The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow

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The remote control helicoptersSnow-Image

and Other Twice-Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Contents

PREFACE

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

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

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

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

And a fiction-monger, in due season, he became. But was there ever such a wearydelay in obtaining the slightest recognition from the public, as in my case? Isat down by the wayside of life, like a man under enchantment, and a shrubberysprung up around me, and the bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplingsbecame trees, until no exit appeared possible, through the entangling depths ofmy obscurity. And there, perhaps, I should be sitting at this moment, with themoss on the imprisoning tree-trunks, and the yellow leaves of more than a scoreof autumns piled above me, if it had not been for you. For it was through yourinterposition—and that, moreover, unknown to himself—that yourearly friend was brought before the public, somewhat more prominently thantheretofore, in the first volume of Twice-told Tales. Not a publisher inAmerica, I presume, would have thought well enough of my forgotten ornever-noticed stories to risk the expense of print and paper; nor do I say thiswith any purpose of casting odium on the respectable fraternity of booksellers,for their blindness to my wonderful merit. To confess the truth, I doubted ofthe public recognition quite as much as they could do. So much the moregenerous was your confidence; and knowing, as I do, that it was founded on oldfriendship rather than cold criticism, I value it only the more for that.

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

I have nothing further, I think, to say; unless it be that the public need notdread my again trespassing on its kindness, with any more of these musty andmouse-nibbled leaves of old periodicals, transformed, by the magic arts of myfriendly publishers, into a new book. These are the last. Or, if a few stillremain, they are either such as no paternal partiality could induce the authorto think worth preserving, or else they have got into some very dark and dustyhiding-place, quite out of my own remembrance and whence no researches canavail to unearth them. So there let them rest.

Very sincerely yours,

N. H.

LENOX, November 1, 1851.

THE SNOW-IMAGE:
A CHILDISH MIRACLE

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

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother to let themrun out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary anddismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect,now that the sun was shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had nowider play-place than a little garden before the house, divided by a whitefence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum-treesovershadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the parlor-windows. Thetrees and shrubs, however, were now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped inthe light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there apendent icicle for the fruit.

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

Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jackets andwadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of stripedgaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their hands, andgave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forthsallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at onceinto the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like asnow-bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in fullbloom. Then what a merry time had they! To look at them, frolicking in thewintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had beensent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony;and that they themselves had been created, as the snow-birds were, to takedelight only in the tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over theearth.

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

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

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

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

And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-imagethat should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at the window andoverheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with whichthey set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be nodifficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. And, to saythe truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our handsto the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that inwhich Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much as knowingthat it was a miracle. So thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that thenew snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material to make newbeings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at the children a momentlonger, delighting to watch their little figures,—the girl, tall for herage, graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked like acheerful thought more than a physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadthrather than height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs assubstantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumedher work. What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet forViolet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony’s short legs.Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help turning herhead to the window to see how the children got on with their snow-image.

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little souls attheir task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly andskilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and toldPeony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all thenicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made bythe children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing andprattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longershe looked, the more and more surprised she grew.

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

So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with her needleas the two children with their snow-image. But still, as the needle travelledhither and thither through the seams of the dress, the mother made her toillight and happy by listening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kepttalking to one another all the time, their tongues being quite as active astheir feet and hands. Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear whatwas said, but had merely a sweet impression that they were in a most lovingmood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making thesnow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet and Peonyhappened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had beenspoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. Oh how delightfully those wordsechoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonderful,after all!

But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than with her ears;and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestial music, when otherpeople can hear nothing of the kind.

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

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon, shetook a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming that she might see thegolden-haired children of paradise sporting with her own golden-haired Violetand bright-cheeked Peony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were neverweary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. All of asudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,—“Look here, Peony!Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-coloredcloud! and the color does not go away! Is not that beautiful!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweeping through thegarden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that themother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summonthe two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice. The tonewas not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal excited;it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at some event that hadnow happened, but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned upon allalong.

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

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

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

The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from thewindow. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a richinheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which makethe sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam ordazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could lookall over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it. And what do youthink she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children.Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, therewas a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks andringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children! Astranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms withViolet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmatesduring the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that itmust certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violetand Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway intoher comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, theatmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold,hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she shouldeven speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real childafter all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither andthither about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind. There was certainlysomething very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all thechildren of the neighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with itspure white, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about theforehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, andfluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon alittle girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth of winter. It made thiskind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothingin the world on them, except a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless,airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightestinconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tipsof her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but justkeep pace with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind.

Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself betweenViolet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and theyalong with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony pulled away his little fist,and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while Violetalso released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that itwas better not to take hold of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a word,but danced about, just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not chooseto play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and coldwest-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such libertieswith her, that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. All thiswhile, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl couldlook so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so verylike a little girl.

She called Violet, and whispered to her.

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

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

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

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

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed themerry time which their new playmate was having with these small-wingedvisitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it.

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

“My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into hermother’s face, and apparently surprised that she should need any furtherexplanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our littlesnow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as wellas I.”

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

While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate wasthrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in apilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest ofgloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yeta happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busyall the day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyesbrightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not helputtering a word or two of surprise, at finding the whole family in the openair, on so bleak a day, and after sunset too. He soon perceived the littlewhite stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath,and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head.

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

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

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

“This is very strange!” said she.

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

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

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

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the littlewhite damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, eachseizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her comein.

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

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

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

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

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

And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her heart fullof childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and,looking at all matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes sawtruths so profound that other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest overhis hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is halffrozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything torights!”

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

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

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

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she stood on thehearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like apestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully toward the windows, and caught aglimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the starsglimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. Thebleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth.But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

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

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings; for herown view of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had given way, as italways did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband. Without heeding theremonstrances of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their littlesnow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure,shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of hissack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached thestreet-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and therapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor window.

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

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

And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that theirfather, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this every-day world,felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too! In theutmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could onlyreply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, shefound no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heapof snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon thehearth-rug.

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

“Yes, father,” said Violet looking reproachfully at him, throughher tears, “there is all that is left of our dear littlesnow-sister!”

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

And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare atgood Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which ithad done!

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

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

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

THE GREAT STONE FACE

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat atthe door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but tolift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, withthe sunshine brightening all its features.

And what was the Great Stone Face?

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spaciousthat it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt inlog-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficulthill-sides. Others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses, and cultivatedthe rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others,again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highlandrivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, hadbeen caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery ofcotton-factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, andof many modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kindof familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift ofdistinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of theirneighbors.

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majesticplayfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immenserocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at aproper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance.It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likenesson the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet inheight; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they couldhave spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valleyto the other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lostthe outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderousand gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing hissteps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther hewithdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinityintact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the cloudsand glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Faceseemed positively to be alive.

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with theGreat Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and theexpression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warmheart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. Itwas an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many people,the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that wascontinually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing itstenderness into the sunshine.

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

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

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

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

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when sheherself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past,but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even theIndians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from theirforefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountainstreams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The purport was, that,at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined tobecome the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance,in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. Not a fewold-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes,still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But others, who hadseen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and hadbeheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater ornobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At allevents, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared.

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

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

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

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

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

In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, withmagnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, theharbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected toarrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by theidea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many agesof delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, boyas he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with hisvast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume acontrol over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the GreatStone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the peoplesaid was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of thosewondrous features on the mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up thevalley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned hisgaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approachingswiftly along the winding road.

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

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it,thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, witha skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a lowforehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and verythin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

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

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

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage, andgazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams,he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressedthemselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lipsseem to say?

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

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

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part ofthe matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of hisexistence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but aliving skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled yellow skin. Since the meltingaway of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no suchstriking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruinedmerchant and that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So the people ceased tohonor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness afterhis decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up inconnection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had longago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes ofwhom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the GreatStone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade,the man of prophecy was yet to come.

It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, hadenlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now becomean illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known incamps and on the battle-field under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. Thiswar-worn veteran being now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoilof a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet,that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose ofreturning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered tohave left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children,were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and apublic dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now,at last, the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. Anaid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, travelling through the valley, was saidto have been struck with the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and earlyacquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the bestof their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like themajestic image, even when a boy, only the idea had never occurred to them atthat period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley; andmany people, who had never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face foryears before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowingexactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of thevalley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet wasprepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast washeard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on thedistinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tableswere arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surroundingtrees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of theGreat Stone Face. Over the general’s chair, which was a relic from thehome of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurelprofusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country’s banner, beneathwhich he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on histiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was amighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and tocatch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteercompany, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at anyparticularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusivecharacter, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more ofOld Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy than if it had been still blazing onthe battle-field. To console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face,which, like a faithful and long remembered friend, looked back and smiled uponhim through the vista of the forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear theremarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the herowith the face on the distant mountain-side.

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

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

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

And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicatedelectricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, thatwent reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have supposedthat the Great Stone Face had poured its thunderbreath into the cry. All thesecomments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to interest our friend; nordid he think of questioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had foundits human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had imagined that thislong-looked-for personage would appear in the character of a man of peace,uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. But, taking anhabitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he contended that Providenceshould choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could conceive that thisgreat end might be effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, shouldinscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so.

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

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

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

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

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

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his nativevalley, and was now a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he hadbecome known among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread,and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thoughtand felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life tounworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he hadbeen talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdomunawares. It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of hisdaily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all alongits course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because thisman, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yetwould always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily too, he hadbecome a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as oneof its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently fromhis hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon andmoulded the lives of those who heard him. His auditors, it may be, neversuspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than anordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably asthe murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other humanlips had spoken.

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

While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz,as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Ofcourse, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens andneither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through thecountry might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made toreceive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meethim at the boundary line of the State, and all the people left their businessand gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Thoughmore than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful andconfiding nature, that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemedbeautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure tocatch the blessing from on high when it should come. So now again, as buoyantlyas ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face.

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

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

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

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by fourwhite horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat theillustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.

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

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which wasbowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was aresemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side. Thebrow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed,were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic, of aTitanic model. But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of adivine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized itsponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain.Something had been originally left out, or had departed. And therefore themarvellously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns ofhis eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man of mightyfaculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances, wasvague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality.

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

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

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

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

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent: for this was thesaddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled theprophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners,the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in therear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealedagain, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries.

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

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

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence hadgranted a new poet to this earth. He likewise, was a native of the valley, buthad spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region,pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however,did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift theirsnowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the GreatStone Face forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grandenough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of genius, wemay say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of amountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on itsbreast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. If his themewere a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleamforever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity ofits dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of thesong. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that thepoet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him, as the lastbest touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till the poet cameto interpret, and so complete it.

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

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after hiscustomary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such alength of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the GreatStone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill withinhim, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly.

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

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

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heardof Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed nothingso desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in handwith the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he tookpassage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted fromthe cars at no great distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel,which had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, butthe poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt,and was resolved to be accepted as his guest.

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in hishand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves,looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.

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

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

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

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face wasbending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s glowingeyes.

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

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

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

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

“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet.

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

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

“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are notthose thoughts divine?”

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

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

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was todiscourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. Heand the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceededto the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind,the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creepingplants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons fromall its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the ground, set in a richframework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a humanfigure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously accompany earnestthought and genuine emotion. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, andthrew a look of familiar kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat,or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshinefalling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with thesolemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which thegolden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the GreatStone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in itsbenignant aspect.

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind.His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughtshad reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he hadalways lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were thewords of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them.Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this precious draught. The poet,as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a noblerstrain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, hegazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that neverwas there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet,thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At adistance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the settingsun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the whitehairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed toembrace the world.

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

Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said wastrue. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had tosay, took the poet’s arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping thatsome wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing aresemblance to the GREATSTONEFACE.

MAIN STREET

A respectable-looking individual makes his bow and addresses the public. In mydaily walks along the principal street of my native town, it has often occurredto me, that, if its growth from infancy upward, and the vicissitude ofcharacteristic scenes that have passed along this thoroughfare during the morethan two centuries of its existence, could be presented to the eye in ashifting panorama, it would be an exceedingly effective method of illustratingthe march of time. Acting on this idea, I have contrived a certain pictorialexhibition, somewhat in the nature of a puppet-show, by means of which Ipropose to call up the multiform and many-colored Past before the spectator,and show him the ghosts of his forefathers, amid a succession of historicincidents, with no greater trouble than the turning of a crank. Be pleased,therefore, my indulgent patrons, to walk into the show-room, and take yourseats before yonder mysterious curtain. The little wheels and springs of mymachinery have been well oiled; a multitude of puppets are dressed incharacter, representing all varieties of fashion, from the Puritan cloak andjerkin to the latest Oak Hall coat; the lamps are trimmed, and shall brighteninto noontide sunshine, or fade away in moonlight, or muffle their brilliancyin a November cloud, as the nature of the scene may require; and, in short, theexhibition is just ready to commence. Unless something should gowrong,—as, for instance, the misplacing of a picture, whereby the peopleand events of one century might be thrust into the middle of another; or thebreaking of a wire, which would bring the course of time to a suddenperiod,—barring, I say, the casualties to which such a complicated pieceof mechanism is liable,—I flatter myself, ladies andgentlemen,—that the performance will elicit your generous approbation.

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

You perceive, at a glance, that this is the ancient and primitivewood,—the ever-youthful and venerably old,—verdant with new twigs,yet hoary, as it were, with the snowfall of innumerable years, that haveaccumulated upon its intermingled branches. The white man’s axe has neversmitten a single tree; his footstep has never crumpled a single one of thewithered leaves, which all the autumns since the flood have been harvestingbeneath. Yet, see! along through the vista of impending boughs, there isalready a faintly traced path, running nearly east and west, as if a prophecyor foreboding of the future street had stolen into the heart of the solemn oldwood. Onward goes this hardly perceptible track, now ascending over a naturalswell of land, now subsiding gently into a hollow; traversed here by a littlestreamlet, which glitters like a snake through the gleam of sunshine, andquickly hides itself among the underbrush, in its quest for the neighboringcove; and impeded there by the massy corpse of a giant of the forest, which hadlived out its incalculable term of life, and been overthrown by mere old age,and lies buried in the new vegetation that is born of its decay. What footstepscan have worn this half-seen path? Hark! Do we not hear them now rustlingsoftly over the leaves? We discern an Indian woman,—a majestic andqueenly woman, or else her spectral image does not represent hertruly,—for this is the great Squaw Sachem, whose rule, with that of hersons, extends from Mystic to Agawam. That red chief, who stalks by her side, isWappacowet, her second husband, the priest and magician, whose incantationsshall hereafter affright the pale-faced settlers with grisly phantoms, dancingand shrieking in the woods, at midnight. But greater would be the affright ofthe Indian necromancer, if, mirrored in the pool of water at his feet, he couldcatch a prophetic glimpse of the noonday marvels which the white man isdestined to achieve; if he could see, as in a dream, the stone front of thestately hall, which will cast its shadow over this very spot; if he could beaware that the future edifice will contain a noble Museum, where, amongcountless curiosities of earth and sea, a few Indian arrow-heads shall betreasured up as memorials of a vanished race!

