them aright, are the Puritan
governors, the rulers of the old original democracy of
Massachusetts—Endicott with the banner from which he had torn the
symbol of subjection, and Winthrop and Sir Henry Vane and Dudley,
Haynes, Bellingham and Leverett.”

“Why had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff?” asked Miss
Joliffe.

“Because in after-years,” answered her grandfather, “he laid down the
wisest head in England upon the block for the principles of liberty.”

“Will not Your Excellency order out the guard?” whispered Lord Percy,
who, with other British officers, had now assembled round the general.
“There may be a plot under this mummery.”

“Tush! we have nothing to fear,” carelessly replied Sir William Howe.
“There can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest, and that
somewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best
policy would be to laugh it off. See! here come more of these gentry.”

Another group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. The
first was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch who cautiously felt
his way downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, and
stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man’s
shoulder, came a tall soldier-like figure equipped with a plumed cap of
steel, a bright breastplate and a long sword, which rattled against the
stairs. Next was seen a stout man dressed in rich and courtly attire,
but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swinging motion of a
seaman’s walk, and, chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly
grew wrathful and was heard to mutter an oath. He was followed by a
noble-looking personage in a curled wig such as are represented in the
portraits of Queen Anne’s time and earlier, and the breast of his coat
was decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing to the door he
bowed to the right hand and to the left in a very gracious and
insinuating style, but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early
Puritan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow.

“Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Dr. Byles,” said Sir William
Howe. “What worthies are these?”

“If it please Your Excellency, they lived somewhat before my day,”
answered the doctor; “but doubtless our friend the colonel has been
hand and glove with them.”

“Their living faces I never looked upon,” said Colonel Joliffe,
gravely; “although I have spoken face to face with many rulers of this
land, and shall greet yet another with an old man’s blessing ere I die.
But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable patriarch to be
Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, who was governor at ninety or
thereabouts. The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New
England schoolboy will tell you, and therefore the people cast him down
from his high seat into a dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phipps,
shepherd, cooper, sea-captain and governor. May many of his countrymen
rise as high from as low an origin! Lastly, you saw the gracious earl
of Bellamont, who ruled us under King William.”

“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked Lord Percy.

“Now, were I a rebel,” said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, “I might fancy
that the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to form
the funeral procession of royal authority in New England.”

Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. The
one in advance had a thoughtful, anxious and somewhat crafty expression
of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently
the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high
stations, he seemed not incapable of cringing to a greater than
himself. A few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and
embroidered uniform cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by
the duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, which, together
with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover of the
wine-cup and good-fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens, he appeared
ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some
secret mischief. Next came a portly gentleman wearing a coat of shaggy
cloth lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness and humor in
his face and a folio volume under his arm, but his aspect was that of a
man vexed and tormented beyond all patience and harassed almost to
death. He went hastily down, and was followed by a dignified person
dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich embroidery; his demeanor
would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the
gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair with contortions of
face and body. When Dr. Byles beheld this figure on the staircase, he
shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly until
the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of
anguish and despair and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the
funeral music summoned him.

“Governor Belcher—my old patron—in his very shape and dress!” gasped
Dr. Byles. “This is an awful mockery.”

“A tedious foolery, rather,” said Sir William Howe, with an air of
indifference. “But who were the three that preceded him?”

“Governor Dudley, a cunning politician; yet his craft once brought him
to a prison,” replied Colonel Joliffe. “Governor Shute, formerly a
colonel under Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the
province, and learned Governor Burnett, whom the legislature tormented
into a mortal fever.”

“Methinks they were miserable men—these royal governors of
Massachusetts,” observed Miss Joliffe. “Heavens! how dim the light
grows!”

It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the
staircase now burned dim and duskily; so that several figures which
passed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch appeared
rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance.

Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the contiguous
apartments watching the progress of this singular pageant with various
emotions of anger, contempt or half-acknowledged fear, but still with
an anxious curiosity. The shapes which now seemed hastening to join the
mysterious procession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities
of dress or broad characteristics of manner than by any perceptible
resemblance of features to their prototypes. Their faces, indeed, were
invariably kept in deep shadow, but Dr. Byles and other gentlemen who
had long been familiar with the successive rulers of the province were
heard to whisper the names of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis
Bernard and of the well-remembered Hutchinson, thereby confessing that
the actors, whoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors
had succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the real
personages. As they vanished from the door, still did these shadows
toss their arms into the gloom of night with a dread expression of woe.
Following the mimic representative of Hutchinson came a military figure
holding before his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his
powdered head, but his epaulettes and other insignia of rank were those
of a general officer, and something in his mien reminded the beholders
of one who had recently been master of the province-house and chief of
all the land.

“The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass!” exclaimed Lord
Percy, turning pale.

“No, surely,” cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; “it could not
be Gage, or Sir William would have greeted his old comrade in arms.
Perhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged.”

“Of that be assured, young lady,” answered Sir William Howe, fixing his
eyes with a very marked expression upon the immovable visage of her
grandfather. “I have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a
host to these departing guests; the next that takes his leave shall
receive due courtesy.”

A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. It seemed
as it the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks,
were now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets
and roll of the muffled drums were a call to some loiterer to make
haste. Many eyes, by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon Sir
William Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the
funeral of departed power.

“See! here comes the last,” whispered Miss Joliffe, pointing her
tremulous finger to the staircase.

A figure had come into view as if descending the stairs, although so
dusky was the region whence it emerged some of the spectators fancied
that they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the
gloom. Downward the figure came with a stately and martial tread, and,
reaching the lowest stair, was observed to be a tall man booted and
wrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so as
to meet the napped brim of a laced hat; the features, therefore, were
completely hidden. But the British officers deemed that they had seen
that military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery
on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which
protruded from the folds of the cloak and glittered in a vivid gleam of
light. Apart from these trifling particulars there were characteristics
of gait and bearing which impelled the wondering guests to glance from
the shrouded figure to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves
that their host had not suddenly vanished from the midst of them. With
a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw the general draw his
sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had
stepped one pace upon the floor.

“Villain, unmuffle yourself!” cried he. “You pass no farther.”

The figure, without blenching a hair’s-breadth from the sword which was
pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the
cloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to
catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough.
The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild
amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the
figure and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial shape again
drew the cloak about his features and passed on, but, reaching the
threshold with his back toward the spectators, he was seen to stamp his
foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. It was afterward affirmed
that Sir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage and
sorrow when for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he
passed through the portal of the province-house.

“Hark! The procession moves,” said Miss Joliffe.

The music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were
mingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the Old South
and with the roar of artillery which announced that the beleaguered
army of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than
before. As the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear Colonel
Joliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form and smiled
sternly on the British general.

“Would Your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of the
pageant?” said he.

“Take care of your gray head!” cried Sir William Howe, fiercely, though
with a quivering lip. “It has stood too long on a traitor’s shoulders.”

“You must make haste to chop it off, then,” calmly replied the colonel,
“for a few hours longer, and not all the power of Sir William Howe, nor
of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The empire
of Britain in this ancient province is at its last gasp to-night;
almost while I speak it is a dead corpse, and methinks the shadows of
the old governors are fit mourners at its funeral.”

With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing his
granddaughter’s arm within his own, retired from the last festival that
a British ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It
was supposed that the colonel and the young lady possessed some secret
intelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. However
this might be, such knowledge has never become general. The actors in
the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild
Indian hand who scattered the cargoes of the tea-ships on the waves and
gained a place in history, yet left no names. But superstition, among
other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale that on the
anniversary night of Britain’s discomfiture the ghosts of the ancient
governors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the
Province House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded in a military
cloak, tossing his clenched hands into the air and stamping his
iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps with a semblance of
feverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp.


When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, I
drew a long breath and looked round the room, striving with the best
energy of my imagination to throw a tinge of romance and historic
grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a
scent of cigar-smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way
of visible emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale.
Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were woefully disturbed by the rattling
of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey-punch which Mr. Thomas Waite was
mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance
of the panelled walls that the slate of the Brookline stage was
suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some
far-descended governor. A stage-driver sat at one of the windows
reading a penny paper of the day—the Boston _Times_—and presenting a
figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of “Times in
Boston” seventy or a hundred years ago. On the window-seat lay a bundle
neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle
curiosity to read: “MISS SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE.” A
pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work
when we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localities
with which the living world and the day that is passing over us have
aught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately staircase down which the
procession of the old governors had descended, and as I emerged through
the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened
me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. Then, diving through the narrow
archway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng of
Washington street.




II.
EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT


The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrance
from midsummer till January. One idle evening last winter, confident
that he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, I
resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country
by snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact of history. The
night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of
wind which whistled along Washington street, causing the gaslights to
flare and flicker within the lamps.

As I hurried onward my fancy was busy with a comparison between the
present aspect of the street and that which it probably wore when the
British governors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. Brick
edifices in those times were few till a succession of destructive fires
had swept, and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehouses from
the most populous quarters of the town. The buildings stood insulated
and independent, not, as now, merging their separate existences into
connected ranges with a front of tiresome identity, but each possessing
features of its own, as if the owner’s individual taste had shaped it,
and the whole presenting a picturesque irregularity the absence of
which is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern architecture.
Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and there
a tallow candle glimmering through the small panes of scattered
windows, would form a sombre contrast to the street as I beheld it with
the gaslights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops
and throwing a noonday brightness through the huge plates of glass. But
the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless,
the same visage as when it frowned upon the ante-Revolutionary New
Englanders. The wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar to
their ears. The Old South Church, too, still pointed its antique spire
into the darkness and was lost between earth and heaven, and, as I
passed, its clock, which had warned so many generations how transitory
was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to
myself. “Only seven o’clock!” thought I. “My old friend’s legends will
scarcely kill the hours ’twixt this and bedtime.”

Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confined
precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of
the Province House. On entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected,
the old tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite,
compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognized me
with evident pleasure, for my rare properties as a patient listener
invariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of
narrative propensites. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired mine host
to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey-punch, which was speedily
prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red
stratum of port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling of nutmeg strewn
over all. As we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made
himself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany, and I rejoiced at the oddity
of the name, because it gave his image and character a sort of
individuality in my conception. The old gentleman’s draught acted as a
solvent upon his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions,
anecdotes of famous dead people and traits of ancient manners, some of
which were childish as a nurse’s lullaby, while others might have been
worth the notice of the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more than
a story of a black mysterious picture which used to hang in one of the
chambers of the Province House, directly above the room where we were
now sitting. The following is as correct a version of the fact as the
reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although,
assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the marvellous.


In one of the apartments of the province-house there was long preserved
an ancient picture the frame of which was as black as ebony, and the
canvas itself so dark with age, damp and smoke that not a touch of the
painter’s art could be discerned. Time had thrown an impenetrable veil
over it and left to tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had
once been there portrayed. During the rule of many successive governors
it had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over the mantel
piece of the same chamber, and it still kept its place when
Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson assumed the administration of the
province on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard.

The lieutenant-governor sat one afternoon resting his head against the
carved back of his stately arm-chair and gazing up thoughtfully at the
void blackness of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive
musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required the ruler’s
decision; for within that very hour Hutchinson had received
intelligence of the arrival of a British fleet bringing three regiments
from Halifax to overawe the insubordination of the people. These troops
awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of Castle William and the
town itself, yet, instead of affixing his signature to an official
order, there sat the lieutenant-governor so carefully scrutinizing the
black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice of two
young persons who attended him. One, wearing a military dress of buff,
was his kinsman, Francis Lincoln, the provincial captain of Castle
William; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was Alice
Vane, his favorite niece. She was clad entirely in white—a pale,
ethereal creature who, though a native of New England, had been
educated abroad and seemed not merely a stranger from another clime,
but almost a being from another world. For several years, until left an
orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and there had
acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting which she
found few opportunities of gratifying in the undecorated dwellings of
the colonial gentry. It was said that the early productions of her own
pencil exhibited no inferior genius, though perhaps the rude atmosphere
of New England had cramped her hand and dimmed the glowing colors of
her fancy. But, observing her uncle’s steadfast gaze, which appeared to
search through the mist of years to discover the subject of the
picture, her curiosity was excited.

“Is it known, my dear uncle,” inquired she, “what this old picture once
represented? Possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a
masterpiece of some great artist; else why has it so long held such a
conspicuous place?”

As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom—for he was as attentive to
all the humors and caprices of Alice as if she had been his own
best-beloved child—did not immediately reply, the young captain of
Castle William took that office upon himself.

“This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,” said he, “has been an
heirloom in the province-house from time immemorial. As to the painter,
I can tell you nothing; but if half the stories told of it be true, not
one of the great Italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a
piece of work as that before you.”

Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and
fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular
demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief in reference
to this old picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time the
best-accredited, accounts stated it to be an original and authentic
portrait of the evil one, taken at a witch-meeting near Salem, and that
its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of
the confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. It was
likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the
blackness of the picture, and had shown himself at seasons of public
calamity to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for
instance, had beheld this ominous apparition on the eve of General
Abercrombie’s shameful and bloody defeat under the walls of
Ticonderoga. Many of the servants of the province-house had caught
glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them at morning or evening
twilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire that
glimmered on the hearth beneath, although, if any were, bold enough to
hold a torch before the picture, it would appear as black and
undistinguishable as ever. The oldest inhabitant of Boston recollected
that his father—in whose days the portrait had not wholly faded out of
sight—had once looked upon it, but would never suffer himself to be
questioned as to the face which was there represented. In connection
with such stories, it was remarkable that over the top of the frame
there were some ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a veil
had formerly hung down before the picture until the duskiness of time
had so effectually concealed it. But, after all, it was the most
singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous governors of
Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the
state-chamber of the province-house.

“Some of these fables are really awful,” observed Alice Vane, who had
occasionally shuddered as well as smiled while her cousin spoke. “It
would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the
canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those
which fancy paints instead of it.”

“But would it be possible,” inquired her cousin,” to restore this dark
picture to its pristine hues?”

“Such arts are known in Italy,” said Alice.

The lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood,
and listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives.
Yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the
explanation of the mystery.

“I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you
are so fond,” remarked he, “but my antiquarian researches have long
since made me acquainted with the subject of this picture—if picture it
can be called—which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face
of the long-buried man whom it once represented. It was the portrait of
Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the
history of New England.”

“Of that Edward Randolph,” exclaimed Captain Lincoln, “who obtained the
repeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathers had
enjoyed almost democratic privileges—he that was styled the arch-enemy
of New England, and whose memory is still held in detestation as the
destroyer of our liberties?”

“It was the same Randolph,” answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily in his
chair. “It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium.”

“Our annals tell us,” continued the captain of Castle William, “that
the curse of the people followed this Randolph where he went and
wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its
effect was seen, likewise, in the manner of his death. They say, too,
that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward and was
visible on the wretched man’s countenance, making it too horrible to be
looked upon. If so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect,
it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it.”

“These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how
little of historic truth lies at the bottom,” said the
lieutenant-governor. “As regards the life and character of Edward
Randolph, too implicit credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather,
who—I must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veins—has filled
our early history with old women’s tales as fanciful and extravagant as
those of Greece or Rome.”

“And yet,” whispered Alice Vane, “may not such fables have a moral? And
methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not
without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the
province-house. When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were
well that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people’s
curse.”

The lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at his niece, as
if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast
which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. He knew,
indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the
native sympathies of a New England girl.

“Peace, silly child!” cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever
before addressed the gentle Alice. “The rebuke of a king; is more to be
dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude.—Captain
Lincoln, it is decided: the fortress of Castle William must be occupied
by the royal troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in
the town or encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of
tumult, and almost rebellion, that His Majesty’s government should have
a wall of strength about it.”

“Trust, sir—trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people,” said
Captain Lincoln, “nor teach them that they can ever be on other terms
with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought
side by side through the French war. Do not convert the streets of your
native town into a camp. Think twice before you give up old Castle
William, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of
true-born New Englanders.”

“Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair.
“A British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the
necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. Your presence
also will be required. Till then, farewell.”

With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while
Alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and
once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain of
Castle William fancied that the girl’s air and mien were such as might
have belonged to one of those spirits of fable—fairies or creatures of
a more antique mythology—who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal
affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe.
As he held the door for her to pass Alice beckoned to the picture and
smiled.

“Come forth, dark and evil shape!” cried she. “It is thine hour.”

In the evening Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber
where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons
whose various interests had summoned them together. There were the
selectmen of Boston—plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent
representatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombre strength
had stamped so deep an impress upon the New England character.
Contrasting with these were one or two members of council, richly
dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other
magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of
courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the
British army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor’s orders for the landing
of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. The
captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson’s chair, with folded
arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whom he was
soon to be superseded in his command. On a table in the centre of the
chamber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of
half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for the
lieutenant-governor’s signature.

Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains,
which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of
a lady’s robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been
there at such a time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward,
in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her
presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the
chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor a
long and solemn protest against the reception of the British troops
into the town.

“And if Your Honor,” concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy old
gentleman, “shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary
sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the
responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop
of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon Your
Honor’s memory. You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of
our forefathers; the more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself
should deserve honorable mention as a true patriot and upright ruler
when your own doings shall be written down in history.”

“I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well
in the annals of my country,” replied Hutchinson, controlling his
impatience into courtesy, “nor know I any better method of attaining
that end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief
which, with your pardon, seems to have infected older men than myself.
Would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the province-house as
they did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you
will be glad to flee for protection to the king’s banner, the raising
of which is now so distasteful to you.”

“Yes,” said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the
lieutenant-governor’s orders. “The demagogues of this province have
raised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him in
God’s name and the king’s.”

“If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws,” answered the
captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen.

“Craving your pardon, young sir,” said the venerable selectman, “let
not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against the
oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done.
Like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence
may send us—always after our own best exertions to amend it.”

“And there peep forth the devil’s claws!” muttered Hutchinson, who well
understood the nature of Puritan submission. “This matter shall be
expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every corner and
a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture
to walk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob in this remote
province of the realm? The king is my master, and England is my
country; upheld by their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble
and defy them.”

He snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to the paper
that lay on the table, when the captain of Castle William placed his
hand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the
ceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity,
awakened general surprise, and in none more than in the
lieutenant-governor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his
young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall.
Hutchinson’s eye followed the signal, and he saw what had hitherto been
unobserved—that a black silk curtain was suspended before the
mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts
immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon, and in
his surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his
niece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon
her:

“Alice! Come hither, Alice!”

No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and,
pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the
sable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise
burst from every beholder, but the lieutenant-governor’s voice had a
tone of horror.

“By Heaven!” said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather to
himself than to those around him; “if the spirit of Edward Randolph
were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear
more of the terrors of hell upon his face.”

“For some wise end,” said the aged selectman, solemnly, “hath
Providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this
dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we
behold.”

Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste
of canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its
hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a
half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned
dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing
a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud
the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. The whole
portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the
effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and
awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any words can
convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous
guilt and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn
of a vast surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of defiance,
beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The
torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as
if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had
been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of
expression, till now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen
over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was
the portrait of Edward Randolph as he appeared when a people’s curse
had wrought its influence upon his nature.

“’Twould drive me mad, that awful face,” said Hutchinson, who seemed
fascinated by the contemplation of it.

“Be warned, then,” whispered Alice. “He trampled on a people’s rights.
Behold his punishment, and avoid a crime like his.”

The lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, but, exerting
his energy—which was not, however, his most characteristic feature—he
strove to shake off the spell of Randolph’s countenance.

“Girl,” cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, “have you
brought hither your painter’s art, your Italian spirit of intrigue,
your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of
rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? See
here!”

“Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatched the
pen; “for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul,
Your Honor is that man.”

“Away!” answered Hutchinson, fiercely. “Though yonder senseless picture
cried ‘Forbear!rsquo; it should not move me!”

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face—which seemed at that
moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look—he
scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of
desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he
shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation.

“It is done,” said he, and placed his hand upon his brow.

“May Heaven forgive the deed!” said the soft, sad accents of Alice
Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.

When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household,
and spreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture
had started from the wall and spoken face to face with
Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought,
however, no traces of it remained behind; for within the antique frame
nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had
covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed,
stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and
hidden itself behind a century’s obscurity. The truth probably was that
Alice Vane’s secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely
effected a temporary renovation. But those who in that brief interval
had beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph desired no second
glance, and ever afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene,
as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. And, as for
Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped
for breath and complained that he was choking with the blood of the
Boston Massacre, and Francis Lincoln, the former captain of Castle
William, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his
frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel at
that dread hour the tremendous burden of a people’s curse?


At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine host
whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but
Mr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was
supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New England
Museum. Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and,
with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a
not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.

During the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad and
raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province
House that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were
running riot above stairs while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below.
In the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in
an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies and
the creaking of its beams and rafters become strangely like the tones
of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading
the deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a century were
revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our
ears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside of the Province
House and, plunging down the doorsteps, fought my way homeward against
a drifting snow-storm.




III.
LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE


Mine excellent friend the landlord of the Province House was pleased
the other evening to invite Mr. Tiffany and myself to an oyster-supper.
This slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed,
was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and I, the humble
note-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned by the public notice
which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. Many a
cigar had been smoked within his premises, many a glass of wine or more
potent _aqua vitæ_ had been quaffed, many a dinner had been eaten, by
curious strangers who, save for the fortunate conjunction of Mr.
Tiffany and me, would never have ventured through that darksome avenue
which gives access to the historic precincts of the Province House. In
short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas
Waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into
public view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and
dry-good stores which hides its aristocratic front from Washington
street. It may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the
increased custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult
to renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore.

Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself felt
any scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set
before us. If the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled
walls had witnessed in a bygone century; if mine host presided with
somewhat less of state than might have befitted a successor of the
royal governors; if the guests made a less imposing show than the
bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who erst banqueted at
the gubernatorial table and now sleep within their armorial tombs on
Copp’s Hill or round King’s Chapel,—yet never, I may boldly say, did a
more comfortable little party assemble in the province-house from Queen
Anne’s days to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered more
interesting by the presence of a venerable personage whose own actual
reminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and Howe, and even
supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one
of that small, and now all but extinguished, class whose attachment to
royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that were
connected with it, had never yielded to the democratic heresies of
after-times. The young queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject in
her realm—perhaps not one who would kneel before her throne with such
reverential love—as this old grandsire whose head has whitened beneath
the mild sway of the republic which still in his mellower moments he
terms a usurpation. Yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an
ungentle or impracticable companion. If the truth must be told, the
life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled
character—he has had so little choice of friends and been so often
destitute of any—that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness
with either Oliver Cromwell or John Hancock, to say nothing of any
democrat now upon the stage. In another paper of this series I may
perhaps give the reader a closer glimpse of his portrait.

Our host in due season uncorked a bottle of Madeira of such exquisite
perfume and admirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in
an ancient bin down deep beneath the deepest cellar where some jolly
old butler stored away the governor’s choicest wine and forgot to
reveal the secret on his death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost and a
libation to his memory! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. Tiffany
with peculiar zest, and after sipping the third glass it was his
pleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked
from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. With some suitable
adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows.


Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government of
Massachusetts Bay—now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago—a young
lady of rank and fortune arrived from England to claim his protection
as her guardian. He was her distant relative, but the nearest who had
survived the gradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible
shelter could be found for the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe than within the province-house of a Transatlantic colony.
The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, had been as a mother to her
childhood, and was now anxious to receive her in the hope that a
beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from
the primitive society of New England than amid the artifices and
corruptions of a court. If either the governor or his lady had
especially consulted their own comfort, they would probably have sought
to devolve the responsibility on other hands, since with some noble and
splendid traits of character Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh,
unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and
personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control.
Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was
hardly less than a monomania; or if the acts which it inspired were
those of a sane person, it seemed due from Providence that pride so
sinful should be followed by as severe a retribution. That tinge of the
marvellous which is thrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends
has probably imparted an additional wildness to the strange story of
Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe.

The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whence
Lady Eleanore was conveyed to Boston in the governor’s coach, attended
by a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous equipage,
with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through
Cornhill surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers
with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters.
Through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the
people could discern the figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining
an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in
her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the
province that their fair rival was indebted for much of the
irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress—an
embroidered mantle—which had been wrought by the most skilful artist in
London, and possessed even magical properties of adornment. On the
present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress,
being clad in a riding-habit of velvet which would have appeared stiff
and ungraceful on any other form.

The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade
came to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced
the province-house from the public street. It was an awkward
coincidence that the bell of the Old South was just then tolling for a
funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome peal with which it was
customary to announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady
Eleanore Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had
come embodied in her beautiful person.

“A very great disrespect!” exclaimed Captain Langford, an English
officer who had recently brought despatches to Governor Shute. “The
funeral should have been deferred lest Lady Eleanore’s spirits be
affected by such a dismal welcome.”

“With your pardon, sir,” replied Dr. Clarke, a physician and a famous
champion of the popular party, “whatever the heralds may pretend, a
dead beggar must have precedence of a living queen. King Death confers
high privileges.”

These remarks-were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage
through the crowd which had gathered on each side of the gateway,
leaving an open avenue to the portal of the province-house. A black
slave in livery now leaped from behind the coach and threw open the
door, while at the same moment Governor Shute descended the flight of
steps from his mansion to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But the
governor’s stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited
general astonishment. A pale young man with his black hair all in
disorder rushed from the throng and prostrated himself beside the
coach, thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe to tread upon. She held back an instant, yet with an
expression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the
weight of her footstep rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful
reverence from a fellow-mortal.

“Up, sir!” said the governor, sternly, at the same time lifting his
cane over the intruder. “What means the Bedlamite by this freak?”

“Nay,” answered Lady Eleanore, playfully, but with more scorn than pity
in her tone; “Your Excellency shall not strike him. When men seek only
to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily
granted—and so well deserved!” Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on
a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form and extended her
hand to meet that of the governor.

There was a brief interval during which Lady Eleanore retained this
attitude, and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of aristocracy
and hereditary pride trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of
nature than these two figures presented at that moment. Yet the
spectators were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did pride
seem to the existence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous
acclamation of applause.

“Who is this insolent young fellow?” inquired Captain Langford, who
still remained beside Dr. Clarke. “If he be in his senses, his
impertinence demands the bastinado; if mad, Lady Eleanore should be
secured from further inconvenience by his confinement.”

“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the doctor—“a youth of no birth
or fortune, or other advantages save the mind and soul that nature gave
him; and, being secretary to our colonial agent in London, it was his
misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her, and her
scorn has driven him mad.”

“He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English officer.

“It may be so,” said Dr. Clarke, frowning as he spoke; “but I tell you,
sir, I could wellnigh doubt the justice of the Heaven above us if no
signal humiliation overtake this lady who now treads so haughtily into
yonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our
common nature, which envelops all human souls; see if that nature do
not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level
with the lowest.”

“Never!” cried Captain Langford, indignantly—“neither in life nor when
they lay her with her ancestors.”

Not many days afterward the governor gave a ball in honor of Lady
Eleanore Rochcliffe. The principal gentry of the colony received
invitations, which were distributed to their residences far and near by
messengers on horseback bearing missives sealed with all the formality
of official despatches. In obedience to the summons, there was a
general gathering of rank, wealth and beauty, and the wide door of the
province-house had seldom given admittance to more numerous and
honorable guests than on the evening of Lady Eleanore’s ball. Without
much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed
splendid, for, according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone
in rich silks and satins outspread over wide-projecting hoops, and the
gentlemen glittered in gold embroidery laid unsparingly upon the purple
or scarlet or sky-blue velvet which was the material of their coats and
waistcoats. The latter article of dress was of great importance, since
it enveloped the wearer’s body nearly to the knees and was perhaps
bedizened with the amount of his whole year’s income in golden flowers
and foliage. The altered taste of the present day—a taste symbolic of a
deep change in the whole system of society—would look upon almost any
of those gorgeous figures as ridiculous, although that evening the
guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses and rejoiced to
catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. What a pity that one
of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the scene which
by the very traits that were so transitory might have taught us much
that would be worth knowing and remembering!

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some
faint idea of a garment already noticed in this legend—the Lady
Eleanore’s embroidered mantle, which the gossips whispered was invested
with magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her
figure each time that she put it on! Idle fancy as it is, this
mysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from
its fabled virtues and partly because it was the handiwork of a dying
woman, and perchance owed the fantastic grace of its conception to the
delirium of approaching death.

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe
stood apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself within a small
and distinguished circle to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than
to the general throng. The waxen torches threw their radiance vividly
over the scene, bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief, but
she gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of weariness
or scorn tempered with such feminine grace that her auditors scarcely
perceived the moral deformity of which it was the utterance. She beheld
the spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased
with the provincial mockery of a court-festival, but with the deeper
scorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the
enjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the recollections of
those who saw her that evening were influenced by the strange events
with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure
ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural,
although at the time the general whisper was of her exceeding beauty
and of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around her. Some
close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate
paleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and revulsion of
spirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless betrayal of
lassitude, as if she were on the point of sinking to the ground. Then,
with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies, and threw
some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation.
There was so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments
that it astonished every right-minded listener, till, looking in her
face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them
with doubts both as to her seriousness and sanity. Gradually, Lady
Eleanore Rochcliffe’s circle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen
remained in it. These were Captain Langford, the English officer before
mentioned; a Virginian planter who had come to Massachusetts on some
political errand; a young Episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a
British earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of Governor Shute,
whose obsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance from Lady Eleanore.

At different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the
province-house passed among the guests bearing huge trays of
refreshments and French and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe,
who refused to wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of champagne,
had sunk back into a large damask chair, apparently overwearied either
with the excitement of the scene or its tedium; and while, for an
instant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a young man
stole forward and knelt down at her feet. He bore a salver in his hand
on which was a chased silver goblet filled to the brim with wine, which
he offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen—or, rather, with the
awful devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that
some one touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes
upon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair of Jervase Helwyse.

“Why do you haunt me thus?” said she, in a languid tone, but with a
kindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted herself to express.
“They tell me that I have done you harm.”

“Heaven knows if that be so,” replied the young man, solemnly. “But,
Lady Eleanore, in requital of that harm, if such there be, and for your
own earthly and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of this
holy wine and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. And this
shall be a symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself from
the chain of human sympathies, which whoso would shake off must keep
company with fallen angels.”

“Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental vessel?” exclaimed
the Episcopal clergyman.

This question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which
was recognized as appertaining to the communion-plate of the Old South
Church, and, for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with
the consecrated wine.

“Perhaps it is poisoned,” half whispered the governor’s secretary.

“Pour it down the villain’s throat!” cried the Virginian, fiercely.

“Turn him out of the house!” cried Captain Langford, seizing Jervase
Helwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the sacramental cup was
overturned and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore’s mantle.
“Whether knave, fool or Bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow
should go at large.”

“Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,” said Lady Eleanore, with
a faint and weary smile. “Take him out of my sight, if such be your
pleasure, for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him,
whereas, in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for
the mischief I have wrought.”

But while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the unfortunate
young man he broke from them and with a wild, impassioned earnestness
offered a new and equally strange petition to Lady Eleanore. It was no
other than that she should throw off the mantle, which while he pressed
the silver cup of wine upon her she had drawn more closely around her
form, so as almost to shroud herself within it.

“Cast it from you,” exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, clasping his hands in an
agony of entreaty. “It may not yet be too late. Give the accursed
garment to the flames.”

But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the
embroidered mantle over her head in such a fashion as to give a
completely new aspect to her beautiful face, which, half hidden, half
revealed, seemed to belong to some being of mysterious character and
purposes.

“Farewell, Jervase Helwyse!” said she. “Keep my image in your
remembrance as you behold it now.”

“Alas, lady!” he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a
funeral-bell; “we must meet shortly when your face may wear another
aspect, and that shall be the image that must abide within me.” He made
no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants
who almost dragged him out of the apartment and dismissed him roughly
from the iron gate of the province-house.

Captain Langford, who had been very active in this affair, was
returning to the presence of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, when he
encountered the physician, Dr. Clarke, with whom he had held some
casual talk on the day of her arrival. The doctor stood apart,
separated from Lady Eleanore by the width of the room, but eying her
with such keen sagacity that Captain Langford involuntarily gave him
credit for the discovery of some deep secret.

“You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly
maiden,” said he, hoping thus to draw forth the physician’s hidden
knowledge.

“God forbid!” answered Dr. Clarke, with a grave smile; “and if you be
wise, you will put up the same prayer for yourself. Woe to those who
shall be smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder stands the
governor, and I have a word or two for his private ear. Good-night!” He
accordingly advanced to Governor Shute and addressed him in so low a
tone that none of the bystanders could catch a word of what he said,
although the sudden change of His Excellency’s hitherto cheerful visage
betokened that the communication could be of no agreeable import. A
very few moments afterward it was announced to the guests that an
unforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a premature close
to the festival.

The ball at the province-house supplied a topic of conversation for the
colonial metropolis for some days after its occurrence, and might still
longer have been the general theme, only that a subject of
all-engrossing interest thrust it for a time from the public
recollection. This was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic which in
that age, and long before and afterward, was wont to slay its hundreds
and thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion of which
we speak it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch that it
has left its traces—its pitmarks, to use an appropriate figure—on the
history of the country, the affairs of which were thrown into confusion
by its ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease
seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting
its victims from among the proud, the well-born and the wealthy,
entering unabashed into stately chambers and lying down with the
slumberers in silken beds. Some of the most distinguished guests of the
province-house—even those whom the haughty Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had
deemed not unworthy of her favor—were stricken by this fatal scourge.
It was noticed with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling that the four
gentlemen—the Virginian, the British officer, the young clergyman and
the governor’s secretary—who had been her most devoted attendants on
the evening of the ball were the foremost on whom the plague-stroke
fell. But the disease, pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to be
exclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer
conferred like a noble’s star or an order of knighthood. It threaded
its way through the narrow and crooked streets, and entered the low,
mean, darksome dwellings and laid its hand of death upon the artisans
and laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich and poor to feel
themselves brethren then, and stalking to and fro across the Three
Hills with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there
was that mighty conqueror—that scourge and horror of our
forefathers—the small-pox.

We cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore by
contemplating it as the fangless monster of the present day. We must
remember, rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of
the Asiatic cholera striding from shore to shore of the Atlantic and
marching like Destiny upon cities far remote which flight had already
half depopulated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing
as that which makes man dread to breathe heaven’s vital air lest it be
poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother or friend lest the grip of
the pestilence should clutch him. Such was the dismay that now followed
in the track of the disease or ran before it throughout the town.
Graves were hastily dug and the pestilential relics as hastily covered,
because the dead were enemies of the living and strove to draw them
headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. The public councils
were suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices now
that an unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler’s mansion.
Had an enemy’s fleet been hovering on the coast or his armies trampling
on our soil, the people would probably have committed their defence to
that same direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity and
would permit no interference with his sway. This conqueror had a symbol
of his triumphs: it was a blood-red flag that fluttered in the tainted
air over the door of every dwelling into which the small-pox had
entered.