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

Here an acidulous-looking gentleman in blue glasses, with bows of Berlin steel,who has taken a seat at the extremity of the front row, begins, at this earlystage of the exhibition, to criticise.

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

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

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

The showman proceeds.

Casting our eyes again over the scene, we perceive that strangers have foundtheir way into the solitary place. In more than one spot, among the trees, anupheaved axe is glittering in the sunshine. Roger Conant, the first settler inNaumkeag, has built his dwelling, months ago, on the border of the forest-path;and at this moment he comes eastward through the vista of woods, with his gunover his shoulder, bringing home the choice portions of a deer. His stalwartfigure, clad in a leathern jerkin and breeches of the same, strides sturdilyonward, with such an air of physical force and energy that we might almostexpect the very trees to stand aside, and give him room to pass. And so,indeed, they must; for, humble as is his name in history, Roger Conant still isof that class of men who do not merely find, but make, their place in thesystem of human affairs; a man of thoughtful strength, he has planted the germof a city. There stands his habitation, showing in its rough architecture somefeatures of the Indian wigwam, and some of the log-cabin, and somewhat, too, ofthe straw-thatched cottage in Old England, where this good yeoman had his birthand breeding. The dwelling is surrounded by a cleared space of a few acres,where Indian corn grows thrivingly among the stumps of the trees; while thedark forest hems it in, and scenes to gaze silently and solemnly, as ifwondering at the breadth of sunshine which the white man spreads around him. AnIndian, half hidden in the dusky shade, is gazing and wondering too.

Within the door of the cottage you discern the wife, with her ruddy Englishcheek. She is singing, doubtless, a psalm tune, at her household work; or,perhaps she sighs at the remembrance of the cheerful gossip, and all the merrysocial life, of her native village beyond the vast and melancholy sea. Yet thenext moment she laughs, with sympathetic glee, at the sports of her littletribe of children; and soon turns round, with the home-look in her face, as herhusband’s foot is heard approaching the rough-hewn threshold. How sweetmust it be for those who have an Eden in their hearts, like Roger Conant andhis wife, to find a new world to project it into, as they have, instead ofdwelling among old haunts of men, where so many household fires have beenkindled and burnt out, that the very glow of happiness has something dreary init! Not that this pair are alone in their wild Eden, for here comes GoodwifeMassey, the young spouse of Jeffrey Massey, from her home hard by, with aninfant at her breast. Dame Conant has another of like age; and it shallhereafter be one of the disputed points of history which of these two babieswas the first town-born child.

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

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

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

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

“But, sir, you have not the proper point of view,” remarks theshowman. “You sit altogether too near to get the best effect of mypictorial exhibition. Pray, oblige me by removing to this other bench, and Iventure to assure you the proper light and shadow will transform the spectacleinto quite another thing.”

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

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

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

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

Too much of this. Look again at the picture, and observe how the aforesaidAnglo-Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, and raising a positivecloud of dust beneath its sturdy footsteps. For there the carpenters arebuilding a new house, the frame of which was hewn and fitted in England, ofEnglish oak, and sent hither on shipboard; and here a blacksmith makes hugeslang and clatter on his anvil, shaping out tools and weapons; and yonder awheelwright, who boasts himself a London workman, regularly bred to hishandicraft, is fashioning a set of wagon-wheels, the track of which shall soonbe visible. The wild forest is shrinking back; the street has lost the aromaticodor of the pine-trees, and of the sweet-fern that grew beneath them. Thetender and modest wild-flowers, those gentle children of savage nature thatgrew pale beneath the ever-brooding shade, have shrank away and disappeared,like stars that vanish in the breadth of light. Gardens are fenced in, anddisplay pumpkin-beds and rows of cabbages and beans; and, though the governorand the minister both view them with a disapproving eye, plants of broad-leavedtobacco, which the cultivators are enjoined to use privily, or not at all. Nowolf, for a year past, has been heard to bark, or known to range among thedwellings, except that single one, whose grisly head, with a plash of bloodbeneath it, is now affixed to the portal of the meeting-house. The partridgehas ceased to run across the too-frequented path. Of all the wild life thatused to throng here, only the Indians still come into the settlement, bringingthe skins of beaver and otter, bear and elk, which they sell to Endicott forthe wares of England. And there is little John Massey, the son of JeffreyMassey and first-born of Naumkeag, playing beside his father’s threshold,a child of six or seven years old. Which is the better-grown infant,—thetown or the boy?

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

A multitude of people were now thronging to New England: some, because theancient and ponderous framework of Church and State threatened to crumble downupon their heads; others, because they despaired of such a downfall. Amongthose who came to Naumkeag were men of history and legend, whose feet leave atrack of brightness along any pathway which they have trodden. You shall beholdtheir life-like images—their spectres, if you choose so to callthem—passing, encountering with a familiar nod, stopping to conversetogether, praying, bearing weapons, laboring or resting from their labors, inthe Main Street. Here, now, comes Hugh Peters, an earnest, restless man,walking swiftly, as being impelled by that fiery activity of nature which shallhereafter thrust him into the conflict of dangerous affairs, make him thechaplain and counsellor of Cromwell, and finally bring him to a bloody end. Hepauses, by the meetinghouse, to exchange a greeting with Roger Williams, whoseface indicates, methinks, a gentler spirit, kinder and more expansive, thanthat of Peters; yet not less active for what he discerns to be the will of God,or the welfare of mankind. And look! here is a guest for Endicott, coming forthout of the forest, through which he has been journeying from Boston, and which,with its rude branches, has caught hold of his attire, and has wet his feetwith its swamps and streams. Still there is something in his mild andvenerable, though not aged presence—a propriety, an equilibrium, inGovernor Winthrop’s nature—that causes the disarray of his costumeto be unnoticed, and gives us the same impression as if he were clad in suchrave and rich attire as we may suppose him to have worn in the Council Chamberof the colony. Is not this characteristic wonderfully perceptible in ourspectral representative of his person? But what dignitary is this crossing fromthe other side to greet the governor? A stately personage, in a dark velvetcloak, with a hoary beard, and a gold chain across his breast; he has theauthoritative port of one who has filled the highest civic station in the firstof cities. Of all men in the world, we should least expect to meet the LordMayor of London—as Sir Richard Saltonstall has been, once andagain—in a forest-bordered settlement of the western wilderness.

Farther down the street, we see Emanuel Downing, a grave and worthy citizen,with his son George, a stripling who has a career before him; his shrewd andquick capacity and pliant conscience shall not only exalt him high, but securehim from a downfall. Here is another figure, on whose characteristic make andexpressive action I will stake the credit of my pictorial puppet-show.

Have you not already detected a quaint, sly humor in that face,—aneccentricity in the manner,—a certain indescribablewaywardness,—all the marks, in short, of an original man, unmistakablyimpressed, yet kept down by a sense of clerical restraint? That is NathanielWard, the minister of Ipswich, but better remembered as the simple cobbler ofAgawam. He hammered his sole so faithfully, and stitched his upper-leather sowell, that the shoe is hardly yet worn out, though thrown aside for some twocenturies past. And next, among these Puritans and Roundheads, we observe thevery model of a Cavalier, with the curling lovelock, the fantastically trimmedbeard, the embroidery, the ornamented rapier, the gilded dagger, and all otherfoppishnesses that distinguished the wild gallants who rode headlong to theiroverthrow in the cause of King Charles. This is Morton of Merry Mount, who hascome hither to hold a council with Endicott, but will shortly be his prisoner.Yonder pale, decaying figure of a white-robed woman, who glides slowly alongthe street, is the Lady Arabella, looking for her own grave in the virgin soil.That other female form, who seems to be talking—we might almost saypreaching or expounding—in the centre of a group of profoundly attentiveauditors, is Ann Hutchinson. And here comes Vane—

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

“The fellow,” adds the scarcely civil critic, “has learned abead-roll of historic names, whom he lugs into his pictorial puppet-show, as hecalls it, helter-skelter, without caring whether they were contemporaries ornot,—and sets them all by the ears together. But was there ever such afund of impudence? To hear his running commentary, you would suppose that thesemiserable slips of painted pasteboard, with hardly the remotest outlines of thehuman figure, had all the character and expression of Michael Angelo’spictures. Well! go on, sir!”

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

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

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

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

The showman bows, and waves his hand; and, at the signal, as if time andvicissitude had been awaiting his permission to move onward, the mimic streetbecomes alive again.

Years have rolled over our scene, and converted the forest-track into a dustythoroughfare, which, being intersected with lanes and cross-paths, may fairlybe designated as the Main Street. On the ground-sites of many of the log-builtsheds, into which the first settlers crept for shelter, houses of quaintarchitecture have now risen. These later edifices are built, as you see, in onegenerally accordant style, though with such subordinate variety as keeps thebeholder’s curiosity excited, and causes each structure, like itsowner’s character, to produce its own peculiar impression. Most of themhave a huge chimney in the centre, with flues so vast that it must have beeneasy for the witches to fly out of them as they were wont to do, when bound onan aerial visit to the Black Man in the forest. Around this great chimney thewooden house clusters itself, in a whole community of gable-ends, eachascending into its own separate peak; the second story, with itslattice-windows, projecting over the first; and the door, which is perhapsarched, provided on the outside with an iron hammer, wherewith thevisitor’s hand may give a thundering rat-a-tat.

The timber framework of these houses, as compared with those of recent date, islike the skeleton of an old giant, beside the frail bones of a modern man offashion. Many of them, by the vast strength and soundness of their oakensubstance, have been preserved through a length of time which would have triedthe stability of brick and stone; so that, in all the progressive decay andcontinual reconstruction of the street, down to our own days, we shall stillbehold these old edifices occupying their long-accustomed sites. For instance,on the upper corner of that green lane which shall hereafter be North Street,we see the Curwen House, newly built, with the carpenters still at work on theroof nailing down the last sheaf of shingles. On the lower corner standsanother dwelling,—destined, at some period of its existence, to be theabode of an unsuccessful alchemist,—which shall likewise survive to ourown generation, and perhaps long outlive it. Thus, through the medium of thesepatriarchal edifices, we have now established a sort of kindred and hereditaryacquaintance with the Main Street.

Great as is the transformation produced by a short term of years, each singleday creeps through the Puritan settlement sluggishly enough. It shall passbefore your eyes, condensed into the space of a few moments. The gray light ofearly morning is slowly diffusing itself over the scene; and the bellman, whoseoffice it is to cry the hour at the street-corners, rings the last peal uponhis hand bell, and goes wearily homewards, with the owls, the bats, and othercreatures of the night. Lattices are thrust back on their hinges, as if thetown were opening its eyes, in the summer morning. Forth stumbles the stilldrowsy cowherd, with his horn; putting which to his lips, it emits a bellowingbray, impossible to be represented in the picture, but which reaches thepricked-up ears of every cow in the settlement, and tells her that the dewypasture-hour is come. House after house awakes, and sends the smoke up curlingfrom its chimney, like frosty breath from living nostrils; and as those whitewreaths of smoke, though impregnated with earthy admixtures, climb skyward, so,from each dwelling, does the morning worship—its spiritual essence,bearing up its human imperfection—find its way to the heavenlyFather’s throne.

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

It will be hardly worth our while to wait two, or it may be three, turnings ofthe hour-glass, for the conclusion of the lecture. Therefore, by my controlover light and darkness, I cause the dusk, and then the starless night, tobrood over the street; and summon forth again the bellman, with his lanterncasting a gleam about his footsteps, to pace wearily from corner to corner, andshout drowsily the hour to drowsy or dreaming ears. Happy are we, if fornothing else, yet because we did not live in those days. In truth, when thefirst novelty and stir of spirit had subsided,—when the new settlement,between the forest-border and the sea, had become actually a littletown,—its daily life must have trudged onward with hardly anything todiversify and enliven it, while also its rigidity could not fail to causemiserable distortions of the moral nature. Such a life was sinister to theintellect, and sinister to the heart; especially when one generation hadbequeathed its religious gloom, and the counterfeit of its religious ardor, tothe next; for these characteristics, as was inevitable, assumed the form bothof hypocrisy and exaggeration, by being inherited from the example and preceptof other human beings, and not from an original and spiritual source. The sonsand grandchildren of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower soulsthan their progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant, butnot superstitious, not even fanatical; and endowed, if any men of that agewere, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it was impossible for thesucceeding race to grow up, in heaven’s freedom, beneath the disciplinewhich their gloomy energy of character had established; nor, it may be, have weeven yet thrown off all the unfavorable influences which, among many good ones,were bequeathed to us by our Puritan forefathers. Let us thank God for havinggiven us such ancestors; and let each successive generation thank him, not lessfervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages.

“What is all this?” cries the critic. “A sermon? If so, it isnot in the bill.”

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

Look now at the street, and observe a strange people entering it. Theirgarments are torn and disordered, their faces haggard, their figures emaciated;for they have made their way hither through pathless deserts, suffering hungerand hardship, with no other shelter thin a hollow tree, the lair of a wildbeast, or an Indian wigwam. Nor, in the most inhospitable and dangerous of suchlodging-places, was there half the peril that awaits them in this thoroughfareof Christian men, with those secure dwellings and warm hearths on either sideof it, and yonder meeting-house as the central object of the scene. Thesewanderers have received from Heaven a gift that, in all epochs of the world,has brought with it the penalties of mortal suffering and persecution, scorn,enmity, and death itself;—a gift that, thus terrible to its possessors,has ever been most hateful to all other men, since its very existence seems tothreaten the overthrow of whatever else the toilsome ages have builtup;—the gift of a new idea. You can discern it in them, illuminatingtheir faces—their whole persons, indeed, however earthly andcloddish—with a light that inevitably shines through, and makes thestartled community aware that these men are not as they themselvesare,—not brethren nor neighbors of their thought. Forthwith, it is as ifan earthquake rumbled through the town, making its vibrations felt at everyhearthstone, and especially causing the spire of the meeting-house to totter.The Quakers have come. We are in peril! See! they trample upon our wise andwell-established laws in the person of our chief magistrate; for GovernorEndicott is passing, now an aged man, and dignified with long habits ofauthority,—and not one of the irreverent vagabonds has moved his hat. Didyou note the ominous frown of the white-bearded Puritan governor, as he turnedhimself about, and, in his anger, half uplifted the staff that has become aneedful support to his old age? Here comes old Mr. Norris, our venerableminister. Will they doff their hats, and pay reverence to him? No: their hatsstick fast to their ungracious heads, as if they grew there; and—impiousvarlets that they are, and worse than the heathen Indians!—they eye ourreverend pastor with a peculiar scorn, distrust, unbelief, and utter denial ofhis sanctified pretensions, of which he himself immediately becomes conscious;the more bitterly conscious, as he never knew nor dreamed of the like before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir, sir!” cries the persecuted showman, losing allpatience,—for, indeed, he had particularly prided himself on thesefigures of Captain Gardner and his horse,—“I see that there is nohope of pleasing you. Pray, sir, do me the favor to take back your money, andwithdraw!”

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

The showman rubs his brow impulsively, whisks the little rod with which hepoints out the notabilities of the scene, but, finally, with the inevitableacquiescence of all public servants, resumes his composure and goes on.

Pass onward, onward, Time! Build up new houses here, and tear down thy works ofyesterday, that have already the rusty moss upon them! Summon forth theminister to the abode of the young maiden, and bid him unite her to the joyfulbridegroom! Let the youthful parents carry their first-born to themeeting-house, to receive the baptismal rite! Knock at the door, whence thesable line of the funeral is next to issue! Provide other successivegenerations of men, to trade, talk, quarrel, or walk in friendly intercoursealong the street, as their fathers did before them! Do all thy daily andaccustomed business, Father Time, in this thoroughfare, which thy footsteps,for so many years, have now made dusty! But here, at last, thou leadest along aprocession which, once witnessed, shall appear no more, and be remembered onlyas a hideous dream of thine, or a frenzy of thy old brain.

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

The showman deems it best to comply.

Then, here comes the worshipful Captain Curwen, sheriff of Essex, on horseback,at the head of an armed guard, escorting a company of condemned prisoners fromthe jail to their place of execution on Gallows Hill. The witches! There is nomistaking them! The witches! As they approach up Prison Lane, and turn into theMain Street, let us watch their faces, as if we made a part of the pale crowdthat presses so eagerly about them, yet shrinks back with such shudderingdread, leaving an open passage betwixt a dense throng on either side. Listen towhat the people say.

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

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

Last of the miserable train comes a man clad in black, of small stature and adark complexion, with a clerical band about his neck. Many a time, in the yearsgone by, that face has been uplifted heavenward from the pulpit of the EastMeeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs seemed to worship God.What!—he? The holy man!—the learned!—the wise! How has theDevil tempted him? His fellow-criminals, for the most part, are obtuse,uncultivated creatures, some of them scarcely half-witted by nature, and othersgreatly decayed in their intellects through age. They were an easy prey for thedestroyer. Not so with this George Burroughs, as we judge by the inward lightwhich glows through his dark countenance, and, we might almost say, glorifieshis figure, in spite of the soil and haggardness of long imprisonment,—inspite of the heavy shadow that must fall on him, while death is walking by hisside. What bribe could Satan offer, rich enough to tempt and overcome thismail? Alas! it may have been in the very strength of his high and searchingintellect, that the Tempter found the weakness which betrayed him. He yearnedfor knowledge he went groping onward into a world of mystery; at first, as thewitnesses have sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his two dead wives, andtalked with them of matters beyond the grave; and, when their responses failedto satisfy the intense and sinful craving of his spirit, he called on Satan,and was heard. Yet—to look at him—who, that had not known theproof, could believe him guilty? Who would not say, while we see him offeringcomfort to the weak and aged partners of his horrible crime,—while wehear his ejaculations of prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the depths ofhis heart, and fly heavenward, unawares,—while we behold a radiancebrightening on his features as from the other world, which is but a few stepsoff,—who would not say, that, over the dusty track of the Main Street, aChristian saint is now going to a martyr’s death? May not the Arch-Fiendhave been too subtle for the court and jury, and betrayed them—laughingin his sleeve, the while—into the awful error of pouring out sanctifiedblood as an acceptable sacrifice upon God’s altar? Ah! no; for listen towise Cotton Mather, who, as he sits there on his horse, speaks comfortably tothe perplexed multitude, and tells them that all has been religiously andjustly done, and that Satan’s power shall this day receive its death-blowin New England.

Heaven grant it be so!—the great scholar must be right; so lead the poorcreatures to their death! Do you see that group of children and half-growngirls, and, among them, an old, hag-like Indian woman, Tituba by name? Thoseare the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this very instant, a proof of Satan’spower and malice! Mercy Parris, the minister’s daughter, has been smittenby a flash of Martha Carrier’s eye, and falls down in the street,writhing with horrible spasms and foaming at the mouth, like the possessed onespoken of in Scripture. Hurry on the accursed witches to the gallows, ere theydo more mischief!—ere they fling out their withered arms, and scatterpestilence by handfuls among the crowd!—ere, as their parting legacy,they cast a blight over the land, so that henceforth it may bear no fruit norblade of grass, and be fit for nothing but a sepulchre for their unhallowedcarcasses! So, on they go; and old George Jacobs has stumbled, by reason of hisinfirmity; but Goodman Proctor and his wife lean on one another, and walk at areasonably steady pace, considering their age. Mr. Burroughs seems toadminister counsel to Martha Carrier, whose face and mien, methinks, are milderand humbler than they were. Among the multitude, meanwhile, there is horror,fear, and distrust; and friend looks askance at friend, and the husband at hiswife, and the wife at him, and even the mother at her little child; as if, inevery creature that God has made, they suspected a witch, or dreaded anaccuser. Never, never again, whether in this or any other shape, may UniversalMadness riot in the Main Street!

I perceive in your eyes, my indulgent spectators, the criticism which you aretoo kind to utter. These scenes, you think, are all too sombre. So, indeed,they are; but the blame must rest on the sombre spirit of our forefathers, whowove their web of life with hardly a single thread of rose-color or gold, andnot on me, who have a tropic-love of sunshine, and would gladly gild all theworld with it, if I knew where to find so much. That you may believe me, I willexhibit one of the only class of scenes, so far as my investigation has taughtme, in which our ancestors were wont to steep their tough old hearts in wineand strong drink, and indulge an outbreak of grisly jollity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ETHAN BRAND:
A CHAPTER FROM AN ABORTIVE ROMANCE

Bartram the lime-burner, a rough, heavy-looking man, begrimed with charcoal,sat watching his kiln at nightfall, while his little son played at buildinghouses with the scattered fragments of marble, when, on the hill-side belowthem, they heard a roar of laughter, not mirthful, but slow, and even solemn,like a wind shaking the boughs of the forest.

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

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

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

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

Bartram and his little son, while they were talking thus, sat watching the samelime-kiln that had been the scene of Ethan Brand’s solitary andmeditative life, before he began his search for the Unpardonable Sin. Manyyears, as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that portentous night when theIDEAwas first developed. The kiln, however, on themountain-side, stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed since he had thrownhis dark thoughts into the intense glow of its furnace, and melted them, as itwere, into the one thought that took possession of his life. It was a rude,round, tower-like structure about twenty feet high, heavily built of roughstones, and with a hillock of earth heaped about the larger part of itscircumference; so that the blocks and fragments of marble might be drawn bycart-loads, and thrown in at the top. There was an opening at the bottom of thetower, like an over-mouth, but large enough to admit a man in a stoopingposture, and provided with a massive iron door. With the smoke and jets offlame issuing from the chinks and crevices of this door, which seemed to giveadmittance into the hill-side, it resembled nothing so much as the privateentrance to the infernal regions, which the shepherds of the DelectableMountains were accustomed to show to pilgrims.

There are many such lime-kilns in that tract of country, for the purpose ofburning the white marble which composes a large part of the substance of thehills. Some of them, built years ago, and long deserted, with weeds growing inthe vacant round of the interior, which is open to the sky, and grass andwild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones, look alreadylike relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the lichens ofcenturies to come. Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his daily andnight-long fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the hills, whoseats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a chat with thesolitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined to thought,may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in the case of EthanBrand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by, while the firein this very kiln was burning.

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

The little boy now crept still closer to his father, as footsteps were heardascending the hill-side, and a human form thrust aside the bushes thatclustered beneath the trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?” cried the lime-burner, inamazement. “I am a new-comer here, as you say, and they call it eighteenyears since you left the foot of Graylock. But, I can tell you, the good folksstill talk about Ethan Brand, in the village yonder, and what a strange errandtook him away from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you have found the UnpardonableSin?”

“Even so!” said the stranger, calmly.

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

Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart.

“Here!” replied he.

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

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

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

The boy darted away on his errand, to which Ethan Brand made no objection, norseemed hardly to notice it. He sat on a log of wood, looking steadfastly at theiron door of the kiln. When the child was out of sight, and his swift and lightfootsteps ceased to be heard treading first on the fallen leaves and then onthe rocky mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret his departure. He feltthat the little fellow’s presence had been a barrier between his guestand himself, and that he must now deal, heart to heart, with a man who, on hisown confession, had committed the one only crime for which Heaven could affordno mercy. That crime, in its indistinct blackness, seemed to overshadow him,and made his memory riotous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted theirkindred with the Master Sin, whatever it might be, which it was within thescope of man’s corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They were all ofone family; they went to and fro between his breast and Ethan Brand’s,and carried dark greetings from one to the other.

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

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

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

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

He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more wood, and bent forward to gaze intothe hollow prison-house of the fire, regardless of the fierce glow thatreddened upon his face. The lime-burner sat watching him, and half suspectedthis strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at least to plungeinto the flames, and thus vanish from the sight of man. Ethan Brand, however,drew quietly back, and closed the door of the kiln.

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

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

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

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

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

There, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous man, now almostextinct, but whom we were formerly sure to encounter at the hotel of everythriving village throughout the country. It was the stage-agent. The presentspecimen of the genus was a wilted and smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed,in a smartly cut, brown, bobtailed coat, with brass buttons, who, for a lengthof time unknown, had kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and was stillpuffing what seemed to be the same cigar that he had lighted twenty yearsbefore. He had great fame as a dry joker, though, perhaps, less on account ofany intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of brandy-toddy andtobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and expressions, as well as hisperson. Another well-remembered, though strangely altered, face was that ofLawyer Giles, as people still called him in courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, inhis soiled shirtsleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This poor fellow had been anattorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and in greatvogue among the village litigants; but flip, and sling, and toddy, andcocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, had caused him toslide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till atlast, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a soap-vat. In other words, Gileswas now a soap-boiler, in a small way. He had come to be but the fragment of ahuman being, a part of one foot having been chopped off by an axe, and anentire hand torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though thecorporeal hand was gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth thestump, Giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingerswith as vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. A maimed andmiserable wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the world could nottrample on, and had no right to scorn, either in this or any previous stage ofhis misfortunes, since he had still kept up the courage and spirit of a man,asked nothing in charity, and with his one hand—and that the leftone—fought a stern battle against want and hostile circumstances.

Among the throng, too, came another personage, who, with certain points ofsimilarity to Lawyer Giles, had many more of difference. It was the villagedoctor; a man of some fifty years, whom, at an earlier period of his life, weintroduced as paying a professional visit to Ethan Brand during thelatter’s supposed insanity. He was now a purple-visaged, rude, andbrutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with something wild, ruined, and desperatein his talk, and in all the details of his gesture and manners. Brandypossessed this man like an evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as awild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be inhim such wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any whichmedical science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would notlet him sink out of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his horse, andgrumbling thick accents at the bedside, he visited all the sick-chambers formiles about among the mountain towns, and sometimes raised a dying man, as itwere, by miracle, or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to a grave thatwas dug many a year too soon. The doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth,and, as somebody said, in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was alwaysalight with hell-fire.

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

“Leave me,” he said bitterly, “ye brute beasts, that havemade yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery liquors! I have donewith you. Years and years ago, I groped into your hearts and found nothingthere for my purpose. Get ye gone!”

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

He pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed, with long white hair, thin visage,and unsteady eyes. For some years past this aged person had been wanderingabout among the hills, inquiring of all travellers whom he met for hisdaughter. The girl, it seemed, had gone off with a company ofcircus-performers, and occasionally tidings of her came to the village, andfine stories were told of her glittering appearance as she rode on horseback inthe ring, or performed marvellous feats on the tight-rope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an instant, and then starting back, lookedfixedly at the German. What had he seen? Nothing, apparently; for a curiousyouth, who had peeped in almost at the same moment, beheld only a vacant spaceof canvas.

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

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

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

The Jew’s exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderlydog—who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laidclaim to him—saw fit to render himself the object of public notice.Hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old dog, going roundfrom one to another, and, by way of being sociable, offering his rough head tobe patted by any kindly hand that would take so much trouble. But now, all of asudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, of his own mere motion, and withoutthe slightest suggestion from anybody else, began to run round after his tail,which, to heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal shorterthan it should have been. Never was seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit ofan object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such atremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping,—as ifone end of the ridiculous brute’s body were at deadly and mostunforgivable enmity with the other. Faster and faster, round about went thecur; and faster and still faster fled the unapproachable brevity of his tail;and louder and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animosity; until, utterlyexhausted, and as far from the goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased hisperformance as suddenly as he had begun it. The next moment he was as mild,quiet, sensible, and respectable in his deportment, as when he first scrapedacquaintance with the company.

As may be supposed, the exhibition was greeted with universal laughter,clapping of hands, and shouts of encore, to which the canine performerresponded by wagging all that there was to wag of his tail, but appearedtotally unable to repeat his very successful effort to amuse the spectators.

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

Ethan Brand thrust more wood into the fire, and closed the door of the kiln;then looking over his shoulder at the lime-burner and his son, he bade, ratherthan advised, them to retire to rest.

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

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

As the boy followed his father into the hut, he looked back at the wayfarer,and the tears came into his eyes, for his tender spirit had an intuition of thebleak and terrible loneliness in which this man had enveloped himself.

When they had gone, Ethan Brand sat listening to the crackling of the kindledwood, and looking at the little spirts of fire that issued through the chinksof the door. These trifles, however, once so familiar, had but the slightesthold of his attention, while deep within his mind he was reviewing the gradualbut marvellous change that had been wrought upon him by the search to which hehad devoted himself. He remembered how the night dew had fallen uponhim,—how the dark forest had whispered to him,—how the stars hadgleamed upon him,—a simple and loving man, watching his fire in the yearsgone by, and ever musing as it burned. He remembered with what tenderness, withwhat love and sympathy for mankind and what pity for human guilt and woe, hehad first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards became theinspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into the heartof man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and, however desecrated,still to be held sacred by a brother; with what awful fear he had deprecatedthe success of his pursuit, and prayed that the Unpardonable Sin might never berevealed to him. Then ensued that vast intellectual development, which, in itsprogress, disturbed the counterpoise between his mind and heart. The Idea thatpossessed his life had operated as a means of education; it had gone oncultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were susceptible; ithad raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer to stand on a star-liteminence, whither the philosophers of the earth, laden with the lore ofuniversities, might vainly strive to clamber after him. So much for theintellect! But where was the heart? That, indeed, had withered,—hadcontracted,—had hardened,—had perished! It had ceased to partake ofthe universal throb. He had lost his hold of the magnetic chain of humanity. Hewas no longer a brother-man, opening the chambers or the dungeons of our commonnature by the key of holy sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all itssecrets; he was now a cold observer, looking on mankind as the subject of hisexperiment, and, at length, converting man and woman to be his puppets, andpulling the wires that moved them to such degrees of crime as were demanded forhis study.