Such a banner was long since waving over the portal of the
province-house, for thence, as was proved by tracking its footsteps
back, had all this dreadful mischief issued. It had been traced back to
a lady’s luxurious chamber, to the proudest of the proud, to her that
was so delicate and hardly owned herself of earthly mould, to the
haughty one who took her stand above human sympathies—to Lady Eleanore.
There remained no room for doubt that the contagion had lurked in that
gorgeous mantle which threw so strange a grace around her at the
festival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the delirious
brain of a woman on her death-bed and was the last toil of her
stiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with its
golden threads. This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far
and wide. The people raved against the Lady Eleanore and cried out that
her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that between them both this
monstrous evil had been born. At times their rage and despair took the
semblance of grinning mirth; and whenever the red flag of the
pestilence was hoisted over another and yet another door, they clapped
their hands and shouted through the streets in bitter mockery: “Behold
a new triumph for the Lady Eleanore!”

One day in the midst of these dismal times a wild figure approached the
portal of the province-house, and, folding his arms, stood
contemplating the scarlet banner, which a passing breeze shook
fitfully, as if to fling abroad the contagion that it typified. At
length, climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade, he
took down the flag, and entered the mansion waving it above his head.
At the foot of the staircase he met the governor, booted and spurred,
with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting
forth upon a journey.

“Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?” exclaimed Shute, extending
his cane to guard himself from contact. “There is nothing here but
Death; back, or you will meet him.”

“Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the pestilence,” cried
Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. “Death and the pestilence,
who wears the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through the
streets to-night, and I must march before them with this banner.”

“Why do I waste words on the fellow?” muttered the governor, drawing
his cloak across his mouth. “What matters his miserable life, when none
of us are sure of twelve hours’ breath?—On, fool, to your own
destruction!”

He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately ascended the
staircase, but on the first landing-place was arrested by the firm
grasp of a hand upon his shoulder. Looking fiercely up with a madman’s
impulse to struggle with and rend asunder his opponent, he found
himself powerless beneath a calm, stern eye which possessed the
mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. The person whom
he had now encountered was the physician, Dr. Clarke, the duties of
whose sad profession had led him to the province-house, where he was an
infrequent guest in more prosperous times.

“Young man, what is your purpose?” demanded he.

“I seek the Lady Eleanore,” answered Jervase Helwyse, submissively.

“All have fled from her,” said the physician. “Why do you seek her now?
I tell you, youth, her nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of
that fatal chamber. Know ye not that never came such a curse to our
shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore, that her breath has filled the air
with poison, that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land
from the folds of her accursed mantle?”

“Let me look upon her,” rejoined the mad youth, more wildly. “Let me
behold her in her awful beauty, clad in the regal garments of the
pestilence. She and Death sit on a throne together; let me kneel down
before them.”

“Poor youth!” said Dr. Clarke, and, moved by a deep sense of human
weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. “Wilt thou
still worship the destroyer and surround her image with fantasies the
more magnificent the more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to
his tyrants. Approach, then. Madness, as I have noted, has that good
efficacy that it will guard you from contagion, and perhaps its own
cure may be found in yonder chamber.” Ascending another flight of
stairs, he threw open a door and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he
should enter.

The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his
haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed herself by the pestilential
influence which as by enchantment she scattered round about her. He
dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into
superhuman splendor. With such anticipations he stole reverentially to
the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the threshold,
gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened chamber.

“Where is the Lady Eleanore?” whispered he.

“Call her,” replied the physician.

“Lady Eleanore! princess! queen of Death!” cried Jervase Helwyse,
advancing three steps into the chamber. “She is not here. There, on
yonder table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore
upon her bosom. There”—and he shuddered—“there hangs her mantle, on
which a dead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where
is the Lady Eleanore?”

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed and a
low moan was uttered, which, listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began
to distinguish as a woman’s voice complaining dolefully of thirst. He
fancied, even, that he recognized its tones.

“My throat! My throat is scorched,” murmured the voice. “A drop of
water!”

“What thing art thou?” said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near the
bed and tearing asunder its curtains. “Whose voice hast thou stolen for
thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be
conscious of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of diseased mortality, why
lurkest thou in my lady’s chamber?”

“Oh, Jervase Helwyse,” said the voice—and as it spoke the figure
contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face—“look not now on
the woman you once loved. The curse of Heaven hath stricken me because
I would not call man my brother nor woman sister. I wrapped myself in
pride as in a mantle and scorned the sympathies of nature, and
therefore has Nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful
sympathy. You are avenged, they are all avenged, Nature is avenged; for
I am Eleanore Rochcliffe.”

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom
of his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life and love
that had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase
Helwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber
echoed, the curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of
insane merriment.

“Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” he cried. “All have been her
victims; who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?” Impelled by
some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle
and rushed from the chamber and the house.

That night a procession passed by torchlight through the streets,
bearing in the midst the figure of a woman enveloped with a
richly-embroidered mantle, while in advance stalked Jervase Helwyse
waving the red flag of the pestilence. Arriving opposite the
province-house, the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and
swept away the ashes. It was said that from that very hour the
pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from
the first plague-stroke to the last, with Lady Elcanore’s mantle. A
remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady’s fate. There is a
belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this mansion a female
form may sometimes be duskily discerned shrinking into the darkest
corner and muffling her face within an embroidered mantle. Supposing
the legend true, can this be other than the once proud Lady Eleanore?


Mine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no little Warmth of
applause upon this narrative, in which we had all been deeply
interested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the
effect of such a tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we
may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells it. For
my own part, knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the
foundation of his facts, I could not have believed him one whit the
more faithfully had he professed himself an eyewitness of the doings
and sufferings of poor Lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, it is true, might
demand documentary evidence, or even require him to produce the
embroidered mantle, forgetting that—Heaven be praised!—it was consumed
to ashes.

But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer,
began to talk, in his turn, about the traditions of the Province House,
and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences
to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival,
immediately besought him to favor us with a specimen; my own
entreaties, of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable
guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the return
of Mr. Thomas Waite, who had been summoned forth to provide
accommodations for several new arrivals. Perchance the public—but be
this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the matter—may read the
result in another tale of the Province House.




IV.
OLD ESTHER DUDLEY


Our host having resumed the chair, he as well as Mr. Tiffany and myself
expressed much eagerness to be made acquainted with the story to which
the loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw lit to
moisten his throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his
face toward our coal-fire, looked steadfastly for a few moments into
the depths of its cheerful glow. Finally he poured forth a great
fluency of speech. The generous liquid that he had imbibed, while it
warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off the chill from his
heart and mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel which we could
hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore winters.
His feelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable than those of a
younger man—or, at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself
by more visible effects than if his judgment and will had possessed the
potency of meridian life. At the pathetic passages of his narrative he
readily melted into tears. When a breath of indignation swept across
his spirit, the blood flushed his withered visage even to the roots of
his white hair, and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful
auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly toward
the desolate old soul. But ever and anon, sometimes in the midst of his
most earnest talk, this ancient person’s intellect would wander
vaguely, losing its hold of the matter in hand and groping for it amid
misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh and express a
doubt whether his wits—for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend
to signify his mental powers—were not getting a little the worse for
wear.

Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist’s story required more
revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series
which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment
and tone of the affair may have undergone some slight—or perchance more
than slight—metamorphosis in its transmission to the reader through the
medium of a thoroughgoing democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch
with no involution of plot nor any great interest of events, yet
possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over
the mind which the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the
loiterer in its court-yard.


The hour had come—the hour of defeat and humiliation—when Sir William
Howe was to pass over the threshold of the province-house and embark,
with no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised himself, on board
the British fleet. He bade his servants and military attendants go
before him, and lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion to
quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a
death-throb. Preferable then would he have deemed his fate had a
warrior’s death left him a claim to the narrow territory of a grave
within the soil which the king had given him to defend. With an ominous
perception that as his departing footsteps echoed adown the staircase
the sway of Britain was passing for ever from New England, he smote his
clenched hand on his brow and cursed the destiny that had flung the
shame of a dismembered empire upon him.

“Would to God,” cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, “that
the rebels were even now at the doorstep! A blood-stain upon the floor
should then bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful to
his trust.”

The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation.

“Heaven’s cause and the king’s are one,” it said. “Go forth, Sir
William Howe, and trust in Heaven to bring back a royal governor in
triumph.”

Subduing at once the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith
that it was unwitnessed, Sir William Howe became conscious that an aged
woman leaning on a gold-headed staff was standing betwixt him and the
door. It was old Esther Dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years
in this mansion, until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as
the recollections of its history. She was the daughter of an ancient
and once eminent family which had fallen into poverty and decay and
left its last descendant no resource save the bounty of the king, nor
any shelter except within the walls of the province-house. An office in
the household with merely nominal duties had been assigned to her as a
pretext for the payment of a small pension, the greater part of which
she expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of
attire. The claims of Esther Dudley’s gentle blood were acknowledged by
all the successive governors, and they treated her with the punctilious
courtesy which it was her foible to demand, not always with success,
from a neglectful world. The only actual share which she assumed in the
business of the mansion was to glide through its passages and public
chambers late at night to see that the servants had dropped no fire
from their flaring torches nor left embers crackling and blazing on the
hearths. Perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in
the hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to
invest the old woman with attributes of awe and mystery, fabling that
she had entered the portal of the province-house—none knew whence—in
the train of the first royal governor, and that it was her fate to
dwell there till the last should have departed.

But Sir William Howe, if he ever heard this legend, had forgotten it.

“Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?” asked he, with some
severity of tone. “It is my pleasure to be the last in this mansion of
the king.”

“Not so, if it please Your Excellency,” answered the time-stricken
woman. “This roof has sheltered me long; I will not pass from it until
they bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is there
for old Esther Dudley save the province-house or the grave?”

“Now, Heaven forgive me!” said Sir William Howe to himself. “I was
about to leave this wretched old creature to starve or beg.—Take this,
good Mistress Dudley,” he added, putting a purse into her hands. “King
George’s head on these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will
continue so, I warrant you, even should the rebels crown John Hancock
their king. That purse will buy a better shelter than the
province-house can now afford.”

“While the burden of life remains upon me I will have no other shelter
than this roof,” persisted Esther Dudley, striking her staff upon the
floor with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve; “and when Your
Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter into the porch to welcome
you.”

“My poor old friend!” answered the British general, and all his manly
and martial pride could no longer restrain a gush of bitter tears.
“This is an evil hour for you and me. The province which the king
entrusted to my charge is lost. I go hence in misfortune—perchance in
disgrace—to return no more. And you, whose present being is
incorporated with the past, who have seen governor after governor in
stately pageantry ascend these steps, whose whole life has been an
observance of majestic ceremonies and a worship of the king,—how will
you endure the change? Come with us; bid farewell to a land that has
shaken off its allegiance, and live still under a royal government at
Halifax.”

“Never! never!” said the pertinacious old dame. “Here will I abide, and
King George shall still have one true subject in his disloyal
province.”

“Beshrew the old fool!” muttered Sir William Howe, growing impatient of
her obstinacy and ashamed of the emotion into which he had been
betrayed. “She is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could
exist nowhere but in this musty edifice.—Well, then, Mistress Dudley,
since you will needs tarry, I give the province-house in charge to you.
Take this key, and keep it safe until myself or some other royal
governor shall demand it of you.” Smiling bitterly at himself and her,
he took the heavy key of the province-house, and, delivering it into
the old lady’s hands, drew his cloak around him for departure.

As the general glanced back at Esther Dudley’s antique figure he deemed
her well fitted for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative
of the decayed past—of an age gone by, with its manners, opinions,
faith and feelings all fallen into oblivion or scorn, of what had once
been a reality, but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. Then
Sir William Howe strode forth, smiting his clenched hands together in
the fierce anguish of his spirit, and old Esther Dudley was left to
keep watch in the lonely province-house, dwelling there with Memory;
and if Hope ever seemed to flit around her, still it was Memory in
disguise.

The total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the British
troops did not drive the venerable lady from her stronghold. There was
not for many years afterward a governor of Massachusetts, and the
magistrates who had charge of such matters saw no objection to Esther
Dudley’s residence in the province-house, especially as they must
otherwise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, which
with her was a labor of love; and so they left her the undisturbed
mistress of the old historic edifice. Many and strange were the fables
which the gossips whispered about her in all the chimney-corners of the
town.

Among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been left in the
mansion, there was a tall antique mirror which was well worthy of a
tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The gold
of its heavily-wrought frame was tarnished, and its surface so blurred
that the old woman’s figure, whenever she paused before it, looked
indistinct and ghostlike. But it was the general belief that Esther
could cause the governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the beautiful
ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the Indian chiefs who had
come up to the province-house to hold council or swear allegiance, the
grim provincial warriors, the severe clergymen—in short, all the
pageantry of gone days, all the figures that ever swept across the
broad-plate of glass in former times,—she could cause the whole to
reappear and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows of old
life. Such legends as these, together with the singularity of her
isolated existence, her age and the infirmity that each added winter
flung upon her, made Mistress Dudley the object both of fear and pity,
and it was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid all the
angry license of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever fell upon her
unprotected head. Indeed, there was so much haughtiness in her demeanor
toward intruders—among whom she reckoned all persons acting under the
new authorities—that it was really an affair of no small nerve to look
her in the face. And, to do the people justice, stern republicans as
they had now become, they were well content that the old gentlewoman,
in her hoop-petticoat and faded embroidery, should still haunt the
palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed
system, embodying a history in her person. So Esther Dudley dwelt year
after year in the province-house, still reverencing all that others had
flung aside, still faithful to her king, who, so long as the venerable
dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one true subject in New
England and one spot of the empire that had been wrested from him.

And did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor said, “Not so.”
Whenever her chill and withered heart desired warmth, she was wont to
summon a black slave of Governor Shirley’s from the blurred mirror and
send him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those
deserted chambers. Forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight
or the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his errand in the
burial-grounds, knocking at the iron doors of tombs or upon the marble
slabs that covered them, and whispering to those within, “My mistress,
old Esther Dudley, bids you to the province-house at midnight;” and
punctually as the clock of the Old South told twelve came the shadows
of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dudleys—all the grandees of a
bygone generation—gliding beneath the portal into the well-known
mansion, where Esther mingled with them as if she likewise were a
shade. Without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is certain
that Mistress Dudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch though
crestfallen old Tories who had lingered in the rebel town during those
days of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed bottle containing
liquor that a royal governor might have smacked his lips over they
quaffed healths to the king and babbled treason to the republic,
feeling as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung
around them. But, draining the last drops of their liquor, they stole
timorously homeward, and answered not again if the rude mob reviled
them in the street.

Yet Esther Dudley’s most frequent and favored guests were the children
of the town. Toward them she was never stern. A kindly and loving
nature hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky
prejudices lavished itself upon these little ones. By bribes of
gingerbread of her own making, stamped with a royal crown, she tempted
their sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the
province-house, and would often beguile them to spend a whole play-day
there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop-petticoat,
greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. And when these
little boys and girls stole forth again from the dark, mysterious
mansion, they went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people
had long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world around them as
if they had gone astray into ancient times and become children of the
past. At home, when their parents asked where they had loitered such a
weary while and with whom they had been at play, the children would
talk of all the departed worthies of the province as far back as
Governor Belcher and the haughty dame of Sir William Phipps. It would
seem as though they had been sitting on the knees of these famous
personages, whom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed
with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats or roguishly pulled the
long curls of their flowing wigs. “But Governor Belcher has been dead
this many a year,” would the mother say to her little boy. “And did you
really see him at the province-house?”—“Oh yes, dear mother—yes!” the
half-dreaming child would answer. “But when old Esther had done
speaking about him, he faded away out of his chair.” Thus, without
affrighting her little guests, she led them by the hand into the
chambers of her own desolate heart and made childhood’s fancy discern
the ghosts that haunted there.

Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating
her mind by a proper reference to present things, Esther Dudley appears
to have grown partially crazed. It was found that she had no right
sense of the progress and true state of the Revolutionary war, but held
a constant faith that the armies of Britain were victorious on every
field and destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town
rejoiced for a battle won by Washington or Gates or Morgan or Greene,
the news, in passing through the door of the province-house as through
the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of
the prowess of Howe, Clinton or Cornwallis. Sooner or later, it was her
invincible belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of
the king. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was
already the case. On one occasion she startled the townspeople by a
brilliant illumination of the province-house with candles at every pane
of glass and a transparency of the king’s initials and a crown of light
in the great balcony-window. The figure of the aged woman in the most
gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades was seen passing from
casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony and
flourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled visage actually
gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal lamp.

“What means this blaze of light? What does old Esther’s joy portend?”
whispered a spectator. “It is frightful to see her gliding about the
chambers and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.”

“It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,” said another.

“Pshaw! It is no such mystery,” observed an old man, after some brief
exercise of memory. “Mistress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the king of
England’s birthday.”

Then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the
blazing transparency of the king’s crown and initials, only that they
pitied the poor old dame who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck
and ruin of the system to which she appertained.

Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound
upward to the cupola, and thence strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and
countryward, watching for a British fleet or for the march of a grand
procession with the king’s banner floating over it. The passengers in
the street below would discern her anxious visage and send up a shout:
“When the golden Indian on the province-house shall shoot his arrow,
and when the cock on the Old South spire shall crow, then look for a
royal governor again!” for this had grown a by-word through the town.
And at last, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley knew—or
perchance she only dreamed—that a royal governor was on the eve of
returning to the province-house to receive the heavy key which Sir
William Howe had committed to her charge. Now, it was the fact that
intelligence bearing some faint analogy to Esther’s version of it was
current among the townspeople. She set the mansion in the best order
that her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished
gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to admire her own
magnificence. As she gazed the gray and withered lady moved her ashen
lips, murmuring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw within the
mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to the household friends of
memory, and bidding them rejoice with her and come forth to meet the
governor. And while absorbed in this communion Mistress Dudley heard
the tramp of many footsteps in the street, and, looking out at the
window, beheld what she construed as the royal governor’s arrival.

“Oh, happy day! Oh, blessed, blessed hour!” she exclaimed. “Let me but
bid him welcome within the portal, and my task in the province-house
and on earth is done.” Then, with tottering feet which age and
tremulous joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand
staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went; so that the
sound was as if a train of special courtiers were thronging from the
dim mirror.

And Esther Dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should be flung
open all the pomp and splendor of bygone times would pace majestically
into the province-house and the gilded tapestry of the past would be
brightened by the sunshine of the present. She turned the key, withdrew
it from the lock, unclosed the door and stepped across the threshold.
Advancing up the court-yard appeared a person of most dignified mien,
with tokens, as Esther interpreted them, of gentle blood, high rank and
long-accustomed authority even in his walk and every gesture. He was
richly dressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did not lessen
the stateliness of his gait. Around and behind him were people in plain
civic dresses and two or three war-worn veterans—evidently officers of
rank—arrayed in a uniform of blue and buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in
the belief that had fastened its roots about her heart, beheld only the
principal personage, and never doubted that this was the
long-looked-for governor to whom she was to surrender up her charge. As
he approached she involuntarily sank down on her knees and tremblingly
held forth the heavy key.

“Receive my trust! Take it quickly,” cried she, “for methinks Death is
striving to snatch away my triumph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven
for this blessed hour! God save King George!”

“That, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a moment,”
replied the unknown guest of the province-house, and, courteously
removing his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. “Yet, in
reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, Heaven forbid that
any here should say you nay. Over the realms which still acknowledge
his sceptre, God save King George!”

Esther Dudley started to her feet, and, hastily clutching back the key,
gazed with fearful earnestness at the stranger, and dimly and
doubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes
half recognized his face. Years ago she had known him among the gentry
of the province, but the ban of the king had fallen upon him. How,
then, came the doomed victim here? Proscribed, excluded from mercy, the
monarch’s most dreaded and hated foe, this New England merchant had
stood triumphantly against a kingdom’s strength, and his foot now trod
upon humbled royalty as he ascended the steps of the province-house,
the people’s chosen governor of Massachusetts.

“Wretch, wretch that I am!” muttered the old woman, with such a
heartbroken expression that the tears gushed from the stranger’s eyes.
“Have I bidden a traitor welcome?—Come, Death! come quickly!”

“Alas, venerable lady!” said Governor Hancock, lending her his support
with all the reverence that a courtier would have shown to a queen,
“your life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you.
You have treasured up all that time has rendered worthless—the
principles, feelings, manners, modes of being and acting which another
generation has flung aside—and you are a symbol of the past. And I and
these around me—we represent a new race of men, living no longer in the
past, scarcely in the present, but projecting our lives forward into
the future. Ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it
is our faith and principle to press onward—onward.—Yet,” continued he,
turning to his attendants, “let us reverence for the last time the
stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering past.”

While the republican governor spoke he had continued to support the
helpless form of Esther Dudley; her weight grew heavier against his
arm, but at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient
woman sank down beside one of the pillars of the portal. The key of the
province-house fell from her grasp and clanked against the stone.

“I have been faithful unto death,” murmured she. “God save the king!”

“She hath done her office,” said Hancock, solemnly. “We will follow her
reverently to the tomb of her ancestors, and then, my fellow-citizens,
onward—onward. We are no longer children of the past.”

As the old loyalist concluded his narrative the enthusiasm which had
been fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes and quivering across his
wrinkled visage faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul
were extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the mantelpiece threw
out a dying gleam, which vanished as speedily as it shot upward,
compelling our eyes to grope for one another’s features by the dim glow
of the hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought, with such a dying
gleam, had the glory of the ancient system vanished from the
province-house when the spirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight.
And now, again, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of ages on
the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the past, crying out far and
wide through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in
the dusky chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In that same
mansion—in that very chamber—what a volume of history had been told off
into hours by the same voice that was now trembling in the air! Many a
governor had heard those midnight accents and longed to exchange his
stately cares for slumber. And, as for mine host and Mr. Bela Tiffany
and the old loyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the past
until we almost fancied that the clock was still striking in a bygone
century. Neither of us would have wondered had a hoop-petticoated
phantom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds
in the hush of midnight as of yore, and motioned us to quench the
fading embers of the fire and leave the historic precincts to herself
and her kindred shades. But, as no such vision was vouchsafed, I
retired unbidden, and would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another
auditor, being resolved not to show my face in the Province House for a
good while hence—if ever.




THE HAUNTED MIND


What a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to
recollect yourself, after starting from midnight slumber! By unclosing
your eyes so suddenly you seem to have surprised the personages of your
dream in full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at
them before they can flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you
find yourself for a single instant wide awake in that realm of
illusions whither sleep has been the passport, and behold its ghostly
inhabitants and wondrous scenery with a perception of their strangeness
such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed. The distant
sound of a church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. You question with
yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your waking ear from
some gray tower that stood within the precincts of your dream. While
yet in suspense another clock flings its heavy clang over the
slumbering town with so full and distinct a sound, and such a long
murmur in the neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed
from the steeple at the nearest corner; You count the strokes—one, two;
and there they cease with a booming sound like the gathering of a third
stroke within the bell.

If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it
would be this. Since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest
enough to take off the pressure of yesterday’s fatigue, while before
you, till the sun comes from “Far Cathay” to brighten your window,
there is almost the space of a summer night—one hour to be spent in
thought with the mind’s eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, and
two in that strangest of enjoyments the forgetfulness alike of joy and
woe. The moment of rising belongs to another period of time, and
appears so distant that the plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty
air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. Yesterday has already
vanished among the shadows of the past; to-morrow has not yet emerged
from the future. You have found an intermediate space where the
business of life does not intrude, where the passing moment lingers and
becomes truly the present; a spot where Father Time, when he thinks
nobody is watching him, sits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh
that he would fall asleep and let mortals live on without growing
older!

Hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest motion
would dissipate the fragments of your slumber. Now, being irrevocably
awake, you peep through the half-drawn window-curtain, and observe that
the glass is ornamented with fanciful devices in frost-work, and that
each pane presents something like a frozen dream. There will be time
enough to trace out the analogy while waiting the summons to breakfast.
Seen through the clear portion of the glass where the silvery
mountain-peaks of the frost-scenery do not ascend, the most conspicuous
object is the steeple, the white spire of which directs you to the
wintry lustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish the figures
on the clock that has just told the hour. Such a frosty sky and the
snow-covered roofs and the long vista of the frozen street, all white,
and the distant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver even
under four blankets and a woollen comforter. Yet look at that one
glorious star! Its beams are distinguishable from all the rest, and
actually cast the shadow of the casement on the bed with a radiance of
deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate an outline.

You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shivering all the
while, but less from bodily chill than the bare idea of a polar
atmosphere. It is too cold even for the thoughts to venture abroad. You
speculate on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in bed like an
oyster in its shell, content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and
drowsily conscious of nothing but delicious warmth such as you now feel
again. Ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in its train. You think
how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow coffins through
the drear winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy that they
neither shrink nor shiver when the snow is drifting over their little
hillocks and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb. That
gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude and throw its complexion
over your wakeful hour.

In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the
lights, the music and revelry, above may cause us to forget their
existence and the buried ones or prisoners whom they hide. But
sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung
wide open. In an hour like this, when the mind has a passive
sensibility, but no active strength—when the imagination is a mirror
imparting vividness to all ideas without the power of selecting or
controlling them—then pray that your griefs may slumber and the
brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. It is too late. A funeral
train comes gliding by your bed in which passion and feeling assume
bodily shape and things of the mind become dim spectres to the eye.
There is your earliest sorrow, a pale young mourner wearing a sister’s
likeness to first love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in
her melancholy features and grace in the flow of her sable robe. Next
appears a shade of ruined loveliness with dust among her golden hair
and her bright garments all faded and defaced, stealing from your
glance with drooping head, as fearful of reproach: she was your fondest
hope, but a delusive one; so call her Disappointment now. A sterner
form succeeds, with a brow of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron
authority; there is no name for him unless it be Fatality—an emblem of
the evil influence that rules your fortunes, a demon to whom you
subjected yourself by some error at the outset of life, and were bound
his slave for ever by once obeying him. See those fiendish lineaments
graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of that
living eye, the pointed finger touching the sore place in your heart!
Do you remember any act of enormous folly at which you would blush even
in the remotest cavern of the earth? Then recognize your shame.

Pass, wretched band! Well for the wakeful one if, riotously miserable,
a fiercer tribe do not surround him—the devils of a guilty heart that
holds its hell within itself. What if Remorse should assume the
features of an injured friend? What if the fiend should come in woman’s
garments with a pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by
your side? What if he should stand at your bed’s foot in the likeness
of a corpse with a bloody stain upon the shroud? Sufficient without
such guilt is this nightmare of the soul, this heavy, heavy sinking of
the spirits, this wintry gloom about the heart, this indistinct horror
of the mind blending itself with the darkness of the chamber.

By a desperate effort you start upright, breaking from a sort of
conscious sleep and gazing wildly round the bed, as if the fiends were
anywhere but in your haunted mind. At the same moment the slumbering
embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which palely illuminates the
whole outer room and flickers through the door of the bedchamber, but
cannot quite dispel its obscurity. Your eye searches for whatever may
remind you of the living world. With eager minuteness you take note of
the table near the fireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its
leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat and the fallen glove. Soon the
flame vanishes, and with it the whole scene is gone, though its image
remains an instant in your mind’s eye when darkness has swallowed the
reality. Throughout the chamber there is the same obscurity as before,
but not the same gloom within your breast.

As your head falls back upon the pillow you think—in a whisper be it
spoken—how pleasant in these night solitudes would be the rise and fall
of a softer breathing than your own, the slight pressure of a tenderer
bosom, the quiet throb of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to
your troubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her
dream. Her influence is over you, though she have no existence but in
that momentary image. You sink down in a flowery spot on the borders of
sleep and wakefulness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures,
all disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading gladsomeness and
beauty. The wheeling of gorgeous squadrons that glitter in the sun is
succeeded by the merriment of children round the door of a schoolhouse
beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees at the corner of a rustic
lane. You stand in the sunny rain of a summer shower, and wander among
the sunny trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the brightest
of all rainbows overarching the unbroken sheet of snow on the American
side of Niagara. Your mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing
radiance round the hearth of a young man and his recent bride and the
twittering flight of birds in spring about their new-made nest. You
feel the merry bounding of a ship before the breeze, and watch the
tuneful feet of rosy girls as they twine their last and merriest dance
in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a
crowded theatre as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene.

With an involuntary start you seize hold on consciousness, and prove
yourself but half awake by running a doubtful parallel between human
life and the hour which has now elapsed. In both you emerge from
mystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but imperfectly
control, and are borne onward to another mystery. Now comes the peal of
the distant clock with fainter and fainter strokes as you plunge
farther into the wilderness of sleep. It is the knell of a temporary
death. Your spirit has departed, and strays like a free citizen among
the people of a shadowy world, beholding strange sights, yet without
wonder or dismay. So calm, perhaps, will be the final change—so
undisturbed, as if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to
its eternal home.




THE VILLAGE UNCLE

AN IMAGINARY RETROSPECT

Come! another log upon the hearth. True, our little parlor is
comfortable, especially here where the old man sits in his old
arm-chair; but on Thanksgiving-night the blaze should dance higher up
the chimney and send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. Toss
on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last relicts of the Mermaid’s
knee-timbers—the bones of your namesake, Susan. Higher yet, and
clearer, be the blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in
the village and the light of our household mirth flash far across the
bay to Nahant.

And now come, Susan; come, my children. Draw your chairs round me, all
of you. There is a dimness over your figures. You sit quivering
indistinctly with each motion of the blaze, which eddies about you like
a flood; so that you all have the look of visions or people that dwell
only in the firelight, and will vanish from existence as completely as
your own shadows when the flame shall sink among the embers.

Hark! let me listen for the swell of the surf; it should be audible a
mile inland on a night like this. Yes; there I catch the sound, but
only an uncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the beach, though
by the almanac it is high tide at eight o’clock, and the billows must
now be dashing within thirty yards of our door. Ah! the old man’s ears
are failing him, and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his mind, else you
would not all be so shadowy in the blaze of his Thanksgiving fire.

How strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders of the present! To
judge by my recollections, it is but a few moments since I sat in
another room. Yonder model of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest
of drawers, nor Susan’s profile and mine in that gilt frame—nothing, in
short, except this same fire, which glimmered on books, papers and a
picture, and half discovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. But
it was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, too, by almost half
a century.

Speak to me, Susan; speak, my beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering
on my sight again, and as it brightens you fade away. Oh, I should be
loth to lose my treasure of past happiness and become once more what I
was then—a hermit in the depths of my own mind, sometimes yawning over
drowsy volumes and anon a scribbler of wearier trash than what I read;
a man who had wandered out of the real world and got into its shadow,
where his troubles, joys and vicissitudes were of such slight stuff
that he hardly knew whether he lived or only dreamed of living. Thank
Heaven I am an old man now and have done with all such vanities!

Still this dimness of mine eyes!—Come nearer, Susan, and stand before
the fullest blaze of the hearth. Now I behold you illuminated from head
to foot, in your clean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray
hair across your forehead and a quiet smile about your mouth, while the
eyes alone are concealed by the red gleam of the fire upon your
spectacles. There! you made me tremble again. When the flame quivered,
my sweet Susan, you quivered with it and grew indistinct, as if melting
into the warm light, that my last glimpse of you might be as visionary
as the first was, full many a year since. Do you remember it? You stood
on the little bridge over the brook that runs across King’s Beach into
the sea. It was twilight, the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by,
the crimson clouds fading in the west and the silver moon brightening
above the hill; and on the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze
like a sea-bird that might skim away at your pleasure. You seemed a
daughter of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean-foam and the
crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dancing on the crests of
the billows that threw up their spray to support your footsteps. As I
drew nearer I fancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought how
pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the quiet coves in the
shadow of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of the purest
sand, and, when our Northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands,
green and lonely, far amid summer seas. And yet it gladdened me, after
all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty young girl sadly
perplexed with the rude behavior of the wind about your petticoats.
Thus I did with Susan as with most other things in my earlier days,
dipping her image into my mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastic
hues before I could see her as she really was.

Now, Susan, for a sober picture of our village. It was a small
collection of dwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea
with the rock-weed and marine plants that it vomits after a storm, or
to have come ashore among the pipe-staves and other lumber which had
been washed from the deck of an Eastern schooner. There was just space
for the narrow and sandy street between the beach in front and a
precipitous hill that lifted its rocky forehead in the rear among a
waste of juniper-bushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. The
village was picturesque in the variety of its edifices, though all were
rude. Here stood a little old hovel, built, perhaps, of driftwood,
there a row of boat-houses, and beyond them a two-story dwelling of
dark and weatherbeaten aspect, the whole intermixed with one or two
snug cottages painted white, a sufficiency of pig-styes and a
shoemaker’s shop. Two grocery stores stood opposite each other in the
centre of the village. These were the places of resort at their idle
hours of a hardy throng of fishermen in red baize shirts, oilcloth
trousers and boots of brown leather covering the whole leg—true
seven-league boots, but fitter to wade the ocean than walk the earth.
The wearers seemed amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt
water to sun themselves; nor would it have been wonderful to see their
lower limbs covered with clusters of little shellfish such as cling to
rocks and old ship-timber over which the tide ebbs and flows. When
their fleet of boats was weather-bound, the butchers raised their
price, and the spit was busier than the frying-pan; for this was a
place of fish, and known as such to all the country round about. The
very air was fishy, being perfumed with dead sculpins, hard-heads and
dogfish strewn plentifully on the beach.—You see, children, the village
is but little changed since your mother and I were young.

How like a dream it was when I bent over a pool of water one pleasant
morning and saw that the ocean had dashed its spray over me and made me
a fisherman! There was the tarpaulin, the baize shirt, the oilcloth
trousers and seven-league boots, and there my own features, but so
reddened with sunburn and sea-breezes that methought I had another
face, and on other shoulders too. The seagulls and the loons and I had
now all one trade: we skimmed the crested waves and sought our prey
beneath them, the man with as keen enjoyment as the birds. Always when
the east grew purple I launched my dory, my little flat-bottomed skiff,
and rowed cross-handed to Point Ledge, the Middle Ledge, or perhaps
beyond Egg Rock; often, too, did I anchor off Dread Ledge—a spot of
peril to ships unpiloted—and sometimes spread an adventurous sail and
tracked across the bay to South Shore, casting my lines in sight of
Scituate. Ere nightfall I hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach,
laden with red rock-cod or the white-bellied ones of deep water,
haddock bearing the black marks of St. Peter’s fingers near the gills,
the long-bearded hake whose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp,
and now and then a mighty halibut with a back broad as my boat. In the
autumn I toled and caught those lovely fish the mackerel. When the wind
was high, when the whale-boats anchored off the Point nodded their
slender masts at each other and the dories pitched and tossed in the
surf, when Nahant Beach was thundering three miles off and the spray
broke a hundred feet in the air round the distant base of Egg Rock,
when the brimful and boisterous sea threatened to tumble over the
street of our village,—then I made a holiday on shore.