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

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

Starting from the log with a certain alacrity in his gait and ascending thehillock of earth that was raised against the stone circumference of thelime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the structure. It was a space of perhapsten feet across, from edge to edge, presenting a view of the upper surface ofthe immense mass of broken marble with which the kiln was heaped. All theseinnumerable blocks and fragments of marble were redhot and vividly on fire,sending up great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft and danced madly,as within a magic circle, and sank and rose again, with continual andmultitudinous activity. As the lonely man bent forward over this terrible bodyof fire, the blasting heat smote up against his person with a breath that, itmight be supposed, would have scorched and shrivelled him up in a moment.

Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his arms on high. The blue flames playedupon his face, and imparted the wild and ghastly light which alone could havesuited its expression; it was that of a fiend on the verge of plunging into hisgulf of intensest torment.

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

That night the sound of a fearful peal of laughter rolled heavily through thesleep of the lime-burner and his little son; dim shapes of horror and anguishhaunted their dreams, and seemed still present in the rude hovel, when theyopened their eyes to the daylight.

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

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

To supply that charm of the familiar and homely, which Nature so readily adoptsinto a scene like this, the stage-coach was rattling down the mountain-road,and the driver sounded his horn, while Echo caught up the notes, andintertwined them into a rich and varied and elaborate harmony, of which theoriginal performer could lay claim to little share. The great hills played aconcert among themselves, each contributing a strain of airy sweetness.

Little Joe’s face brightened at once.

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

“Yes,” growled the lime-burner, with an oath, “but he has letthe fire go down, and no thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime are notspoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts again, I shall feel like tossing himinto the furnace!”

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

“Come up here, Joe!” said he.

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

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

So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his pole, and, letting it fall upon theskeleton, the relics of Ethan Brand were crumbled into fragments.

A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY

Hearken to our neighbor with the iron tongue. While I sit musing over my sheetof foolscap, he emphatically tells the hour, in tones loud enough for all thetown to hear, though doubtless intended only as a gentle hint to myself, that Imay begin his biography before the evening shall be further wasted.Unquestionably, a personage in such an elevated position, and making so great anoise in the world, has a fair claim to the services of a biographer. He is therepresentative and most illustrious member of that innumerable class, whosecharacteristic feature is the tongue, and whose sole business, to clamor forthe public good. If any of his noisy brethren, in our tongue-governeddemocracy, be envious of the superiority which I have assigned him, they havemy free consent to hang themselves as high as he. And, for his history, let notthe reader apprehend an empty repetition of ding-dong-bell. He has been thepassive hero of wonderful vicissitudes, with which I have chanced to becomeacquainted, possibly from his own mouth; while the careless multitude supposedhim to be talking merely of the time of day, or calling them to dinner or tochurch, or bidding drowsy people go bedward, or the dead to their graves. Manya revolution has it been his fate to go through, and invariably with aprodigious uproar. And whether or no he have told me his reminiscences, this atleast is true, that the more I study his deep-toned language, the more sense,and sentiment, and soul, do I discover in it.

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

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

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

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

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

So Deacon Lawson and half a score of his townsmen took down the bell, suspendedit on a pole, and bore it away on their sturdy shoulders, meaning to carry itto the shore of Lake Champlain, and thence homeward by water. Far through thewoods gleamed the flames of Our Lady’s Chapel, flinging fantastic shadowsfrom the clustered foliage, and glancing on brooks that had never caught thesunlight. As the rangers traversed the midnight forest, staggering under theirheavy burden, the tongue of the bell gave many a tremendousstroke,—clang, clang, clang!—a most doleful sound, as if it weretolling for the slaughter of the priests and the ruin of the chapel. Littledreamed Deacon Lawson and his townsmen that it was their own funeral knell. Awar-party of Indians had heard the report, of musketry, and seen the blaze ofthe chapel, and now were on the track of the rangers, summoned to vengeance bythe bell’s dismal murmurs. In the midst of a deep swamp, they made asudden onset on the retreating foe. Good Deacon Lawson battled stoutly, but hadhis skull cloven by a tomahawk, and sank into the depths of the morass, withthe ponderous bell above him. And, for many a year thereafter, our hero’svoice was heard no more on earth, neither at the hour of worship, nor atfestivals nor funerals.

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

But there lay the bell, for many silent years; and the wonder is, that he didnot lie silent there a century, or perhaps a dozen centuries, till the worldshould have forgotten not only his voice, but the voices of the wholebrotherhood of bells. How would the first accent of his iron tongue havestartled his resurrectionists! But he was not fated to be a subject ofdiscussion among the antiquaries of far posterity. Near the close of the OldFrench War, a party of New England axe-men, who preceded the march of ColonelBradstreet toward Lake Ontario, were building a bridge of logs through a swamp.Plunging down a stake, one of these pioneers felt it graze against some hard,smooth substance. He called his comrades, and, by their united efforts, the topof the bell was raised to the surface, a rope made fast to it, and thencepassed over the horizontal limb of a tree. Heave ho! up they hoisted theirprize, dripping with moisture, and festooned with verdant water-moss. As thebase of the bell emerged from the swamp, the pioneers perceived that a skeletonwas clinging with its bony fingers to the clapper, but immediately relaxing itsnerveless grasp, sank back into the stagnant water. The bell then gave forth asullen clang. No wonder that he was in haste to speak, after holding his tonguefor such a length of time! The pioneers shoved the bell to and fro, thusringing a loud and heavy peal, which echoed widely through the forest, andreached the ears of Colonel Bradstreet, and his three thousand men. Thesoldiers paused on their march; a feeling of religion, mingled withborne-tenderness, overpowered their rude hearts; each seemed to hear theclangor of the old church-bell, which had been familiar to hint from infancy,and had tolled at the funerals of all his forefathers. By what magic had thatholy sound strayed over the wide-murmuring ocean, and become audible amid theclash of arms, the loud crashing of the artillery over the roughwilderness-path, and the melancholy roar of the wind among the boughs?

The New-Englanders hid their prize in a shadowy nook, betwixt a large graystone and the earthy roots of an overthrown tree; and when the campaign wasended, they conveyed our friend to Boston, and put him up at auction on thesidewalk of King Street. He was suspended, for the nonce, by a block andtackle, and being swung backward and forward, gave such loud and cleartestimony to his own merits, that the auctioneer had no need to say a word. Thehighest bidder was a rich old representative from our town, who piouslybestowed the bell on the meeting-house where he had been a worshipper for halfa century. The good man had his reward. By a strange coincidence, the veryfirst duty of the sexton, after the bell had been hoisted into the belfry, wasto toll the funeral knell of the donor. Soon, however, those doleful echoeswere drowned by a triumphant peal for the surrender of Quebec.

Ever since that period, our hero has occupied the same elevated station, andhas put in his word on all matters of public importance, civil, military, orreligious. On the day when Independence was first proclaimed in the streetbeneath, he uttered a peal which many deemed ominous and fearful, rather thantriumphant. But he has told the same story these sixty years, and none mistakehis meaning now. When Washington, in the fulness of his glory, rode through ourflower-strewn streets, this was the tongue that bade the Father of his Countrywelcome! Again the same voice was heard, when La Fayette came to gather in hishalf-century’s harvest of gratitude. Meantime, vast changes have beengoing on below. His voice, which once floated over a little provincial seaport,is now reverberated between brick edifices, and strikes the ear amid the buzzand tumult of a city. On the Sabbaths of olden time, the summons of the bellwas obeyed by a picturesque and varied throng; stately gentlemen in purplevelvet coats, embroidered waistcoats, white wigs, and gold-laced hats, steppingwith grave courtesy beside ladies in flowered satin gowns, and hoop-petticoatsof majestic circumference; while behind followed a liveried slave or bondsman,bearing the psalm-book, and a stove for his mistress’s feet. Thecommonalty, clad in homely garb, gave precedence to their betters at the doorof the meetinghouse, as if admitting that there were distinctions between them,even in the sight of God. Yet, as their coffins were borne one after anotherthrough the street, the bell has tolled a requiem for all alike. What matteredit, whether or no there were a silver scutcheon on the coffin-lid? “Openthy bosom, Mother Earth!” Thus spake the bell. “Another of thychildren is coming to his long rest. Take him to thy bosom, and let him slumberin peace.” Thus spake the bell, and Mother Earth received her child. Withthe self-same tones will the present generation be ushered to the embraces oftheir mother; and Mother Earth will still receive her children. Is not thytongue a-weary, mournful talker of two centuries? O funeral bell! wilt thounever be shattered with thine own melancholy strokes? Yea, and a trumpet-callshall arouse the sleepers, whom thy heavy clang could awake no more!

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

SYLPH ETHEREGE

On a bright summer evening, two persons stood among the shrubbery of a garden,stealthily watching a young girl, who sat in the window seat of a neighboringmansion. One of these unseen observers, a gentleman, was youthful, and had anair of high breeding and refinement, and a face marked with intellect, thoughotherwise of unprepossessing aspect. His features wore even an ominous, thoughsomewhat mirthful expression, while he pointed his long forefinger at the girl,and seemed to regard her as a creature completely within the scope of hisinfluence.

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

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

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

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

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

At this moment the girl raised her eyes, and, instead of a life-like semblanceof the miniature, beheld the ill-omened shape of Edward Hamilton, who nowstepped forth from his concealment in the shrubbery.

Sylvia Etherege was an orphan girl, who had spent her life, till within a fewmonths past, under the guardianship, and in the secluded dwelling, of an oldbachelor uncle. While yet in her cradle, she had been the destined bride of acousin, who was no less passive in the betrothal than herself. Their futureunion had been projected, as the means of uniting two rich estates, and wasrendered highly expedient, if not indispensable, by the testamentarydispositions of the parents on both sides. Edgar Vaughan, the promisedbridegroom, had been bred from infancy in Europe, and had never seen thebeautiful girl whose heart he was to claim as his inheritance. But already, forseveral years, a correspondence had been kept up between tine cousins, and hadproduced an intellectual intimacy, though it could but imperfectly acquaintthem with each other’s character.

Sylvia was shy, sensitive, and fanciful; and her guardian’s secludedhabits had shut her out from even so much of the world as is generally open tomaidens of her age. She had been left to seek associates and friends forherself in the haunts of imagination, and to converse with them, sometimes inthe language of dead poets, oftener in the poetry of her own mind. Thecompanion whom she chiefly summoned up was the cousin with whose idea herearliest thoughts had been connected. She made a vision of Edgar Vaughan, andtinted it with stronger hues than a mere fancy-picture, yet graced it with somany bright and delicate perfections, that her cousin could nowhere haveencountered so dangerous a rival. To this shadow she cherished a romanticfidelity. With its airy presence sitting by her side, or gliding along herfavorite paths, the loneliness of her young life was blissful; her heart wassatisfied with love, while yet its virgin purity was untainted by theearthliness that the touch of a real lover would have left there. Edgar Vaughanseemed to be conscious of her character; for, in his letters, he gave her aname that was happily appropriate to the sensitiveness of her disposition, thedelicate peculiarity of her manners, and the ethereal beauty both of her mindand person. Instead of Sylvia, he called her Sylph,—with the prerogativeof a cousin and a lover,—his dear Sylph Etherege.

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

The time now drew near when Edgar Vaughan, whose education had been completedby an extensive range of travel, was to revisit the soil of his nativity.Edward Hamilton, a young gentleman, who had been Vaughan’s companion,both in his studies and rambles, had already recrossed the Atlantic, bringingletters to Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia Etherege. These credentials insured him anearnest welcome, which, however, on Sylvia’s part, was not followed bypersonal partiality, or even the regard that seemed due to her cousin’smost intimate friend. As she herself could have assigned no cause for herrepugnance, it might be termed instinctive. Hamilton’s person, it istrue, was the reverse of attractive, especially when beheld for the first time.Yet, in the eyes of the most fastidious judges, the defect of natural grace wascompensated by the polish of his manners, and by the intellect which so oftengleamed through his dark features. Mrs. Grosvenor, with whom he immediatelybecame a prodigious favorite, exerted herself to overcome Sylvia’sdislike. But, in this matter, her ward could neither be reasoned with norpersuaded. The presence of Edward Hamilton was sure to render her cold, shy,and distant, abstracting all the vivacity from her deportment, as if a cloudhad come betwixt her and the sunshine.

The simplicity of Sylvia’s demeanor rendered it easy for so keen anobserver as Hamilton to detect her feelings. Whenever any slight circumstancemade him sensible of them, a smile might be seen to flit over the youngman’s sallow visage. None, that had once beheld this smile, were in anydanger of forgetting it; whenever they recalled to memory the features ofEdward Hamilton, they were always duskily illuminated by this expression ofmockery and malice.

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

But now could Sylvia give a brighter semblance of reality to those day-dreams.Clasping the miniature to her heart, she could summon forth, from that hauntedcell of pure and blissful fantasies, the life-like shadow, to roam with her inthe moonlight garden. Even at noontide it sat with her in the arbor, when thesunshine threw its broken flakes of gold into the clustering shade. The effectupon her mind was hardly less powerful than if she had actually listened to,and reciprocated, the vows of Edgar Vaughan; for, though the illusion neverquite deceived her, yet the remembrance was as distinct as of a rememberedinterview. Those heavenly eyes gazed forever into her soul, which drank at themas at a fountain, and was disquieted if reality threw a momentary cloudbetween. She heard the melody of a voice breathing sentiments with which herown chimed in like music. O happy, yet hapless girl! Thus to create the beingwhom she loves, to endow him with all the attributes that were most fascinatingto her heart, and then to flit with the airy creature into the realm of fantasyand moonlight, where dwelt his dreamy kindred! For her lover wiled Sylvia awayfrom earth, which seemed strange, and dull, and darksome, and lured her to acountry where her spirit roamed in peaceful rapture, deeming that it had foundits home. Many, in their youth, have visited that land of dreams, and wanderedso long in its enchanted groves, that, when banished thence, they feel likeexiles everywhere.

The dark-browed Edward Hamilton, like the villain of a tale, would often glidethrough the romance wherein poor Sylvia walked. Sometimes, at the most blissfulmoment of her ecstasy, when the features of the miniature were picturedbrightest in the air, they would suddenly change, and darken, and betransformed into his visage. And always, when such change occurred, theintrusive visage wore that peculiar smile with which Hamilton had glanced atSylvia.

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

Footsteps ascended the staircase, with a confident and familiar tread, and someone entered the drawing-room. From the sofa where they sat, in the innerapartment, Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia could not discern the visitor.

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

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

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

Before Mrs. Grosvenor could reply, the stranger entered the room, bearing thelamp in his hand. Approaching the sofa, he displayed to Sylvia the features ofEdward Hamilton, illuminated by that evil smile, from which his face derived somarked an individuality.

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

Sylvia shuddered, but had not power to turn away her white face from his gaze.The miniature, which she had been holding in her hand, fell down upon thefloor, where Hamilton, or Vaughan, set his foot upon it, and crushed the ivorycounterfeit to fragments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vaughan was already attentively observing his mistress, who sat in a shadowyand moonlighted recess of the room, with her dreamy eyes fixed steadfastly uponhis own. The bough of a tree was waving before the window, and sometimesenveloped her in the gloom of its shadow, into which she seemed to vanish.

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

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

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

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

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

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS

The summer moon, which shines in so many a tale, was beaming over a broadextent of uneven country. Some of its brightest rays were flung into a springof water, where no traveller, toiling, as the writer has, up the hilly roadbeside which it gushes, ever failed to quench his thirst. The work of neathands and considerate art was visible about this blessed fountain. An opencistern, hewn and hollowed out of solid stone, was placed above the waters,which filled it to the brim, but by some invisible outlet were conveyed awaywithout dripping down its sides. Though the basin had not room for anotherdrop, and the continual gush of water made a tremor on the surface, there was asecret charm that forbade it to overflow. I remember, that when I had slaked mysummer thirst, and sat panting by the cistern, it was my fanciful theory thatNature could not afford to lavish so pure a liquid, as she does the waters ofall meaner fountains.

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

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

Thus speaking, with a little sadness in his face, which was also visible inthat of his companion, he made her sit down on a stone, and was about to placehimself very close to her side; she, however, repelled him, though notunkindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The travellers, who, from the first, had looked suspiciously at the garb ofthese young people, now taxed them with an intention which all thecircumstances, indeed, rendered too obvious to be mistaken.

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

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

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

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

In accordance with this proposal, the whole party stationed themselves roundthe stone cistern; the two children, being very weary, fell asleep upon thedamp earth, and the pretty Shaker girl, whose feelings were those of a nun or aTurkish lady, crept as close as possible to the female traveller, and as far asshe well could from the unknown men. The same person who had hitherto been thechief spokesman now stood up, waving his hat in his hand, and suffered themoonlight to fall full upon his front.

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

Though a lithographic print of this gentleman is extant, it may be well tonotice that he was now nearly forty, a thin and stooping figure, in a blackcoat, out at elbows; notwithstanding the ill condition of his attire, therewere about him several tokens of a peculiar sort of foppery, unworthy of amature man, particularly in the arrangement of his hair which was so disposedas to give all possible loftiness and breadth to his forehead. However, he hadan intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a marked countenance.

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

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

“True, I am a verse-maker,” he resumed, “but my verse is nomore than the material body into which I breathe the celestial soul of thought.Alas! how many a pang has it cost me, this same insensibility to the etherealessence of poetry, with which you have here tortured me again, at the momentwhen I am to relinquish my profession forever! O Fate! why hast thou warredwith Nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin of me,their possessor? What is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear oftaste? How can I rejoice in my strength and delicacy of feeling, when they havebut made great sorrows out of little ones? Have I dreaded scorn like death, andyearned for fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middlestate between obscurity and infamy? But I have my revenge! I could have givenexistence to a thousand bright creations. I crush them into my heart, and therelet them putrefy! I shake off the dust of my feet against my countrymen! Butposterity, tracing my footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon theunworthy age that drove one of the fathers of American song to end his days ina Shaker village!”

During this harangue, the speaker gesticulated with great energy, and, aspoetry is the natural language of passion, there appeared reason to apprehendhis final explosion into an ode extempore. The reader must understand that, forall these bitter words, he was a kind, gentle, harmless, poor fellow enough,whom Nature, tossing her ingredients together without looking at her recipe,had sent into the world with too much of one sort of brain, and hardly any ofanother.

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

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

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

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

Without noticing this hint of professional employment, the poet turned away,and gave himself up to a sort of vague reverie, which he called thought.Sometimes he watched the moon, pouring a silvery liquid on the clouds, throughwhich it slowly melted till they became all bright; then he saw the same sweetradiance dancing on the leafy trees which rustled as if to shake it off, orsleeping on the high tops of hills, or hovering down in distant valleys, likethe material of unshaped dreams; lastly, he looked into the spring, and therethe light was mingling with the water. In its crystal bosom, too, beholding allheaven reflected there, he found an emblem of a pure and tranquil breast. Helistened to that most ethereal of all sounds, the song of crickets, coming infull choir upon the wind, and fancied that, if moonlight could be heard, itwould sound just like that. Finally, he took a draught at the Shaker spring,and, as if it were the true Castalia, was forthwith moved to compose a lyric, aFarewell to his Harp, which he swore should be its closing strain, the lastverse that an ungrateful world should have from him. This effusion, with two orthree other little pieces, subsequently written, he took the first opportunityto send, by one of the Shaker brethren, to Concord, where they were publishedin the New Hampshire Patriot.

Meantime, another of the Canterbury pilgrims, one so different from the poetthat the delicate fancy of the latter could hardly have conceived of him, beganto relate his sad experience. He was a small man, of quick and unquietgestures, about fifty years old, with a narrow forehead, all wrinkled and drawntogether. He held in his hand a pencil, and a card of some commission-merchantin foreign parts, on the back of which, for there was light enough to read orwrite by, he seemed ready to figure out a calculation.

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

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

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

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

“Well, sir,” said the pilgrim, “there was a day, and not verylong ago, neither, when I stood at my counting-room window, and watched thesignal flags of three of my own ships entering the harbor, from the EastIndies, from Liverpool, and from up the Straits, and I would not have given theinvoice of the least of them for the title-deeds of this whole Shakersettlement. You stare. Perhaps, now, you won’t believe that I could haveput more value on a little piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of yourhand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, and pasture-land would sellfor?”

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

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

And the stranger mentioned his name, which, however mighty it might have beenin the commercial world, the young Shaker had never heard of among theCanterbury hills.

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

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

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

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

Miriam did not reply, but looked down into the spring, where she encounteredthe image of her own pretty face, blushing within the prim little bonnet. Thethird pilgrim now took up the conversation. He was a sunburnt countryman, oftall frame and bony strength, on whose rude and manly face there appeared adarker, more sullen and obstinate despondency, than on those of either the poetor the merchant.

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

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

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

This simple story had a strong effect on the young fugitives. The misfortunesof the poet and merchant had won little sympathy from their plain good senseand unworldly feelings, qualities which made them such unprejudiced andinflexible judges, that few men would have chosen to take the opinion of thisyouth and maiden as to the wisdom or folly of their pursuits. But here was onewhose simple wishes had resembled their own, and who, after efforts whichalmost gave him a right to claim success from fate, had failed in accomplishingthem.

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

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

The female pilgrim had been leaning over the spring, wherein latterly a tear ortwo might have been seen to fall, and form its little circle on the surface ofthe water. She now looked up, disclosing features still comely, but which hadacquired an expression of fretfulness, in the same long course of evil fortunethat had thrown a sullen gloom over the temper of the unprosperous yeoman.

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

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

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

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

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

The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other’s eyes.They had but stepped across the threshold of their homes, when lo! the darkarray of cares and sorrows that rose up to warn them back. The variednarratives of the strangers had arranged themselves into a parable; they seemednot merely instances of woful fate that had befallen others, but shadowy omensof disappointed hope and unavailing toil, domestic grief and estrangedaffection, that would cloud the onward path of these poor fugitives. But afterone instant’s hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed theirresolve with as pure and fond an embrace as ever youthful love had hallowed.

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

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

OLD NEWS

There is a volume of what were once newspapers each on a small half-sheet,yellow and time-stained, of a coarse fabric, and imprinted with a rude oldtype. Their aspect conveys a singular impression of antiquity, in a species ofliterature which we are accustomed to consider as connected only with thepresent moment. Ephemeral as they were intended and supposed to be, they havelong outlived the printer and his whole subscription-list, and have proved moredurable, as to their physical existence, than most of the timber, bricks, andstone of the town where they were issued. These are but the least of theirtriumphs. The government, the interests, the opinions, in short, all the moralcircumstances that were contemporary with their publication, have passed away,and left no better record of what they were than may be found in these frailleaves. Happy are the editors of newspapers! Their productions excel all othersin immediate popularity, and are certain to acquire another sort of value withthe lapse of time. They scatter their leaves to the wind, as the sibyl did, andposterity collects them, to be treasured up among the best materials of itswisdom. With hasty pens they write for immortality.

It is pleasant to take one of these little dingy half-sheets between the thumband finger, and picture forth the personage who, above ninety years ago, heldit, wet from the press, and steaming, before the fire. Many of the numbers bearthe name of an old colonial dignitary. There he sits, a major, a member of thecouncil, and a weighty merchant, in his high-backed arm-chair, wearing a solemnwig and grave attire, such as befits his imposing gravity of mien, anddisplaying but little finery, except a huge pair of silver shoe-buckles,curiously carved. Observe the awful reverence of his visage, as he reads hisMajesty’s most gracious speech; and the deliberate wisdom with which heponders over some paragraph of provincial politics, and the keener intelligencewith which he glances at the ship-news and commercial advertisements. Observe,and smile! He may have been a wise man in his day; but, to us, the wisdom ofthe politician appears like folly, because we can compare its prognostics withactual results; and the old merchant seems to have busied himself aboutvanities, because we know that the expected ships have been lost at sea, ormouldered at the wharves; that his imported broadcloths were long ago worn totatters, and his cargoes of wine quaffed to the lees; and that the mostprecious leaves of his ledger have become waste-paper. Yet, his avocations werenot so vain as our philosophic moralizing. In this world we are the things of amoment, and are made to pursue momentary things, with here and there a thoughtthat stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps may endure as long. Allphilosophy that would abstract mankind from the present is no more than words.

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

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

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

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

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

Then am I to speak with certain dealers about the lot of stout old Vidonia,rich Canary, and Oporto-wines, which I have now lying in the cellar of the OldSouth meeting-house. But, a pipe or two of the rich Canary shall be reserved,that it may grow mellow in mine own wine-cellar, and gladden my heart when itbegins to droop with old age.

Provident old gentleman! But, was he mindful of his sepulchre? Did he bethinkhim to call at the workshop of Timothy Sheaffe, in Cold Lane, and select such agravestone as would best please him? There wrought the man whose handiwork, orthat of his fellow-craftsmen, was ultimately in demand by all the busymultitude who have left a record of their earthly toil in these oldtime-stained papers. And now, as we turn over the volume, we seem to bewandering among the mossy stones of a burial-ground.

II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR.

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

It was natural that, with the lapse of time and increase of wealth andpopulation, the peculiarities of the early settlers should have waxed fainterand fainter through the generations of their descendants, who also had beenalloyed by a continual accession of emigrants from many countries and of allcharacters. It tended to assimilate the colonial manners to those of themother-country, that the commercial intercourse was great, and that themerchants often went thither in their own ships. Indeed, almost every man ofadequate fortune felt a yearning desire, and even judged it a filial duty, atleast once in his life, to visit the home of his ancestors. They still calledit their own home, as if New England were to them, what many of the oldPuritans had considered it, not a permanent abiding-place, but merely a lodgein the wilderness, until the trouble of the times should be passed. The exampleof the royal governors must have had much influence on the manners of thecolonists; for these rulers assumed a degree of state and splendor which hadnever been practised by their predecessors, who differed in nothing fromrepublican chief-magistrates, under the old charter. The officers of the crown,the public characters in the interest of the administration, and the gentlemenof wealth and good descent, generally noted for their loyalty, would constitutea dignified circle, with the governor in the centre, bearing a very passableresemblance to a court. Their ideas, their habits, their bode of courtesy, andtheir dress would have all the fresh glitter of fashions immediately derivedfrom the fountain-head, in England. To prevent their modes of life frombecoming the standard with all who had the ability to imitate them, there wasno longer an undue severity of religion, nor as yet any disaffection to Britishsupremacy, nor democratic prejudices against pomp. Thus, while the colonieswere attaining that strength which was soon to render them an independentrepublic, it might have been supposed that the wealthier classes were growinginto an aristocracy, and ripening for hereditary rank, while the poor were tobe stationary in their abasement, and the country, perhaps, to be a sistermonarchy with England. Such, doubtless, were the plausible conjectures deducedfrom the superficial phenomena of our connection with a monarchical government,until the prospective nobility were levelled with the mob, by the meregathering of winds that preceded the storm of the Revolution. The portents ofthat storm were not yet visible in the air. A true picture of society,therefore, would have the rich effect produced by distinctions of rank thatseemed permanent, and by appropriate habits of splendor on the part of thegentry.

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

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

[* The contemptuous jealousy of the British army, from the general downwards,was very galling to the provincial troops. In one of the newspapers, there isan admirable letter of a New England man, copied from the London Chronicle,defending the provincials with an ability worthy of Franklin, and somewhat inhis style. The letter is remarkable, also, because it takes up the cause of thewhole range of colonies, as if the writer looked upon them all as constitutingone country, and that his own. Colonial patriotism had not hitherto been sobroad a sentiment.]

These letters, and other intelligence from the army, are pleasant and livelyreading, and stir up the mind like the music of a drum and fife. It is lessagreeable to meet with accounts of women slain and scalped, and infants dashedagainst trees, by the Indians on the frontiers. It is a striking circumstance,that innumerable bears, driven from the woods, by the uproar of contendingarmies in their accustomed haunts, broke into the settlements, and committedgreat ravages among children, as well as sheep and swine. Some of them prowledwhere bears had never been for a century, penetrating within a mile or two ofBoston; a fact that gives a strong and gloomy impression of something veryterrific going on in the forest, since these savage beasts fled townward toavoid it. But it is impossible to moralize about such trifles, when everynewspaper contains tales of military enterprise, and often a huzza for victory;as, for instance, the taking of Ticonderoga, long a place of awe to theprovincials, and one of the bloodiest spots in the present war. Nor is itunpleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to find a note of sorrow for thefall of some brave officer; it comes wailing in, like a funeral strain amidst apeal of triumph, itself triumphant too. Such was the lamentation over Wolfe.Somewhere, in this volume of newspapers, though we cannot now lay our fingerupon the passage, we recollect a report that General Wolfe was slain, not bythe enemy, but by a shot from his own soldiers.

In the advertising columns, also, we are continually reminded that the countrywas in a state of war. Governor Pownall makes proclamation for the enlisting ofsoldiers, and directs the militia colonels to attend to the discipline of theirregiments, and the selectmen of every town to replenish their stocks ofammunition. The magazine, by the way, was generally kept in the upper loft ofthe village meeting-house. The provincial captains are drumming up forsoldiers, in every newspaper. Sir Jeffrey Amherst advertises for batteaux-men,to be employed on the lakes; and gives notice to the officers of seven Britishregiments, dispersed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous in Boston.Captain Hallowell, of the province ship-of-war King George, invites able-bodiedseamen to serve his Majesty, for fifteen pounds, old tenor, per month. By therewards offered, there would appear to have been frequent desertions from theNew England forces: we applaud their wisdom, if not their valor or integrity.Cannon of all calibres, gunpowder and balls, firelocks, pistols, swords, andhangers, were common articles of merchandise. Daniel Jones, at the sign of thehat and helmet, offers to supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold-lacefor hats and waistcoats, cockades, and other military foppery, allowing credituntil the payrolls shall be made up. This advertisement gives us quite agorgeous idea of a provincial captain in full dress.