Many such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett’s store, attentive to
the yarns of Uncle Parker—uncle to the whole village by right of
seniority, but of Southern blood, with no kindred in New England. His
figure is before me now enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel—a lean old man
of great height, but bent with years and twisted into an uncouth shape
by seven broken limbs; furrowed, also, and weatherworn, as if every
gale for the better part of a century had caught him somewhere on the
sea. He looked like a harbinger of tempest—a shipmate of the Flying
Dutchman. After innumerable voyages aboard men-of-war and merchantmen,
fishing-schooners and chebacco-boats, the old salt had become master of
a hand-cart, which he daily trundled about the vicinity, and sometimes
blew his fish-horn through the streets of Salem. One of Uncle Parker’s
eyes had been blown out with gunpowder, and the other did but glimmer
in its socket. Turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to
tell of cruises against the French and battles with his own shipmates,
when he and an antagonist used to be seated astride of a sailor’s
chest, each fastened down by a spike-nail through his trousers, and
there to fight it out. Sometimes he expatiated on the delicious flavor
of the hagden, a greasy and goose-like fowl which the sailors catch
with hook and line on the Grand Banks. He dwelt with rapture on an
interminable winter at the Isle of Sables, where he had gladdened
himself amid polar snows with the rum and sugar saved from the wreck of
a West India schooner. And wrathfully did he shake his fist as he
related how a party of Cape Cod men had robbed him and his companions
of their lawful spoils and sailed away with every keg of old Jamaica,
leaving him not a drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they were, and of
that wicked brotherhood who are said to tie lanterns to horses’ tails
to mislead the mariner along the dangerous shores of the Cape.

Even now I seem to see the group of fishermen with that old salt in the
midst. One fellow sits on the counter, a second bestrides an
oil-barrel, a third lolls at his length on a parcel of new cod-lines,
and another has planted the tarry seat of his trousers on a heap of
salt which will shortly be sprinkled over a lot of fish. They are a
likely set of men. Some have voyaged to the East Indies or the Pacific,
and most of them have sailed in Marblehead schooners to Newfoundland; a
few have been no farther than the Middle Banks, and one or two have
always fished along the shore; but, as Uncle Parker used to say, they
have all been christened in salt water and know more than men ever
learn in the bushes. A curious figure, by way of contrast, is a
fish-dealer from far up-country listening with eyes wide open to
narratives that might startle Sinbad the Sailor.—Be it well with you,
my brethren! Ye are all gone—some to your graves ashore and others to
the depths of ocean—but my faith is strong that ye are happy; for
whenever I behold your forms, whether in dream or vision, each departed
friend is puffing his long nine, and a mug of the right blackstrap goes
round from lip to lip.

But where was the mermaid in those delightful times? At a certain
window near the centre of the village appeared a pretty display of
gingerbread men and horses, picture-books and ballads, small
fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugarplums and brass thimbles—articles on
which the young fishermen used to expend their money from pure
gallantry. What a picture was Susan behind the counter! A slender
maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all
waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale
except when the sea-breeze flushed it. A few freckles became
beauty-spots beneath her eyelids.—How was it, Susan, that you talked
and acted so carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever was
right in your own eyes, and never once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked
a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till now? And whence had you
that happiest gift of brightening every topic with an unsought gayety,
quiet but irresistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your sunshine
and did not shrink from it? Nature wrought the charm. She made you a
frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible and mirthful girl. Obeying
Nature, you did free things without indelicacy, displayed a maiden’s
thoughts to every eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve.—It
was beautiful to observe how her simple and happy nature mingled itself
with mine. She kindled a domestic fire within my heart and took up her
dwelling there, even in that chill and lonesome cavern hung round with
glittering icicles of fancy. She gave me warmth of feeling, while the
influence of my mind made her contemplative. I taught her to love the
moonlight hour, when the expanse of the encircled bay was smooth as a
great mirror and slept in a transparent shadow, while beyond Nahant the
wind rippled the dim ocean into a dreamy brightness which grew faint
afar off without becoming gloomier. I held her hand and pointed to the
long surf-wave as it rolled calmly on the beach in an unbroken line of
silver; we were silent together till its deep and peaceful murmur had
swept by us. When the Sabbath sun shone down into the recesses of the
cliffs, I led the mermaid thither and told her that those huge gray,
shattered rocks, and her native sea that raged for ever like a storm
against them, and her own slender beauty in so stern a scene, were all
combined into a strain of poetry. But on the Sabbath-eve, when her
mother had gone early to bed and her gentle sister had smiled and left
us, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth with household things around,
it was her turn to make me feel that here was a deeper poetry, and that
this was the dearest hour of all. Thus went on our wooing, till I had
shot wild-fowl enough to feather our bridal-bed, and the daughter of
the sea was mine.

I built a cottage for Susan and myself, and made a gateway in the form
of a Gothic arch by setting up a whale’s jaw-bones. We bought a heifer
with her first calf, and had a little garden on the hillside to supply
us with potatoes and green sauce for our fish. Our parlor, small and
neat, was ornamented with our two profiles in one gilt frame, and with
shells and pretty pebbles on the mantelpiece, selected from the sea’s
treasury of such things on Nahant Beach. On the desk, beneath the
looking-glass, lay the Bible, which I had begun to read aloud at the
book of Genesis, and the singing-book that Susan used for her evening
psalm. Except the almanac, we had no other literature. All that I heard
of books was when an Indian history or tale of shipwreck was sold by a
pedler or wandering subscription-man to some one in the village, and
read through its owner’s nose to a slumbrous auditory.

Like my brother-fishermen, I grew into the belief that all human
erudition was collected in our pedagogue, whose green spectacles and
solemn phiz as he passed to his little schoolhouse amid a waste of sand
might have gained him a diploma from any college in New England. In
truth, I dreaded him.—When our children were old enough to claim his
care, you remember, Susan, how I frowned, though you were pleased at
this learned man’s encomiums on their proficiency. I feared to trust
them even with the alphabet: it was the key to a fatal treasure. But I
loved to lead them by their little hands along the beach and point to
nature in the vast and the minute—the sky, the sea, the green earth,
the pebbles and the shells. Then did I discourse of the mighty works
and coextensive goodness of the Deity with the simple wisdom of a man
whose mind had profited by lonely days upon the deep and his heart by
the strong and pure affections of his evening home. Sometimes my voice
lost itself in a tremulous depth, for I felt his eye upon me as I
spoke. Once, while my wife and all of us were gazing at ourselves in
the mirror left by the tide in a hollow of the sand, I pointed to the
pictured heaven below and bade her observe how religion was strewn
everywhere in our path, since even a casual pool of water recalled the
idea of that home whither we were travelling to rest for ever with our
children. Suddenly your image, Susan, and all the little faces made up
of yours and mine, seemed to fade away and vanish around me, leaving a
pale visage like my own of former days within the frame of a large
looking-glass. Strange illusion!

My life glided on, the past appearing to mingle with the present and
absorb the future, till the whole lies before me at a glance. My
manhood has long been waning with a stanch decay; my earlier
contemporaries, after lives of unbroken health, are all at rest without
having known the weariness of later age; and now with a wrinkled
forehead and thin white hair as badges of my dignity I have become the
patriarch—the uncle—of the village. I love that name: it widens the
circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youthful to my household in
the kindred of affection.

Like Uncle Parker, whose rheumatic bones were dashed against Egg Rock
full forty years ago, I am a spinner of long yarns. Seated on the
gunnel of a dory or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the warmth
is grateful to my limbs, or by my own hearth when a friend or two are
there, I overflow with talk, and yet am never tedious. With a broken
voice I give utterance to much wisdom. Such, Heaven be praised! is the
vigor of my faculties that many a forgotten usage, and traditions
ancient in my youth, and early adventures of myself or others hitherto
effaced by things more recent, acquire new distinctness in my memory. I
remember the happy days when the haddock were more numerous on all the
fishing-grounds than sculpins in the surf—when the deep-water cod swam
close in-shore, and the dogfish, with his poisonous horn, had not
learnt to take the hook. I can number every equinoctial storm in which
the sea has overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the village
and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. I give the history of the great
whale that was landed on Whale Beach, and whose jaws, being now my
gateway, will last for ages after my coffin shall have passed beneath
them. Thence it is an easy digression to the halibut—scarcely smaller
than the whale—which ran out six codlines and hauled my dory to the
mouth of Boston harbor before I could touch him with the gaff.

If melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation, I tell how a
friend of mine was taken out of his boat by an enormous shark, and the
sad, true tale of a young man on the eve of marriage who had been nine
days missing, when his drowned body floated into the very pathway on
Marble-head Neck that had often led him to the dwelling of his bride,
as if the dripping corpse would have come where the mourner was. With
such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil his vows! Another
favorite story is of a crazy maiden who conversed with angels and had
the gift of prophecy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though
she went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhorting to repentance
and foretelling our destruction by flood or earthquake. If the young
men boast their knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, I speak of
pilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave by its taste, and
could have steered blindfold to any port between Boston and Mount
Desert guided only by the rote of the shore—the peculiar sound of the
surf on each island, beach and line of rocks along the coast. Thus do I
talk, and all my auditors grow wise while they deem it pastime.

I recollect no happier portion of my life than this my calm old age. It
is like the sunny and sheltered slope of a valley where late in the
autumn the grass is greener than in August, and intermixed with golden
dandelions that had not been seen till now since the first warmth of
the year. But with me the verdure and the flowers are not frost-bitten
in the midst of winter. A playfulness has revisited my mind—a sympathy
with the young and gay, an unpainful interest in the business of
others, a light and wandering curiosity—arising, perhaps, from the
sense that my toil on earth is ended and the brief hour till bedtime
may be spent in play. Still, I have fancied that there is a depth of
feeling and reflection under this superficial levity peculiar to one
who has lived long and is soon to die.

Show me anything that would make an infant smile, and you shall behold
a gleam of mirth over the hoary ruin of my visage. I can spend a
pleasant hour in the sun watching the sports of the village children on
the edge of the surf. Now they chase the retreating wave far down over
the wet sand; now it steals softly up to kiss their naked feet; now it
comes onward with threatening front, and roars after the laughing crew
as they scamper beyond its reach. Why should not an old man be merry
too, when the great sea is at play with those little children? I
delight, also, to follow in the wake of a pleasure-party of young men
and girls strolling along the beach after an early supper at the Point.
Here, with handkerchiefs at nose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass
entangled in which is a dead skate so oddly accoutred with two legs and
a long tail that they mistake him for a drowned animal. A few steps
farther the ladies scream, and the gentlemen make ready to protect them
against a young shark of the dogfish kind rolling with a lifelike
motion in the tide that has thrown him up. Next they are smit with
wonder at the black shells of a wagon-load of live lobsters packed in
rock-weed for the country-market. And when they reach the fleet of
dories just hauled ashore after the day’s fishing, how do I laugh in my
sleeve, and sometimes roar outright, at the simplicity of these young
folks and the sly humor of the fishermen! In winter, when our village
is thrown into a bustle by the arrival of perhaps a score of country
dealers bargaining for frozen fish to be transported hundreds of miles
and eaten fresh in Vermont or Canada, I am a pleased but idle spectator
in the throng. For I launch my boat no more.

When the shore was solitary, I have found a pleasure that seemed even
to exalt my mind in observing the sports or contentions of two gulls as
they wheeled and hovered about each other with hoarse screams, one
moment flapping on the foam of the wave, and then soaring aloft till
their white bosoms melted into the upper sunshine. In the calm of the
summer sunset I drag my aged limbs with a little ostentation of
activity, because I am so old, up to the rocky brow of the hill. There
I see the white sails of many a vessel outward bound or homeward from
afar, and the black trail of a vapor behind the Eastern steamboat;
there, too, is the sun, going down, but not in gloom, and there the
illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, to remind me of eternity.

But sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing and pleasant talk
that comes between the dusk and the lighted candle by my glowing
fireside. And never, even on the first Thanksgiving-night, when Susan
and I sat alone with our hopes, nor the second, when a stranger had
been sent to gladden us and be the visible image of our affection, did
I feel such joy as now. All that belongs to me are here: Death has
taken none, nor Disease kept them away, nor Strife divided them from
their parents or each other; with neither poverty nor riches to disturb
them, nor the misery of desires beyond their lot, they have kept New
England’s festival round the patriarch’s board. For I am a patriarch.
Here I sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair and immemorial
corner, while the firelight throws an appropriate glory round my
venerable frame.—Susan! My children! Something whispers me that this
happiest hour must be the final one, and that nothing remains but to
bless you all and depart with a treasure of recollected joys to heaven.
Will you meet me there? Alas! your figures grow indistinct, fading into
pictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, while the fire is
glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, and shows the book that I
flung down and the sheet that I left half written some fifty years ago.
I lift my eyes to the looking-glass, and perceive myself alone, unless
those be the mermaid’s features retiring into the depths of the mirror
with a tender and melancholy smile.

Ah! One feels a chilliness—not bodily, but about the heart—and,
moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind him, after these pastimes.
I can imagine precisely how a magician would sit down in gloom and
terror after dismissing the shadows that had personated dead or distant
people and stripping his cavern of the unreal splendor which had
changed it to a palace.

And now for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that, since fancy can
create so bright a dream of happiness, it were better to dream on from
youth to age than to awake and strive doubtfully for something real?
Oh, the slight tissue of a dream can no more preserve us from the stern
reality of misfortune than a robe of cobweb could repel the wintry
blast. Be this the moral, then: In chaste and warm affections, humble
wishes and honest toil for some useful end there is health for the mind
and quiet for the heart, the prospect of a happy life and the fairest
hope of heaven.




THE AMBITIOUS GUEST


One September night a family had gathered round their hearth and piled
it high with the driftwood of mountain-streams, the dry cones of the
pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing
down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the
room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a
sober gladness; the children laughed. The eldest daughter was the image
of Happiness at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting
in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had
found the “herb heart’s-ease” in the bleakest spot of all New England.
This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the
wind was sharp throughout the year and pitilessly cold in the winter,
giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on
the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one,
for a mountain towered above their heads so steep that the stones would
often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all
with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause
before their cottage, rattling the door with a sound of wailing and
lamentation before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened
them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family
were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some
traveller whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which
heralded his approach and wailed as he was entering and went moaning
away from the door.

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse
with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery
through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually
throbbing between Maine on one side and the Green Mountains and the
shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. The stage-coach always drew up
before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer with no companion but his
staff paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness
might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft of
the mountain or reach the first house in the valley. And here the
teamster on his way to Portland market would put up for the night, and,
if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and steal a
kiss from the mountain-maid at parting. It was one of those primitive
taverns where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets
with a homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard,
therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family
rose up, grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one
who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.

The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the
melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild
and bleak road at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he
saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring
forward to meet them all, from the old woman who wiped a chair with her
apron to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and
smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the
eldest daughter.

“Ah! this fire is the right thing,” cried he, “especially when there is
such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed, for the Notch is
just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible
blast in my face all the way from Bartlett.”

“Then you are going toward Vermont?” said the master of the house as he
helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders.

“Yes, to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. “I meant to
have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night, but a pedestrian lingers along
such a road as this. It is no matter; for when I saw this good fire and
all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for
me and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you and make
myself at home.”

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when
something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the
steep side of the mountain as with long and rapid strides, and taking
such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice.
The family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their
guest held his by instinct.

“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we should forget
him,” said the landlord, recovering himself. “He sometimes nods his
head and threatens to come down, but we are old neighbors, and agree
together pretty well, upon the whole. Besides, we have a sure place of
refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest.”

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear’s
meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have placed himself on a
footing of kindness with the whole family; so that they talked as
freely together as if he belonged to their mountain-brood. He was of a
proud yet gentle spirit, haughty and reserved among the rich and great,
but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door and be like
a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside. In the household of the
Notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading
intelligence of New England, and a poetry of native growth which they
had gathered when they little thought of it from the mountain-peaks and
chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous
abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been
a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept
himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions.
The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness
of unity among themselves and separation from the world at large which
in every domestic circle should still keep a holy place where no
stranger may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled
the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple
mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free
confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a
common fate a closer tie than that of birth?

The secret of the young man’s character was a high and abstracted
ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not
to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to
hope, and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty that,
obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway,
though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity
should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would
trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories
faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his
tomb with none to recognize him.

“As yet,” cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye flashing
with enthusiasm—“as yet I have done nothing. Were I to vanish from the
earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you—that a nameless
youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his
heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise,
and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, ‘Who was he? Whither did
the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny.
Then let Death come: I shall have built my monument.”

There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid
abstracted reverie which enabled the family to understand this young
man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick
sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had
been betrayed.

“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand and
laughing himself. “You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to
freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington only that people
might spy at me from the country roundabout. And truly that would be a
noble pedestal for a man’s statue.”

“It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, blushing,
“and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks about us.”

“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, “there is
something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been
turned that way, I might have felt just the same.—It is strange, wife,
how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain
never to come to pass.”

“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “Is the man thinking what he
will do when he is a widower?”

“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. “When
I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But I was wishing
we had a good farm in Bartlett or Bethlehem or Littleton, or some other
township round the White Mountains, but not where they could tumble on
our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called
squire and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest
man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown
quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I
might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. A
slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one, with just my
name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know
that I lived an honest man and died a Christian.”

“There, now!” exclaimed the stranger; “it is our nature to desire a
monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious
memory in the universal heart of man.”

“We’re in a strange way to-night,” said the wife, with tears in her
eyes. “They say it’s a sign of something when folks’ minds go
a-wandering so. Hark to the children!”

They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in
another room, but with an open door between; so that they could be
heard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have
caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each
other in wild wishes and childish projects of what they would do when
they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of
addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother.

“I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he: “I want you and father
and grandma’m, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away
and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume.”

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leaving a warm bed
and dragging them from a cheerful fire to visit the basin of the
Flume—a brook which tumbles over the precipice deep within the Notch.

The boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the road and
stopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or three
men who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song
which resounded in broken notes between the cliffs, while the singers
hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the
night.

“Father,” said the girl, “they are calling you by name.”

But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was
unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to
patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door, and, the
lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the Notch, still
singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily
from the heart of the mountain.

“There, mother!” cried the boy, again; “they’d have given us a ride to
the Flume.”

Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy for a
night-ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over the
daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely into the fire and drew a breath
that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little
struggle to repress it. Then, starting and blushing, she looked quickly
around the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The
stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

“Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile; “only I felt lonesome
just then.”

“Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people’s
hearts,” said he, half seriously. “Shall I tell the secrets of yours?
For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth and
complains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I put these
feelings into words?”

“They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they could be put
into words,” replied the mountain-nymph, laughing, but avoiding his
eye.

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their
hearts so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be
matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and the
proud, contemplative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by
simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and he was watching
the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of a
maiden’s nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier
sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strain
of the spirits of the blast who in old Indian times had their dwelling
among these mountains and made their heights and recesses a sacred
region. There was a wail along the road as if a funeral were passing.
To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine-branches on their fire
till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once
again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about
them fondly and caressed them all. There were the little faces of the
children peeping from their bed apart, and here the father’s frame of
strength, the mother’s subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth,
the budding girl and the good old grandam, still knitting in the
warmest place.

The aged woman looked up from her task, and with fingers ever busy was
the next to speak.

“Old folks have their notions,” said she, “as well as young ones.
You’ve been wishing and planning and letting your heads run on one
thing and another till you’ve set my mind a-wandering too. Now, what
should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before
she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I
tell you.”

“What is it, mother?” cried the husband and wife at once.

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer
round the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes
some years before—a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and
everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-day. But
this evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. It used
to be said in her younger days that if anything were amiss with a
corpse—if only the ruff were not smooth or the cap did not set
right—the corpse, in the coffin and beneath the clods, would strive to
put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her
nervous.

“Don’t talk so, grandmother,” said the girl, shuddering.

“Now,” continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling
strangely at her own folly, “I want one of you, my children, when your
mother is dressed and in the coffin,—I want one of you to hold a
looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at
myself and see whether all’s right?”

“Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,” murmured the
stranger-youth. “I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking
and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the
ocean, that wide and nameless sepulchre?”

For a moment the old woman’s ghastly conception so engrossed the minds
of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar
of a blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group
were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the
foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound
were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild
glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, without utterance or
power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their
lips:

“The slide! The slide!”

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable
horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage and
sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot, where, in contemplation
of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had
quitted their security and fled right into the pathway of destruction.
Down came the whole side of the mountain in a cataract of ruin. Just
before it reached the house the stream broke into two branches,
shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity,
blocked up the road and annihilated everything in its dreadful course.
Long ere the thunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the
mountains the mortal agony had been endured and the victims were at
peace. Their bodies were never found.

The next morning the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage
chimney up the mountain-side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on
the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants
had but gone forth to view the devastation of the slide and would
shortly return to thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had
left separate tokens by which those who had known the family were made
to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has
been told far and wide, and will for ever be a legend of these
mountains. Poets have sung their fate.

There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had
been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the
catastrophe of all its inmates; others denied that there were
sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the high-souled youth
with his dream of earthly immortality! His name and person utterly
unknown, his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be
solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt,—whose was the
agony of that death-moment?




THE SISTER-YEARS


Last night, between eleven and twelve o’clock, when the Old Year was
leaving her final footprints on the borders of Time’s empire, she found
herself in possession of a few spare moments, and sat down—of all
places in the world—on the steps of our new city-hall. The wintry
moonlight showed that she looked weary of body and sad of heart, like
many another wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been exposed to
much foul weather and rough usage, were in very ill condition, and, as
the hurry of her journey had never before allowed her to take an
instant’s rest, her shoes were so worn as to be scarcely worth the
mending. But after trudging only a little distance farther this poor
Old Year was destined to enjoy a long, long sleep. I forgot to mention
that when she seated herself on the steps she deposited by her side a
very capacious bandbox in which, as is the custom among travellers of
her sex, she carried a great deal of valuable property. Besides this
luggage, there was a folio book under her arm very much resembling the
annual volume of a newspaper. Placing this volume across her knees and
resting her elbows upon it, with her forehead in her hands, the weary,
bedraggled, world-worn Old Year heaved a heavy sigh and appeared to be
taking no very pleasant retrospect of her past existence.

While she thus awaited the midnight knell that was to summon her to the
innumerable sisterhood of departed years, there came a young maiden
treading lightsomely on tip-toe along the street from the direction of
the railroad dépôt. She was evidently a stranger, and perhaps had come
to town by the evening train of cars. There was a smiling cheerfulness
in this fair maiden’s face which bespoke her fully confident of a kind
reception from the multitude of people with whom she was soon to form
acquaintance. Her dress was rather too airy for the season, and was
bedizened with fluttering ribbons and other vanities which were likely
soon to be rent away by the fierce storms or to fade in the hot
sunshine amid which she was to pursue her changeful course. But still
she was a wonderfully pleasant-looking figure, and had so much promise
and such an indescribable hopefulness in her aspect that hardly anybody
could meet her without anticipating some very desirable thing—the
consummation of some long-sought good—from her kind offices. A few
dismal characters there may be here and there about the world who have
so often been trifled with by young maidens as promising as she that
they have now ceased to pin any faith upon the skirts of the New Year.
But, for my own part, I have great faith in her, and, should I live to
see fifty more such, still from each of those successive sisters I
shall reckon upon receiving something that will be worth living for.

The New Year—for this young maiden was no less a personage—carried all
her goods and chattels in a basket of no great size or weight, which
hung upon her arm. She greeted the disconsolate Old Year with great
affection, and sat down beside her on the steps of the city-hall,
waiting for the signal to begin her rambles through the world. The two
were own sisters, being both granddaughters of Time, and, though one
looked so much older than the other, it was rather owing to hardships
and trouble than to age, since there was but a twelvemonth’s difference
between them.

“Well, my dear sister,” said the New Year, after the first salutations,
“you look almost tired to death. What have you been about during your
sojourn in this part of infinite space?”

“Oh, I have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles,” answered
the Old Year, in a heavy tone. “There is nothing that would amuse you,
and you will soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters from your
own personal experience. It is but tiresome reading.”

Nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio and glanced at
them by the light of the moon, feeling an irresistible spell of
interest in her own biography, although its incidents were remembered
without pleasure. The volume, though she termed it her book of
chronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less than the Salem _Gazette_
for 1838; in the accuracy of which journal this sagacious Old Year had
so much confidence that she deemed it needless to record her history
with her own pen.

“What have you been doing in the political way?” asked the New Year.

“Why, my course here in the United States,” said the Old Year—“though
perhaps I ought to blush at the confession—my political course, I must
acknowledge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes inclining toward
the Whigs, then causing the administration party to shout for triumph,
and now again uplifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of the
opposition; so that historians will hardly know what to make of me in
this respect. But the Loco-Focos—”

“I do not like these party nicknames,” interrupted her sister, who
seemed remarkably touchy about some points. “Perhaps we shall part in
better humor if we avoid any political discussion.”

“With all my heart,” replied the Old Year, who had already been
tormented half to death with squabbles of this kind. “I care not if the
name of Whig or Tory, with their interminable brawls about banks and
the sub-treasury, abolition, Texas, the Florida war, and a million of
other topics which you will learn soon enough for your own comfort,—I
care not, I say, if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my ears
again. Yet they have occupied so large a share of my attention that I
scarcely know what else to tell you. There has, indeed been a curious
sort of war on the Canada border, where blood has streamed in the names
of liberty and patriotism; but it must remain for some future, perhaps
far-distant, year to tell whether or no those holy names have been
rightfully invoked. Nothing so much depresses me in my view of mortal
affairs as to see high energies wasted and human life and happiness
thrown away for ends that appear oftentimes unwise, and still oftener
remain unaccomplished. But the wisest people and the best keep a
steadfast faith that the progress of mankind is onward and upward, and
that the toil and anguish of the path serve to wear away the
imperfections of the immortal pilgrim, and will be felt no more when
they have done their office.”

“Perhaps,” cried the hopeful New Year—“perhaps I shall see that happy
day.”

“I doubt whether it be so close at hand,” answered the Old Year,
gravely smiling. “You will soon grow weary of looking for that blessed
consummation, and will turn for amusement—as has frequently been my own
practice—to the affairs of some sober little city like this of Salem.
Here we sit on the steps of the new city-hall which has been completed
under my administration, and it would make you laugh to see how the
game of politics of which the Capitol at Washington is the great
chess-board is here played in miniature. Burning Ambition finds its
fuel here; here patriotism speaks boldly in the people’s behalf and
virtuous economy demands retrenchment in the emoluments of a
lamplighter; here the aldermen range their senatorial dignity around
the mayor’s chair of state and the common council feel that they have
liberty in charge. In short, human weakness and strength, passion and
policy, man’s tendencies, his aims and modes of pursuing them, his
individual character and his character in the mass, may be studied
almost as well here as on the theatre of nations, and with this great
advantage—that, be the lesson ever so disastrous, its Liliputian scope
still makes the beholder smile.”

“Have you done much for the improvement of the city?” asked the New
Year. “Judging from what little I have seen, it appears to be ancient
and time-worn.”

“I have opened the railroad,” said the elder Year, “and half a dozen
times a day you will hear the bell which once summoned the monks of a
Spanish convent to their devotions announcing the arrival or departure
of the cars. Old Salem now wears a much livelier expression than when I
first beheld her. Strangers rumble down from Boston by hundreds at a
time. New faces throng in Essex street. Railroad-hacks and omnibuses
rattle over the pavements. There is a perceptible increase of
oyster-shops and other establishments for the accommodation of a
transitory diurnal multitude. But a more important change awaits the
venerable town. An immense accumulation of musty prejudices will be
carried off by the free circulation of society. A peculiarity of
character of which the inhabitants themselves are hardly sensible will
be rubbed down and worn away by the attrition of foreign substances.
Much of the result will be good; there will likewise be a few things
not so good. Whether for better or worse, there will be a probable
diminution of the moral influence of wealth, and the sway of an
aristocratic class which from an era far beyond my memory has held
firmer dominion here than in any other New England town.”

The Old Year, having talked away nearly all of her little remaining
breath, now closed her book of chronicles, and was about to take her
departure, but her sister detained her a while longer by inquiring the
contents of the huge bandbox which she was so painfully lugging along
with her.

“These are merely a few trifles,” replied the Old Year, “which I have
picked up in my rambles and am going to deposit in the receptacle of
things past and forgotten. We sisterhood of years never carry anything
really valuable out of the world with us. Here are patterns of most of
the fashions which I brought into vogue, and which have already lived
out their allotted term; you will supply their place with others
equally ephemeral. Here, put up in little china pots, like rouge, is a
considerable lot of beautiful women’s bloom which the disconsolate fair
ones owe me a bitter grudge for stealing. I have likewise a quantity of
men’s dark hair, instead of which I have left gray locks or none at
all. The tears of widows and other afflicted mortals who have received
comfort during the last twelve months are preserved in some dozens of
essence-bottles well corked and sealed. I have several bundles of
love-letters eloquently breathing an eternity of burning passion which
grew cold and perished almost before the ink was dry. Moreover, here is
an assortment of many thousand broken promises and other broken ware,
all very light and packed into little space. The heaviest articles in
my possession are a large parcel of disappointed hopes which a little
while ago were buoyant enough to have inflated Mr. Lauriat’s balloon.”

“I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,” remarked the New Year.
“They are a sweet-smelling flower—a species of rose.”

“They soon lose their perfume,” replied the sombre Old Year. “What else
have you brought to insure a welcome from the discontented race of
mortals?”

“Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,” said her sister, with
a smile, “save a few new _Annuals_ and almanacs, and some New Year’s
gifts for the children. But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, and
mean to do all I can for their improvement and happiness.”

“It is a good resolution,” rejoined the Old Year. “And, by the way, I
have a plentiful assortment of good resolutions which have now grown so
stale and musty that I am ashamed to carry them any farther. Only for
fear that the city authorities would send Constable Mansfield with a
warrant after me, I should toss them into the street at once. Many
other matters go to make up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole
lot would not fetch a single bid even at an auction of worn-out
furniture; and as they are worth nothing either to you or anybody else,
I need not trouble you with a longer catalogue.”

“And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in my travels?” asked
the New Year.

“Most certainly, and well if you have no heavier load to bear,” replied
the other. “And now, my dear sister, I must bid you farewell, earnestly
advising and exhorting you to expect no gratitude nor good-will from
this peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, ill-intending and
worse-behaving world. However warmly its inhabitants may seem to
welcome you, yet, do what you may and lavish on them what means of
happiness you please, they will still be complaining, still craving
what it is not in your power to give, still looking forward to some
other year for the accomplishment of projects which ought never to have
been formed, and which, if successful, would only provide new occasions
of discontent. If these ridiculous people ever see anything tolerable
in you, it will be after you are gone for ever.”

“But I,” cried the fresh-hearted New Year—“I shall try to leave men
wiser than I find them. I will offer them freely whatever good gifts
Providence permits me to distribute, and will tell them to be thankful
for what they have and humbly hopeful for more; and surely, if they are
not absolute fools, they will condescend to be happy, and will allow me
to be a happy year. For my happiness must depend on them.”

“Alas for you, then, my poor sister!” said the Old Year, sighing, as
she uplifted her burden. “We grandchildren of Time are born to trouble.
Happiness, they say, dwells in the mansions of eternity, but we can
only lead mortals thither step by step with reluctant murmurings, and
ourselves must perish on the threshold. But hark! my task is done.”

The clock in the tall steeple of Dr. Emerson’s church struck twelve;
there was a response from Dr. Flint’s, in the opposite quarter of the
city; and while the strokes were yet dropping into the air the Old Year
either flitted or faded away, and not the wisdom and might of angels,
to say nothing of the remorseful yearnings of the millions who had used
her ill, could have prevailed with that departed year to return one
step. But she, in the company of Time and all her kindred, must
hereafter hold a reckoning with mankind. So shall it be, likewise, with
the maidenly New Year, who, as the clock ceased to strike, arose from
the steps of the city-hall and set out rather timorously on her earthly
course.

“A happy New Year!” cried a watchman, eying her figure very
questionably, but without the least suspicion that he was addressing
the New Year in person.

“Thank you kindly,” said the New Year; and she gave the watchman one of
the roses of hope from her basket. “May this flower keep a sweet smell
long after I have bidden you good-bye!”

Then she stepped on more briskly through the silent streets, and such
as were awake at the moment heard her footfall and said, “The New Year
is come!” Wherever there was a knot of midnight roisterers, they
quaffed her health. She sighed, however, to perceive that the air was
tainted—as the atmosphere of this world must continually be—with the
dying breaths of mortals who had lingered just long enough for her to
bury them. But there were millions left alive to rejoice at her coming,
and so she pursued her way with confidence, strewing emblematic flowers
on the doorstep of almost every dwelling, which some persons will
gather up and wear in their bosoms, and others will trample under foot.
The carrier-boy can only say further that early this morning she filled
his basket with New Year’s addresses, assuring him that the whole city,
with our new mayor and the aldermen and common council at its head,
would make a general rush to secure copies. Kind patrons, will not you
redeem the pledge of the New Year?




SNOWFLAKES


There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning, and through the
partially-frosted window-panes I love to watch the gradual beginning of
the storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely through the air
and hover downward with uncertain flight, now almost alighting on the
earth, now whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere.
These are not the big flakes heavy with moisture which melt as they
touch the ground and are portentous of a soaking rain. It is to be in
good earnest a wintry storm. The two or three people visible on the
sidewalks have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, frosty fortitude,
which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless and
blustering day. By nightfall—or, at least, before the sun sheds another
glimmering smile upon us—the street and our little garden will be
heaped with mountain snowdrifts. The soil, already frozen for weeks
past, is prepared to sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it, and
to a Northern eye the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and
acquire a beauty of its own when Mother Earth, like her children, shall
have put on the fleecy garb of her winter’s wear. The cloud-spirits are
slowly weaving her white mantle. As yet, indeed, there is barely a rime
like hoar-frost over the brown surface of the street; the withered
green of the grass-plat is still discernible, and the slated roofs of
the houses do but begin to look gray instead of black. All the snow
that has yet fallen within the circumference of my view, were it heaped
up together, would hardly equal the hillock of a grave. Thus gradually
by silent and stealthy influences are great changes wrought. These
little snow-particles which the storm-spirit flings by handfuls through
the air will bury the great Earth under their accumulated mass, nor
permit her to behold her sister Sky again for dreary months. We
likewise shall lose sight of our mother’s familiar visage, and must
content ourselves with looking heavenward the oftener.