At the commencement of the campaign of 1759, the British general informs thefarmers of New England that a regular market will be established at LakeGeorge, whither they are invited to bring provisions and refreshments of allsorts, for the use of the army. Hence, we may form a singular picture of pettytraffic, far away from any permanent settlements, among the hills which borderthat romantic lake, with the solemn woods overshadowing the scene. Carcasses ofbullocks and fat porkers are placed upright against the huge trunks of thetrees; fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing against the heads of thosebeneath; butter-firkins, great cheeses, and brown loaves of household bread,baked in distant ovens, are collected under temporary shelters or pine-boughs,with gingerbread, and pumpkin-pies, perhaps, and other toothsome dainties.Barrels of cider and spruce-beer are running freely into the wooden canteens ofthe soldiers. Imagine such a scene, beneath the dark forest canopy, with hereand there a few struggling sunbeams, to dissipate the gloom. See the shrewdyeomen, haggling with their scarlet-coated customers, abating somewhat in theirprices, but still dealing at monstrous profit; and then complete the picturewith circumstances that bespeak war and danger. A cannon shall be seen to belchits smoke from among the trees, against some distant canoes on the lake; thetraffickers shall pause, and seem to hearken, at intervals, as if they heardthe rattle of musketry or the shout of Indians; a scouting-party shall bedriven in, with two or three faint and bloody men among them. And, in spite ofthese disturbances, business goes on briskly in the market of the wilderness.

It must not be supposed that the martial character of the times interrupted allpursuits except those connected with war. On the contrary, there appears tohave been a general vigor and vivacity diffused into the whole round ofcolonial life. During the winter of 1759, it was computed that about a thousandsled-loads of country produce were daily brought into Boston market. It was asymptom of an irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innumerablelotteries were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvements,such as roads and bridges. Many females seized the opportunity to engage inbusiness: as, among others, Alice Quick, who dealt in crockery and hosiery,next door to Deacon Beautineau’s; Mary Jackson, who sold butter, at theBrazen-Head, in Cornhill; Abigail Hiller, who taught ornamental work, near theOrange-Tree, where also were to be seen the King and Queen, in wax-work; SarahMorehead, an instructor in glass-painting, drawing, and japanning; Mary Salmon,who shod horses, at the South End; Harriet Pain, at the Buck and Glove, andMrs. Henrietta Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashionable milliners; AnnaAdams, who advertises Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks, and scarletcardinals, opposite the old brick meeting-house; besides a lady at the head ofa wine and spirit establishment. Little did these good dames expect to reappearbefore the public, so long after they had made their last courtesies behind thecounter. Our great-grandmothers were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not tohave been utterly despised by the gentlemen at the British coffee-house; atleast, some gracious bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of hiswillingness to take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possessbrown hair, regular features, a brisk eye, and a fortune. Now, this was greatcondescension towards the ladies of Massachusetts Bay, in a threadbarelieutenant of foot.

Polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. Few native works wereadvertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of controversial divinity;nor were the English authors of the day much known on this side of theAtlantic. But catalogues were frequently offered at auction or private sale,comprising the standard English books, history, essays, and poetry, of QueenAnne’s age, and the preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of anovel, unless it be “The Two Mothers, price four coppers.” Therewas an American poet, however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved nospecimen,—the author of “War, an Heroic Poem”; he publishesby subscription, and threatens to prosecute his patrons for not taking theirbooks. We have discovered a periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claimto be recorded here, since it bore the title of “THENEWENGLANDMAGAZINE,” aforgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and take itsexcellence on trust. The fine arts, too, were budding into existence. At the“old glass and picture shop,” in Cornhill, various maps, plates,and views are advertised, and among them a “Prospect of Boston,” acopperplate engraving of Quebec, and the effigies of all the New Englandministers ever done in mezzotinto. All these must have been very salablearticles. Other ornamental wares were to be found at the same shop; such asviolins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, English and Dutch toys, and Londonbabies. About this period, Mr. Dipper gives notice of a concert of vocal andinstrumental music. There had already been an attempt at theatricalexhibitions.

There are tokens, in every newspaper, of a style of luxury and magnificencewhich we do not usually associate with our ideas of the times. When theproperty of a deceased person was to be sold, we find, among the householdfurniture, silk beds and hangings, damask table-cloths, Turkey carpets,pictures, pier-glasses, massive plate, and all things proper for a noblemansion. Wine was more generally drunk than now, though by no means to theneglect of ardent spirits. For the apparel of both sexes, the mercers andmilliners imported good store of fine broadcloths, especially scarlet, crimson,and sky-blue, silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, gold brocade, and gold andsilver lace, and silver tassels, and silver spangles, until Cornhill shone andsparkled with their merchandise. The gaudiest dress permissible by modern tastefades into a Quaker-like sobriety, compared with the deep, rich, glowingsplendor of our ancestors. Such figures were almost too fine to go about townon foot; accordingly, carriages were so numerous as to require a tax; and it isrecorded that, when Governor Bernard came to the province, he was met betweenDedham and Boston by a multitude of gentlemen in their coaches and chariots.

Take my arm, gentle reader, and come with me into some street, perhaps troddenby your daily footsteps, but which now has such an aspect of half-familiarstrangeness, that you suspect yourself to be walking abroad in a dream. True,there are some brick edifices which you remember from childhood, and which yourfather and grandfather remembered as well; but you are perplexed by the absenceof many that were here only an hour or two since; and still more amazing is thepresence of whole rows of wooden and plastered houses, projecting over thesidewalks, and bearing iron figures on their fronts, which prove them to havestood on the same sites above a century. Where have your eyes been that younever saw them before? Along the ghostly street,—for, at length, youconclude that all is unsubstantial, though it be so good a mockery of anantique town,—along the ghostly street, there are ghostly people too.Every gentleman has his three-cornered hat, either on his head or under hisarm; and all wear wigs in infinite variety,—the Tie, the Brigadier, theSpencer, the Albemarle, the Major, the Ramillies, the grave Full-bottom, or thegiddy Feather-top. Look at the elaborate lace-ruffles, and the square-skirtedcoats of gorgeous hues, bedizened with silver and gold! Make way for thephantom-ladies, whose hoops require such breadth of passage, as they pacemajestically along, in silken gowns, blue, green, or yellow, brilliantlyembroidered, and with small satin hats surmounting their powdered hair. Makeway; for the whole spectral show will vanish, if your earthly garments brushagainst their robes. Now that the scene is brightest, and the whole streetglitters with imaginary sunshine,—now hark to the bells of the Old Southand the Old North, ringing out with a sudden and merry peal, while the cannonof Castle William thunder below the town, and those of the Diana frigate repeatthe sound, and the Charlestown batteries reply with a nearer roar! You see thecrowd toss up their hats in visionary joy. You hear of illuminations andfire-works, and of bonfires, built oil scaffolds, raised several stories abovethe ground, that are to blaze all night in King Street and on Beacon Hill. Andhere come the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of the Bostontroop of horseguards, escorting the governor to King’s Chapel, where heis to return solemn thanks for the surrender of Quebec. March on, thou shadowytroop! and vanish, ghostly crowd! and change again, old street! for thosestirring times are gone.

Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on thetwentieth of March, 1760, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill, and consumed nearlyfour hundred buildings. Similar disasters have always been epochs in thechronology of Boston. That of 1711 had hitherto been termed the Great Fire, butnow resigned its baleful dignity to one which has ever since retained it. Didwe desire to move the reader’s sympathies on this subject, we would notbe grandiloquent about the sea of billowy flame, the glowing and crumblingstreets, the broad, black firmament of smoke, and the blast or wind that sprangup with the conflagration and roared behind it. It would be more effective tomark out a single family at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle oftheir dwelling: then would ensue the removal of the bedridden grandmother, thecradle with the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of all, the dying man just atthe extremity of a lingering disease. Do but imagine the confused agony of onethus awfully disturbed in his last hour; his fearful glance behind at theconsuming fire raging after him, from house to house, as its devoted victim;and, finally, the almost eagerness with which he would seize some calmerinterval to die! The Great Fire must have realized many such a scene.

Doubtless posterity has acquired a better city by the calamity of thatgeneration. None will be inclined to lament it at this late day, except thelover of antiquity, who would have been glad to walk among those streets ofvenerable houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there, that he mightcommune with their shadows, and paint a more vivid picture of their times.

III. THE OLD TORY.

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

Well, then, here we sit, an old, gray, withered, sour-visaged, threadbare sortof gentleman, erect enough, here in our solitude, but marked out by a depressedand distrustful mien abroad, as one conscious of a stigma upon his forehead,though for no crime. We were already in the decline of life when the firsttremors of the earthquake that has convulsed the continent were felt. Our mindhad grown too rigid to change any of its opinions, when the voice of the peopledemanded that all should be changed. We are an Episcopalian, and sat under theHigh-Church doctrines of Dr. Caner; we have been a captain of the provincialforces, and love our king the better for the blood that we shed in his cause onthe Plains of Abraham. Among all the refugees, there is not one more loyal tothe backbone than we. Still we lingered behind when the British army evacuatedBoston, sweeping in its train most of those with whom we held communion; theold, loyal gentlemen, the aristocracy of the colonies, the hereditaryEnglishman, imbued with more than native zeal and admiration for the gloriousisland and its monarch, because the far-intervening ocean threw a dim reverencearound them. When our brethren departed, we could not tear our aged roots outof the soil.

We have remained, therefore, enduring to be outwardly a freeman, but idolizingKing George in secrecy and silence,—one true old heart amongst a host ofenemies. We watch, with a weary hope, for the moment when all this turmoilshall subside, and the impious novelty that has distracted our latter years,like a wild dream, give place to the blessed quietude of royal sway, with theking’s name in every ordinance, his prayer in the church, his health atthe board, and his love in the people’s heart. Meantime, our old agefinds little honor. Hustled have we been, till driven from town-meetings; dirtywater has been cast upon our ruffles by a Whig chambermaid; JohnHancock’s coachman seizes every opportunity to bespatter us with mud;daily are we hooted by the unbreeched rebel brats; and narrowly, once, did ourgray hairs escape the ignominy of tar and feathers. Alas! only that we cannotbear to die till the next royal governor comes over, we would fain be in ourquiet grave.

Such an old man among new things are we who now hold at arm’s-length therebel newspaper of the day. The very figure-head, for the thousandth time,elicits it groan of spiteful lamentation. Where are the united heart and crown,the loyal emblem, that used to hallow the sheet on which it was impressed, inour younger days? In its stead we find a continental officer, with theDeclaration of Independence in one hand, a drawn sword in the other, and abovehis head a scroll, bearing the motto, “WE APPEAL TOHEAVEN.” Then say we, with a prospective triumph, letHeaven judge, in its own good time! The material of the sheet attracts ourscorn. It is a fair specimen of rebel manufacture, thick and coarse, likewrapping-paper, all overspread with little knobs; and of such a deep, dingyblue color, that we wipe our spectacles thrice before we can distinguish aletter of the wretched print. Thus, in all points, the newspaper is a type ofthe times, far more fit for the rough hands of a democratic mob, than for ourown delicate, though bony fingers. Nay we will not handle it without ourgloves!

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

O, the misery of seeing the whole system of things changed in my old days, whenI would be loath to change even a pair of buckles! The British coffee-house,where oft we sat, brimful of wine and loyalty, with the gallant gentlemen ofAmherst’s army, when we wore a redcoat too,—the Britishcoffee-house, forsooth, must now be styled the American, with a golden eagleinstead of the royal arms above the door. Even the street it stands in is nolonger King Street! Nothing is the king’s, except this heavy heart in myold bosom. Wherever I glance my eyes, they meet something that pricks them likea needle. This soap-maker, for instance, this Hobert Hewes, has conspiredagainst my peace, by notifying that his shop is situated near Liberty Stump.But when will their misnamed liberty have its true emblem in that Stump, hewndown by British steel?

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

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

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

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

Peace to the good old Tory! One of our objects has been to exemplify, withoutsoftening a single prejudice proper to the character which we assumed, that theAmericans who clung to the losing side in the Revolution were men greatly to bepitied and often worthy of our sympathy. It would be difficult to say whose lotwas most lamentable, that of the active Tories, who gave up their patrimoniesfor a pittance from the British pension-roll, and their native land for a coldreception in their miscalled home, or the passive ones who remained behind toendure the coldness of former friends, and the public opprobrium, as despisedcitizens, under a government which they abhorred. In justice to the oldgentleman who has favored us with his discontented musings, we must remark thatthe state of the country, so far as can be gathered from these papers, was ofdismal augury for the tendencies of democratic rule. It was pardonable in theconservative of that day to mistake the temporary evils of a change forpermanent diseases of the system which that change was to establish. Arevolution, or anything that interrupts social order, may afford opportunitiesfor the individual display of eminent virtues; but its effects are perniciousto general morality. Most people are so constituted that they can be virtuousonly in a certain routine; and an irregular course of public affairsdemoralizes them. One great source of disorder was the multitude of disbandedtroops, who were continually returning home, after terms of service just longenough to give them a distaste to peaceable occupations; neither citizens norsoldiers, they were very liable to become ruffians. Almost all our impressionsin regard to this period are unpleasant, whether referring to the state ofcivil society, or to the character of the contest, which, especially wherenative Americans were opposed to each other, was waged with the deadly hatredof fraternal enemies. It is the beauty of war, for men to commit mutual havocwith undisturbed good-humor.

The present volume of newspapers contains fewer characteristic traits than anywhich we have looked over. Except for the peculiarities attendant on thepassing struggle, manners seem to have taken a modern cast. Whatever antiquefashions lingered into the War of the Revolution, or beyond it, they were notso strongly marked as to leave their traces in the public journals. Moreover,the old newspapers had an indescribable picturesqueness, not to be found in thelater ones. Whether it be something in the literary execution, or the ancientprint and paper, and the idea that those same musty pages have been handled bypeople once alive and bustling amid the scenes there recorded, yet now in theirgraves beyond the memory of man; so it is, that in those elder volumes we seemto find the life of a past age preserved between the leaves, like a dryspecimen of foliage. It is so difficult to discover what touches are reallypicturesque, that we doubt whether our attempts have produced any similareffect.

THE MAN OF ADAMANT: AN APOLOGUE

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

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

So Richard Digby took an axe, to hew space enough for a tabernacle in thewilderness, and some few other necessaries, especially a sword and gun, tosmite and slay any intruder upon his hallowed seclusion; and plunged into thedreariest depths of the forest. On its verge, however, he paused a moment, toshake off the dust of his feet against the village where he had dwelt, and toinvoke a curse on the meeting-house, which he regarded as a temple of heathenidolatry. He felt a curiosity, also, to see whether the fire and brimstonewould not rush down from Heaven at once, now that the one righteous man hadprovided for his own safety. But, as the sunshine continued to fall peacefullyon the cottages and fields, and the husbandmen labored and children played, andas there were many tokens of present happiness, and nothing ominous of a speedyjudgment, he turned away, somewhat disappointed. The farther he went, however,and the lonelier he felt himself, and the thicker the trees stood along hispath, and the darker the shadow overhead, so much the more did Richard Digbyexult. He talked to himself, as he strode onward; he read his Bible to himself,as he sat beneath the trees; and, as the gloom of the forest hid the blessedsky, I had almost added, that, at morning, noon, and eventide, he prayed tohimself. So congenial was this mode of life to his disposition, that he oftenlaughed to himself, but was displeased when an echo tossed him back the longloud roar.