Now, leaving the Storm to do his appointed office, let us sit down, pen
in hand, by our fireside. Gloomy as it may seem, there is an influence
productive of cheerfulness and favorable to imaginative thought in the
atmosphere of a snowy day. The native of a Southern clime may woo the
Muse beneath the heavy shade of summer foliage reclining on banks of
turf, while the sound of singing-birds and warbling rivulets chimes in
with the music of his soul. In our brief summer I do not think, but
only exist in the vague enjoyment of a dream. My hour of inspiration—if
that hour ever comes—is when the green log hisses upon the hearth, and
the bright flame, brighter for the gloom of the chamber, rustles high
up the chimney, and the coals drop tinkling down among the growing
heaps of ashes. When the casement rattles in the gust and the
snowflakes or the sleety raindrops pelt hard against the window-panes,
then I spread out my sheet of paper with the certainty that thoughts
and fancies will gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight or like
violets in May, perhaps to fade as soon. However transitory their glow,
they at least shine amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the
outward sky fling through the room. Blessed, therefore, and reverently
welcomed by me, her true-born son, be New England’s winter, which makes
us one and all the nurslings of the storm and sings a familiar lullaby
even in the wildest shriek of the December blast. Now look we forth
again and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done.

Slow and sure! He has the day—perchance the week—before him, and may
take his own time to accomplish Nature’s burial in snow. A smooth
mantle is scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-plat, and the dry
stalks of annuals still thrust themselves through the white surface in
all parts of the garden. The leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a
shallow snowdrift, looking, poor things! as disconsolate as if they
possessed a human consciousness of the dreary scene. This is a sad time
for the shrubs that do not perish with the summer. They neither live
nor die; what they retain of life seems but the chilling sense of
death. Very sad are the flower-shrubs in midwinter. The roofs of the
houses are now all white, save where the eddying wind has kept them
bare at the bleak corners. To discern the real intensity of the storm,
we must fix upon some distant object—as yonder spire—and observe how
the riotous gust fights with the descending snow throughout the
intervening space. Sometimes the entire prospect is obscured; then,
again, we have a distinct but transient glimpse of the tall steeple,
like a giant’s ghost; and now the dense wreaths sweep between, as if
demons were flinging snowdrifts at each other in mid-air. Look next
into the street, where we have an amusing parallel to the combat of
those fancied demons in the upper regions. It is a snow-battle of
schoolboys. What a pretty satire on war and military glory might be
written in the form of a child’s story by describing the snow-ball
fights of two rival schools, the alternate defeats and victories of
each, and the final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither! What
pitched battles worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains! What storming
of fortresses built all of massive snow-blocks! What feats of
individual prowess and embodied onsets of martial enthusiasm! And when
some well-contested and decisive victory had put a period to the war,
both armies should unite to build a lofty monument of snow upon the
battlefield and crown it with the victor’s statue hewn of the same
frozen marble. In a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would
observe a shapeless mound upon the level common, and, unmindful of the
famous victory, would ask, “How came it there? Who reared it? And what
means it?” The shattered pedestal of many a battle-monument has
provoked these questions when none could answer.

Turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there, lending our ears to
the wind till perhaps it shall seem like an articulate voice and
dictate wild and airy matter for the pen. Would it might inspire me to
sketch out the personification of a New England winter! And that idea,
if I can seize the snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy,
shall be the theme of the next page.

How does Winter herald his approach? By the shrieking blast of latter
autumn which is Nature’s cry of lamentation as the destroyer rushes
among the shivering groves where she has lingered and scatters the sear
leaves upon the tempest. When that cry is heard, the people wrap
themselves in cloaks and shake their heads disconsolately, saying,
“Winter is at hand.” Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and
diligently in the forest; then the coal-merchants rejoice because each
shriek of Nature in her agony adds something to the price of coal per
ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance through the
atmosphere. A few days more, and at eventide the children look out of
the window and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the
air. It is stern Winter’s vesture. They crowd around the hearth and
cling to their mother’s gown or press between their father’s knees,
affrighted by the hollow roaring voice that bellows adown the wide flue
of the chimney.

It is the voice of Winter; and when parents and children hear it, they
shudder and exclaim, “Winter is come. Cold Winter has begun his reign
already.” Now throughout New England each hearth becomes an altar
sending up the smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity
who tyrannizes over forest, country-side and town. Wrapped in his white
mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed
snowdrift, he travels over the land in the midst of the northern blast,
and woe to the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path! There he
lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on the spot where Winter
overtook him. On strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad
lakes, which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary empire is
established; all around stretches the desolation of the pole. Yet not
ungrateful be his New England children (for Winter is our sire, though
a stern and rough one)—not ungrateful even for the severities which
have nourished our unyielding strength of character. And let us thank
him, too, for the sleigh-rides cheered by the music of merry bells; for
the crackling and rustling hearth when the ruddy firelight gleams on
hardy manhood and the blooming cheek of woman: for all the
home-enjoyments and the kindred virtues which flourish in a frozen
soil. Not that we grieve when, after some seven months of storm and
bitter frost, Spring, in the guise of a flower-crowned virgin, is seen
driving away the hoary despot, pelting him with violets by the handful
and strewing green grass on the path behind him. Often ere he will give
up his empire old Winter rushes fiercely buck and hurls a snowdrift at
the shrinking form of Spring, yet step by step he is compelled to
retreat northward, and spends the summer month within the Arctic
circle.

Such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, have made the
winter’s day pass pleasantly. Meanwhile, the storm has raged without
abatement, and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing denser
volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. On the window-sill there is a
layer of snow reaching halfway up the lowest pane of glass. The garden
is one unbroken bed. Along the street are two or three spots of
uncovered earth where the gust has whirled away the snow, heaping it
elsewhere to the fence-tops or piling huge banks against the doors of
houses. A solitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep across
a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, while his cloak is swollen
with the wind. And now the jingling of bells—a sluggish sound
responsive to the horse’s toilsome progress through the unbroken
drifts—announces the passage of a sleigh with a boy clinging behind and
ducking his head to escape detection by the driver. Next comes a sledge
laden with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper whom winter has
surprised at a cold hearth. But what dismal equipage now struggles
along the uneven street? A sable hearse bestrewn with snow is bearing a
dead man through the storm to his frozen bed. Oh how dreary is a burial
in winter, when the bosom of Mother Earth has no warmth for her poor
child!

Evening—the early eve of December—begins to spread its deepening veil
over the comfortless scene. The firelight gradually brightens and
throws my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the chamber,
but still the storm rages and rattles against the windows. Alas! I
shiver and think it time to be disconsolate, but, taking a farewell
glance at dead Nature in her shroud, I perceive a flock of snowbirds
skimming lightsomely through the tempest and flitting from drift to
drift as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime of summer.
Whence come they? Where do they build their nests and seek their food?
Why, having airy wings, do they not follow summer around the earth,
instead of making themselves the playmates of the storm and fluttering
on the dreary verge of the winter’s eve? I know not whence they come,
nor why; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of
snow-birds.




THE SEVEN VAGABONDS


Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year, I
came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three
directions. Straight before me the main road extended its dusty length
to Boston; on the left a branch went toward the sea, and would have
lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles, while by the
right-hand path I might have gone over hills and lakes to Canada,
visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. On a level spot of
grass at the foot of the guide-post appeared an object which, though
locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of Gulliver’s portable
mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge covered wagon—or, more
properly, a small house on wheels—with a door on one side and a window
shaded by green blinds on the other. Two horses munching provender out
of the baskets which muzzled them were fastened near the vehicle. A
delectable sound of music proceeded from the interior, and I
immediately conjectured that this was some itinerant show halting at
the confluence of the roads to intercept such idle travellers as
myself. A shower had long been climbing up the western sky, and now
hung so blackly over my onward path that it was a point of wisdom to
seek shelter here.

“Halloo! Who stands guard here? Is the doorkeeper asleep?” cried I,
approaching a ladder of two or three steps which was let down from the
wagon.

The music ceased at my summons, and there appeared at the door, not the
sort of figure that I had mentally assigned to the wandering showman,
but a most respectable old personage whom I was sorry to have addressed
in so free a style. He wore a snuff-colored coat and small-clothes,
with white top-boots, and exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and
manner which may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters, and sometimes
in deacons, selectmen or other potentates of that kind. A small piece
of silver was my passport within his premises, where I found only one
other person, hereafter to be described.

“This is a dull day for business,” said the old gentleman as he ushered
me in; “but I merely tarry here to refresh the cattle, being bound for
the camp-meeting at Stamford.”

Perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still peregrinating New
England, and may enable the reader to test the accuracy of my
description. The spectacle—for I will not use the unworthy term of
“puppet-show”—consisted of a multitude of little people assembled on a
miniature stage. Among them were artisans of every kind in the
attitudes of their toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen
standing ready for the dance; a company of foot-soldiers formed a line
across the stage, looking stern, grim and terrible enough to make it a
pleasant consideration that they were but three inches high; and
conspicuous above the whole was seen a Merry Andrew in the pointed cap
and motley coat of his profession. All the inhabitants of this mimic
world were motionless, like the figures in a picture, or like that
people who one moment were alive in the midst of their business and
delights and the next were transformed to statues, preserving an
eternal semblance of labor that was ended and pleasure that could be
felt no more. Anon, however, the old gentleman turned the handle of a
barrel-organ, the first note of which produced a most enlivening effect
upon the figures and awoke them all to their proper occupations and
amusements. By the selfsame impulse the tailor plied his needle, the
blacksmith’s hammer descended upon the anvil and the dancers whirled
away on feathery tiptoes; the company of soldiers broke into platoons,
retreated from the stage, and were succeeded by a troop of horse, who
came prancing onward with such a sound of trumpets and trampling of
hoofs as might have startled Don Quixote himself; while an old toper of
inveterate ill-habits uplifted his black bottle and took off a hearty
swig. Meantime, the Merry Andrew began to caper and turn somersets,
shaking his sides, nodding his head and winking his eyes in as lifelike
a manner as if he were ridiculing the nonsense of all human affairs and
making fun of the whole multitude beneath him. At length the old
magician (for I compared the showman to Prospero entertaining his
guests with a masque of shadows) paused that I might give utterance to
my wonder.

“What an admirable piece of work is this!” exclaimed I, lifting up my
hands in astonishment.

Indeed, I liked the spectacle and was tickled with the old man’s
gravity as he presided at it, for I had none of that foolish wisdom
which reproves every occupation that is not useful in this world of
vanities. If there be a faculty which I possess more perfectly than
most men, it is that of throwing myself mentally into situations
foreign to my own and detecting with a cheerful eye the desirable
circumstances of each. I could have envied the life of this gray-headed
showman, spent as it had been in a course of safe and pleasurable
adventure in driving his huge vehicle sometimes through the sands of
Cape Cod and sometimes over the rough forest-roads of the north and
east, and halting now on the green before a village meeting-house and
now in a paved square of the metropolis. How often must his heart have
been gladdened by the delight of children as they viewed these animated
figures, or his pride indulged by haranguing learnedly to grown men on
the mechanical powers which produced such wonderful effects, or his
gallantry brought into play—for this is an attribute which such grave
men do not lack—by the visits of pretty maidens! And then with how
fresh a feeling must he return at intervals to his own peculiar home!
“I would I were assured of as happy a life as his,” thought I.

Though the showman’s wagon might have accommodated fifteen or twenty
spectators, it now contained only himself and me and a third person, at
whom I threw a glance on entering. He was a neat and trim young man of
two or three and twenty; his drab hat and green frock-coat with velvet
collar were smart, though no longer new, while a pair of green
spectacles that seemed needless to his brisk little eyes gave him
something of a scholar-like and literary air. After allowing me a
sufficient time to inspect the puppets, he advanced with a bow and drew
my attention to some books in a corner of the wagon. These he forthwith
began to extol with an amazing volubility of well-sounding words and an
ingenuity of praise that won him my heart as being myself one of the
most merciful of critics. Indeed, his stock required some considerable
powers of commendation in the salesman. There were several ancient
friends of mine—the novels of those happy days when my affections
wavered between the _Scottish Chiefs_ and _Thomas Thumb_—besides a few
of later date whose merits had not been acknowledged by the public. I
was glad to find that dear little venerable volume the _New England
Primer_, looking as antique as ever, though in its thousandth new
edition; a bundle of superannuated gilt picture-books made such a child
of me that, partly for the glittering covers and partly for the
fairy-tales within, I bought the whole, and an assortment of ballads
and popular theatrical songs drew largely on my purse. To balance these
expenditures, I meddled neither with sermons nor science nor morality,
though volumes of each were there, nor with a _Life of Franklin_ in the
coarsest of paper, but so showily bound that it was emblematical of the
doctor himself in the court-dress which he refused to wear at Paris,
nor with Webster’s spelling-book, nor some of Byron’s minor poems, nor
half a dozen little Testaments at twenty-five cents each. Thus far the
collection might have been swept from some great bookstore or picked up
at an evening auction-room, but there was one small blue-covered
pamphlet which the pedler handed me with so peculiar an air that I
purchased it immediately at his own price; and then for the first time
the thought struck me that I had spoken face to face with the veritable
author of a printed book.

The literary-man now evinced a great kindness for me, and I ventured to
inquire which way he was travelling.

“Oh,” said he, “I keep company with this old gentlemen here, and we are
moving now toward the camp-meeting at Stamford.”

He then explained to me that for the present season he had rented a
corner of the wagon as a book-store, which, as he wittily observed, was
a true circulating library, since there were few parts of the country
where it had not gone its rounds. I approved of the plan exceedingly,
and began to sum up within my mind the many uncommon felicities in the
life of a book-pedler, especially when his character resembled that of
the individual before me. At a high rate was to be reckoned the daily
and hourly enjoyment of such interviews as the present, in which he
seized upon the admiration of a passing stranger and made him aware
that a man of literary taste, and even of literary achievement, was
travelling the country in a showman’s wagon. A more valuable yet not
infrequent triumph might be won in his conversations with some elderly
clergyman long vegetating in a rocky, woody, watery back-settlement of
New England, who as he recruited his library from the pedler’s stock of
sermons would exhort him to seek a college education and become the
first scholar in his class. Sweeter and prouder yet would be his
sensations when, talking poetry while he sold spelling-books, he should
charm the mind, and haply touch the heart, of a fair country
schoolmistress, herself an unhonored poetess, a wearer of blue
stockings which none but himself took pains to look at. But the scene
of his completest glory would be when the wagon had halted for the
night and his stock of books was transferred to some crowded bar-room.
Then would he recommend to the multifarious company, whether traveller
from the city, or teamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or
the landlord himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited to each
particular taste and capacity, proving, all the while, by acute
criticism and profound remark, that the lore in his books was even
exceeded by that in his brain. Thus happily would he traverse the land,
sometimes a herald before the march of Mind, sometimes walking arm in
arm with awful Literature, and reaping everywhere a harvest of real and
sensible popularity which the secluded bookworms by whose toil he lived
could never hope for.

“If ever I meddle with literature,” thought I, fixing myself in
adamantine resolution, “it shall be as a travelling bookseller.”

Though it was still mid-afternoon, the air had now grown dark about us,
and a few drops of rain came down upon the roof of our vehicle,
pattering like the feet of birds that had flown thither to rest. A
sound of pleasant voices made us listen, and there soon appeared
halfway up the ladder the pretty person of a young damsel whose rosy
face was so cheerful that even amid the gloomy light it seemed as if
the sunbeams were peeping under her bonnet. We next saw the dark and
handsome features of a young man who, with easier gallantry than might
have been expected in the heart of Yankee-land, was assisting her into
the wagon. It became immediately evident to us, when the two strangers
stood within the door, that they were of a profession kindred to those
of my companions, and I was delighted with the more than hospitable—the
even paternal—kindness of the old showman’s manner as he welcomed them,
while the man of literature hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a
seat on the long bench.

“You are housed but just in time, my young friends,” said the master of
the wagon; “the sky would have been down upon you within five minutes.”

The young man’s reply marked him as a foreigner—not by any variation
from the idiom and accent of good English, but because he spoke with
more caution and accuracy than if perfectly familiar with the language.

“We knew that a shower was hanging over us,” said he, “and consulted
whether it were best to enter the house on the top of yonder hill, but,
seeing your wagon in the road—”

“We agreed to come hither,” interrupted the girl, with a smile,
“because we should be more at home in a wandering house like this.”

I, meanwhile, with many a wild and undetermined fantasy was narrowly
inspecting these two doves that had flown into our ark. The young man,
tall, agile and athletic, wore a mass of black shining curls clustering
round a dark and vivacious countenance which, if it had not greater
expression, was at least more active and attracted readier notice, than
the quiet faces of our countrymen. At his first appearance he had been
laden with a neat mahogany box of about two feet square, but very light
in proportion to its size, which he had immediately unstrapped from his
shoulders and deposited on the floor of the wagon.

The girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our own beauties, and a
brighter one than most of them; the lightness of her figure, which
seemed calculated to traverse the whole world without weariness, suited
well with the glowing cheerfulness of her face, and her gay attire,
combining the rainbow hues of crimson, green and a deep orange, was as
proper to her lightsome aspect as if she had been born in it. This gay
stranger was appropriately burdened with that mirth-inspiring
instrument the fiddle, which her companion took from her hands, and
shortly began the process of tuning. Neither of us the previous company
of the wagon needed to inquire their trade, for this could be no
mystery to frequenters of brigade-musters, ordinations, cattle-shows,
commencements, and other festal meetings in our sober land; and there
is a dear friend of mine who will smile when this page recalls to his
memory a chivalrous deed performed by us in rescuing the show-box of
such a couple from a mob of great double-fisted countrymen.

“Come,” said I to the damsel of gay attire; “shall we visit all the
wonders of the world together?”

She understood the metaphor at once, though, indeed, it would not much
have troubled me if she had assented to the literal meaning of my
words. The mahogany box was placed in a proper position, and I peeped
in through its small round magnifying-window while the girl sat by my
side and gave short descriptive sketches as one after another the
pictures were unfolded to my view. We visited together—at least, our
imaginations did—full many a famous city in the streets of which I had
long yearned to tread. Once, I remember, we were in the harbor of
Barcelona, gazing townward; next, she bore me through the air to Sicily
and bade me look up at blazing Ætna; then we took wing to Venice and
sat in a gondola beneath the arch of the Rialto, and anon she set me
down among the thronged spectators at the coronation of Napoleon. But
there was one scene—its locality she could not tell—which charmed my
attention longer than all those gorgeous palaces and churches, because
the fancy haunted me that I myself the preceding summer had beheld just
such a humble meeting-house, in just such a pine-surrounded nook, among
our own green mountains. All these pictures were tolerably executed,
though far inferior to the girl’s touches of description; nor was it
easy to comprehend how in so few sentences, and these, as I supposed,
in a language foreign to her, she contrived to present an airy copy of
each varied scene.

When we had travelled through the vast extent of the mahogany box, I
looked into my guide’s face.

“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’” inquired I, in the words of an
old song.

“Ah!” said the gay damsel; “you might as well ask where the summer wind
is going. We are wanderers here and there and everywhere. Wherever
there is mirth our merry hearts are drawn to it. To-day, indeed, the
people have told us of a great frolic and festival in these parts; so
perhaps we may be needed at what you call the camp-meeting at
Stamford.”

Then, in my happy youth, and while her pleasant voice yet sounded in my
ears, I sighed; for none but myself, I thought, should have been her
companion in a life which seemed to realize my own wild fancies
cherished all through visionary boyhood to that hour. To these two
strangers the world was in its Golden Age—not that, indeed, it was less
dark and sad than ever, but because its weariness and sorrow had no
community with their ethereal nature. Wherever they might appear in
their pilgrimage of bliss, Youth would echo back their gladness,
care-stricken Maturity would rest a moment from its toil, and Age,
tottering among the graves, would smile in withered joy for their
sakes. The lonely cot, the narrow and gloomy street, the sombre shade,
would catch a passing gleam like that now shining on ourselves as these
bright spirits wandered by. Blessed pair, whose happy home was
throughout all the earth! I looked at my shoulders, and thought them
broad enough to sustain those pictured towns and mountains; mine, too,
was an elastic foot as tireless as the wing of the bird of Paradise;
mine was then an untroubled heart that would have gone singing on its
delightful way.

“Oh, maiden,” said I aloud, “why did you not come hither alone?”

While the merry girl and myself were busy with the show-box the
unceasing rain had driven another wayfarer into the wagon. He seemed
pretty nearly of the old showman’s age, but much smaller, leaner and
more withered than he, and less respectably clad in a patched suit of
gray; withal, he had a thin, shrewd countenance and a pair of
diminutive gray eyes, which peeped rather too keenly out of their
puckered sockets. This old fellow had been joking with the showman in a
manner which intimated previous acquaintance, but, perceiving that the
damsel and I had terminated our affairs, he drew forth a folded
document and presented it to me. As I had anticipated, it proved to be
a circular, written in a very fair and legible hand and signed by
several distinguished gentlemen whom I had never heard of, stating that
the bearer had encountered every variety of misfortune and recommending
him to the notice of all charitable people. Previous disbursements had
left me no more than a five-dollar bill, out of which, however, I
offered to make the beggar a donation provided he would give me change
for it. The object of my beneficence looked keenly in my face, and
discerned that I had none of that abominable spirit, characteristic
though it be, of a full-blooded Yankee, which takes pleasure in
detecting every little harmless piece of knavery.

“Why, perhaps,” said the ragged old mendicant, “if the bank is in good
standing, I can’t say but I may have enough about me to change your
bill.”

“It is a bill of the Suffolk Bank,” said I, “and better than the
specie.”

As the beggar had nothing to object, he now produced a small buff
leather bag tied up carefully with a shoe-string. When this was opened,
there appeared a very comfortable treasure of silver coins of all sorts
and sizes, and I even fancied that I saw gleaming among them the golden
plumage of that rare bird in our currency the American eagle. In this
precious heap was my bank-note deposited, the rate of exchange being
considerably against me.

His wants being thus relieved, the destitute man pulled out of his
pocket an old pack of greasy cards which had probably contributed to
fill the buff leather bag in more ways than one.

“Come!” said he; “I spy a rare fortune in your face, and for
twenty-five cents more I’ll tell you what it is.”

I never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity; so, after shuffling the
cards and when the fair damsel had cut them, I dealt a portion to the
prophetic beggar. Like others of his profession, before predicting the
shadowy events that were moving on to meet me he gave proof of his
preternatural science by describing scenes through which I had already
passed.

Here let me have credit for a sober fact. When the old man had read a
page in his book of fate, he bent his keen gray eyes on mine and
proceeded to relate in all its minute particulars what was then the
most singular event of my life. It was one which I had no purpose to
disclose till the general unfolding of all secrets, nor would it be a
much stranger instance of inscrutable knowledge or fortunate conjecture
if the beggar were to meet me in the street today and repeat word for
word the page which I have here written.

The fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny which time seems loth to
make good, put up his cards, secreted his treasure-bag and began to
converse with the other occupants of the wagon.

“Well, old friend,” said the showman, “you have not yet told us which
way your face is turned this afternoon.”

“I am taking a trip northward this warm weather,” replied the conjurer,
“across the Connecticut first, and then up through Vermont, and maybe
into Canada before the fall. But I must stop and see the breaking up of
the camp-meeting at Stamford.”

I began to think that all the vagrants in New England were converging
to the camp-meeting and had made this wagon, their rendezvous by the
way.

The showman now proposed that when the shower was over they should
pursue the road to Stamford together, it being sometimes the policy of
these people to form a sort of league and confederacy.

“And the young lady too,” observed the gallant bibliopolist, bowing to
her profoundly, “and this foreign gentleman, as I understand, are on a
jaunt of pleasure to the same spot. It would add incalculably to my own
enjoyment, and I presume to that of my colleague and his friend, if
they could be prevailed upon to join our party.”

This arrangement met with approbation on all hands, nor were any of
those concerned more sensible of its advantages than myself, who had no
title to be included in it.

Having already satisfied myself as to the several modes in which the
four others attained felicity, I next set my mind at work to discover
what enjoyments were peculiar to the old “straggler,” as the people of
the country would have termed the wandering mendicant and prophet. As
he pretended to familiarity with the devil, so I fancied that he was
fitted to pursue and take delight in his way of life by possessing some
of the mental and moral characteristics—the lighter and more comic
ones—of the devil in popular stories. Among them might be reckoned a
love of deception for its own sake, a shrewd eye and keen relish for
human weakness and ridiculous infirmity, and the talent of petty fraud.
Thus to this old man there would be pleasure even in the
consciousness—so insupportable to some minds—that his whole life was a
cheat upon the world, and that, so far as he was concerned with the
public, his little cunning had the upper hand of its united wisdom.
Every day would furnish him with a succession of minute and pungent
triumphs—as when, for instance, his importunity wrung a pittance out of
the heart of a miser, or when my silly good-nature transferred a part
of my slender purse to his plump leather bag, or when some ostentatious
gentleman should throw a coin to the ragged beggar who was richer than
himself, or when—though he would not always be so decidedly
diabolical—his pretended wants should make him a sharer in the scanty
living of real indigence. And then what an inexhaustible field of
enjoyment, both as enabling him to discern so much folly and achieve
such quantities of minor mischief, was opened to his sneering spirit by
his pretensions to prophetic knowledge.

All this was a sort of happiness which I could conceive of, though I
had little sympathy with it. Perhaps, had I been then inclined to admit
it, I might have found that the roving life was more proper to him than
to either of his companions; for Satan, to whom I had compared the poor
man, has delighted, ever since the time of Job, in “wandering up and
down upon the earth,” and, indeed, a crafty disposition which operates
not in deep-laid plans, but in disconnected tricks, could not have an
adequate scope, unless naturally impelled to a continual change of
scene and society.

My reflections were here interrupted.

“Another visitor!” exclaimed the old showman.

The door of the wagon had been closed against the tempest, which was
roaring and blustering with prodigious fury and commotion and beating
violently against our shelter, as if it claimed all those homeless
people for its lawful prey, while we, caring little for the displeasure
of the elements, sat comfortably talking. There was now an attempt to
open the door, succeeded by a voice uttering some strange,
unintelligible gibberish which my companions mistook for Greek and I
suspected to be thieves’ Latin. However, the showman stepped forward
and gave admittance to a figure which made me imagine either that our
wagon had rolled back two hundred years into past ages or that the
forest and its old inhabitants had sprung up around us by enchantment.
It was a red Indian armed with his bow and arrow. His dress was a sort
of cap adorned with a single feather of some wild bird, and a frock of
blue cotton girded tight about him; on his breast, like orders of
knighthood, hung a crescent and a circle and other ornaments of silver,
while a small crucifix betokened that our father the pope had
interposed between the Indian and the Great Spirit whom he had
worshipped in his simplicity. This son of the wilderness and pilgrim of
the storm took his place silently in the midst of us. When the first
surprise was over, I rightly conjectured him to be one of the Penobscot
tribe, parties of which I had often seen in their summer excursions
down our Eastern rivers. There they paddle their birch canoes among the
coasting-schooners, and build their wigwam beside some roaring
mill-dam, and drive a little trade in basket-work where their fathers
hunted deer. Our new visitor was probably wandering through the country
toward Boston, subsisting on the careless charity of the people while
he turned his archery to profitable account by shooting at cents which
were to be the prize of his successful aim.

The Indian had not long been seated ere our merry damsel sought to draw
him into conversation. She, indeed, seemed all made up of sunshine in
the month of May, for there was nothing so dark and dismal that her
pleasant mind could not cast a glow over it; and the wild man, like a
fir tree in his native forest, soon began to brighten into a sort of
sombre cheerfulness. At length she inquired whether his journey had any
particular end or purpose.

“I go shoot at the camp-meeting at Stamford,” replied the Indian.

“And here are five more,” said the girl, “all aiming at the
camp-meeting too. You shall be one of us, for we travel with light
hearts; and, as for me, I sing merry songs and tell merry tales and am
full of merry thoughts, and I dance merrily along the road, so that
there is never any sadness among them that keep me company. But oh, you
would find it very dull indeed to go all the way to Stamford alone.”

My ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear that the Indian
would prefer his own solitary musings to the gay society thus offered
him; on the contrary, the girl’s proposal met with immediate acceptance
and seemed to animate him with a misty expectation of enjoyment.

I now gave myself up to a course of thought which, whether it flowed
naturally from this combination of events or was drawn forth by a
wayward fancy, caused my mind to thrill as if I were listening to deep
music. I saw mankind in this weary old age of the world either enduring
a sluggish existence amid the smoke and dust of cities, or, if they
breathed a purer air, still lying down at night with no hope but to
wear out to-morrow, and all the to-morrows which make up life, among
the same dull scenes and in the same wretched toil that had darkened
the sunshine of today. But there were some full of the primeval
instinct who preserved the freshness of youth to their latest years by
the continual excitement of new objects, new pursuits and new
associates, and cared little, though their birthplace might have been
here in New England, if the grave should close over them in Central
Asia. Fate was summoning a parliament of these free spirits;
unconscious of the impulse which directed them to a common centre, they
had come hither from far and near, and last of all appeared the
representatives of those mighty vagrants who had chased the deer during
thousands of years, and were chasing it now in the spirit-land.
Wandering down through the waste of ages, the woods had vanished around
his path; his arm had lost somewhat of its strength, his foot of its
fleetness, his mien of its wild regality, his heart and mind of their
savage virtue and uncultured force, but here, untamable to the routine
of artificial life, roving now along the dusty road as of old over the
forest-leaves,—here was the Indian still.

“Well,” said the old showman, in the midst of my meditations, “here is
an honest company of us—one, two, three, four, five, six—all going to
the camp-meeting at Stamford. Now, hoping no offence, I should like to
know where this young gentleman may be going?”

I started. How came I among these wanderers? The free mind that
preferred its own folly to another’s wisdom, the open spirit that found
companions everywhere—above all, the restless impulse that had so often
made me wretched in the midst of enjoyments,—these were my claims to be
of their society.

“My friends,” cried I, stepping into the centre of the wagon, “I am
going with you to the camp-meeting at Stamford.”

“But in what capacity?” asked the old showman, after a moment’s
silence. “All of us here can get our bread in some creditable way.
Every honest man should have his livelihood. You, sir, as I take it,
are a mere strolling gentleman.”

I proceeded to inform the company that when Nature gave me a propensity
to their way of life she had not left me altogether destitute of
qualifications for it, though I could not deny that my talent was less
respectable, and might be less profitable, than the meanest of theirs.
My design, in short, was to imitate the story-tellers of whom Oriental
travellers have told us, and become an itinerant novelist, reciting my
own extemporaneous fictions to such audiences as I could collect.

“Either this,” said I, “is my vocation, or I have been born in vain.”

The fortune-teller, with a sly wink to the company, proposed to take me
as an apprentice to one or other of his professions, either of which
undoubtedly would have given full scope to whatever inventive talent I
might possess. The bibliopolist spoke a few words in opposition to my
plan—influenced partly, I suspect, by the jealousy of authorship, and
partly by an apprehension that the _vivâ-voce_ practice would become
general among novelists, to the infinite detriment of the book trade.

Dreading a rejection, I solicited the interest of the merry damsel.

“‘Mirth,’” cried I, most aptly appropriating the words of L’Allegro,
“‘to thee I sue! Mirth, admit me of thy crew!rsquo;”

“Let us indulge the poor youth,” said Mirth, with a kindness which made
me love her dearly, though I was no such coxcomb as to misinterpret her
motives. “I have espied much promise in him. True, a shadow sometimes
flits across his brow, but the sunshine is sure to follow in a moment.
He is never guilty of a sad thought but a merry one is twin-born with
it. We will take him with us, and you shall see that he will set us all
a-laughing before we reach the camp-meeting at Stamford.” Her voice
silenced the scruples of the rest and gained me admittance into the
league; according to the terms of which, without a community of goods
or profits, we were to lend each other all the aid and avert all the
harm that might be in our power.

This affair settled, a marvellous jollity entered into the whole tribe
of us, manifesting itself characteristically in each individual. The
old showman, sitting down to his barrel-organ, stirred up the souls of
the pigmy people with one of the quickest tunes in the music-book;
tailors, blacksmiths, gentlemen and ladies all seemed to share in the
spirit of the occasion, and the Merry Andrew played his part more
facetiously than ever, nodding and winking particularly at me. The
young foreigner flourished his fiddle-bow with a master’s hand, and
gave an inspiring echo to the showman’s melody. The bookish man and the
merry damsel started up simultaneously to dance, the former enacting
the double shuffle in a style which everybody must have witnessed ere
election week was blotted out of time, while the girl, setting her arms
akimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed such light rapidity
of foot and harmony of varying attitude and motion that I could not
conceive how she ever was to stop, imagining at the moment that Nature
had made her, as the old showman had made his puppets, for no earthly
purpose but to dance jigs. The Indian bellowed forth a succession of
most hideous outcries, somewhat affrighting us till we interpreted them
as the war-song with which, in imitation of his ancestors, he was
prefacing the assault on Stamford. The conjurer, meanwhile, sat
demurely in a corner extracting a sly enjoyment from the whole scene,
and, like the facetious Merry Andrew, directing his queer glance
particularly at me. As for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, I
began to arrange and color the incidents of a tale wherewith I proposed
to amuse an audience that very evening; for I saw that my associates
were a little ashamed of me, and that no time was to be lost in
obtaining a public acknowledgment of my abilities.

“Come, fellow-laborers,” at last said the old showman, whom we had
elected president; “the shower is over, and we must be doing our duty
by these poor souls at Stamford.”

“We’ll come among them in procession, with music and dancing,” cried
the merry damsel.

Accordingly—for it must be understood that our pilgrimage was to be
performed on foot—we sallied joyously out of the wagon, each of us,
even the old gentleman in his white top-boots, giving a great skip as
we came down the ladder. Above our heads there was such a glory of
sunshine and splendor of clouds, and such brightness of verdure below,
that, as I modestly remarked at the time, Nature seemed to have washed
her face and put on the best of her jewelry and a fresh green gown in
honor of our confederation. Casting our eyes northward, we beheld a
horseman approaching leisurely and splashing through the little puddle
on the Stamford road. Onward he came, sticking up in his saddle with
rigid perpendicularity, a tall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the
showman and the conjurer shortly recognized to be what his aspect
sufficiently indicated—a travelling preacher of great fame among the
Methodists. What puzzled us was the fact that his face appeared turned
from, instead of to, the camp-meeting at Stamford. However, as this new
votary of the wandering life drew near the little green space where the
guide-post and our wagon were situated, my six fellow-vagabonds and
myself rushed forward and surrounded him, crying out with united
voices, “What news? What news from the camp-meeting at Stamford?”