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

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

In regard to this cave it was observable that the roof, so far as the imperfectlight permitted it to be seen, was hung with substances resembling opaqueicicles; for the damps of unknown centuries, dripping down continually, hadbecome as hard as adamant; and wherever that moisture fell, it seemed topossess the power of converting what it bathed to stone. The fallen leaves andsprigs of foliage, which the wind had swept into the cave, and the littlefeathery shrubs, rooted near the threshold, were not wet with a natural dew,but had been embalmed by this wondrous process. And here I am put in mind thatRichard Digby, before he withdrew himself from the world, was supposed byskilful physicians to have contracted a disease for which no remedy was writtenin their medical books. It was a deposition of calculous particles within hisheart, caused by an obstructed circulation of the blood; and, unless a miracleshould be wrought for him, there was danger that the malady might act on theentire substance of the organ, and change his fleshy heart to stone. Many,indeed, affirmed that the process was already near its consummation. RichardDigby, however, could never be convinced that any such direful work was goingon within him; nor when he saw the sprigs of marble foliage, did his heart eventhrob the quicker, at the similitude suggested by these once tender herbs. Itmay be that this same insensibility was a symptom of the disease.

Be that as it might, Richard Digby was well contented with his sepulchral cave.So dearly did he love this congenial spot, that, instead of going a few pacesto the bubbling spring for water, he allayed his thirst with now and then adrop of moisture from the roof, which, had it fallen anywhere but on histongue, would have been congealed into a pebble. For a man predisposed tostoniness of the heart, this surely was unwholesome liquor. But there he dwelt,for three days more eating herbs and roots, drinking his own destruction,sleeping, as it were, in a tomb, and awaking to the solitude of death, yetesteeming this horrible mode of life as hardly inferior to celestial bliss.Perhaps superior; for, above the sky, there would be angels to disturb him. Atthe close of the third day, he sat in the portal of his mansion, reading theBible aloud, because no other ear could profit by it, and reading it amiss,because the rays of the setting sun did not penetrate the dismal depth ofshadow round about him, nor fall upon the sacred page. Suddenly, however, afaint gleam of light was thrown over the volume, and, raising his eyes, RichardDigby saw that a young woman stood before the mouth of the cave, and that thesunbeams bathed her white garment, which thus seemed to possess a radiance ofits own.

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

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

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

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

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

Now, great as was her need, Mary Goffe did not plead with this stony-heartedman for shelter and protection, nor ask anything whatever for her own sake. Allher zeal was for his welfare.

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

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

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

“Richard,” she said, with passionate fervor, yet a gentleness inall her passion, “I pray thee, by thy hope of heaven, and as thou wouldstnot dwell in this tomb forever, drink of this hallowed water, be it but asingle drop! Then, make room for me by thy side, and let us read together onepage of that blessed volume; and, lastly, kneel down with me and pray! Do this,and thy stony heart shall become softer than a babe’s, and all bewell.”

But Richard Digby, in utter abhorrence of the proposal, cast the Bible at hisfeet, and eyed her with such a fixed and evil frown, that he looked less like aliving man than a marble statue, wrought by some dark-imagined sculptor toexpress the most repulsive mood that human features could assume. And, as hislook grew even devilish, so, with an equal change did Mary Goffe become moresad, more mild, more pitiful, more like a sorrowing angel. But, the moreheavenly she was, the more hateful did she seem to Richard Digby, who at lengthraised his hand, and smote down the cup of hallowed water upon the threshold ofthe cave, thus rejecting the only medicine that could have cured his stonyheart. A sweet perfume lingered in the air for a moment, and then was gone.

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

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

Above a century afterwards, when the trackless forest of Richard Digby’sday had long been interspersed with settlements, the children of a neighboringfarmer were playing at the foot of a hill. The trees, on account of the rudeand broken surface of this acclivity, had never been felled, and were crowdedso densely together as to hide all but a few rocky prominences, wherever theirroots could grapple with the soil. A little boy and girl, to conceal themselvesfrom their playmates, had crept into the deepest shade, where not only thedarksome pines, but a thick veil of creeping plants suspended from anoverhanging rock, combined to make a twilight at noonday, and almost a midnightat all other seasons. There the children hid themselves, and shouted, repeatingthe cry at intervals, till the whole party of pursuers were drawn thither, and,pulling aside the matted foliage, let in a doubtful glimpse of daylight. Butscarcely was this accomplished, when the little group uttered a simultaneousshriek, and tumbled headlong down the hill, making the best of their wayhomeward, without a second glance into the gloomy recess. Their father, unableto comprehend what had so startled them, took his axe, and, by felling one ortwo trees, and tearing away the creeping plants, laid the mystery open to theday. He had discovered the entrance of a cave, closely resembling the mouth ofa sepulchre, within which sat the figure of a man, whose gesture and attitudewarned the father and children to stand back, while his visage wore a mostforbidding frown. This repulsive personage seemed to have been carved in thesame gray stone that formed the walls and portal of the cave. On minuterinspection, indeed, such blemishes were observed, as made it doubtful whetherthe figure were really a statue, chiselled by human art and somewhat worn anddefaced by the lapse of ages, or a freak of Nature, who might have chosen toimitate, in stone, her usual handiwork of flesh. Perhaps it was the leastunreasonable idea, suggested by this strange spectacle, that the moisture ofthe cave possessed a petrifying quality, which had thus awfully embalmed ahuman corpse.

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

THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT

On a bitter evening of December, I arrived by mail in a large town, which wasthen the residence of an intimate friend, one of those gifted youths whocultivate poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves students at law.My first business, after supper, was to visit him at the office of hisdistinguished instructor. As I have said, it was a bitter night, clearstarlight, but cold as Nova Zembla,—the shop-windows along the streetbeing frosted, so as almost to hide the lights, while the wheels of coachesthundered equally loud over frozen earth and pavements of stone. There was nosnow, either on the ground or the roofs of the houses. The wind blew soviolently, that I had but to spread my cloak like a main-sail, and scud alongthe street at the rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navigators, whowere beating slowly up, with the gale right in their teeth. One of these Icapsized, but was gone on the wings of the wind before he could even vociferatean oath.

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

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

“And of mine, too,” thought I.

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

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

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

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

“Even so,” said the author, despondingly. “You cannotconceive what an effect the composition of these tales has had on me. I havebecome ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. I amsurrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the realities oflife. They have drawn me aside from the beaten path of the world, and led meinto a strange sort of solitude,—a solitude in the midst of men,-wherenobody wishes for what I do, nor thinks nor feels as I do. The tales have doneall this. When they are ashes, perhaps I shall be as I was before they hadexistence. Moreover, the sacrifice is less than you may suppose, since nobodywill publish them.”

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

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

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

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

“The villain!” exclaimed I.

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

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

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

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

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

I did not very strenuously oppose this determination, being privately ofopinion, in spite of my partiality for the author, that his tales would make amore brilliant appearance in the fire than anywhere else. Before proceeding toexecution, we broached the bottle of champagne, which Oberon had provided forkeeping up his spirits in this doleful business. We swallowed each atumblerful, in sparkling commotion; it went bubbling down our throats, andbrightened my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and heavy as before. He drewthe tales towards him, with a mixture of natural affection and natural disgust,like a father taking a deformed infant into his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing itblaze like Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, seized the champagne bottle, anddrank two or three brimming bumpers, successively. The heady liquor combinedwith his agitation to throw him into a species of rage. He laid violent handson the tales. In one instant more, their faults and beauties would alike havevanished in a glowing purgatory. But, all at once, I remembered passages ofhigh imagination, deep pathos, original thoughts, and points of such variedexcellence, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly. Icaught his arm.

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

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

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

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

I was somewhat startled by this latter exclamation. The tales were almostconsumed, but just then threw forth a broad sheet of fire, which flickered aswith laughter, making the whole room dance in its brightness, and then roaredportentously up the chimney.

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

The papers were indeed reduced to a heap of black cinders, with a multitude ofsparks hurrying confusedly among them, the traces of the pen being nowrepresented by white lines, and the whole mass fluttering to and fro in thedraughts of air. The destroyer knelt down to look at them.

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

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

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

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

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

From the first outcry, my forebodings had warned me of the true object andcentre of alarm. There was nothing now but uproar, above, beneath, and aroundus; footsteps stumbling pell-mell up the public staircase, eager shouts andheavy thumps at the door, the whiz and dash of water from the engines, and thecrash of furniture thrown upon the pavement. At once, the truth flashed upon myfriend. His frenzy took the hue of joy, and, with a wild gesture of exultation,he leaped almost to the ceiling of the chamber.

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

JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING

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

Only these four had kept New England’s festival beneath that roof. Thevacant chair at John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of his wife,whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With afeeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereavedhusband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did hiseye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave mightsend back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening.Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another griefwhich he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be,have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance.Within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but notto the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her.

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

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

Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly attirewhich she had been accustomed to put on when the household work was over forthe day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the simple and modestfashion that became her best of all. If her cheek might otherwise have beenpale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom. If she hadspent the many months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed tohave left no traces on her gentle aspect. She could not have looked lessaltered, had she merely stepped away from her father’s fireside for halfan hour, and returned while the blaze was quivering upwards from the samebrands that were burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was thevery image of his buried wife, such as he remembered her on the firstThanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore, thoughnaturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinfulchild, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.

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

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

By this time the other members of the family had begun to recover from theirsurprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the grave, nor visionof their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own self. Her brother was thenext that greeted her. He advanced and held out his hand affectionately, as abrother should; yet not entirely like a brother, for, with all his kindness, hewas still a clergyman, and speaking to a child of sin.

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

A shadow flitted across the girl’s countenance.

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

While this was passing, the twin-girl-the rosebud that had grown on the samestem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling herselfupon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might intertwine again. Atfirst she was restrained by mingled grief and shame, and by a dread thatPrudence was too much changed to respond to her affection, or that her ownpurity would be felt as a reproach by the lost one. But, as she listened to thefamiliar voice, while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgoteverything save that Prudence had come back. Springing forward, she would haveclasped her in a close embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence startedfrom her chair, and held out both her hands, with a warning gesture.

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

Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than thegrave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near each otherin the light of their father’s hearth, where they had grown up together.Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room, in search of one who had notyet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn from his seat by the fireside, and wasstanding near the door, with his face averted, so that his features could bediscerned only by the flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall. ButPrudence called to him, in a cheerful and kindly tone:--

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

Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled powerfully, andovercame his pride and resentment; he rushed towards Prudence, seized her hand,and pressed it to his bosom.

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

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

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

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

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

It was now the hour for domestic worship. But while the family were makingpreparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that Prudence had put onher cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the door.

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

As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned towards them, and flung back herhand with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so changed that they hardlyrecognized it. Sin and evil passions glowed through its comeliness, and wroughta horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, attheir surprise and grief.

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

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

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

OLD TICONDEROGA

A PICTURE OF THE PAST

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

In my first view of the ruins, I was favored with the scientific guidance of ayoung lieutenant of engineers, recently from West Point, where he had gainedcredit for great military genius. I saw nothing but confusion in what chieflyinterested him; straight lines and zigzags, defence within defence, wallopposed to wall, and ditch intersecting ditch; oblong squares of masonry belowthe surface of the earth, and huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone,above it. On one of these artificial hillocks, a pine-tree has rooted itself,and grown tall and strong, since the banner-staff was levelled. But where myunmilitary glance could trace no regularity, the young lieutenant was perfectlyat home. He fathomed the meaning of every ditch, and formed an entire plan ofthe fortress from its half-obliterated lines. His description of Ticonderogawould be as accurate as a geometrical theorem, and as barren of the poetry thathas clustered round its decay. I viewed Ticonderoga as a place of ancientstrength, in ruins for half a century: where the flags of three nations hadsuccessively waved, and none waved now; where armies had struggled, so long agothat the bones of the slain were mouldered; where Peace had found a heritage inthe forsaken haunts of War. Now the young West-Pointer, with his lectures onravelins, counterscarps, angles, and covered ways, made it an affair of brickand mortar and hewn stone, arranged on certain regular principles, having agood deal to do with mathematics, but nothing at all with poetry.

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

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

Here I sat, with those roofless walls about me, the clear sky over my head, andthe afternoon sunshine falling gently bright through the window-frames anddoorway. I heard the tinkling of a cow-bell, the twittering of birds, and thepleasant hum of insects. Once a gay butterfly, with four gold-speckled wings,came and fluttered about my head, then flew up and lighted on the highest tuftof yellow flowers, and at last took wing across the lake. Next a bee buzzedthrough the sunshine, and found much sweetness among the weeds. After watchinghim till he went off to his distant hive, I closed my eyes on Ticonderoga inruins, and cast a dream-like glance over pictures of the past, and scenes ofwhich this spot had been the theatre.

At first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, lonely lakes, and venerable woods.Not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over the infant soil, hadfelt the axe, but had grown up and flourished through its long generation, hadfallen beneath the weight of years, been buried in green moss, and nourishedthe roots of others as gigantic. Hark! A light paddle dips into the lake, abirch canoe glides round the point, and an Indian chief has passed, painted andfeather-crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, andflint-headed arrows. But the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, when awhite flag caught the breeze, over a castle in the wilderness, with frowningramparts and a hundred cannon. There stood a French chevalier, commandant ofthe fortress, paying court to a copper-colored lady, the princess of the land,and winning her wild love by the arts which had been successful with Parisiandames. A war-party of French and Indians were issuing from the gate to laywaste some village of New England. Near the fortress there was a group ofdancers. The merry soldiers footing it with the swart savage maids; deeper inthe wood, some red men were growing frantic around a keg of the fire-water; andelsewhere a Jesuit preached the faith of high cathedrals beneath a canopy offorest boughs, and distributed crucifixes to be worn beside English scalps.

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

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

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

THE WIVES OF THE DEAD

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

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

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

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

Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, almost as soon as they wereuttered, and, by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her sister’s mindnearer to the situation of her own. Time went on, and their usual hour ofrepose arrived. The brothers and their brides, entering the married state withno more than the slender means which then sanctioned such a step, hadconfederated themselves in one household, with equal rights to the parlor, andclaiming exclusive privileges in two sleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thitherthe widowed ones retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying embers of theirfire, and placing a lighted lamp upon the hearth. The doors of both chamberswere left open, so that a part of the interior of each, and the beds with theirunclosed curtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not steal upon thesisters at one and the same time. Mary experienced the effect often consequentupon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into temporary forgetfulness, whileMargaret became more disturbed and feverish, in proportion as the nightadvanced with its deepest and stillest hours. She lay listening to the drops ofrain, that came down in monotonous succession, unswayed by a breath of wind;and a nervous impulse continually caused her to lift her head from the pillow,and gaze into Mary’s chamber and the intermediate apartment. The coldlight of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture up against the wall,stamping them immovably there, except when they were shaken by a sudden flickerof the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were in their old positions on oppositesides of the hearth, where the brothers had been wont to sit in young andlaughing dignity, as heads of families; two humbler seats were near them, thetrue thrones of that little empire, where Mary and herself had exercised inlove a power that love had won. The cheerful radiance of the fire had shoneupon the happy circle, and the dead glimmer of the lamp might have befittedtheir reunion now. While Margaret groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock atthe street door.