The missionary looked down in surprise at as singular a knot of people
as could have been selected from all his heterogeneous auditors.
Indeed, considering that we might all be classified under the general
head of Vagabond, there was great diversity of character among the
grave old showman, the sly, prophetic beggar, the fiddling foreigner
and his merry damsel, the smart bibliopolist, the sombre Indian and
myself, the itinerant novelist, a slender youth of eighteen. I even
fancied that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the iron gravity of the
preacher’s mouth.

“Good people,” answered he, “the camp-meeting is broke up.”

So saying, the Methodist minister switched his steed and rode westward.
Our union being thus nullified by the removal of its object, we were
sundered at once to the four winds of heaven. The fortune-teller,
giving a nod to all and a peculiar wink to me, departed on his Northern
tour, chuckling within himself as he took the Stamford road. The old
showman and his literary coadjutor were already tackling their horses
to the wagon with a design to peregrinate south-west along the
sea-coast. The foreigner and the merry damsel took their laughing leave
and pursued the eastern road, which I had that day trodden; as they
passed away the young man played a lively strain and the girl’s happy
spirit broke into a dance, and, thus dissolving, as it were, into
sunbeams and gay music, that pleasant pair departed from my view.
Finally, with a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet emulous of
the light philosophy of my late companions, I joined myself to the
Penobscot Indian and set forth toward the distant city.




THE WHITE OLD MAID


The moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows and showed a
spacious chamber richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one
lattice the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the
ghostly light through the other slept upon a bed, falling between the
heavy silken curtains and illuminating the face of a young man. But how
quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features! And how like a shroud
the sheet was wound about his frame! Yes, it was a corpse in its
burial-clothes.

Suddenly the fixed features seemed to move with dark emotion. Strange
fantasy! It was but the shadow of the fringed curtain waving betwixt
the dead face and the moonlight as the door of the chamber opened and a
girl stole softly to the bedside. Was there delusion in the moonbeams,
or did her gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph as she bent
over the pale corpse, pale as itself, and pressed her living lips to
the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from that long kiss her
features writhed as if a proud heart were fighting with its anguish.
Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved responsive to
her own. Still an illusion. The silken curtains had waved a second time
betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as another fair young girl
unclosed the door and glided ghostlike to the bedside. There the two
maidens stood, both beautiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between
them. But she who had first entered was proud and stately, and the
other a soft and fragile thing.

“Away!” cried the lofty one. “Thou hadst him living; the dead is mine.”

“Thine!” returned the other, shuddering. “Well hast thou spoken; the
dead is thine.”

The proud girl started and stared into her face with a ghastly look,
but a wild-and mournful expression passed across the features of the
gentle one, and, weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed, her head
pillowed beside that of the corpse and her hair mingling with his dark
locks. A creature of hope and joy, the first draught of sorrow had
bewildered her.

“Edith!” cried her rival.

Edith groaned as with a sudden compression of the heart, and, removing
her cheek from the dead youth’s pillow, she stood upright, fearfully
encountering the eyes of the lofty girl.

“Wilt thou betray me?” said the latter, calmly.

“Till the dead bid me speak I will be silent,” answered Edith. “Leave
us alone together. Go and live many years, and then return and tell me
of thy life. He too will be here. Then, if thou tellest of sufferings
more than death, we will both forgive thee.”

“And what shall be the token?” asked the proud girl, as if her heart
acknowledged a meaning in these wild words.

“This lock of hair,” said Edith, lifting one of the dark clustering
curls that lay heavily on the dead man’s brow.

The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom of the corpse and
appointed a day and hour far, far in time to come for their next
meeting in that chamber. The statelier girl gave one deep look at the
motionless countenance and departed, yet turned again and trembled ere
she closed the door, almost believing that her dead lover frowned upon
her. And Edith, too! Was not her white form fading into the moonlight?
Scorning her own weakness, she went forth and perceived that a negro
slave was waiting in the passage with a waxlight, which he held between
her face and his own and regarded her, as she thought, with an ugly
expression of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slave lighted
her down the staircase and undid the portal of the mansion. The young
clergyman of the town had just ascended the steps, and, bowing to the
lady, passed in without a word.

Years—many years—rolled on. The world seemed new again, so much older
was it grown since the night when those pale girls had clasped their
hands across the bosom of the corpse. In the interval a lonely woman
had passed from youth to extreme age, and was known by all the town as
the “Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.” A taint of insanity had affected
her whole life, but so quiet, sad and gentle, so utterly free from
violence, that she was suffered to pursue her harmless fantasies
unmolested by the world with whose business or pleasures she had naught
to do. She dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight except to
follow funerals. Whenever a corpse was borne along the street, in
sunshine, rain or snow, whether a pompous train of the rich and proud
thronged after it or few and humble were the mourners, behind them came
the lonely woman in a long white garment which the people called her
shroud. She took no place among the kindred or the friends, but stood
at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and walked in the rear of the
procession as one whose earthly charge it was to haunt the house of
mourning and be the shadow of affliction and see that the dead were
duly buried. So long had this been her custom that the inhabitants of
the town deemed her a part of every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall
or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner’s destiny
unless the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet came gliding like a ghost
behind. Once, it is said, she affrighted a bridal-party with her pale
presence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall just as the priest
was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man before her lover had been
dead a year. Evil was the omen to that marriage. Sometimes she stole
forth by moonlight and visited the graves of venerable integrity and
wedded love and virgin innocence, and every spot where the ashes of a
kind and faithful heart were mouldering. Over the hillocks of those
favored dead would she stretch out her arms with a gesture as if she
were scattering seeds, and many believed that she brought them from the
garden of Paradise, for the graves which she had visited were green
beneath the snow and covered with sweet flowers from April to November.
Her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the tombstone. Thus wore
away her long, sad, peaceful and fantastic life till few were so old as
she, and the people of later generations wondered how the dead had ever
been buried or mourners had endured their grief without the Old Maid in
the Winding-Sheet. Still years went on, and still she followed funerals
and was not yet summoned to her own festival of death.

One afternoon the great street of the town was all alive with business
and bustle, though the sun now gilded only the upper half of the
church-spire, having left the housetops and loftiest trees in shadow.
The scene was cheerful and animated in spite of the sombre shade
between the high brick buildings. Here were pompous merchants in white
wigs and laced velvet, the bronzed faces of sea-captains, the foreign
garb and air of Spanish Creoles, and the disdainful port of natives of
Old England, all contrasted with the rough aspect of one or two
back-settlers negotiating sales of timber from forests where axe had
never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly forth in an
embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes and
courtesying with lofty grace to the punctilious obeisances of the
gentlemen. The life of the town seemed to have its very centre not far
from an old mansion that stood somewhat back from the pavement,
surrounded by neglected grass, with a strange air of loneliness rather
deepened than dispelled by the throng so near it. Its site would have
been suitably occupied by a magnificent Exchange or a brick block
lettered all over with various signs, or the large house itself might
have made a noble tavern with the “King’s Arms” swinging before it and
guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. But, owing to
some dispute about the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long
without a tenant, decaying from year to year and throwing the stately
gloom of its shadow over the busiest part of the town.

Such was the scene, and such the time, when a figure unlike any that
have been described was observed at a distance down the street.

“I espy a strange sail yonder,” remarked a Liverpool captain—“that
woman in the long white garment.”

The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as were several others who
at the same moment caught a glimpse of the figure that had attracted
his notice. Almost immediately the various topics of conversation gave
place to speculations in an undertone on this unwonted occurrence.

“Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon?” inquired some.

They looked for the signs of death at every door—the sexton, the
hearse, the assemblage of black-clad relatives, all that makes up the
woeful pomp of funerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt
spire of the church, and wondered that no clang proceeded from its
bell, which had always tolled till now when this figure appeared in the
light of day. But none had heard that a corpse was to be borne to its
home that afternoon, nor was there any token of a funeral except the
apparition of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

“What may this portend?” asked each man of his neighbor.

All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain trouble in
their eyes, as if pestilence, or some other wide calamity, were
prognosticated by the untimely intrusion among the living of one whose
presence had always been associated with death and woe. What a comet is
to the earth was that sad woman to the town. Still she moved on, while
the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, and the proud and the
humble stood aside that her white garment might not wave against them.
It was a long, loose robe of spotless purity. Its wearer appeared very
old, pale, emaciated and feeble, yet glided onward without the unsteady
pace of extreme age. At one point of her course a little rosy boy burst
forth from a door and ran with open arms toward the ghostly woman,
seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She made a slight
pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expression of no earthly
sweetness, so that the child shivered and stood awestruck rather than
affrighted while the Old Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might have
been polluted even by an infant’s touch; perhaps her kiss would have
been death to the sweet boy within the year.

“She is but a shadow,” whispered the superstitious. “The child put
forth his arms and could not grasp her robe.”

The wonder was increased when the Old Maid passed beneath the porch of
the deserted mansion, ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron
knocker and gave three raps. The people could only conjecture that some
old remembrance, troubling her bewildered brain, had impelled the poor
woman hither to visit the friends of her youth—all gone from their home
long since and for ever unless their ghosts still haunted it, fit
company for the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

An elderly man approached the steps, and, reverently uncovering his
gray locks, essayed to explain the matter.

“None, madam,” said he, “have dwelt in this house these fifteen years
agone—no, not since the death of old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral
you may remember to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed among
themselves, have let the mansion-house go to ruin.”

The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight gesture of one hand and
a finger of the other upon her lip, appearing more shadow-like than
ever in the obscurity of the porch. But again she lifted the hammer,
and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it be that a footstep was now
heard coming down the staircase of the old mansion which all conceived
to have been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily, like the
pace of an aged and infirm person, the step approached, more distinct
on every downward stair, till it reached the portal. The bar fell on
the inside; the door was opened. One upward glance toward the
church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last that the
people saw of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

“Who undid the door?” asked many.

This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one
could satisfactorily answer. Two or three aged men, while protesting
against an inference which might be drawn, affirmed that the person
within was a negro and bore a singular resemblance to old Cæsar,
formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death some thirty years
before.

“Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family,” said one, half
seriously.

“Let us wait here,” replied another; “more guests will knock at the
door anon. But the gate of the graveyard should be thrown open.”

Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd began to separate or
the comments on this incident were exhausted. One after another was
wending his way homeward, when a coach—no common spectacle in those
days—drove slowly into the street. It was an old-fashioned equipage,
hanging close to the ground, with arms on the panels, a footman behind
and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front, the whole giving
an idea of solemn state and dignity. There was something awful in the
heavy rumbling of the wheels.

The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the
deserted mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground.

“Whose grand coach is this?” asked a very inquisitive body.

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house,
gave three taps with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach
door. An old man possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day
examined the shield of arms on the panel.

“Azure, a lion’s head erased, between three flowers de luce,” said he,
then whispered the name of the family to whom these bearings belonged.
The last inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long
residence amid the splendor of the British court, where his birth and
wealth had given him no mean station. “He left no child,” continued the
herald, “and these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach
appertains to his widow.”

Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made had not the speaker
been suddenly struck dumb by the stern eye of an ancient lady who
thrust forth her head from the coach, preparing to descend. As she
emerged the people saw that her dress was magnificent, and her figure
dignified in spite of age and infirmity—a stately ruin, but with a look
at once of pride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid features had an
awe about them unlike that of the white Old Maid, but as of something
evil. She passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane. The door
swung open as she ascended, and the light of a torch glittered on the
embroidery of her dress and gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After
a momentary pause, a glance backward and then a desperate effort, she
went in.

The decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured up the lower step, and,
shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, affirmed that the torch
was held by the very image of old Cæsar.

“But such a hideous grin,” added he, “was never seen on the face of
mortal man, black or white. It will haunt me till my dying-day.”

Meantime, the coach had wheeled round with a prodigious clatter on the
pavement and rumbled up the street, disappearing in the twilight, while
the ear still tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone when the people
began to question whether the coach and attendants, the ancient lady,
the spectre of old Cæsar and the Old Maid herself were not all a
strangely-combined delusion with some dark purport in its mystery. The
whole town was astir, so that, instead of dispersing, the crowd
continually increased, and stood gazing up at the windows of the
mansion, now silvered by the brightening moon. The elders, glad to
indulge the narrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded
splendor of the family, the entertainments they had given and the
guests, the greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones from
abroad, who had passed beneath that portal. These graphic reminiscences
seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom they referred. So strong
was the impression on some of the more imaginative hearers that two or
three were seized with trembling fits at one and the same moment,
protesting that they had distinctly heard three other raps of the iron
knocker.

“Impossible!” exclaimed others. “See! The moon shines beneath the
porch, and shows every part of it except in the narrow shade of that
pillar. There is no one there.”

“Did not the door open?” whispered one of these fanciful persons.

“Didst thou see it too?” said his companion, in a startled tone.

But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea that a third visitant
had made application at the door of the deserted house. A few, however,
adhered to this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam like
that of a torch had shone through the great front window, as if the
negro were lighting a guest up the staircase. This too was pronounced a
mere fantasy.

But at once the whole multitude started, and each man beheld his own
terror painted in the faces of all the rest.

“What an awful thing is this!” cried they.

A shriek too fearfully distinct for doubt had been heard within the
mansion, breaking forth suddenly and succeeded by a deep stillness, as
if a heart had burst in giving it utterance. The people knew not
whether to fly from the very sight of the house or to rush trembling in
and search out the strange mystery. Amid their confusion and affright
they were somewhat reassured by the appearance of their clergyman, a
venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who had taught them and their
fathers the way to heaven for more than the space of an ordinary
lifetime. He was a reverend figure with long white hair upon his
shoulders, a white beard upon his breast and a back so bent over his
staff that he seemed to be looking downward continually, as if to
choose a proper grave for his weary frame. It was some time before the
good old man, being deaf and of impaired intellect, could be made to
comprehend such portions of the affair as were comprehensible at all.
But when possessed of the facts, his energies assumed unexpected vigor.

“Verily,” said the old gentleman, “it will be fitting that I enter the
mansion-house of the worthy Colonel Fenwicke, lest any harm should have
befallen that true Christian woman whom ye call the ‘Old Maid in the
Winding-Sheet.’”

Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the steps of the
mansion with a torch-bearer behind him. It was the elderly man who had
spoken to the Old Maid, and the same who had afterward explained the
shield of arms and recognized the features of the negro. Like their
predecessors, they gave three raps with the iron hammer.

“Old Cæsar cometh not,” observed the priest. “Well, I wot he no longer
doth service in this mansion.”

“Assuredly, then, it was something worse in old Cæsar’s likeness,” said
the other adventurer.

“Be it as God wills,” answered the clergyman. “See! my strength, though
it be much decayed, hath sufficed to open this heavy door. Let us enter
and pass up the staircase.”

Here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamy state of a very
old man’s mind. As they ascended the wide flight of stairs the aged
clergyman appeared to move with caution, occasionally standing aside,
and oftener bending his head, as it were in salutation, thus practising
all the gestures of one who makes his way through a throng. Reaching
the head of the staircase, he looked around with sad and solemn
benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, and was
evidently on the point of commencing a prayer.

“Reverend sir,” said his attendant, who conceived this a very suitable
prelude to their further search, “would it not be well that the people
join with us in prayer?”

“Well-a-day!” cried the old clergyman, staring strangely around him.
“Art thou here with me, and none other? Verily, past times were present
to me, and I deemed that I was to make a funeral prayer, as many a time
heretofore, from the head of this staircase. Of a truth, I saw the
shades of many that are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, one
after another, and the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet hath seen them to
their graves.”

Being now more thoroughly awake to their present purpose, he took his
staff and struck forcibly on the floor, till there came an echo from
each deserted chamber, but no menial to answer their summons. They
therefore walked along the passage, and again paused, opposite to the
great front window, through which was seen the crowd in the shadow and
partial moonlight of the street beneath. On their right hand was the
open door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left.

The clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panel of the latter.

“Within that chamber,” observed he, “a whole lifetime since, did I sit
by the death-bed of a goodly young man who, being now at the last
gasp—” Apparently, there was some powerful excitement in the ideas
which had now flashed across his mind. He snatched the torch from his
companion’s hand, and threw open the door with such sudden violence
that the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other light than the
moonbeams which fell through two windows into the spacious chamber. It
was sufficient to discover all that could be known. In a high-backed
oaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands clasped across her breast and
her head thrown back, sat the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. The
stately dame had fallen on her knees with her forehead on the holy
knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor and the other pressed
convulsively against her heart. It clutched a lock of hair—once sable,
now discolored with a greenish mould.

As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber the Old Maid’s
features assumed such a semblance of shifting expression that they
trusted to hear the whole mystery explained by a single word. But it
was only the shadow of a tattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face
and the moonlight.

“Both dead!” said the venerable man. “Then who shall divulge the
secret? Methinks it glimmers to and fro in my mind like the light and
shadow across the Old Maid’s face. And now ’tis gone!”




PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE


“And so, Peter, you won’t even consider of the business?” said Mr. John
Brown, buttoning his surtout over the snug rotundity of his person and
drawing on his gloves. “You positively refuse to let me have this crazy
old house, and the land under and adjoining, at the price named?”

“Neither at that, nor treble the sum,” responded the gaunt, grizzled
and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. “The fact is, Mr. Brown, you must
find another site for your brick block and be content to leave my
estate with the present owner. Next summer I intend to put a splendid
new mansion over the cellar of the old house.”

“Pho, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown as he opened the kitchen door; “content
yourself with building castles in the air, where house-lots are cheaper
than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such
foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while this underneath
us is just the thing for mine; and so we may both be suited. What say
you, again?”

“Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown,” answered Peter Goldthwaite.
“And, as for castles in the air, mine may not be as magnificent as that
sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, as the
very respectable brick block with dry-goods stores, tailors’ shops and
banking-rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers’ offices in the second
story, which you are so anxious to substitute.”

“And the cost, Peter? Eh?” said Mr. Brown as he withdrew in something
of a pet. “That, I suppose, will be provided for off-hand by drawing a
check on Bubble Bank?”

John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly known to the
commercial world between twenty and thirty years before under the firm
of Goldthwaite & Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily
dissolved by the natural incongruity of its constituent parts. Since
that event, John Brown, with exactly the qualities of a thousand other
John Browns, and by just such plodding methods as they used, had
prospered wonderfully and become one of the wealthiest John Browns on
earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innumerable schemes
which ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the
country into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore a patch
upon his elbow. The contrast between him and his former partner may be
briefly marked, for Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it,
while Peter made luck the main condition of his projects, and always
missed it. While the means held out his speculations had been
magnificent, but were chiefly confined of late years to such small
business as adventures in the lottery. Once he had gone on a
gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the South, and ingeniously
contrived to empty his pockets more thoroughly than ever, while others,
doubtless, were filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More
recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of dollars in
purchasing Mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor of a
province; which, however, so far as Peter could find out, was situated
where he might have had an empire for the same money—in the clouds.
From a search after this valuable real estate Peter returned so gaunt
and threadbare that on reaching New England the scarecrows in the
corn-fields beckoned to him as he passed by. “They did but flutter in
the wind,” quoth Peter Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the
scarecrows knew their brother.

At the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid
the tax of the old mansion in which we find him. It was one of those
rusty, moss-grown, many-peaked wooden houses which are scattered about
the streets of our elder towns, with a beetle-browed second story
projecting over the foundation, as if it frowned at the novelty around
it. This old paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, being
centrally situated on the principal street of the town, it would have
brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious Peter had his own reasons for
never parting with, either by auction or private sale. There seemed,
indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his birthplace; for,
often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing there even
now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled
him to surrender the house to his creditors. So here he dwelt with bad
luck till good should come.

Here, then, in his kitchen—the only room where a spark of fire took off
the chill of a November evening—poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been
visited by his rich old partner. At the close of their interview,
Peter, with rather a mortified look, glanced downward at his dress,
parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of Goldthwaite & Brown.
His upper garment was a mixed surtout, woefully faded, and patched with
newer stuff on each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black
coat, some of the silk buttons of which had been replaced with others
of a different pattern; and, lastly, though he lacked not a pair of
gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been partially
turned brown by the frequent toasting of Peter’s shins before a scanty
fire. Peter’s person was in keeping with his goodly apparel.
Gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked and lean-bodied, he was the
perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and empty hopes
till he could neither live on such unwholesome trash nor stomach more
substantial food. But, withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack-brained
simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant figure
in the world had he employed his imagination in the airy business of
poetry instead of making it a demon of mischief in mercantile pursuits.
After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as
honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman which Nature meant
him for, as an irregular life and depressed circumstances will permit
any man to be.

As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth looking round at the
disconsolate old kitchen his eyes began to kindle with the illumination
of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him. He raised his hand,
clenched it and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the
fireplace.

“The time is come,” said he; “with such a treasure at command, it were
folly to be a poor man any longer. Tomorrow morning I will begin with
the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down.”

Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little
old woman mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith Peter
Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frost-bitten. As the feet were
ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel
petticoat to make new soles. Tabitha Porter was an old maid upward of
sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same
chimney-corner, such being the length of time since Peter’s grandfather
had taken her from the almshouse. She had no friend but Peter, nor
Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for
his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter hers, or, being
homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him
to her native home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, she
loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel and clothe him
with her under-petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer old woman, and,
though never infected with Peter’s flightiness, had become so
accustomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them all as
matters of course. Hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she
looked quietly up from her work.

“Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” said she.

“The sooner we have it all down, the better,” said Peter Goldthwaite.
“I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, smoky,
creaking, groaning, dismal old house. I shall feel like a younger man
when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall
by this time next autumn. You shall have a room on the sunny side, old
Tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions.”

“I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,” answered
Tabitha. “It will never be like home to me till the chimney-corner gets
as black with smoke as this, and that won’t be these hundred years. How
much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. Peter?”

“What is that to the purpose?” exclaimed Peter, loftily. “Did not my
great-grand-uncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and
whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?”

“I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, threading her
needle.

Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immense hoard of
the precious metals which was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or
walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed closet or other
out-of-the-way nook of the old house. This wealth, according to
tradition, had been accumulated by a former Peter Goldthwaite whose
character seems to have borne a remarkable similitude to that of the
Peter of our story. Like him, he was a wild projector, seeking to heap
up gold by the bushel and the cart-load instead of scraping it together
coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects had almost
invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the final
one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his
gaunt and grizzled person. Reports were various as to the nature of his
fortunate speculation, one intimating that the ancient Peter had made
the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out of people’s
pockets by the black art; and a third—still more unaccountable—that the
devil had given him free access to the old provincial treasury. It was
affirmed, however, that some secret impediment had debarred him from
the enjoyment of his riches, and that he had a motive for concealing
them from his heir, or, at any rate, had died without disclosing the
place of deposit. The present Peter’s father had faith enough in the
story to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter himself chose to
consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and amid his many
troubles had this one consolation—that, should all other resources
fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house down. Yet,
unless he felt a lurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult
to account for his permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since
he had never yet seen the moment when his predecessor’s treasure would
not have found plenty of room in his own strong-box. But now was the
crisis. Should he delay the search a little longer, the house would
pass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain
in its burial-place till the ruin of the aged walls should discover it
to strangers of a future generation.

“Yes,” cried Peter Goldthwaite, again; “to-morrow I will set about it.”

The deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain of success grew
Peter. His spirits were naturally so elastic that even now, in the
blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the springtime
gayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects, he
began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerest
antics of his lean limbs and gesticulations of his starved features.
Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of Tabitha’s
hands and danced the old lady across the floor till the oddity of her
rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed
back from the rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were laughing
in every one. Finally, he bounded upward, almost out of sight, into the
smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on
the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity.

“To-morrow, at sunrise,” he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to bed,
“I’ll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the garret.”

“And, as we’re out of wood, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, puffing and
panting with her late gymnastics, “as fast as you tear the house down
I’ll make a fire with the pieces.”

Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite. At one time
he was turning a ponderous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a
sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with
gold coin as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. There were chased
goblets, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner-dishes and dish-covers of
gold or silver-gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalculably
rich, though tarnished with the damps of the vault; for, of all the
wealth that was irrevocably lost to man, whether buried in the earth or
sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one
treasure-place. Anon he had returned to the old house as poor as ever,
and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of a man
whom he might have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of
a much elder fashion. But the house, without losing its former aspect,
had been changed into a palace of the precious metals. The floors,
walls and ceilings were of burnished silver; the doors, the
window-frames, the cornices, the balustrades and the steps of the
staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the
chairs, and gold, standing on silver legs, the high chests of drawers,
and silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold and sheets of
silver tissue. The house had evidently been transmuted by a single
touch, for it retained all the marks that Peter remembered, but in gold
or silver instead of wood, and the initials of his name—which when a
boy he had cut in the wooden door-post—remained as deep in the pillar
of gold. A happy man would have been Peter Goldthwaite except for a
certain ocular deception which, whenever he glanced backward, caused
the house to darken from its glittering magnificence into the sordid
gloom of yesterday.

Up betimes rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer and saw which he had
placed by his bedside, and hied him to the garret. It was but scantily
lighted up as yet by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam which began to
glimmer through the almost opaque bull-eyes of the window. A moralizer
might find abundant themes for his speculative and impracticable wisdom
in a garret. There is the limbo of departed fashions, aged trifles of a
day and whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which
passed to the garret when that generation passed to the grave—not for
safekeeping, but to be out of the way. Peter saw piles of yellow and
musty account-books in parchment covers, wherein creditors long dead
and buried had written the names of dead and buried debtors in ink now
so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were more legible. He found
old moth-eaten garments, all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have
put them on. Here was a naked and rusty sword—not a sword of service,
but a gentleman’s small French rapier—which had never left its scabbard
till it lost it. Here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no
gold-headed ones, and shoebuckles of various pattern and material, but
not silver nor set with precious stones. Here was a large box full of
shoes with high heels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a
multitude of phials half filled with old apothecary’s stuff which, when
the other half had done its business on Peter’s ancestors, had been
brought hither from the death-chamber. Here—not to give a longer
inventory of articles that will never be put up at auction—was the
fragment of a full-length looking-glass which by the dust and dimness
of its surface made the picture of these old things look older than the
reality. When Peter, not knowing that there was a mirror there, caught
the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former
Peter Goldthwaite had come back either to assist or impede his search
for the hidden wealth. And at that moment a strange notion glimmered
through his brain that he was the identical Peter who had concealed the
gold, and ought to know whereabout it lay. This, however, he had
unaccountably forgotten.

“Well, Mr. Peter!” cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs. “Have you torn
the house down enough to heat the teakettle?”

“Not yet, old Tabby,” answered Peter, “but that’s soon done, as you
shall see.” With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid
about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and in
a twinkling the old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish.

“We shall get our winter’s wood cheap,” quoth Tabitha.

The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down all before him,
smiting and hewing at the joints and timbers, unclenching spike-nails,
ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous racket from morning
till night. He took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the
house untouched, so that the neighbors might not suspect what was going
on.

Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy while it
lasted, had Peter been happier than now. Perhaps, after all, there was
something in Peter Goldthwaite’s turn of mind which brought him an
inward recompense for all the external evil that it caused. If he were
poor, ill-clad, even hungry and exposed, as it were, to be utterly
annihilated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his body
remained in these miserable circumstances, while his aspiring soul
enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. It was his nature to be
always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray
hairs were nothing—no, nor wrinkles nor infirmity; he might look old,
indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old figure
much the worse for wear, but the true, the essential Peter was a young
man of high hopes just entering on the world. At the kindling of each
new fire his burnt-out youth rose afresh from the old embers and ashes.
It rose exulting now. Having lived thus long—not too long, but just to
the right age—a susceptible bachelor with warm and tender dreams, he
resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go
a-wooing and win the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart could
resist him? Happy Peter Goldthwaite!

Every evening—as Peter had long absented himself from his former
lounging-places at insurance offices, news-rooms, and book-stores, and
as the honor of his company was seldom requested in private circles—he
and Tabitha used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. This was
always heaped plentifully with the rubbish of his day’s labor. As the
foundation of the fire there would be a goodly-sized back-log of red
oak, which after being sheltered from rain or damp above a century
still hissed with the heat and distilled streams of water from each
end, as if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. Next there
were large sticks, sound, black and heavy, which had lost the principle
of decay and were indestructible except by fire, wherein they glowed
like red-hot bars of iron. On this solid basis Tabitha would rear a
lighter structure, composed of the splinters of door-panels, ornamented
mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like straw and
threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty
sides visible almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gloom of the old
kitchen would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the
dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while
Peter smiled like a gladsome man and Tabitha seemed a picture of
comfortable age. All this, of course, was but an emblem of the bright
fortune which the destruction of the house would shed upon its
occupants.

While the dry pine was flaming and crackling like an irregular
discharge of fairy-musketry, Peter sat looking and listening in a
pleasant state of excitement; but when the brief blaze and uproar were
succeeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat and the deep
singing sound which were to last throughout the evening, his humor
became talkative. One night—the hundredth time—he teased Tabitha to
tell him something new about his great-granduncle.

“You have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years, old
Tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him,” said Peter.
“Did not you tell me that when you first came to the house there was an
old woman sitting where you sit now who had been housekeeper to the
famous Peter Goldthwaite?”

“So there was, Mr. Peter,” answered Tabitha, “and she was near about a
hundred years old. She used to say that she and old Peter Goldthwaite
had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen fire—pretty much as
you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.”

“The old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one,” said
Peter, complacently, “or he never would have grown so rich. But
methinks he might have invested the money better than he did. No
interest! nothing but good security! and the house to be torn down to
come at it! What made him hide it so snug, Tabby?”

“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha, “for as often as he went
to unlock the chest the Old Scratch came behind and caught his arm. The
money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse, and he wanted Peter
to give him a deed of this house and land, which Peter swore he would
not do.”

“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” remarked Peter. “But
this is all nonsense, Tabby; I don’t believe the story.”

“Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha, “for some folks say
that Peter did make over the house to the Old Scratch, and that’s the
reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. And as
soon as Peter had given him the deed the chest flew open, and Peter
caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and behold! there was nothing
in his fist but a parcel of old rags.”

“Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!” cried Peter, in great wrath.
“They were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies of the king
of England. It seems as if I could recollect the whole circumstance,
and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his
hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old rags indeed!”

But it was not an old woman’s legend that would discourage Peter
Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke
at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart which few are fortunate
enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored hard
without wasting a moment except at meal-times, when Tabitha summoned
him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she had picked
up or Providence had sent them. Being a truly pious man, Peter never
failed to ask a blessing—if the food were none of the best, then so
much the more earnestly, as it was more needed—nor to return thanks, if
the dinner had been scanty, yet for the good appetite which was better
than a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil, and
in a moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls,
though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the clatter which he
raised in the midst of it.

How enviable is the consciousness of being usefully employed! Nothing
troubled Peter, or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem
like vague recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. He
often paused with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself,
“Peter Goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow before?” or “Peter,
what need of tearing the whole house down? Think a little while, and
you will remember where the gold is hidden.” Days and weeks passed on,
however, without any remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean
gray rat peeped forth at the lean gray man, wondering what devil had
got into the old house, which had always been so peaceable till now.
And occasionally Peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse
who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young
ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by its ruin. But
as yet no treasure.

By this time, Peter, being as determined as fate and as diligent as
time, had made an end with the uppermost regions and got down to the
second story, where he was busy in one of the front chambers. It had
formerly been the state-bedchamber, and was honored by tradition as the
sleeping-apartment of Governor Dudley and many other eminent guests.
The furniture was gone. There were remnants of faded and tattered
paper-hangings, but larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal
sketches, chiefly of people’s heads in profile. These being specimens
of Peter’s youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate
them than if they had been pictures on a church wall by Michael Angelo.
One sketch, however, and that the best one, affected him differently.
It represented a ragged man partly supporting himself on a spade and
bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended
to grasp something that he had found. But close behind him, with a
fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted
tail and a cloven hoof.

“Avaunt, Satan!” cried Peter. “The man shall have his gold.” Uplifting
his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the head as not
only demolished him, but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole
scene to vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite through the
plaster and laths and discovered a cavity.

“Mercy on us, Mr. Peter! Are you quarrelling with the Old Scratch?”
said Tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under the dinner-pot.

Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down a further space of
the wall, and laid open a small closet or cupboard on one side of the
fireplace, about breast-high from the ground. It contained nothing but
a brass lamp covered with verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment.
While Peter inspected the latter, Tabitha seized the lamp and began to
rub it with her apron.

“There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,” said Peter. “It is not
Aladdin’s lamp, though I take it to be a token of as much luck. Look
here, Tabby!”

Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was
saddled with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. But no sooner had she
begun to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding
both her hands against her sides.

“You can’t make a fool of the old woman,” cried she. “This is your own
handwriting, Mr. Peter, the same as in the letter you sent me from
Mexico.”

“There is certainly a considerable resemblance,” said Peter, again
examining the parchment. “But you know yourself, Tabby, that this
closet must have been plastered up before you came to the house or I
came into the world. No; this is old Peter Goldthwaite’s writing. These
columns of pounds, shillings and pence are his figures, denoting the
amount of the treasure, and this, at the bottom, is doubtless a
reference to the place of concealment. But the ink has either faded or
peeled off, so that it is absolutely illegible. What a pity!”

“Well, this lamp is as good as new. That’s some comfort,” said Tabitha.

“A lamp!” thought Peter. “That indicates light on my researches.”

For the present Peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery
than to resume his labors. After Tabitha had gone down stairs he stood
poring over the parchment at one of the front windows, which was so
obscured with dust that the sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow
of the casement across the floor. Peter forced it open and looked out
upon the great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old
house. The air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled Peter as with a
dash of water.

It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow lay deep upon the
housetops, but was rapidly dissolving into millions of water-drops,
which sparkled downward through the sunshine with the noise of a summer
shower beneath the eaves. Along the street the trodden snow was as hard
and solid as a pavement of white marble, and had not yet grown moist in
the spring-like temperature. But when Peter thrust forth his head, he
saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by
this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. It gladdened
him—a gladness with a sigh breathing through it—to see the stream of
ladies gliding along the slippery sidewalks with their red cheeks set
off by quilted hoods, boas and sable capes like roses amidst a new kind
of foliage. The sleigh bells jingled to and fro continually, sometimes
announcing the arrival of a sleigh from Vermont laden with the frozen
bodies of porkers or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes, of a
regular marketman with chickens, geese and turkeys, comprising the
whole colony of a barn-yard; and sometimes, of a farmer and his dame
who had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go a-shopping and
partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. This couple rode in an
old-fashioned square sleigh which had served them twenty winters and
stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. Now a gentleman and
lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car shaped somewhat like a
cockle-shell; now a stage-sleigh with its cloth curtains thrust aside
to admit the sun dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out
among the vehicles that obstructed its passage; now came round a corner
the similitude of Noah’s ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh
with seats for fifty people and drawn by a dozen horses. This spacious
receptacle was populous with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry
girls and boys and merry old folks, all alive with fun and grinning to
the full width of their mouths. They kept up a buzz of babbling voices
and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout which
the spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys
let drive their snow-balls right among the pleasure-party. The sleigh
passed on, and when concealed by a bend of the street was still audible
by a distant cry of merriment.

Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by all
these accessories—the bright sun, the flashing water-drops, the
gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles
and the jingle-jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to
their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen except that peaked piece of
antiquity Peter Goldthwaite’s house, which might well look sad
externally, since such a terrible consumption was preying on its
insides. And Peter’s gaunt figure, half visible in the projecting
second story, was worthy of his house.

“Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?” cried a voice across the street as
Peter was drawing in his head. “Look out here, Peter!”

Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, on the opposite
sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak thrown open,
disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed the
attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite’s window, and to the
dusty scarecrow which appeared at it.

“I say, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown, again; “what the devil are you about
there, that I hear such a racket whenever I pass by? You are repairing
the old house, I suppose, making a new one of it? Eh?”

“Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown,” replied Peter. “If I make
it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar upward.”

“Had not you better let me take the job?” said Mr. Brown,
significantly.

“Not yet,” answered Peter, hastily shutting the window; for ever since
he had been in search of the treasure he hated to have people stare at
him.

As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the
secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty smile shone out on Peter’s
visage with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid
chamber. He endeavored to assume such a mien as his ancestor had
probably worn when he gloried in the building of a strong house for a
home to many generations of his posterity. But the chamber was very
dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal, too, in contrast with
the living scene that he had just looked upon. His brief glimpse into
the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which
the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous by social pleasures and
an intercourse of business, while he in seclusion was pursuing an
object that might possibly be a phantasm by a method which most people
would call madness. It is one great advantage of a gregarious mode of
life that each person rectifies his mind by other minds and squares his
conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in
eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed himself to this influence
by merely looking out of the window. For a while he doubted whether
there were any hidden chest of gold, and in that case whether it was so
exceedingly wise to tear the house down only to be convinced of its
non-existence.

But this was momentary. Peter the Destroyer resumed the task which Fate
had assigned him, nor faltered again till it was accomplished. In the
course of his search he met with many things that are usually found in
the ruins of an old house, and also with some that are not. What seemed
most to the purpose was a rusty key which had been thrust into a chink
of the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the
initials “P.G.” Another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine
walled up in an old oven. A tradition ran in the family that Peter’s
grandfather, a jovial officer in the old French war, had set aside many
dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit of topers then unborn.
Peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, and therefore kept the
wine to gladden his success. Many half-pence did he pick up that had
been lost through the cracks of the floor, and some few Spanish coins,
and the half of a broken sixpence which had doubtless been a
love-token. There was likewise a silver coronation medal of George III.
But old Peter Goldthwaite’s strong-box fled from one dark corner to
another, or otherwise eluded the second Peter’s clutches till, should
he seek much farther, he must burrow into the earth.

We will not follow him in his triumphant progress step by step. Suffice
it that Peter worked like a steam-engine and finished in that one
winter the job which all the former inhabitants of the house, with time
and the elements to aid them, had only half done in a century. Except
the kitchen, every room and chamber was now gutted. The house was
nothing but a shell, the apparition of a house, as unreal as the
painted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect rind of a great
cheese in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled till it was a cheese no
more. And Peter was the mouse.

What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burnt up, for she wisely
considered that without a house they should need no wood to warm it,
and therefore economy was nonsense. Thus the whole house might be said
to have dissolved in smoke and flown up among the clouds through the
great black flue of the kitchen chimney. It was an admirable parallel
to the feat of the man who jumped down his own throat.

On the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring
every chink and cranny had been ransacked except within the precincts
of the kitchen. This fated evening was an ugly one. A snow-storm had
set in some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about the
atmosphere by a real hurricane which fought against the house as if the
prince of the air in person were putting the final stroke to Peter’s
labors. The framework being so much weakened and the inward props
removed, it would have been no marvel if in some stronger wrestle of
the blast the rotten walls of the edifice and all the peaked roofs had
come crashing down upon the owner’s head. He, however, was careless of
the peril, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or as the
flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous
wind.

“The wine, Tabitha,” he cried—“my grandfather’s rich old wine! We will
drink it now.”

Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner and
placed the bottle before Peter, close beside the old brass lamp which
had likewise been the prize of his researches. Peter held it before his
eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen
illuminated with a golden glory which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded
her silver hair and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly
splendor. It reminded him of his golden dream.

“Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “must the wine be drunk before the money
is found?”

“The money _is_ found!” exclaimed Peter, with a sort of fierceness.
“The chest is within my reach; I will not sleep till I have turned this
key in the rusty lock. But first of all let us drink.”

There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle
with old Peter Goldthwaite’s rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork
at a single blow. He then filled two little china teacups which Tabitha
had brought from the cupboard. So clear and brilliant was this aged
wine that it shone within the cups and rendered the sprig of scarlet
flowers at the bottom of each more distinctly visible than when there
had been no wine there. Its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself
round the kitchen.

“Drink, Tabitha!” cried Peter. “Blessings on the honest old fellow who
set aside this good liquor for you and me! And here’s to Peter
Goldthwaite’s memory!”

“And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth Tabitha as she drank.

How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various
calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to be
quaffed at last by two such boon-companions! A portion of the happiness
of a former age had been kept for them, and was now set free in a crowd
of rejoicing visions to sport amid the storm and desolation of the
present time. Until they have finished the bottle we must turn our eyes
elsewhere.

It so chanced that on this stormy night Mr. John Brown found himself
ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair by the glowing grate of
anthracite which heated his handsome parlor. He was naturally a good
sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others
happened to reach his heart through the padded vest of his own
prosperity. This evening he had thought much about his old partner,
Peter Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries and continual ill-luck, the
poverty of his dwelling at Mr. Brown’s last visit, and Peter’s crazed
and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window.

“Poor fellow!” thought Mr. John Brown. “Poor crack-brained Peter
Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance’ sake I ought to have taken care that
he was comfortable this rough winter.” These feelings grew so powerful
that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter
Goldthwaite immediately.

The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek of the
blast seemed a summons, or would have seemed so had Mr. Brown been
accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. Much amazed
at such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled
his throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus
fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. But the powers of the air had
rather the best of the battle. Mr. Brown was just weathering the corner
by Peter Goldthwaite’s house when the hurricane caught him off his
feet, tossed him face downward into a snow-bank and proceeded to bury
his protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope of
his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the same moment his hat
was snatched away and whirled aloft into some far-distant region whence
no tidings have as yet returned.

Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through the
snow-drift, and with his bare head bent against the storm floundered
onward to Peter’s door. There was such a creaking and groaning and
rattling, and such an ominous shaking, throughout the crazy edifice
that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to those within. He
therefore entered without ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen.
His intrusion even there was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stood with
their backs to the door, stooping over a large chest which apparently
they had just dragged from a cavity or concealed closet on the left
side of the chimney. By the lamp in the old woman’s hand Mr. Brown saw
that the chest was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened with iron
plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in
which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up for the wants of
another.

Peter Goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock.

“Oh, Tabitha,” cried he, with tremulous rapture, “how shall I endure
the effulgence? The gold!—the bright, bright gold! Methinks I can
remember my last glance at it just as the iron-plated lid fell down.
And ever since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret and
gathering its splendor against this glorious moment. It will flash upon
us like the noonday sun.”

“Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!” said Tabitha, with somewhat less
patience than usual. “But, for mercy’s sake, do turn the key!”

And with a strong effort of both hands Peter did force the rusty key
through the intricacies of the rusty lock. Mr. Brown, in the mean time,
had drawn near and thrust his eager visage between those of the other
two at the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No sudden blaze
illuminated the kitchen.

“What’s here?” exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles and holding
the lamp over the open chest. “Old Peter Goldthwaite’s hoard of old
rags!”

“Pretty much so, Tabby,” said Mr. Brown, lifting a handful of the
treasure.

Oh what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaite raised
to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! Here was the semblance
of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town and build
every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man would have
given a solid sixpence for. What, then, in sober earnest, were the
delusive treasures of the chest? Why, here were old provincial bills of
credit and treasury notes and bills of land-banks, and all other
bubbles of the sort, from the first issue—above a century and a half
ago—down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a thousand pounds were
intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than they.

“And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure!” said John Brown.
“Your namesake, Peter, was something like yourself; and when the
provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent, he
bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard my grandfather say
that old Peter gave his father a mortgage of this very house and land
to raise cash for his silly project. But the currency kept sinking till
nobody would take it as a gift, and there was old Peter Goldthwaite,
like Peter the second, with thousands in his strong-box and hardly a
coat to his back. He went mad upon the strength of it. But never mind,
Peter; it is just the sort of capital for building castles in the air.”

“The house will be down about our ears,” cried Tabitha as the wind
shook it with increasing violence.

“Let it fall,” said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself upon
the chest.

“No, no, my old friend Peter!” said John Brown. “I have house-room for
you and Tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure. To-morrow we
will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house; real
estate is well up, and I could afford you a pretty handsome price.”

“And I,” observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, “have a
plan for laying out the cash to great advantage.”

“Why, as to that,” muttered John Brown to himself, “we must apply to
the next court for a guardian to take care of the solid cash; and if
Peter insists upon speculating, he may do it to his heart’s content
with old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure.”




CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL


Passing a summer several years since at Edgartown, on the island of
Martha’s Vineyard, I became acquainted with a certain carver of
tombstones who had travelled and voyaged thither from the interior of
Massachusetts in search of professional employment. The speculation had
turned out so successful that my friend expected to transmute slate and
marble into silver and gold to the amount of at least a thousand
dollars during the few months of his sojourn at Nantucket and the
Vineyard. The secluded life and the simple and primitive spirit which
still characterizes the inhabitants of those islands, especially of
Martha’s Vineyard, insure their dead friends a longer and dearer
remembrance than the daily novelty and revolving bustle of the world
can elsewhere afford to beings of the past. Yet, while every family is
anxious to erect a memorial to its departed members, the untainted
breath of Ocean bestows such health and length of days upon the people
of the isles as would cause a melancholy dearth of business to a
resident artist in that line. His own monument, recording his decease
by starvation, would probably be an early specimen of his skill.
Gravestones, therefore, have generally been an article of imported
merchandise.

In my walks through the burial-ground of Edgartown—where the dead have
lain so long that the soil, once enriched by their decay, has returned
to its original barrenness—in that ancient burial-ground I noticed much
variety of monumental sculpture. The elder stones, dated a century back
or more, have borders elaborately carved with flowers and are adorned
with a multiplicity of death’s-heads, crossbones, scythes,
hour-glasses, and other lugubrious emblems of mortality, with here and
there a winged cherub to direct the mourner’s spirit upward. These
productions of Gothic taste must have been quite beyond the colonial
skill of the day, and were probably carved in London and brought across
the ocean to commemorate the defunct worthies of this lonely isle. The
more recent monuments are mere slabs of slate in the ordinary style,
without any superfluous flourishes to set off the bald inscriptions.
But others—and those far the most impressive both to my taste and
feelings—were roughly hewn from the gray rocks of the island, evidently
by the unskilled hands of surviving friends and relatives. On some
there were merely the initials of a name; some were inscribed with
misspelt prose or rhyme, in deep letters which the moss and wintry rain
of many years had not been able to obliterate. These, these were graves
where loved ones slept. It is an old theme of satire, the falsehood and
vanity of monumental eulogies; but when affection and sorrow grave the
letters with their own painful labor, then we may be sure that they
copy from the record on their hearts.

My acquaintance the sculptor—he may share that title with Greenough,
since the dauber of signs is a painter as well as Raphael—had found a
ready market for all his blank slabs of marble and full occupation in
lettering and ornamenting them. He was an elderly man, a descendant of
the old Puritan family of Wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and
singleness both of heart and mind which, methinks, is more rarely found
among us Yankees than in any other community of people. In spite of his
gray head and wrinkled brow, he was quite like a child in all matters
save what had some reference to his own business; he seemed, unless my
fancy misled me, to view mankind in no other relation than as people in
want of tombstones, and his literary attainments evidently comprehended
very little either of prose or poetry which had not at one time or
other been inscribed on slate or marble. His sole task and office among
the immortal pilgrims of the tomb—the duty for which Providence had
sent the old man into the world, as it were with a chisel in his
hand—was to label the dead bodies, lest their names should be forgotten
at the resurrection. Yet he had not failed, within a narrow scope, to
gather a few sprigs of earthly, and more than earthly, wisdom—the
harvest of many a grave. And, lugubrious as his calling might appear,
he was as cheerful an old soul as health and integrity and lack of care
could make him, and used to set to work upon one sorrowful inscription
or another with that sort of spirit which impels a man to sing at his
labor. On the whole, I found Mr. Wigglesworth an entertaining, and
often instructive, if not an interesting, character; and, partly for
the charm of his society, and still more because his work has an
invariable attraction for “man that is born of woman,” I was accustomed
to spend some hours a day at his workshop. The quaintness of his
remarks and their not infrequent truth—a truth condensed and pointed by
the limited sphere of his view—gave a raciness to his talk which mere
worldliness and general cultivation would at once have destroyed.

Sometimes we would discuss the respective merits of the various
qualities of marble, numerous slabs of which were resting against the
walls of the shop, or sometimes an hour or two would pass quietly
without a word on either side while I watched how neatly his chisel
struck out letter after letter of the names of the Nortons, the
Mayhews, the Luces, the Daggets, and other immemorial families of the
Vineyard. Often with an artist’s pride the good old sculptor would
speak of favorite productions of his skill which were scattered
throughout the village graveyards of New England. But my chief and most
instructive amusement was to witness his interviews with his customers,
who held interminable consultations about the form and fashion of the
desired monuments, the buried excellence to be commemorated, the
anguish to be expressed, and finally the lowest price in dollars and
cents for which a marble transcript of their feelings might be
obtained. Really, my mind received many fresh ideas which perhaps may
remain in it even longer than Mr. Wigglesworth’s hardest marble will
retain the deepest strokes of his chisel.

An elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for her first love, who had
been killed by a whale in the Pacific Ocean no less than forty years
before. It was singular that so strong an impression of early feeling
should have survived through the changes of her subsequent life, in the
course of which she had been a wife and a mother, and, so far as I
could judge, a comfortable and happy woman. Reflecting within myself,
it appeared to me that this lifelong sorrow—as, in all good faith, she
deemed it—was one of the most fortunate circumstances of her history.
It had given an ideality to her mind; it had kept her purer and less
earthy than she would otherwise have been by drawing a portion of her
sympathies apart from earth. Amid the throng of enjoyments and the
pressure of worldly care and all the warm materialism of this life she
had communed with a vision, and had been the better for such
intercourse. Faithful to the husband of her maturity, and loving him
with a far more real affection than she ever could have felt for this
dream of her girlhood, there had still been an imaginative faith to the
ocean-buried; so that an ordinary character had thus been elevated and
refined. Her sighs had been the breath of Heaven to her soul. The good
lady earnestly desired that the proposed monument should be ornamented
with a carved border of marine plants interwined with twisted
sea-shells, such as were probably waving over her lover’s skeleton or
strewn around it in the far depths of the Pacific. But, Mr.
Wigglesworth’s chisel being inadequate to the task, she was forced to
content herself with a rose hanging its head from a broken stem.

After her departure I remarked that the symbol was none of the most
apt.

“And yet,” said my friend the sculptor, embodying in this image the
thoughts that had been passing through my own mind, “that broken rose
has shed its sweet smell through forty years of the good woman’s life.”

It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food for contemplation as
in the above instance. None of the applicants, I think, affected me
more disagreeably than an old man who came, with his fourth wife
hanging on his arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three former
occupants of his marriage-bed. I watched with some anxiety to see
whether his remembrance of either were more affectionate than of the
other two, but could discover no symptom of the kind. The three
monuments were all to be of the same material and form, and each
decorated in bas-relief with two weeping willows, one of these
sympathetic trees bending over its fellow, which was to be broken in
the midst and rest upon a sepulchral urn. This, indeed, was Mr.
Wigglesworth’s standing emblem of conjugal bereavement. I shuddered at
the gray polygamist who had so utterly lost the holy sense of
individuality in wedlock that methought he was fain to reckon upon his
fingers how many women who had once slept by his side were now sleeping
in their graves. There was even—if I wrong him, it is no great matter—a
glance sidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to drive a
thriftier bargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot.

I was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captain who gave
directions for a broad marble slab divided into two compartments, one
of which was to contain an epitaph on his deceased wife and the other
to be left vacant till death should engrave his own name there. As is
frequently the case among the whalers of Martha’s Vineyard, so much of
this storm-beaten widower’s life had been tossed away on distant seas
that out of twenty years of matrimony he had spent scarce three, and
those at scattered intervals, beneath his own roof. Thus the wife of
his youth, though she died in his and her declining age, retained the
bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory.

My observations gave me the idea, and Mr. Wigglesworth confirmed it,
that husbands were more faithful in setting up memorials to their dead
wives than widows to their dead husbands. I was not ill-natured enough
to fancy that women less than men feel so sure of their own constancy
as to be willing to give a pledge of it in marble. It is more probably
the fact that, while men are able to reflect upon their lost companions
as remembrances apart from themselves, women, on the other hand, are
conscious that a portion of their being has gone with the departed
whithersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul, the living dust has a
sympathy with the dust of the grave; and by the very strength of that
sympathy the wife of the dead shrinks the more sensitively from
reminding the world of its existence. The link is already strong
enough; it needs no visible symbol. And, though a shadow walks ever by
her side and the touch of a chill hand is on her bosom, yet life, and
perchance its natural yearnings, may still be warm within her and
inspire her with new hopes of happiness. Then would she mark out the
grave the scent of which would be perceptible on the pillow of the
second bridal? No, but rather level its green mound with the
surrounding earth, as if, when she dug up again her buried heart, the
spot had ceased to be a grave.

Yet, in spite of these sentimentalities, I was prodigiously amused by
an incident of which I had not the good-fortune to be a witness, but
which Mr. Wigglesworth related with considerable humor. A gentlewoman
of the town, receiving news of her husband’s loss at sea, had bespoken
a handsome slab of marble, and came daily to watch the progress of my
friend’s chisel. One afternoon, when the good lady and the sculptor
were in the very midst of the epitaph—which the departed spirit might
have been greatly comforted to read—who should walk into the workshop
but the deceased himself, in substance as well as spirit! He had been
picked up at sea, and stood in no present need of tombstone or epitaph.

“And how,” inquired I, “did his wife bear the shock of joyful
surprise?”

“Why,” said the old man, deepening the grin of a death’s-head on which
his chisel was just then employed, “I really felt for the poor woman;
it was one of my best pieces of marble—and to be thrown away on a
living man!”

A comely woman with a pretty rosebud of a daughter came to select a
gravestone for a twin-daughter, who had died a month before. I was
impressed with the different nature of their feelings for the dead. The
mother was calm and woefully resigned, fully conscious of her loss, as
of a treasure which she had not always possessed, and therefore had
been aware that it might be taken from her; but the daughter evidently
had no real knowledge of what Death’s doings were. Her thoughts knew,
but not her heart. It seemed to me that by the print and pressure which
the dead sister had left upon the survivor’s spirit her feelings were
almost the same as if she still stood side by side and arm in arm with
the departed, looking at the slabs of marble, and once or twice she
glanced around with a sunny smile, which, as its sister-smile had faded
for ever, soon grew confusedly overshadowed. Perchance her
consciousness was truer than her reflection; perchance her dead sister
was a closer companion than in life.

The mother and daughter talked a long while with Mr. Wigglesworth about
a suitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary verse of ill-matched
rhymes which had already been inscribed upon innumerable tombstones.
But when we ridicule the triteness of monumental verses, we forget that
Sorrow reads far deeper in them than we can, and finds a profound and
individual purport in what seems so vague and inexpressive unless
interpreted by her. She makes the epitaph anew, though the selfsame
words may have served for a thousand graves.

“And yet,” said I afterward to Mr. Wigglesworth, “they might have made
a better choice than this. While you were discussing the subject I was
struck by at least a dozen simple and natural expressions from the lips
of both mother and daughter. One of these would have formed an
inscription equally original and appropriate.”

“No, no!” replied the sculptor, shaking his head; “there is a good deal
of comfort to be gathered from these little old scraps of poetry, and
so I always recommend them in preference to any new-fangled ones. And
somehow they seem to stretch to suit a great grief and shrink to fit a
small one.”

It was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited by what took place
between Mr. Wigglesworth and his customers. A shrewd gentlewoman who
kept a tavern in the town was anxious to obtain two or three
gravestones for the deceased members of her family, and to pay for
these solemn commodities by taking the sculptor to board. Hereupon a
fantasy arose in my mind of good Mr. Wigglesworth sitting down to
dinner at a broad, flat tombstone carving one of his own plump little
marble cherubs, gnawing a pair of crossbones and drinking out of a
hollow death’s-head or perhaps a lachrymatory vase or sepulchral urn,
while his hostess’s dead children waited on him at the ghastly banquet.
On communicating this nonsensical picture to the old man he laughed
heartily and pronounced my humor to be of the right sort.

“I have lived at such a table all my days,” said he, “and eaten no
small quantity of slate and marble.”

“Hard fare,” rejoined I, smiling, “but you seemed to have found it
excellent of digestion, too.”

A man of fifty or thereabouts with a harsh, unpleasant countenance
ordered a stone for the grave of his bitter enemy, with whom he had
waged warfare half a lifetime, to their mutual misery and ruin. The
secret of this phenomenon was that hatred had become the sustenance and
enjoyment of the poor wretch’s soul; it had supplied the place of all
kindly affections; it had been really a bond of sympathy between
himself and the man who shared the passion; and when its object died,
the unappeasable foe was the only mourner for the dead. He expressed a
purpose of being buried side by side with his enemy.

“I doubt whether their dust will mingle,” remarked the old sculptor to
me; for often there was an earthliness in his conceptions.

“Oh yes,” replied I, who had mused long upon the incident; “and when
they rise again, these bitter foes may find themselves dear friends.
Methinks what they mistook for hatred was but love under a mask.”

A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a memorial for an
Indian of Chabbiquidick—one of the few of untainted blood remaining in
that region, and said to be a hereditary chieftain descended from the
sachem who welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr. Wiggles-worth
exerted his best skill to carve a broken bow and scattered sheaf of
arrows in memory of the hunters and warriors whose race was ended here,
but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote that the poor Indian had
shared the Christian’s hope of immortality.

“Why,” observed I, taking a perverse view of the winged boy and the bow
and arrows, “it looks more like Cupid’s tomb than an Indian chief’s.”

“You talk nonsense,” said the sculptor, with the offended pride of art.
He then added with his usual good-nature, “How can Cupid die when there
are such pretty maidens in the Vineyard?”

“Very true,” answered I; and for the rest of the day I thought of other
matters than tombstones.

At our next meeting I found him chiselling an open book upon a marble
headstone, and concluded that it was meant to express the erudition of
some black-letter clergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It turned out,
however, to be emblematical of the scriptural knowledge of an old woman
who had never read anything but her Bible, and the monument was a
tribute to her piety and good works from the orthodox church of which
she had been a member. In strange contrast with this Christian woman’s
memorial was that of an infidel whose gravestone, by his own direction,
bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit within him would be
extinguished like a flame, and that the nothingness whence he sprang
would receive him again.

Mr. Wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety of enabling a dead
man’s dust to utter this dreadful creed.

“If I thought,” said he, “that a single mortal would read the
inscription without a shudder, my chisel should never cut a letter of
it. But when the grave speaks such falsehoods, the soul of man will
know the truth by its own horror.”

“So it will,” said I, struck by the idea. “The poor infidel may strive
to preach blasphemies from his grave, but it will be only another
method of impressing the soul with a consciousness of immortality.”

There was an old man by the name of Norton, noted throughout the island
for his great wealth, which he had accumulated by the exercise of
strong and shrewd faculties combined with a most penurious disposition.
This wretched miser, conscious that he had not a friend to be mindful
of him in his grave, had himself taken the needful precautions for
posthumous remembrance by bespeaking an immense slab of white marble
with a long epitaph in raised letters, the whole to be as magnificent
as Mr. Wigglesworth’s skill could make it. There was something very
characteristic in this contrivance to have his money’s worth even from
his own tombstone, which, indeed, afforded him more enjoyment in the
few months that he lived thereafter than it probably will in a whole
century, now that it is laid over his bones.

This incident reminds me of a young girl—a pale, slender, feeble
creature most unlike the other rosy and healthful damsels of the
Vineyard, amid whose brightness she was fading away. Day after day did
the poor maiden come to the sculptor’s shop and pass from one piece of
marble to another, till at last she pencilled her name upon a slender
slab which, I think, was of a more spotless white than all the rest. I
saw her no more, but soon afterward found Mr. Wigglesworth cutting her
virgin-name into the stone which she had chosen.

“She is dead, poor girl!” said he, interrupting the tune which he was
whistling, “and she chose a good piece of stuff for her headstone. Now,
which of these slabs would you like best to see your own name upon?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, my good Mr. Wigglesworth,” replied I,
after a moment’s pause, for the abruptness of the question had somewhat
startled me—“to be quite sincere with you, I care little or nothing
about a stone for my own grave, and am somewhat inclined to scepticism
as to the propriety of erecting monuments at all over the dust that
once was human. The weight of these heavy marbles, though unfelt by the
dead corpse or the enfranchised soul, presses drearily upon the spirit
of the survivor and causes him to connect the idea of death with the
dungeon-like imprisonment of the tomb, instead of with the freedom of
the skies. Every gravestone that you ever made is the visible symbol of
a mistaken system. Our thoughts should soar upward with the butterfly,
not linger with the exuviæ that confined him. In truth and reason,
neither those whom we call the living, and still less the departed,
have anything to do with the grave.”

“I never heard anything so heathenish,” said Mr. Wigglesworth,
perplexed and displeased at sentiments which controverted all his
notions and feelings and implied the utter waste, and worse, of his
whole life’s labor. “Would you forget your dead friends the moment they
are under the sod?”

“They are not under the sod,” I rejoined; “then why should I mark the
spot where there is no treasure hidden? Forget them? No; but, to
remember them aright, I would forget what they have cast off. And to
gain the truer conception of death I would forget the grave.”

But still the good old sculptor murmured, and stumbled, as it were,
over the gravestones amid which he had walked through life. Whether he
were right or wrong, I had grown the wiser from our companionship and
from my observations of nature and character as displayed by those who
came, with their old griefs or their new ones, to get them recorded
upon his slabs of marble. And yet with my gain of wisdom I had likewise
gained perplexity; for there was a strange doubt in my mind whether the
dark shadowing of this life, the sorrows and regrets, have not as much
real comfort in them—leaving religious influences out of the
question—as what we term life’s joys.




THE SHAKER BRIDAL


One day, in the sick-chamber of Father Ephraim, who had been forty
years the presiding elder over the Shaker settlement at Goshen, there
was an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. Individuals
had come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury,
Harvard and Alfred, and from all the other localities where this
strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of New England by their
systematic industry. An elder was likewise there who had made a
pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful in
Kentucky to visit his spiritual kindred the children of the sainted
Mother Ann. He had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables,
had quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred
dance every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast from
earth and bear him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. His brethren of
the North had now courteously invited him to be present on an occasion
when the concurrence of every eminent member of their community was
peculiarly desirable.

The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not only
hoary-headed and infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering disease
which it was evident would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to
other hands. At his footstool stood a man and woman, both clad in the
Shaker garb.

“My brethren,” said Father Ephraim to the surrounding elders, feebly
exerting himself to utter these few words, “here are the son and
daughter to whom I would commit the trust of which Providence is about
to lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and say
whether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choice
aright.”

Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most
scrutinizing gaze. The man—whose name was Adam Colburn—had a face
sunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful and
traced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely
reached middle age. There was something severe in his aspect and a
rigidity throughout his person—characteristics that caused him
generally to be taken for a schoolmaster; which vocation, in fact, he
had formerly exercised for several years. The woman, Martha Pierson,
was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost
invariably is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance
which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart.

“This pair are still in the summer of their years,” observed the elder
from Harvard, a shrewd old man. “I would like better to see the
hoar-frost of autumn on their heads. Methinks, also, they will be
exposed to peculiar temptations on account of the carnal desires which
have heretofore subsisted between them.”

“Nay, brother,” said the elder from Canterbury; “the hoar-frost and the
black frost hath done its work on Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even
as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields while they are yet
green. And why should we question the wisdom of our venerable Father’s
purpose, although this pair in their early youth have loved one another
as the world’s people love? Are there not many brethren and sisters
among us who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our
faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?”

Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had rendered it
inexpedient that they should now preside together over a Shaker
village, it was certainly most singular that such should be the final
result of many warm and tender hopes. Children of neighboring families,
their affection was older even than their school-days; it seemed an
innate principle interfused among all their sentiments and feelings,
and not so much a distinct remembrance as connected with their whole
volume of remembrances. But just as they reached a proper age for their
union misfortunes had fallen heavily on both and made it necessary that
they should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. Even under
these circumstances Martha Pierson would probably have consented to
unite her fate with Adam Colburn’s, and, secure of the bliss of mutual
love, would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of Fortune.
But Adam, being of a calm and cautious character, was loth to
relinquish the advantages which a single man possesses for raising
himself in the world. Year after year, therefore, their marriage had
been deferred.

Adam Colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far and seen
much of the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread sometimes as
a sempstress, sometimes as help to a farmer’s wife, sometimes as
schoolmistress of the village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher
of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience the ultimate use of
which she little anticipated. But nothing had gone prosperously with
either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would matrimony have been
so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in the opening
bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. Still, they had held fast
their mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man who sat
among the senators of his native State, and Adam could have won the
hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, of a rich and comely
widow. But neither of them desired good-fortune save to share it with
the other.

At length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhat
stubborn character and yields to no second spring of hope settled down
on the spirit of Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha and
proposed that they should join the Society of Shakers. The converts of
this sect are oftener driven within its hospitable gates by worldly
misfortune than drawn thither by fanaticism, and are received without
inquisition as to their motives. Martha, faithful still, had placed her
hand in that of her lover and accompanied him to the Shaker village.
Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the
difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them an important
rank in the society, whose members are generally below the ordinary
standard of intelligence. Their faith and feelings had in some degree
become assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. Adam Colburn
gradually acquired reputation not only in the management of the
temporal affairs of the society, but as a clear and efficient preacher
of their doctrines. Martha was not less distinguished in the duties
proper to her sex. Finally, when the infirmities of Father Ephraim had
admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he
thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed to renew in their persons the
primitive form of Shaker government as established by Mother Ann. They
were to be the father and mother of the village. The simple ceremony
which would constitute them such was now to be performed.

“Son Adam and daughter Martha,” said the venerable Father Ephraim,
fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, “if ye can conscientiously
undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your
fitness.”

“Father,” replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, “I
came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, worn out
with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil fortune,
as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes of worldly success were almost
dead within me. I came hither as a man might come to a tomb willing to
lie down in its gloom and coldness for the sake of its peace and quiet.
There was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown
calmer since my youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be my
sister in our new abode. We are brother and sister, nor would I have it
otherwise. And in this peaceful village I have found all that I hope
for—all that I desire. I will strive with my best strength for the
spiritual and temporal good of our community. My conscience is not
doubtful in this matter. I am ready to receive the trust.”

“Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,” said the father. “God will bless
thee in the office which I am about to resign.”

“But our sister,” observed the elder from Harvard. “Hath she not
likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?”

Martha started and moved her lips as if she would have made a formal
reply to this appeal. But, had she attempted it, perhaps the old
recollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth and
womanhood, might have gushed from her heart in words that it would have
been profanation to utter there.

“Adam has spoken,” said she, hurriedly; “his sentiments are likewise
mine.”

But while speaking these few words Martha grew so pale that she looked
fitter to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence of Father
Ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something
awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. It required, indeed, a
more than feminine strength of nerve to sustain the fixed observance of
men so exalted and famous throughout the sect as these were. They had
overcome their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections.
One, when he joined the society, had brought with him his wife and
children, but never from that hour had spoken a fond word to the former
or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. Another, whose family
refused to follow him, had been enabled—such was his gift of holy
fortitude—to leave them to the mercy of the world. The youngest of the
elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a Shaker
village, and was said never to have clasped a woman’s hand in his own,
and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one
of the sect. Old Father Ephraim was the most awful character of all. In
his youth he had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by
Mother Ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the
early Shakers. Tradition whispered at the firesides of the village that
Mother Ann had been compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot
iron before it could be purified from earthly passions.

However that might be, poor Martha had a woman’s heart, and a tender
one, and it quailed within her as she looked round at those strange old
men, and from them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But,
perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath
and again spoke.

“With what strength is left me by my many troubles,” said she, “I am
ready to undertake this charge, and to do my best in it.”

“My children, join your hands,” said Father Ephraim.

They did so. The elders stood up around, and the father feebly raised
himself to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his great
chair.

“I have bidden you to join your hands,” said he, “not in earthly
affection, for ye have cast off its chains for ever, but as brother and
sister in spiritual love and helpers of one another in your allotted
task. Teach unto others the faith which ye have received. Open wide
your gates—I deliver you the keys thereof—open them wide to all who
will give up the iniquities of the world and come hither to lead lives
of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones who have known the vanity
of earth; receive the little children, that they may never learn that
miserable lesson. And a blessing be upon your labors; so that the time
may hasten on when the mission of Mother Ann shall have wrought its
full effect, when children shall no more be born and die, and the last
survivor of mortal race—some old and weary man like me—shall see the
sun go down nevermore to rise on a world of sin and sorrow.”

The aged father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed,
with good reason, that the hour was come when the new heads of the
village must enter on their patriarchal duties. In their attention to
Father Ephraim their eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who grew
paler and paler, unnoticed even by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, had
withdrawn his hand from hers and folded his arms with a sense of
satisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Martha by his side, till,
like a corpse in its burial-clothes, she sank down at the feet of her
early lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could
endure the weight of its desolate agony no longer.




NIGHT-SKETCHES,

BENEATH AN UMBRELLA

Pleasant is a rainy winter’s day within-doors. The best study for such
a day—or the best amusement: call it what you will—is a book of travels
describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which is mistily
presented through the windows. I have experienced that Fancy is then
most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the
objects which the author has spread upon his page, and that his words
become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures. Strange
landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and
outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred precincts
of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has space enough to contain
the ocean-like circumference of an Arabian desert, its parched sands
tracked by the long line of a caravan with the camels patiently
journeying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceiling be not lofty,
yet I can pile up the mountains of Central Asia beneath it till their
summits shine far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And with
my humble means—a wealth that is not taxable—I can transport hither the
magnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of
purchasers from distant countries to pay a fair profit for the precious
articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is, however, that
amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to be going on
around me, the raindrops will occasionally be heard to patter against
my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in a
New England town. After a time, too, the visions vanish, and will not
appear again at my bidding. Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of
unreality depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out before the
clock shall strike bedtime to satisfy myself that the world is not
entirely made up of such shadowy materials as have busied me throughout
the day. A dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies that the things
without him will seem as unreal as those within.

When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightly buttoning
my shaggy overcoat and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which
immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible
raindrops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth and
cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill
discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Now come fearful auguries
innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my manhood cry shame upon me,
I should turn back within-doors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers and
my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has
been, and go to bed inglorious. The same shivering reluctance, no
doubt, has quelled for a moment the adventurous spirit of many a
traveller when his feet, which were destined to measure the earth
around, were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths.

In my own case poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. I
look upward and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only
a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights
were blotted from the system of the universe. It is as if Nature were
dead and the world had put on black and the clouds were weeping for
her. With their tears upon my cheek I turn my eyes earthward, but find
little consolation here below. A lamp is burning dimly at the distant
corner, and throws just enough of light along the street to show, and
exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties which
beset my path. Yonder dingily-white remnant of a huge snowbank, which
will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter days of March, over or
through that wintry waste must I stride onward. Beyond lies a certain
Slough of Despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep,
leg-deep, neck-deep—in a word, of unknown bottom—on which the lamplight
does not even glimmer, but which I have occasionally watched in the
gradual growth of its horrors from morn till nightfall. Should I
flounder into its depths, farewell to upper earth! And hark! how
roughly resounds the roaring of a stream the turbulent career of which
is partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls
noisily through the densest gloom! Oh, should I be swept away in
fording that impetuous and unclean torrent, the coroner will have a job
with an unfortunate gentleman who would fain end his troubles anywhere
but in a mud-puddle.

Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm’s-length from these dim
terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable the longer I delay to
grapple with them. Now for the onset, and, lo! with little damage save
a dash of rain in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up the
pantaloons and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the
corner of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of red light around
me, and twinkling onward from corner to corner I discern other beacons,
marshalling my way to a brighter scene. But this is a lonesome and
dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to the storm with
their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a spattering
gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! The
puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various
quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is a haunt and
loitering-place for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep
dashing ships against our iron-bound shores, nor in the forest tearing
up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots. Here
they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. See, at this
moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is passing just within
the verge of the lamplight! One blast struggles for her umbrella and
turns it wrong side outward, another whisks the cape of her cloak
across her eyes, while a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with
the lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame is no gossamer,
but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance; else would these
aerial tormentors whirl her aloft like a witch upon a broomstick, and
set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest kennel hereabout.

From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.
Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great
victory has been won either on the battlefield or at the polls. Two
rows of shops with windows down nearly to the ground cast a glow from
side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and
thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet sidewalks
gleam with a broad sheet of red light. The raindrops glitter as if the
sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks the
scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw around
their footsteps in the moral world, thus bedazzling themselves till
they forget the impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can
be dispelled only by radiance from above.

And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the
wanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar with
tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a
friendly greeting, as if it should say, “How fare ye, brother?” He is a
retired sea-captain wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea-jacket
order, and is now laying his course toward the marine-insurance office,
there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck with a crew of old seadogs
like himself. The blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices,
and be understood by all of them. Next I meet an unhappy slipshod
gentleman with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race
with boisterous winds and striving to glide between the drops of rain.
Some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his
warm fireside in quest of a doctor. See that little vagabond! How
carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a spout while
staring at some object of curiosity in a shop-window! Surely the rain
is his native element; he must have fallen with it from the clouds, as
frogs are supposed to do.

Here is a picture, and a pretty one—a young man and a girl, both
enveloped in cloaks and huddled beneath the scanty protection of a
cotton umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes, but he is in his
dancing-pumps, and they are on their way no doubt, to some
cotillon-party or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshments
included. Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onward
by a vision of festal splendor. But ah! a most lamentable disaster!
Bewildered by the red, blue and yellow meteors in an apothecary’s
window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are
precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two
streets. Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be other than a
looker-on in life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that may not be,
I vow, should you be drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your
fate as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew. Do ye
touch bottom, my young friends? Yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and
a river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the dark
pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, but with
love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. They have stood a test
which proves too strong for many. Faithful though over head and ears in
trouble!

Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied
aspect of mortal affairs even as my figure catches a gleam from the
lighted windows or is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not that
mine is altogether a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own. Now I
pass into a more retired street where the dwellings of wealth and
poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly-contrasted
pictures. Here, too, may be found the golden mean. Through yonder
casement I discern a family circle—the grandmother, the parents and the
children—all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a
wood-fire.—Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against
the window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.—Surely
my fate is hard that I should be wandering homeless here, taking to my
bosom night and storm and solitude instead of wife and children. Peace,
murmurer! Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth,
though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images.

Well, here is still a brighter scene—a stately mansion illuminated for
a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room,
and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. See! a coach has stopped,
whence emerges a slender beauty who, canopied by two umbrellas, glides
within the portal and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. Will
she ever feel the night-wind and the rain? Perhaps—perhaps! And will
Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud mansion? As surely as the
dancers will be gay within its halls to-night. Such thoughts sadden yet
satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man in this mean,
weatherbeaten hovel, without a fire to cheer him, may call the rich his
brother—brethren by Sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their
households; brethren by Death, who will lead them both to other homes.

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached the
utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with
the darkness like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders
of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations of sublimity may
spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested by this hollow
roar of a subterranean cataract where the mighty stream of a kennel
precipitates itself beneath an iron grate and is seen no more on earth.
Listen a while to its voice of mystery, and Fancy will magnify it till
you start and smile at the illusion. And now another sound—the rumbling
of wheels as the mail-coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the
pavements and splashes through the mud and water of the road. All night
long the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch
and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds and awake to
find themselves still jolting onward. Happier my lot, who will
straightway hie me to my familiar room and toast myself comfortably
before the fire, musing and fitfully dozing and fancying a strangeness
in such sights as all may see. But first let me gaze at this solitary
figure who comes hitherward with a tin lantern which throws the
circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. He
passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow
him.

This figure shall supply me with a moral wherewith, for lack of a more
appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to tread the
dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the
fireside of his home, will light him back to that same fireside again.
And thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, if we
bear the lamp of Faith enkindled at a celestial fire, it will surely
lead us home to that heaven whence its radiance was borrowed.




ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS


At noon of an autumnal day more than two centuries ago the English
colors were displayed by the standard bearer of the Salem train-band,
which had mustered for martial exercise under the orders of John
Endicott. It was a period when the religious exiles were accustomed
often to buckle on their armor and practise the handling of their
weapons of war. Since the first settlement of New England its prospects
had never been so dismal. The dissensions between Charles I. and his
subjects were then, and for several years afterward, confined to the
floor of Parliament. The measures of the king and ministry were
rendered more tyrannically violent by an opposition which had not yet
acquired sufficient confidence in its own strength to resist royal
injustice with the sword. The bigoted and haughty primate Laud,
archbishop of Canterbury, controlled the religious affairs of the
realm, and was consequently invested with powers which might have
wrought the utter ruin of the two Puritan colonies, Plymouth and
Massachusetts. There is evidence on record that our forefathers
perceived their danger, but were resolved that their infant country
should not fall without a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of
the king’s right arm.

Such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the English banner
with the red cross in its field were flung out over a company of
Puritans. Their leader, the famous Endicott, was a man of stern and
resolute countenance, the effect of which was heightened by a grizzled
beard that swept the upper portion of his breastplate. This piece of
armor was so highly polished that the whole surrounding scene had its
image in the glittering steel. The central object in the mirrored
picture was an edifice of humble architecture with neither steeple nor
bell to proclaim it—what, nevertheless, it was—the house of prayer. A
token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the grim head of a
wolf which had just been slain within the precincts of the town, and,
according to the regular mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the
porch of the meeting-house. The blood was still plashing on the
doorstep. There happened to be visible at the same noontide hour so
many other characteristics of the times and manners of the Puritans
that we must endeavor to represent them in a sketch, though far less
vividly than they were reflected in the polished breastplate of John
Endicott.

In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that important engine
of Puritanic authority the whipping-post, with the soil around it well
trodden by the feet of evil-doers who had there been disciplined. At
one corner of the meeting-house was the pillory and at the other the
stocks, and, by a singular good fortune for our sketch, the head of an
Episcopalian and suspected Catholic was grotesquely encased in the
former machine, while a fellow-criminal who had boisterously quaffed a
health to the king was confined by the legs in the latter. Side by side
on the meeting-house steps stood a male and a female figure. The man
was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bearing on his
breast this label, “A WANTON GOSPELLER,” which betokened that he had
dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ unsanctioned by the
infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect
showed no lack of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies even at the stake.
The woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate retribution
for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church,
and her countenance and gestures gave much cause to apprehend that the
moment the stick should be removed a repetition of the offence would
demand new ingenuity in chastising it.

The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their
various modes of ignominy for the space of one hour at noonday. But
among the crowd were several whose punishment would be lifelong—some
whose ears had been cropped like those of puppy-dogs, others whose
cheeks had been branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one
with his nostrils slit and seared, and another with a halter about his
neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off or to conceal beneath his
garments. Methinks he must have been grievously tempted to affix the
other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. There was
likewise a young woman with no mean share of beauty whose doom it was
to wear the letter A on the breast of her gown in the eyes of all the
world and her own children. And even her own children knew what that
initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate
creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth with golden
thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital A might
have been thought to mean “Admirable,” or anything rather than
“Adulteress.”

Let not the reader argue from any of these evidences of iniquity that
the times of the Puritans were more vicious than our own, when as we
pass along the very street of this sketch we discern no badge of infamy
on man or woman. It was the policy of our ancestors to search out even
the most secret sins and expose them to shame, without fear or favor,
in the broadest light of the noonday sun. Were such the custom now,
perchance we might find materials for a no less piquant sketch than the
above.

Except the malefactors whom we have described and the diseased or
infirm persons, the whole male population of the town, between sixteen
years and sixty were seen in the ranks of the train-band. A few stately
savages in all the pomp and dignity of the primeval Indian stood gazing
at the spectacle. Their flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons,
compared with the matchlocks of the Puritans, and would have rattled
harmlessly against the steel caps and hammered iron breastplates which
enclosed each soldier in an individual fortress. The valiant John
Endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy followers, and
prepared to renew the martial toils of the day.

“Come, my stout hearts!” quoth he, drawing his sword. “Let us show
these poor heathen that we can handle our weapons like men of might.
Well for them if they put us not to prove it in earnest!”

The iron-breasted company straightened their line, and each man drew
the heavy butt of his matchlock close to his left foot, thus awaiting
the orders of the captain. But as Endicott glanced right and left along
the front he discovered a personage at some little distance with whom
it behoved him to hold a parley. It was an elderly gentleman wearing a
black cloak and band and a high-crowned hat beneath which was a velvet
skull-cap, the whole being the garb of a Puritan minister. This
reverend person bore a staff which seemed to have been recently cut in
the forest, and his shoes were bemired, as if he had been travelling on
foot through the swamps of the wilderness. His aspect was perfectly
that of a pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic dignity. Just as
Endicott perceived him he laid aside his staff and stooped to drink at
a bubbling fountain which gushed into the sunshine about a score of
yards from the corner of the meeting-house. But ere the good man drank
he turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, holding back
his gray beard with one hand, he scooped up his simple draught in the
hollow of the other.

“What ho, good Mr. Williams!” shouted Endicott. “You are welcome back
again to our town of peace. How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? And
what news from Boston?”

“The governor hath his health, worshipful sir,” answered Roger
Williams, now resuming his staff and drawing near. “And, for the news,
here is a letter which, knowing I was to travel hitherward to-day, His
Excellency committed to my charge. Belike it contains tidings of much
import, for a ship arrived yesterday from England.”

Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem, and of course known to all the
spectators, had now reached the spot where Endicott was standing under
the banner of his company, and put the governor’s epistle into his
hand. The broad seal was impressed with Winthrop’s coat-of-arms.
Endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began to read, while, as his
eye passed down the page, a wrathful change came over his manly
countenance. The blood glowed through it till it seemed to be kindling
with an internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose that his
breastplate would likewise become red hot with the angry fire of the
bosom which it covered. Arriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter
fiercely in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above his
head.

“Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,” said he; “blacker never came to
New England. Doubtless you know their purport?”

“Yea, truly,” replied Roger Williams, “for the governor consulted
respecting this matter with my brethren in the ministry at Boston, and
my opinion was likewise asked. And His Excellency entreats you by me
that the news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be stirred
up unto some outbreak, and thereby give the king and the archbishop a
handle against us.”

“The governor is a wise man—a wise man, and a meek and moderate,” said
Endicott, setting his teeth grimly. “Nevertheless, I must do according
to my own best judgment. There is neither man, woman nor child in New
England but has a concern as dear as life in these tidings; and if John
Endicott’s voice be loud enough, man, woman and child shall hear
them.—Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square.—Ho, good people! Here are
news for one and all of you.”

The soldiers closed in around their captain, and he and Roger Williams
stood together under the banner of the red cross, while the women and
the aged men pressed forward and the mothers held up their children to
look Endicott in the face. A few taps of the drum gave signal for
silence and attention.

“Fellow-soldiers, fellow-exiles,” began Endicott, speaking under strong
excitement, yet powerfully restraining it, “wherefore did ye leave your
native country? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green and fertile
fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were
born and bred, the churchyards where our forefathers lie buried?
Wherefore have we come hither to set up our own tombstones in a
wilderness? A howling wilderness it is. The wolf and the bear meet us
within halloo of our dwellings. The savage lieth in wait for us in the
dismal shadow of the woods. The stubborn roots of the trees break our
ploughshares when we would till the earth. Our children cry for bread,
and we must dig in the sands of the seashore to satisfy them.
Wherefore, I say again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil
and wintry sky? Was it not for the enjoyment of our civil rights? Was
it not for liberty to worship God according to our conscience?”

“Call you this liberty of conscience?” interrupted a voice on the steps
of the meeting-house.

It was the wanton gospeller. A sad and quiet smile flitted across the
mild visage of Roger Williams, but Endicott, in the excitement of the
moment, shook his sword wrathfully at the culprit—an ominous gesture
from a man like him.

“What hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?” cried he. “I said
liberty to worship God, not license to profane and ridicule him. Break
not in upon my speech, or I will lay thee neck and heels till this time
to-morrow.—Hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapsodist.
As I was saying, we have sacrificed all things, and have come to a land
whereof the Old World hath scarcely heard, that we might make a new
world unto ourselves and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven.
But what think ye now? This son of a Scotch tyrant—this grandson of a
papistical and adulterous Scotch woman whose death proved that a golden
crown doth not always save an anointed head from the block—”

“Nay, brother, nay,” interposed Mr. Williams; “thy words are not meet
for a secret chamber, far less for a public street.”

“Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!” answered Endicott, imperiously. “My
spirit is wiser than thine for the business now in hand.—I tell ye,
fellow-exiles, that Charles of England and Laud, our bitterest
persecutor, arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even
hither. They are taking counsel, saith this letter, to send over a
governor-general in whose breast shall be deposited all the law and
equity of the land. They are minded, also, to establish the idolatrous
forms of English episcopacy; so that when Laud shall kiss the pope’s
toe as cardinal of Rome he may deliver New England, bound hand and
foot, into the power of his master.”

A deep groan from the auditors—a sound of wrath as well as fear and
sorrow—responded to this intelligence.

“Look ye to it, brethren,” resumed Endicott, with increasing energy.
“If this king and this arch-prelate have their will, we shall briefly
behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded,
and a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at
noon-day. We shall hear the sacring-bell and the voices of the Romish
priests saying the mass. But think ye, Christian men, that these
abominations may be suffered without a sword drawn, without a shot
fired, without blood spilt—yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit? No!
Be ye strong of hand and stout of heart. Here we stand on our own soil,
which we have bought with our goods, which we have won with our swords,
which we have cleared with our axes, which we have tilled with the
sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to the
God that brought us hither! Who shall enslave us here? What have we to
do with this mitred prelate—with this crowned king? What have we to do
with England?”

Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now
full of his own spirit, and then turned suddenly to the
standard-bearer, who stood close behind him.

“Officer, lower your banner,” said he.

The officer obeyed, and, brandishing his sword, Endicott thrust it
through the cloth and with his left hand rent the red cross completely
out of the banner. He then waved the tattered ensign above his head.

“Sacrilegious wretch!” cried the high-churchman in the pillory, unable
longer to restrain himself; “thou hast rejected the symbol of our holy
religion.”

“Treason! treason!” roared the royalist in the stocks. “He hath defaced
the king’s banner!”

“Before God and man I will avouch the deed,” answered Endicott.—“Beat a
flourish, drummer—shout, soldiers and people—in honor of the ensign of
New England. Neither pope nor tyrant hath part in it now.”

With a cry of triumph the people gave their sanction to one of the
boldest exploits which our history records. And for ever honored be the
name of Endicott! We look back through the mist of ages, and recognize
in the rending of the red cross from New England’s banner the first
omen of that deliverance which our fathers consummated after the bones
of the stern Puritan had lain more than a century in the dust.




THE LILY’S QUEST

AN APOLOGUE

Two lovers once upon a time had planned a little summer-house in the
form of an antique temple which it was their purpose to consecrate to
all manner of refined and innocent enjoyments. There they would hold
pleasant intercourse with one another and the circle of their familiar
friends; there they would give festivals of delicious fruit; there they
would hear lightsome music intermingled with the strains of pathos
which make joy more sweet; there they would read poetry and fiction and
permit their own minds to flit away in day-dreams and romance; there,
in short—for why should we shape out the vague sunshine of their
hopes?—there all pure delights were to cluster like roses among the
pillars of the edifice and blossom ever new and spontaneously.

So one breezy and cloudless afternoon Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set
out upon a ramble over the wide estate which they were to possess
together, seeking a proper site for their temple of happiness. They
were themselves a fair and happy spectacle, fit priest and priestess
for such a shrine, although, making poetry of the pretty name of
Lilias, Adam Forrester was wont to call her “Lily” because her form was
as fragile and her cheek almost as pale. As they passed hand in hand
down the avenue of drooping elms that led from the portal of Lilias
Fay’s paternal mansion they seemed to glance like winged creatures
through the strips of sunshine, and to scatter brightness where the
deep shadows fell.

But, setting forth at the same time with this youthful pair, there was
a dismal figure wrapped in a black velvet cloak that might have been
made of a coffin-pall, and with a sombre hat such as mourners wear
drooping its broad brim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, the
lovers well knew who it was that followed, but wished from their hearts
that he had been elsewhere, as being a companion so strangely unsuited
to their joyous errand. It was a near relative of Lilias Fay, an old
man by the name of Walter Gascoigne, who had long labored under the
burden of a melancholy spirit which was sometimes maddened into
absolute insanity and always had a tinge of it. What a contrast between
the young pilgrims of bliss and their unbidden associate! They looked
as if moulded of heaven’s sunshine and he of earth’s gloomiest shade;
they flitted along like Hope and Joy roaming hand in hand through life,
while his darksome figure stalked behind, a type of all the woeful
influences which life could fling upon them.

But the three had not gone far when they reached a spot that pleased
the gentle Lily, and she paused.

“What sweeter place shall we find than this?” said she. “Why should we
seek farther for the site of our temple?”

It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though undistinguished by any
very prominent beauties, being merely a nook in the shelter of a hill,
with the prospect of a distant lake in one direction and of a
church-spire in another. There were vistas and pathways leading onward
and onward into the green woodlands and vanishing away in the
glimmering shade. The temple, if erected here, would look toward the
west; so that the lovers could shape all sorts of magnificent dreams
out of the purple, violet and gold of the sunset sky, and few of their
anticipated pleasures were dearer than this sport of fantasy.

“Yes,” said Adam Forrester; “we might seek all day and find no lovelier
spot. We will build our temple here.”

But their sad old companion, who had taken his stand on the very site
which they proposed to cover with a marble floor, shook his head and
frowned, and the young man and the Lily deemed it almost enough to
blight the spot and desecrate it for their airy temple that his dismal
figure had thrown its shadow there. He pointed to some scattered
stones, the remnants of a former structure, and to flowers such as
young girls delight to nurse in their gardens, but which had now
relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature.

“Not here,” cried old Walter Gascoigne. “Here, long ago, other mortals
built their temple of happiness; seek another site for yours.”

“What!” exclaimed Lilias Fay. “Have any ever planned such a temple save
ourselves?”

“Poor child!” said her gloomy kinsman. “In one shape or other every
mortal has dreamed your dream.” Then he told the lovers, how—not,
indeed, an antique temple, but a dwelling—had once stood there, and
that a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting for ever at
the fireside and poisoning all their household mirth.

Under this type Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that the old man spake of
sorrow. He told of nothing that might not be recorded in the history of
almost every household, and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine
ought to fall upon a spot where human grief had left so deep a
stain—or, at least, that no joyous temple should be built there.

“This is very sad,” said the Lily, sighing.

“Well, there are lovelier spots than this,” said Adam Forrester,
soothingly—“spots which sorrow has not blighted.”

So they hastened away, and the melancholy Gascoigne followed them,
looking as if he had gathered up all the gloom of the deserted spot and
was bearing it as a burden of inestimable treasure. But still they
rambled on, and soon found themselves in a rocky dell through the midst
of which ran a streamlet with ripple and foam and a continual voice of
inarticulate joy. It was a wild retreat walled on either side with gray
precipices which would have frowned somewhat too sternly had not a
profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into their crevices and
wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows. But the chief joy
of the dell was in the little stream which seemed like the presence of
a blissful child with nothing earthly to do save to babble merrily and
disport itself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and throw
the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all.

“Here, here is the spot!” cried the two lovers, with one voice, as they
reached a level space on the brink of a small cascade. “This glen was
made on purpose for our temple.”

“And the glad song of the brook will be always in our ears,” said
Lilias Fay.

“And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime,” said Adam
Forrester.

“Ye must build no temple here,” murmured their dismal companion.

And there again was the old lunatic standing just on the spot where
they meant to rear their lightsome dome, and looking like the embodied
symbol of some great woe that in forgotten days had happened there.
And, alas! there had been woe, nor that alone. A young man more than a
hundred years before had lured hither a girl that loved him, and on
this spot had murdered her and washed his bloody hands in the stream
which sang so merrily, and ever since the victim’s death-shrieks were
often heard to echo between the cliffs.

“And see!” cried old Gascoigne; “is the stream yet pure from the stain
of the murderer’s hands?”

“Methinks it has a tinge of blood,” faintly answered the Lily; and,
being as slight as the gossamer, she trembled and clung to her lover’s
arm, whispering, “Let us flee from this dreadful vale.”

“Come, then,” said Adam Forrester as cheerily as he could; “we shall
soon find a happier spot.”

They set forth again, young pilgrims on that quest which millions—which
every child of earth—has tried in turn.

And were the Lily and her lover to be more fortunate than all those
millions? For a long time it seemed not so. The dismal shape of the old
lunatic still glided behind them, and for every spot that looked lovely
in their eyes he had some legend of human wrong or suffering so
miserably sad that his auditors could never afterward connect the idea
of joy with the place where it had happened. Here a heartbroken woman
kneeling to her child had been spurned from his feet; here a desolate
old creature had prayed to the evil one, and had received a fiendish
malignity of soul in answer to her prayer; here a new-born infant,
sweet blossom of life, had been found dead with the impress of its
mother’s fingers round its throat; and here, under a shattered oak, two
lovers had been stricken by lightning and fell blackened corpses in
each other’s arms. The dreary Gascoigne had a gift to know whatever
evil and lamentable thing had stained the bosom of Mother Earth; and
when his funereal voice had told the tale, it appeared like a prophecy
of future woe as well as a tradition of the past. And now, by their sad
demeanor, you would have fancied that the pilgrim-lovers were seeking,
not a temple of earthly joy, but a tomb for themselves and their
posterity.

“Where in this world,” exclaimed Adam Forrester, despondingly, “shall
we build our temple of happiness?”

“Where in this world, indeed?” repeated Lilias Fay; and, being faint
and weary—the more so by the heaviness of her heart—the Lily drooped
her head and sat down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, “Where in
this world shall we build our temple?”

“Ah! have you already asked yourselves that question?” said their
companion, his shaded features growing even gloomier with the smile
that dwelt on them. “Yet there is a place even in this world where ye
may build it.”

While the old man spoke Adam Forrester and Lilias had carelessly thrown
their eyes around, and perceived that the spot where they had chanced
to pause possessed a quiet charm which was well enough adapted to their
present mood of mind. It was a small rise of ground with a certain
regularity of shape that had perhaps been bestowed by art, and a group
of trees which almost surrounded it threw their pensive shadows across
and far beyond, although some softened glory of the sunshine found its
way there. The ancestral mansion wherein the lovers would dwell
together appeared on one side, and the ivied church where they were to
worship on another. Happening to cast their eyes on the ground, they
smiled, yet with a sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was growing
at their feet.

“We will build our temple here,” said they, simultaneously, and with an
indescribable conviction that they had at last found the very spot.

Yet while they uttered this exclamation the young man and the Lily
turned an apprehensive glance at their dreary associate, deeming it
hardly possible that some tale of earthly affliction should not make
those precincts loathsome, as in every former case. The old man stood
just behind them, so as to form the chief figure in the group, with his
sable cloak muffling the lower part of his visage and his sombre hat
overshadowing his brows. But he gave no word of dissent from their
purpose, and an inscrutable smile was accepted by the lovers as a token
that here had been no footprint of guilt or sorrow to desecrate the
site of their temple of happiness.

In a little time longer, while summer was still in its prime, the
fairy-structure of the temple arose on the summit of the knoll amid the
solemn shadows of the trees, yet often gladdened with bright sunshine.
It was built of white marble, with slender and graceful pillars
supporting a vaulted dome, and beneath the centre of this dome, upon a
pedestal, was a slab of dark-veined marble on which books and music
might be strewn. But there was a fantasy among the people of the
neighborhood that the edifice was planned after an ancient mausoleum
and was intended for a tomb, and that the central slab of dark-veined
marble was to be inscribed with the names of buried ones. They doubted,
too, whether the form of Lilias Fay could appertain to a creature of
this earth, being so very delicate and growing every day more fragile,
so that she looked as if the summer breeze should snatch her up and
waft her heavenward. But still she watched the daily growth of the
temple, and so did old Walter Gascoigne, who now made that spot his
continual haunt, leaning whole hours together on his staff and giving
as deep attention to the work as though it had been indeed a tomb. In
due time it was finished and a day appointed for a simple rite of
dedication.

On the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester had taken leave of his
mistress, he looked back toward the portal of her dwelling and felt a
strange thrill of fear, for he imagined that as the setting sunbeams
faded from her figure she was exhaling away, and that something of her
ethereal substance was withdrawn with each lessening gleam of light.
With his farewell glance a shadow had fallen over the portal, and
Lilias was invisible. His foreboding spirit deemed it an omen at the
time, and so it proved; for the sweet earthly form by which the Lily
had been manifested to the world was found lifeless the next morning in
the temple with her head resting on her arms, which were folded upon
the slab of dark-veined marble. The chill winds of the earth had long
since breathed a blight into this beautiful flower; so that a loving
hand had now transplanted it to blossom brightly in the garden of
Paradise.

But alas for the temple of happiness! In his unutterable grief Adam
Forrester had no purpose more at heart than to convert this temple of
many delightful hopes into a tomb and bury his dead mistress there.
And, lo! a wonder! Digging a grave beneath the temple’s marble floor,
the sexton found no virgin earth such as was meet to receive the
maiden’s dust, but an ancient sepulchre in which were treasured up the
bones of generations that had died long ago. Among those forgotten
ancestors was the Lily to be laid; and when the funeral procession
brought Lilias thither in her coffin, they beheld old Walter Gascoigne
standing beneath the dome of the temple with his cloak of pall and face
of darkest gloom, and wherever that figure might take its stand the
spot would seem a sepulchre. He watched the mourners as they lowered
the coffin down.

“And so,” said he to Adam Forrester, with the strange smile in which
his insanity was wont to gleam forth, “you have found no better
foundation for your happiness than on a grave?”

But as the shadow of Affliction spoke a vision of hope and joy had its
birth in Adam’s mind even from the old man’s taunting words, for then
he knew what was betokened by the parable in which the Lily and himself
had acted, and the mystery of life and death was opened to him.

“Joy! joy!” he cried, throwing his arms toward heaven. “On a grave be
the site of our temple, and now our happiness is for eternity.”

With those words a ray of sunshine broke through the dismal sky and
glimmered down into the sepulchre, while at the same moment the shape
of old Walter Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his gloom,
symbolic of all earthly sorrow, might no longer abide there now that
the darkest riddle of humanity was read.




FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE


It must be a spirit much unlike my own which can keep itself in health
and vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine of the
world to plunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, and not
infrequent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me—one with the roar
of its waves, the other with the murmur of its boughs—forth from the
haunts of men. But I must wander many a mile ere I could stand beneath
the shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost among the
multitude of hoary trunks and hidden from the earth and sky by the
mystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is within my daily reach more like
a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some suburban farmhouse.
When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a necessity within
me, I am drawn to the seashore which extends its line of rude rocks and
seldom-trodden sands for leagues around our bay. Setting forth at my
last ramble on a September morning, I bound myself with a hermit’s vow
to interchange no thoughts with man or woman, to share no social
pleasure, but to derive all that day’s enjoyment from shore and sea and
sky, from my soul’s communion with these, and from fantasies and
recollections or anticipated realities. Surely here is enough to feed a
human spirit for a single day.—Farewell, then, busy world! Till your
evening lights shall shine along the street—till they gleam upon my
sea-flushed face as I tread homeward—free me from your ties and let me
be a peaceful outlaw.

Highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, clambering down a
crag, I find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does
the spirit leap forth and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the
full extent of the broad blue, sunny deep! A greeting and a homage to
the sea! I descend over its margin and dip my hand into the wave that
meets me, and bathe my brow. That far-resounding roar is Ocean’s voice
of welcome. His salt breath brings a blessing along with it. Now let us
pace together—the reader’s fancy arm in arm with mine—this noble beach,
which extends a mile or more from that craggy promontory to yonder
rampart of broken rocks. In front, the sea; in the rear, a precipitous
bank the grassy verge of which is breaking away year after year, and
flings down its tufts of verdure upon the barrenness below. The beach
itself is a broad space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly any
pebbles intermixed. Near the water’s edge there is a wet margin which
glistens brightly in the sunshine and reflects objects like a mirror,
and as we tread along the glistening border a dry spot flashes around
each footstep, but grows moist again as we lift our feet. In some spots
the sand receives a complete impression of the sole, square toe and
all; elsewhere it is of such marble firmness that we must stamp heavily
to leave a print even of the iron-shod heel. Along the whole of this
extensive beach gambols the surf-wave. Now it makes a feint of dashing
onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur and does but kiss
the strand; now, after many such abortive efforts, it rears itself up
in an unbroken line, heightening as it advances, without a speck of
foam on its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings itself
forward and rushes far up the beach!

As I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I remember that I was
startled, as Robinson Crusoe might have been, by the sense that human
life was within the magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in the remote
distance of the beach, appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier things
such as might tread upon the feathery spray, was a group of girls.
Hardly had I beheld them, when they passed into the shadow of the rocks
and vanished. To comfort myself—for truly I would fain have gazed a
while longer—I made acquaintance with a flock of beach-birds. These
little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a stone’s-throw
along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for food upon its margin. Yet,
with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a
continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. The sea was each
little bird’s great playmate. They chased it downward as it swept back,
and again ran up swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes
overtook them and bore them off their feet. But they floated as lightly
as one of their own feathers on the breaking crest. In their airy
flutterings they seemed to rest on the evanescent spray. Their
images—long-legged little figures with gray backs and snowy bosoms—were
seen as distinctly as the realities in the mirror of the glistening
strand. As I advanced they flew a score or two of yards, and, again
alighting, recommenced their dalliance with the surf-wave; and thus
they bore me company along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies,
till at its extremity they took wing over the ocean and were gone.
After forming a friendship with these small surf-spirits, it is really
worth a sigh to find no memorial of them save their multitudinous
little tracks in the sand.

When we have paced the length of the beach, it is pleasant and not
unprofitable to retrace our steps and recall the whole mood and
occupation of the mind during the former passage. Our tracks, being all
discernible, will guide us with an observing consciousness through
every unconscious wandering of thought and fancy. Here we followed the
surf in its reflux to pick up a shell which the sea seemed loth to
relinquish. Here we found a seaweed with an immense brown leaf, and
trailed it behind us by its long snake-like stalk. Here we seized a
live horseshoe by the tail, and counted the many claws of that queer
monster. Here we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped them upon
the surface of the water. Here we wet our feet while examining a
jelly-fish which the waves, having just tossed it up, now sought to
snatch away again. Here we trod along the brink of a fresh-water
brooklet which flows across the beach, becoming shallower and more
shallow, till at last it sinks into the sand and perishes in the effort
to bear its little tribute to the main. Here some vagary appears to
have bewildered us, for our tracks go round and round and are
confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a labyrinth upon the level
beach. And here amid our idle pastime we sat down upon almost the only
stone that breaks the surface of the sand, and were lost in an
unlooked-for and overpowering conception of the majesty and awfulness
of the great deep. Thus by tracking our footprints in the sand we track
our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it when
it never dreams of being so observed. Such glances always make us
wiser.

This extensive beach affords room for another pleasant pastime. With
your staff you may write verses—love-verses if they please you best—and
consecrate them with a woman’s name. Here, too, may be inscribed
thoughts, feelings, desires, warm outgushings from the heart’s secret
places, which you would not pour upon the sand without the certainty
that almost ere the sky has looked upon them the sea will wash them
out. Stir not hence till the record be effaced. Now (for there is room
enough on your canvas) draw huge faces—huge as that of the Sphynx on
Egyptian sands—and fit them with bodies of corresponding immensity and
legs which might stride halfway to yonder island. Child’s-play becomes
magnificent on so grand a scale. But, after all, the most fascinating
employment is simply to write your name in the sand. Draw the letters
gigantic, so that two strides may barely measure them, and three for
the long strokes; cut deep, that the record may be permanent. Statesmen
and warriors and poets have spent their strength in no better cause
than this. Is it accomplished? Return, then, in an hour or two, and
seek for this mighty record of a name. The sea will have swept over it,
even as time rolls its effacing waves over the names of statesmen and
warriors and poets. Hark! the surf-wave laughs at you.

Passing from the beach, I begin to clamber over the crags, making my
difficult way among the ruins of a rampart shattered and broken by the
assaults of a fierce enemy. The rocks rise in every variety of
attitude. Some of them have their feet in the foam and are shagged
halfway upward with seaweed; some have been hollowed almost into
caverns by the unwearied toil of the sea, which can afford to spend
centuries in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a pebble. One huge
rock ascends in monumental shape, with a face like a giant’s tombstone,
on which the veins resemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. We
will fancy them the forgotten characters of an antediluvian race, or
else that Nature’s own hand has here recorded a mystery which, could I
read her language, would make mankind the wiser and the happier. How
many a thing has troubled me with that same idea! Pass on and leave it
unexplained. Here is a narrow avenue which might seem to have been hewn
through the very heart of an enormous crag, affording passage for the
rising sea to thunder back and forth, filling it with tumultuous foam
and then leaving its floor of black pebbles bare and glistening. In
this chasm there was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, which
the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while the granite walls remain
entire on either side. How sharply and with what harsh clamor does the
sea rake back the pebbles as it momentarily withdraws into its own
depths! At intervals the floor of the chasm is left nearly dry, but
anon, at the outlet, two or three great waves are seen struggling to
get in at once; two hit the walls athwart, while one rushes straight
through, and all three thunder as if with rage and triumph. They heap
the chasm with a snow-drift of foam and spray. While watching this
scene I can never rid myself of the idea that a monster endowed with
life and fierce energy is striving to burst his way through the narrow
pass. And what a contrast to look through the stormy chasm and catch a
glimpse of the calm bright sea beyond!

Many interesting discoveries may be made among these broken cliffs.
Once, for example, I found a dead seal which a recent tempest had
tossed into the nook of the rocks, where his shaggy carcase lay rolled
in a heap of eel-grass as if the sea-monster sought to hide himself
from my eye. Another time a shark seemed on the point of leaping from
the surf to swallow me, nor did I wholly without dread approach near
enough to ascertain that the man-eater had already met his own death
from some fisherman in the bay. In the same ramble I encountered a
bird—a large gray bird—but whether a loon or a wild goose or the
identical albatross of the Ancient Mariner was beyond my ornithology to
decide. It reposed so naturally on a bed of dry seaweed, with its head
beside its wing, that I almost fancied it alive, and trod softly lest
it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. But the sea-bird would
soar among the clouds no more, nor ride upon its native waves; so I
drew near and pulled out one of its mottled tail-feathers for a
remembrance. Another day I discovered an immense bone wedged into a
chasm of the rocks; it was at least ten feet long, curved like a
scymitar, bejewelled with barnacles and small shellfish and partly
covered with a growth of seaweed. Some leviathan of former ages had
used this ponderous mass as a jaw-bone. Curiosities of a minuter order
may be observed in a deep reservoir which is replenished with water at
every tide, but becomes a lake among the crags save when the sea is at
its height. At the bottom of this rocky basin grow marine plants, some
of which tower high beneath the water and cast a shadow in the
sunshine. Small fishes dart to and fro and hide themselves among the
seaweed; there is also a solitary crab who appears to lead the life of
a hermit, communing with none of the other denizens of the place, and
likewise several five-fingers; for I know no other name than that which
children give them. If your imagination be at all accustomed to such
freaks, you may look down into the depths of this pool and fancy it the
mysterious depth of ocean. But where are the hulks and scattered
timbers of sunken ships? where the treasures that old Ocean hoards?
where the corroded cannon? where the corpses and skeletons of seamen
who went down in storm and battle?

On the day of my last ramble—it was a September day, yet as warm as
summer—what should I behold as I approached the above-described basin
but three girls sitting on its margin and—yes, it is veritably
so—laving their snowy feet in the sunny water? These, these are the
warm realities of those three visionary shapes that flitted from me on
the beach. Hark their merry voices as they toss up the water with their
feet! They have not seen me. I must shrink behind this rock and steal
away again.

In honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there is something in this
encounter that makes the heart flutter with a strangely pleasant
sensation. I know these girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet,
glancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred creatures with
the ideal beings of my mind. It is pleasant, likewise, to gaze down
from some high crag and watch a group of children gathering pebbles and
pearly shells and playing with the surf as with old Ocean’s hoary
beard. Nor does it infringe upon my seclusion to see yonder boat at
anchor off the shore swinging dreamily to and fro and rising and
sinking with the alternate swell, while the crew—four gentlemen in
roundabout jackets—are busy with their fishing-lines. But with an
inward antipathy and a headlong flight do I eschew the presence of any
meditative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim-staff, his
sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant yet abstracted eye.

From such a man as if another self had scared me I scramble hastily
over the rocks, and take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour has
given me a right to call my own. I would do battle for it even with the
churl that should produce the title-deeds. Have not my musings melted
into its rocky walls and sandy floor and made them a portion of myself?
It is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a rough, high
precipice which almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand.
In front the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal; in the
rear the precipice is broken and intermixed with earth which gives
nourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs, but to trees that
grip the rock with their naked roots and seem to struggle hard for
footing and for soil enough to live upon. These are fir trees, but oaks
hang their heavy branches from above, and throw down acorns on the
beach, and shed their withering foliage upon the waves. At this
autumnal season the precipice is decked with variegated splendor.
Trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward; tufts of
yellow-flowering shrubs and rose-bushes, with their reddened leaves and
glossy seed-berries, sprout from each crevice; at every glance I detect
some new light or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the stern gray
rock. A rill of water trickles down the cliff and fills a little
cistern near the base. I drain it at a draught, and find it fresh and
pure. This recess shall be my dining-hall. And what the feast? A few
biscuits made savory by soaking them in sea-water, a tuft of samphire
gathered from the beach, and an apple for the dessert. By this time the
little rill has filled its reservoir again, and as I quaff it I thank
God more heartily than for a civic banquet that he gives me the
healthful appetite to make a feast of bread and water.

Dinner being over, I throw myself at length upon the sand and, basking
in the sunshine, let my mind disport itself at will. The walls of this
my hermitage have no tongue to tell my follies, though I sometimes
fancy that they have ears to hear them and a soul to sympathize. There
is a magic in this spot. Dreams haunt its precincts and flit around me
in broad sunlight, nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real
objects ere these be visible. Here can I frame a story of two lovers,
and make their shadows live before me and be mirrored in the tranquil
water as they tread along the sand, leaving no footprints. Here, should
I will it, I can summon up a single shade and be myself her lover.—Yes,
dreamer, but your lonely heart will be the colder for such
fancies.—Sometimes, too, the Past comes back, and finds me here, and in
her train come faces which were gladsome when I knew them, yet seem not
gladsome now. Would that my hiding-place were lonelier, so that the
Past might not find me!—Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen
to the murmur of the sea—a melancholy voice, but less sad than yours.
Of what mysteries is it telling? Of sunken ships and whereabouts they
lie? Of islands afar and undiscovered whose tawny children are
unconscious of other islands and of continents, and deem the stars of
heaven their nearest neighbors? Nothing of all this. What, then? Has it
talked for so many ages and meant nothing all the while? No; for those
ages find utterance in the sea’s unchanging voice, and warn the
listener to withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes and let the
infinite idea of eternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom, and
therefore will I spend the next half-hour in shaping little boats of
driftwood and launching them on voyages across the cove, with the
feather of a sea-gull for a sail. If the voice of ages tell me true,
this is as wise an occupation as to build ships of five hundred tons
and launch them forth upon the main, bound to “Far Cathay.” Yet how
would the merchant sneer at me!

And, after all, can such philosophy be true? Methinks I could find a
thousand arguments against it. Well, then, let yonder shaggy rock
mid-deep in the surf—see! he is somewhat wrathful: he rages and roars
and foams,—let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me exercise my
oratory like him of Athens who bandied words with an angry sea and got
the victory. My maiden-speech is a triumphant one, for the gentleman in
seaweed has nothing to offer in reply save an immitigable roaring. His
voice, indeed, will be heard a long while after mine is hushed. Once
more I shout and the cliffs reverberate the sound. Oh what joy for a
shy man to feel himself so solitary that he may lift his voice to its
highest pitch without hazard of a listener!—But hush! Be silent, my
good friend! Whence comes that stifled laughter? It was musical, but
how should there be such music in my solitude? Looking upward, I catch
a glimpse of three faces peeping from the summit of the cliff like
angels between me and their native sky.—Ah, fair girls! you may make
yourself merry at my eloquence, but it was my turn to smile when I saw
your white feet in the pool. Let us keep each other’s secrets.

The sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, except a gleam upon the
sand just where it meets the sea. A crowd of gloomy fantasies will come
and haunt me if I tarry longer here in the darkening twilight of these
gray rocks. This is a dismal place in some moods of the mind. Climb we,
therefore, the precipice, and pause a moment on the brink gazing down
into that hollow chamber by the deep where we have been what few can
be—sufficient to our own pastime. Yes, say the word outright:
self-sufficient to our own happiness. How lonesome looks the recess
now, and dreary too, like all other spots where happiness has been!
There lies my shadow in the departing sunshine with its head upon the
sea. I will pelt it with pebbles. A hit! a hit! I clap my hands in
triumph, and see my shadow clapping its unreal hands and claiming the
triumph for itself. What a simpleton must I have been all day, since my
own shadow makes a mock of my fooleries!

Homeward! homeward! It is time to hasten home. It is time—it is time;
for as the sun sinks over the western wave the sea grows melancholy and
the surf has a saddened tone. The distant sails appear astray and not
of earth in their remoteness amid the desolate waste. My spirit wanders
forth afar, but finds no resting-place and comes shivering back. It is
time that I were hence. But grudge me not the day that has been spent
in seclusion which yet was not solitude, since the great sea has been
my companion, and the little sea-birds my friends, and the wind has
told me his secrets, and airy shapes have flitted around me in my
hermitage. Such companionship works an effect upon a man’s character as
if he had been admitted to the society of creatures that are not
mortal. And when, at noontide, I tread the crowded streets, the
influence of this day will still be felt; so that I shall walk among
men kindly and as a brother, with affection and sympathy, but yet shall
not melt into the indistinguishable mass of humankind. I shall think my
own thoughts and feel my own emotions and possess my individuality
unviolated.

But it is good at the eve of such a day to feel and know that there are
men and women in the world. That feeling and that knowledge are mine at
this moment, for on the shore, far below me, the fishing-party have
landed from their skiff and are cooking their scaly prey by a fire of
driftwood kindled in the angle of two rude rocks. The three visionary
girls are likewise there. In the deepening twilight, while the surf is
dashing near their hearth, the ruddy gleam of the fire throws a strange
air of comfort over the wild cove, bestrewn as it is with pebbles and
seaweed and exposed to the “melancholy main.” Moreover, as the smoke
climbs up the precipice, it brings with it a savory smell from a pan of
fried fish and a black kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner
was nothing but bread and water and a tuft of samphire and an apple.
Methinks the party might find room for another guest at that flat rock
which serves them for a table; and if spoons be scarce, I could pick up
a clam-shell on the beach. They see me now; and—the blessing of a
hungry man upon him!—one of them sends up a hospitable shout: “Halloo,
Sir Solitary! Come down and sup with us!” The ladies wave their
handkerchiefs. Can I decline? No; and be it owned, after all my
solitary joys, that this is the sweetest moment of a day by the
seashore.




EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD


There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy than, while gazing
at a figure of melancholy age, to recreate its youth, and without
entirely obliterating the identity of form and features to restore
those graces which Time has snatched away. Some old people—especially
women—so age-worn and woeful are they, seem never to have been young
and gay. It is easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were sent
into the world as withered and decrepit as we behold them now, with
sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at death-beds and weep at
funerals. Even the sable garments of their widowhood appear essential
to their existence; all their attributes combine to render them
darksome shadows creeping strangely amid the sunshine of human life.
Yet it is no unprofitable task to take one of these doleful creatures
and set Fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye, and darken
the silvery locks, and paint the ashen cheek with rose-color, and
repair the shrunken and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in
the old matron’s elbow-chair. The miracle being wrought, then let the
years roll back again, each sadder than the last, and the whole weight
of age and sorrow settle down upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and
furrows, the handwriting of Time, may thus be deciphered and found to
contain deep lessons of thought and feeling.

Such profit might be derived by a skilful observer from my
much-respected friend the Widow Toothaker, a nurse of great repute who
has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and dying-breaths these
forty years. See! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth with her
gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her
person the whole warmth of the fire which now at nightfall begins to
dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze quivers
capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms
of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar
the outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse Toothaker holds a
teaspoon in her right hand with which to stir up the contents of a
tumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance abhorred of
temperance societies. Now she sips, now stirs, now sips again. Her sad
old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of Geneva which
is mixed half and half with hot water in the tumbler. All day long she
has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home only
when the spirit of her patient left the clay and went homeward too. But
now are her melancholy meditations cheered and her torpid blood warmed
and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years by a
draught from the true fountain of youth in a case-bottle. It is strange
that men should deem that fount a fable, when its liquor fills more
bottles than the Congress-water.—Sip it again, good nurse, and see
whether a second draught will not take off another score of years, and
perhaps ten more, and show us in your high-backed chair the blooming
damsel who plighted troths with Edward Fane.—Get you gone, Age and
Widowhood!—Come back, unwedded Youth!—But, alas! the charm will not
work. In spite of Fancy’s most potent spell, I can see only an old dame
cowering over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation, while the
November blast roars at her in the chimney and fitful showers rush
suddenly against the window.

Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton—such was the pretty maiden-name
of Nurse Toothaker—possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim
and dismal chamber as with sunshine. It won for her the heart of Edward
Fane, who has since made so great a figure in the world and is now a
grand old gentleman with powdered hair and as gouty as a lord. These
early lovers thought to have walked hand in hand through life. They had
wept together for Edward’s little sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her
sickness—partly because she was the sweetest child that ever lived or
died, but more for love of him. She was but three years old. Being such
an infant, Death could not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor
did Rose fear to touch the dead child’s brow, though chill, as she
curled the silken hair around it, nor to take her tiny hand and clasp a
flower within its fingers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane
of glass in the coffin-lid and beheld Mary’s face, it seemed not so
much like death or life as like a wax-work wrought into the perfect
image of a child asleep and dreaming of its mother’s smile. Rose
thought her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered
that an angel did not snatch up little Mary’s coffin and bear the
slumbering babe to heaven and bid her wake immortal. But when the sods
were laid on little Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered
at the fantasy that in grasping the child’s cold fingers her virgin
hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality and could never lose
the earthy taint. How many a greeting since! But as yet she was a fair
young girl with the dewdrops of fresh feeling in her bosom, and,
instead of “Rose”—which seemed too mature a name for her half-opened
beauty—her lover called her “Rosebud.”

The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Edward Fane. His mother was
a rich and haughty dame with all the aristocratic prejudices of
colonial times. She scorned Rose Grafton’s humble parentage and caused
her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he would
have prized his Rosebud above the richest diamond. The lovers parted,
and have seldom met again. Both may have visited the same mansions, but
not at the same time, for one was bidden to the festal hall and the
other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of Pleasure and Prosperity,
and she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was long secluded
within the dwelling of Mr. Toothaker, whom she married with the
revengeful hope of breaking her false lover’s heart. She went to her
bridegroom’s arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young girls ought
to shed at the threshold of the bridal-chamber. Yet, though her
husband’s head was getting gray and his heart had been chilled with an
autumnal frost, Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own
conjugal affection. He was all she had to love; there were no children.

In a year or two poor Mr. Toothaker was visited with a wearisome
infirmity which settled in his joints and made him weaker than a child.
He crept forth about his business, and came home at dinner-time and
eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife’s heart, but
slowly, feebly, jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy dub
of his staff. We must pardon his pretty wife if she sometimes blushed
to own him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked for the
appearance of some old, old man, but he dragged his nerveless limbs
into the parlor—and there was Mr. Toothaker! The disease increasing, he
never went into the sunshine save with a staff in his right hand and
his left on his wife’s shoulder, bearing heavily downward like a dead
man’s hand. Thus, a slender woman still looking maiden-like, she
supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the pathway of their
little garden, and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband, and
spoke soothingly as to an infant. His mind was palsied with his body;
its utmost energy was peevishness. In a few months more she helped him
up the staircase with a pause at every step, and a longer one upon the
landing-place, and a heavy glance behind as he crossed the threshold of
his chamber. He knew, poor man! that the precincts of those four walls
would thenceforth be his world—his world, his home, his tomb, at once a
dwelling-and a burial-place—till he were borne to a darker and a
narrower one. But Rose was with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her in
his daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back
again from the weary chair to the joyless bed—his bed and hers, their
marriage-bed—till even this short journey ceased and his head lay all
day upon the pillow and hers all night beside it. How long poor Mr.
Toothaker was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw near the door, and
often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into
the chamber, nodding to Rose and pointing at her husband, but still
delayed to enter. “This bedridden wretch cannot escape me,” quoth
Death. “I will go forth and run a race with the swift and fight a
battle with the strong, and come back for Toothaker at my leisure.” Oh,
when the deliverer came so near, in the dull anguish of her worn-out
sympathies did she never long to cry, “Death, come in”?

But no; we have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend Rose. She
never failed in a wife’s duty to her poor sick husband. She murmured
not though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him, nor
answered peevishly though his complaining accents roused her from
sweetest dream only to share his wretchedness. He knew her faith, yet
nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the slow disease had chilled
all his heart save one lukewarm spot which Death’s frozen fingers were
searching for, his last words were, “What would my Rose have done for
her first love, if she has been so true and kind to a sick old man like
me?” And then his poor soul crept away and left the body lifeless,
though hardly more so than for years before, and Rose a widow, though
in truth it was the wedding-night that widowed her. She felt glad, it
must be owned, when Mr. Toothaker was buried, because his corpse had
retained such a likeness to the man half alive that she hearkened for
the sad murmur of his voice bidding her shift his pillow. But all
through the next winter, though the grave had held him many a month,
she fancied him calling from that cold bed, “Rose, Rose! Come put a
blanket on my feet!”

So now the Rosebud was the widow Toothaker. Her troubles had come
early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom was
fled. She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or with a
widow’s cheerful gravity she might have won a widower, stealing into
his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the widow Toothaker
had no such projects. By her watchings and continual cares her heart
had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which changed its
very nature and made her love him for his infirmities, and infirmity
for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even her early lover
could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in a sick-chamber and
been the companion of a half-dead wretch till she could scarcely
breathe in a free air and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the
happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor’s stuff. She walked the
chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors came in, she spoke in
soft and soothing accents, and was startled and shocked by their loud
voices. Often in the lonesome evening she looked timorously from the
fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of recognizing a ghastly face
upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts sadly to her husband’s grave.
If one impatient throb had wronged him in his lifetime, if she had
secretly repined because her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his
torpid age, if ever while slumbering beside him a treacherous dream had
admitted another into her heart,—yet the sick man had been preparing a
revenge which the dead now claimed. On his painful pillow he had cast a
spell around her; his groans and misery had proved more captivating
charms than gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance Disease itself
had won the Rosebud for a bride, nor could his death dissolve the
nuptials. By that indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every
sick-chamber, and nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters;
thither her husband summoned her with that voice which had seemed to
issue from the grave of Toothaker. At length she recognized her
destiny.

We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see her in
a separate and insulated character: she was in all her attributes Nurse
Toothaker. And Nurse Toothaker alone, with her own shrivelled lips,
could make known her experience in that capacity. What a history might
she record of the great sicknesses in which she has gone hand in hand
with the exterminating angel! She remembers when the small-pox hoisted
a red banner on almost every house along the street. She has witnessed
when the typhus fever swept off a whole household, young and old, all
but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one.
Where would be Death’s triumph if none lived to weep? She can speak of
strange maladies that have broken out as if spontaneously, but were
found to have been imported from foreign lands with rich silks and
other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she
recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence,
till the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl who
thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. Strange
that such black mischief should lurk in a maiden’s grave! She loves to
tell how strong men fight with fiery fevers, utterly refusing to give
up their breath, and how consumptive virgins fade out of the world,
scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a far
country.—Tell us, thou fearful woman; tell us the death-secrets. Fain
would I search out the meaning of words faintly gasped with
intermingled sobs and broken sentences half-audibly spoken between
earth and the judgment-seat.

An awful woman! She is the patron-saint of young physicians and the
bosom-friend of old ones. In the mansions where she enters the inmates
provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows her, and
the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Death himself has
met her at so many a bedside that he puts forth his bony hand to greet
Nurse Toothaker. She is an awful woman. And oh, is it conceivable that
this handmaid of human infirmity and affliction—so darkly stained, so
thoroughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of mortals—can
ever again be bright and gladsome even though bathed in the sunshine of
eternity? By her long communion with woe has she not forfeited her
inheritance of immortal joy? Does any germ of bliss survive within her?

Hark! an eager knocking st Nurse Toothaker’s door. She starts from her
drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a
lamp at the dim embers of the fire. “Rap, rap, rap!” again, and she
hurries adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends can be at
death’s door now, since there is such an earnest messenger at Nurse
Toothaker’s. Again the peal resounds just as her hand is on the lock.
“Be quick, Nurse Toothaker!” cries a man on the doorstep. “Old General
Fane is taken with the gout in his stomach and has sent for you to
watch by his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time to
lose.”—“Fane! Edward Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am ready.
I will get on my cloak and begone. So,” adds the sable-gowned,
ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, “Edward Fane remembers his
Rosebud.”

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her
long-hoarded constancy, her memory of the bliss that was remaining amid
the gloom of her after-life like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin,
is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some happier clime the Rosebud
may revive again with all the dewdrops in its bosom.




THE THREEFOLD DESTINY

A FAËRY LEGEND

I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far
as my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents in
which the spirit and mechanism of the faëry legend should be combined
with the characters and manners of familiar life. In the little tale
which follows a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown over
a sketch of New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped,
without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. Rather than a
story of events claiming to be real, it may be considered as an
allegory such as the writers of the last century would have expressed
in the shape of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to give
a more lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fanciful
productions.

In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over which long and
remote travel had thrown an outlandish aspect was entering a village
not in “faëry londe,” but within our own familiar boundaries. The staff
on which this traveller leaned had been his companion from the spot
where it grew in the jungles of Hindostan; the hat that overshadowed
his sombre brow, had shielded him from the suns of Spain; but his cheek
had been blackened by the red-hot wind of an Arabian desert and had
felt the frozen breath of an Arctic region. Long sojourning amid wild
and dangerous men, he still wore beneath his vest the ataghan which he
had once struck into the throat of a Turkish robber. In every foreign
clime he had lost something of his New England characteristics, and
perhaps from every people he had unconsciously borrowed a new
peculiarity; so that when the world-wanderer again trod the street of
his native village it is no wonder that he passed unrecognized, though
exciting the gaze and curiosity of all. Yet, as his arm casually
touched that of a young woman who was wending her way to an evening
lecture, she started and almost uttered a cry.

“Ralph Cranfield!” was the name that she half articulated.

“Can that be my old playmate Faith Egerton?” thought the traveller,
looking round at her figure, but without pausing.

Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself marked out for a
high destiny. He had imbibed the idea—we say not whether it were
revealed to him by witchcraft or in a dream of prophecy, or that his
brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a
sybil, but he had imbibed the idea, and held it firmest among his
articles of faith—that three marvellous events of his life were to be
confirmed to him by three signs.

The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on which his
youthful imagination had dwelt most fondly, was the discovery of the
maid who alone of all the maids on earth could make him happy by her
love. He was to roam around the world till he should meet a beautiful
woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a heart—whether of
pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle or a changeful opal, or perhaps a
priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so long as it were a
heart of one peculiar shape. On encountering this lovely stranger he
was bound to address her thus: “Maiden, I have brought you a heavy
heart. May I rest its weight on you?” And if she were his fated
bride—if their kindred souls were destined to form a union here below
which all eternity should only bind more closely—she would reply, with
her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, “This token which I have worn so
long is the assurance that you may.”

And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that there was a
mighty treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of which the burial-place
would be revealed to none but him. When his feet should press upon the
mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him pointing
downward—whether carved of marble or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the
side of a rocky precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air,
he could not tell, but at least he would discern a hand, the forefinger
pointing downward, and beneath it the Latin word “_Effode_”—“Dig!” And,
digging thereabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones,
or of whatever else the treasure might consist, would be certain to
reward his toil.

The third and last of the miraculous events in the life of this
high-destined man was to be the attainment of extensive influence and
sway over his fellow-creatures. Whether he were to be a king and
founder of a hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a people
contending for their freedom, or the apostle of a purified and
regenerated faith, was left for futurity to show. As messengers of the
sign by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize the summons, three
venerable men were to claim audience of him. The chief among them—a
dignified and majestic person arrayed, it may be supposed, in the
flowing garments of an ancient sage—would be the bearer of a wand or
prophet’s rod. With this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage would
trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make known his
Heaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must lead to glorious
results.

With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his imaginative youth
Ralph Cranfield had set forth to seek the maid, the treasure, and the
venerable sage with his gift of extended empire. And had he found them?
Alas! it was not with the aspect of a triumphant man who had achieved a
nobler destiny than all his fellows, but rather with the gloom of one
struggling against peculiar and continual adversity, that he now passed
homeward to his mother’s cottage. He had come back, but only for a
time, to lay aside the pilgrim’s staff, trusting that his weary manhood
would regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth in the spot where his
threefold fate had been foreshown him. There had been few changes in
the village, for it was not one of those thriving places where a year’s
prosperity makes more than the havoc of a century’s decay, but, like a
gray hair in a young man’s head, an antiquated little town full of old
maids and aged elms and moss-grown dwellings. Few seemed to be the
changes here. The drooping elms, indeed, had a more majestic spread,
the weather-blackened houses were adorned with a denser thatch of
verdant moss, and doubtless there were a few more gravestones in the
burial-ground inscribed with names that had once been familiar in the
village street; yet, summing up all the mischief that ten years had
wrought, it seemed scarcely more than if Ralph Cranfield had gone forth
that very morning and dreamed a day-dream till the twilight, and then
turned back again. But his heart grew cold because the village did not
remember him as he remembered the village.

“Here is the change,” sighed he, striking his hand upon his breast.
“Who is this man of thought and care, weary with world-wandering and
heavy with disappointed hopes? The youth returns not who went forth so
joyously.”

And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother’s gate, in front of the small
house where the old lady, with slender but sufficient means, had kept
herself comfortable during her son’s long absence. Admitting himself
within the enclosure, he leaned against a great old tree, trifling with
his own impatience as people often do in those intervals when years are
summed into a moment. He took a minute survey of the dwelling—its
windows brightened with the sky-gleam, its doorway with the half of a
millstone for a step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to the
gate. He made friends again with his childhood’s friend—the old tree
against which he leaned—and, glancing his eye down its trunk, beheld
something that excited a melancholy smile. It was a half-obliterated
inscription—the Latin word “_Effode_”—which he remembered to have
carved in the bark of the tree with a whole day’s toil when he had
first begun to muse about his exalted destiny. It might be accounted a
rather singular coincidence that the bark just above the inscription
had put forth an excrescence shaped not unlike a hand, with the
forefinger pointing obliquely at the word of fate. Such, at least, was
its appearance in the dusky light.

“Now, a credulous man,” said Ralph Cranfield, carelessly, to himself,
“might suppose that the treasure which I have sought round the world
lies buried, after all, at the very door of my mother’s dwelling. That
would be a jest indeed.”

More he thought not about the matter, for now the door was opened and
an elderly woman appeared on the threshold, peering into the dusk to
discover who it might be that had intruded on her premises and was
standing in the shadow of her tree. It was Ralph Cranfield’s mother.
Pass we over their greeting, and leave the one to her joy and the other
to his rest—if quiet rest he found.

But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled brow, for his sleep
and his wakefulness had alike been full of dreams. All the fervor was
rekindled with which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold
mystery of his fate. The crowd of his early visions seemed to have
awaited him beneath his mother’s roof and thronged riotously around to
welcome his return. In the well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where
his infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder night than ever in an
Arab tent or when he had reposed his head in the ghastly shades of a
haunted forest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside and laid her
finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of flame had glowed amid the
darkness, pointing downward to a mystery within the earth; a hoary sage
had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer onward to a chair
of state. The same phantoms, though fainter in the daylight, still
flitted about the cottage and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces
that were drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cranfield’s return to bid
him welcome for his mother’s sake. There they found him, a tall, dark,
stately man of foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of
speech, yet with an abstracted eye which seemed often to snatch a
glance at the invisible.

Meantime, the widow Cranfield went bustling about the house full of joy
that she again had somebody to love and be careful of, and for whom she
might vex and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. It
was nearly noon when she looked forth from the door and descried three
personages of note coming along the street through the hot sunshine and
the masses of elm-tree shade. At length they reached her gate and undid
the latch.

“See, Ralph!” exclaimed she, with maternal pride; “here is Squire
Hawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you. Now,
do tell them a good long story about what you have seen in foreign
parts.”

The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, was a very pompous
but excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in all the
affairs of the village, and universally acknowledged to be one of the
sagest men on earth. He wore, according to a fashion even then becoming
antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver-headed cane the
use of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air than for
assisting the progress of his legs. His two companions were elderly and
respectable yeomen who, retaining an ante-Revolutionary reverence for
rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in the squire’s rear.

As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfield sat in an oaken
elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at the three visitors and
enveloping their homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded his
mental world. “Here,” thought he, smiling at the conceit—“here come
three elderly personages, and the first of the three is a venerable
sage with a staff. What if this embassy should bring me the message of
my fate?”

While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, Ralph rose from his
seat and advanced a few steps to receive them, and his stately figure
and dark countenance as he bent courteously toward his guests had a
natural dignity contrasting well with the bustling importance of the
squire. The old gentleman, according to invariable custom, gave an
elaborate preliminary flourish with his cane in the air, then removed
his three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and finally proceeded
to make known his errand.

“My colleagues and myself,” began the squire, “are burdened with
momentous duties, being jointly selectmen of this village. Our minds
for the space of three days past have been laboriously bent on the
selection of a suitable person to fill a most important office and take
upon himself a charge and rule which, wisely considered, may be ranked
no lower than those of kings and potentates. And whereas you, our
native townsman, are of good natural intellect and well cultivated by
foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and fantasies of your youth
are doubtless long ago corrected,—taking all these matters, I say, into
due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence hath sent you
hither at this juncture for our very purpose.”

During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if he
beheld something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous little figure,
and as if the squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage
instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet breeches
and silk stockings. Nor was his wonder without sufficient cause, for
the flourish of the squire’s staff, marvellous to relate, had described
precisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the message of the
prophetic sage whom Cranfield had sought around the world.

“And what,” inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in his voice—“what
may this office be which is to equal me with kings and potentates?”

“No less than instructor of our village school,” answered Squire
Hawkwood, “the office being now vacant by the death of the venerable
Master Whitaker after a fifty years’ incumbency.”

“I will consider of your proposal,” replied Ralph Cranfield, hurriedly,
“and will make known my decision within three days.”

After a few more words the village dignitary and his companions took
their leave. But to Cranfield’s fancy their images were still present,
and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures
which had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown
themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects among
familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the squire till
they grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appeared
but the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, had
looked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form had
beckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figure
had mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the Great
Geyser. At every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the
dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important,
little-great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield sat
all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering his
mother’s thousand questions about his travels and adventures. At sunset
he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm tree, his
eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointing downward at
the half-obliterated inscription.

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams
threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow
walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking
in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near each
object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it proved to
be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and youth. Every
crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more transitory
characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone days. A
company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him
with their fragrant breath. “It is sweeter,” thought he, “than the
perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice Islands.” The round
little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and lay laughing almost
beneath Cranfield’s feet. The dark and stately man stooped down, and,
lifting the infant, restored him to his mother’s arms. “The children,”
said he to himself, and sighed and smiled—“the children are to be my
charge.” And while a flow of natural feeling gushed like a well-spring
in his heart he came to a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to
enter. A sweet voice which seemed to come from a deep and tender soul
was warbling a plaintive little air within. He bent his head and passed
through the lowly door. As his foot sounded upon the threshold a young
woman advanced from the dusky interior of the house, at first hastily,
and then with a more uncertain step, till they met face to face. There
was a singular contrast in their two figures—he dark and picturesque,
one who had battled with the world, whom all suns had shone upon and
whom all winds had blown on a varied course; she neat, comely and
quiet—quiet even in her agitation—as if all her emotions had been
subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. Yet their faces, all unlike
as they were, had an expression that seemed not so alien—a glow of
kindred feeling flashing upward anew from half-extinguished embers.

“You are welcome home,” said Faith Egerton.

But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caught
by an ornament in the shape of a heart which Faith wore as a brooch
upon her bosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz, and he
recollected having himself shaped it out of one of those Indian
arrowheads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the red
men. It was precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary
maid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had bestowed
this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting gift to Faith Egerton.

“So, Faith, you have kept the heart?” said he, at length.

“Yes,” said she, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, “And what else have
you brought me from beyond the sea?”

“Faith,” replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated words by an
uncontrollable impulse, “I have brought you nothing but a heavy heart.
May I rest its weight on you?”

“This token which I have worn so long,” said Faith, laying her
tremulous finger on the heart, “is the assurance that you may.”

“Faith, Faith!” cried Cranfield, clasping her in his arms; “you have
interpreted my wild and weary dream!”

Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the mysterious
treasure he was to till the earth around his mother’s dwelling and reap
its products; instead of warlike command or regal or religious sway, he
was to rule over the village children; and now the visionary maid had
faded from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate of his
childhood.

Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, they would
oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness, within
those precincts and in that station where Providence itself has cast
their lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a weary world-search
or a lifetime spent in vain!




Footnotes:

 [1] Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York,
 Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by
 the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper.
 In his case, however, the symbol had a different import. In early life
 he had accidentally killed a beloved friend, and from that day till
 the hour of his own death he hid his face from men.

 [2] Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a
 mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is not
 known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt his identity with
 the priest of Merry Mount.

 [3] Essex and Washington streets, Salem.

 [4] The Indian tradition on which this somewhat extravagant tale is
 founded is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up
 in prose. Sullivan, in his history of Maine, written since the
 Revolution, remarks that even then the existence of the Great
 Carbuncle was not entirely discredited.

 [5] This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart related in
 Dunlap’s _History of the Arts of Designs_—a most entertaining book to
 the general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we should think, to
 the artist.