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

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

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

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

Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she hastened to the window that overlookedthe street-door. It was a lattice, turning upon hinges; and having thrown itback, she stretched her head a little way into the moist atmosphere. A lanternwas reddening the front of the house, and melting its light in the neighboringpuddles, while a deluge of darkness overwhelmed every other object. As thewindow grated on its hinges, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and blanket-coatstepped from under the shelter of the projecting story, and looked upward todiscover whom his application had aroused. Margaret knew him as a friendlyinnkeeper of the town.

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

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

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

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

So saying, the honest man departed; and his lantern gleamed along the street,bringing to view indistinct shapes of things, and the fragments of a world,like order glimmering through chaos, or memory roaming over the past. ButMargaret stayed not to watch these picturesque effects. Joy flashed into herheart, and lighted it up at once; and breathless, and with winged steps, sheflew to the bedside of her sister. She paused, however, at the door of thechamber, while a thought of pain broke in upon her.

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

She approached the bed, to discover if Mary’s sleep were peaceful. Herface was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there to weep;but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it, as if her heart,like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had sunk down so far within.Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter sorrows are those from which dreamsare chiefly fabricated. Margaret shrunk from disturbing her sister-in-law, andfelt as if her own better fortune had rendered her involuntarily unfaithful,and as if altered and diminished affection must be the consequence of thedisclosure she had to make. With a sudden step she turned away. But joy couldnot long be repressed, even by circumstances that would have excited heavygrief at another moment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, tillsleep stole on, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and more wild,like the breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!) working fantastictracery upon a window.

When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with a sudden start. A vivid dreamhad latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which, however, she could onlyremember that it had been broken in upon at the most interesting point. For alittle time, slumber hung about her like a morning mist, hindering her fromperceiving the distinct outline of her situation. She listened with imperfectconsciousness to two or three volleys of a rapid and eager knocking; and firstshe deemed the noise a matter of course, like the breath she drew; next, itappeared a thing in which she had no concern; and lastly, she became aware thatit was a summons necessary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang ofrecollection darted into her mind; the pall of sleep was thrown back from theface of grief; the dim light of the chamber, and the objects therein revealed,had retained all her suspended ideas, and restored them as soon as she unclosedher eyes. Again there was a quick peal upon the street-door. Fearing that hersister would also be disturbed, Mary wrapped herself in a cloak and hood, tookthe lamp from the hearth, and hastened to the window. By some accident, it hadbeen left unhasped, and yielded easily to her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. “Why, it was yourhusband himself,” continued the generous seaman. “He and threeothers saved themselves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom upwards. Thebrig will beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, and you’ll seehim here to-morrow. There’s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so goodnight.”

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

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

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

LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY

Daffydowndilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a flower, andloved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in laborof any kind. But, while Daffydowndilly was yet a little boy, his mother senthim away from his pleasant home, and put him under the care of a very strictschoolmaster, who went by the name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him bestaffirmed that this Mr. Toil was a very worthy character; and that he had donemore good, both to children and grown people, than anybody else in the world.Certainly he had lived long enough to do a great deal of good; for, if allstories be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from thegarden of Eden.

Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly countenance, especially for suchlittle boys or big men as were inclined to be idle; his voice, too, was harsh;and all his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable to our friendDaffydowndilly. The whole day long, this terrible old schoolmaster sat at hisdesk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the school-room with a certainawful birch rod in his hand. Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whomMr. Toil had caught at play; now he punished a whole class who were behindhandwith their lessons; and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly andconstantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in theschool-room of Mr. Toil.

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

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

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

So, the very next morning, off started poor Daffydowndilly, and began hisrambles about the world, with only some bread and cheese for his breakfast, andvery little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But he had gone only a shortdistance, when he overtook a man of grave and sedate appearance, who wastrudging at a moderate pace along the road.

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

Little Daffydowndilly was a boy of very ingenuous disposition, and had neverbeen known to tell a lie in all his life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitateda moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run away from school, onaccount of his great dislike to Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to find someplace in the world where he should never see or hear of the old schoolmasteragain.

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

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

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

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

“Who will catch us?” asked the stranger.

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

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

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

Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion said, but was very glad,nevertheless, when they were out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such asingular resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers had gone but littlefarther, when they came to a spot where some carpenters were erecting a house.Daffydowndilly begged his companion to stop a moment; for it was a very prettysight to see how neatly the carpenters did their work, with their broad-axes,and saws, and planes, and hammers, shaping out the doors, and putting in thewindow-sashes, and nailing on the clapboards; and he could not help thinkingthat he should like to take a broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, andbuild a little house for himself. And then, when he should have a house of hisown, old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him.

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

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

“Who?” asked the stranger, very quietly.

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

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

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

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

Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum andfife. Daffydowndilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought his companion tohurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers. Accordingly, theymade what haste they could, and soon met a company of soldiers, gayly dressed,with beautiful feathers in their caps, and bright muskets on their shoulders.In front marched two drummers and two fifers, beating on their drums andplaying on their fifes with might and main, and making such lively music thatlittle Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to the end of the world.And if he was only a soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil wouldnever venture to look him in the face.

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

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

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

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

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

So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by, they cameto a house by the roadside, where a number of people were making merry. Youngmen and rosy-checked girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing to thesound of a fiddle. It was the pleasantest sight that Daffydowndilly had yet metwith, and it comforted him for all his disappointments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to death, when he perceived some peoplereclining lazily in a shady place, by the side of the road. The poor childentreated his companion that they might sit down there, and take some repose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX

After the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing thecolonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready andgenerous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, underthe original charters. The people looked with most jealous scrutiny to theexercise of power which did not emanate from themselves, and they usuallyrewarded their rulers with slender gratitude for the compliances by which, insoftening their instructions from beyond the sea, they had incurred thereprehension of those who gave them. The annals of Massachusetts Bay willinform us, that of six governors in the space of about forty years from thesurrender of the old charter, under James II, two were imprisoned by a popularinsurrection; a third, as Hutchinson inclines to believe, was driven from theprovince by the whizzing of a musket-ball; a fourth, in the opinion of the samehistorian, was hastened to his grave by continual bickerings with the House ofRepresentatives; and the remaining two, as well as their successors, till theRevolution, were favored with few and brief intervals of peaceful sway. Theinferior members of the court party, in times of high political excitement, ledscarcely a more desirable life. These remarks may serve as a preface to thefollowing adventures, which chanced upon a summer night, not far from a hundredyears ago. The reader, in order to avoid a long and dry detail of colonialaffairs, is requested to dispense with an account of the train of circumstancesthat had caused much temporary inflammation of the popular mind.

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

The youth, one of whose names was Robin, finally drew from his pocket the halfof a little province bill of five shillings, which, in the depreciation in thatsort of currency, did but satisfy the ferryman’s demand, with the surplusof a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at three pence. He then walkedforward into the town, with as light a step as if his day’s journey hadnot already exceeded thirty miles, and with as eager an eye as if he wereentering London city, instead of the little metropolis of a New England colony.Before Robin had proceeded far, however, it occurred to him that he knew notwhither to direct his steps; so he paused, and looked up and down the narrowstreet, scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that were scattered oneither side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He now became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, whichcrossed each other, and meandered at no great distance from the water-side. Thesmell of tar was obvious to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced themoonlight above the tops of the buildings, and the numerous signs, which Robinpaused to read, informed him that he was near the centre of business. But thestreets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in thesecond stories of a few dwelling-houses. At length, on the corner of a narrowlane, through which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of aBritish hero swinging before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the voices ofmany guests. The casement of one of the lower windows was thrown back, and avery thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a party at supper, round awell-furnished table. The fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth into theouter air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the last remnant ofhis travelling stock of provision had yielded to his morning appetite, and thatnoon had found and left him dinnerless.

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

He entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes oftobacco to the public-room. It was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls,grown dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but ofno immaculate purity. A number of persons—the larger part of whomappeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea—occupiedthe wooden benches, or leatherbottomed chairs, conversing on various matters,and occasionally lending their attention to some topic of general interest.Three or four little groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which theWest India trade had long since made a familiar drink in the colony. Others,who had the appearance of men who lived by regular and laborious handicraft,preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more taciturnunder its influence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection for the GoodCreature in some of its various shapes, for this is a vice to which, as FastDay sermons of a hundred years ago will testify, we have a long hereditaryclaim. The only guests to whom Robin’s sympathies inclined him were twoor three sheepish countrymen, who were using the inn somewhat after the fashionof a Turkish caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner ofthe room, and heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread oftheir own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. But thoughRobin felt a sort of brotherhood with these strangers, his eyes were attractedfrom them to a person who stood near the door, holding whispered conversationwith a group of ill-dressed associates. His features were separately strikingalmost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on thememory. The forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between;the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of morethan a finger’s breadth; the eyebrows were deep and shaggy, and the eyesglowed beneath them like fire in a cave.

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

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

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

All eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his wornthree-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings,leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a wallet on his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accordingly, he approached the doors and beheld it shut closer as he did so;yet an open space remained, sufficing for the fair occupant to observe thestranger, without a corresponding display on her part. All that Robin coulddiscern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and the occasional sparkle of an eye,as if the moonbeams were trembling on some bright thing.

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

Robin’s voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothingto be shunned in the handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and cameforth into the moonlight. She was a dainty little figure with a white neck,round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which her scarletpetticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon.Moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her hair dark beneath the little cap,and her bright eyes possessed a sly freedom, which triumphed over those ofRobin.

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

Now, her voice was the sweetest Robin had heard that night, yet he could nothelp doubting whether that sweet voice spoke Gospel truth. He looked up anddown the mean street, and then surveyed the house before which they stood. Itwas a small, dark edifice of two stories, the second of which projected overthe lower floor, and the front apartment had the aspect of a shop for pettycommodities.

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

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the guardian ofmidnight order, which at first prevented him from asking his usual question.But just when the man was about to vanish behind the corner, Robin resolved notto lose the opportunity, and shouted lustily after him, “I say, friend!will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, Major Molineux?”

The watchman made no reply, but turned the corner and was gone; yet Robinseemed to hear the sound of drowsy laughter stealing along the solitary street.At that moment, also, a pleasant titter saluted him from the open window abovehis head; he looked up, and caught the sparkle of a saucy eye; a round armbeckoned to him, and next he heard light footsteps descending the staircasewithin. But Robin, being of the household of a New England clergyman, was agood youth, as well as a shrewd one; so he resisted temptation, and fled away.

He now roamed desperately, and at random, through the town, almost ready tobelieve that a spell was on him, like that by which a wizard of his country hadonce kept three pursuers wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty pacesof the cottage which they sought. The streets lay before him, strange anddesolate, and the lights were extinguished in almost every house. Twice,however, little parties of men, among whom Robin distinguished individuals inoutlandish attire, came hurrying along; but, though on both occasions, theypaused to address him such intercourse did not at all enlighten his perplexity.They did but utter a few words in some language of which Robin knew nothing,and perceiving his inability to answer, bestowed a curse upon him in plainEnglish and hastened away. Finally, the lad determined to knock at the door ofevery mansion that might appear worthy to be occupied by his kinsman, trustingthat perseverance would overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted him.Firm in this resolve, he was passing beneath the walls of a church, whichformed the corner of two streets, when, as he turned into the shade of itssteeple, he encountered a bulky stranger muffled in a cloak. The man wasproceeding with the speed of earnest business, but Robin planted himself fullbefore him, holding the oak cudgel with both hands across his body as a bar tofurther passage.

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

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

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

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

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

“Strange things we travellers see!” ejaculated Robin.

He seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door, resolving towait the appointed time for his kinsman. A few moments were consumed inphilosophical speculations upon the species of man who had just left him; buthaving settled this point shrewdly, rationally, and satisfactorily, he wascompelled to look elsewhere for his amusement. And first he threw his eyesalong the street. It was of more respectable appearance than most of those intowhich he had wandered, and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, abeautiful strangeness in familiar objects, gave something of romance to a scenethat might not have possessed it in the light of day. The irregular and oftenquaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were broken intonumerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, into a singlepoint, and others again were square; the pure snow-white of some of theircomplexions, the aged darkness of others, and the thousand sparklings,reflected from bright substances in the walls of many; these matters engagedRobin’s attention for a while, and then began to grow wearisome. Next heendeavored to define the forms of distant objects, starting away, with almostghostly indistinctness, just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally hetook a minute survey of an edifice which stood on the opposite side of thestreet, directly in front of the church-door, where he was stationed. It was alarge, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony, whichrested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window, communicatingtherewith.

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

Then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which sweptcontinually along the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to anunaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull, dreamy sound, compounded of manynoises, each of which was at too great a distance to be separately heard. Robinmarvelled at this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled more whenever itscontinuity was broken by now and then a distant shout, apparently loud where itoriginated. But altogether it was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake offits drowsy influence, Robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he mightview the interior of the church. There the moonbeams came trembling in, andfell down upon the deserted pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. Afainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and onesolitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great Bible. Hadnature, in that deep hour, become a worshipper in the house which man hadbuilded? Or was that heavenly light the visible sanctity of theplace,—visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls?The scene made Robin’s heart shiver with a sensation of lonelinessstronger than he had ever felt in the remotest depths of his native woods; sohe turned away and sat down again before the door. There were graves around thechurch, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into Robin’s breast. What ifthe object of his search, which had been so often and so strangely thwarted,were all the time mouldering in his shroud? What if his kinsman should glidethrough yonder gate, and nod and smile to him in dimly passing by?

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

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

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

He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the largeedifice which he had surveyed before. But still his mind kept vibrating betweenfancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened into thetall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human figures, settled again intotheir true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of changes. Fora single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that avisage—one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name ashis kinsman’s—was looking towards him from the Gothic window. Adeeper sleep wrestled with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound offootsteps along the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a manpassing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, andlamentable cry.

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

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

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

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

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

Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a smallsalary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and Major Molineuxwere brothers’ children. The Major, having inherited riches, and acquiredcivil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in great pomp, a year or twobefore; had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother, and, beingchildless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment ofone of them in life. The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farmwhich his father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was thereforedetermined that Robin should profit by his kinsman’s generous intentions,especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possessother necessary endowments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animateddiscourse. It was but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting,which had long been remotely audible, drew so much nearer that Robin inquiredits cause.

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

“Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotousfellows abroad to-night,” replied the gentleman. “You must notexpect all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. But thewatch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windowsflew open on all sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, andconfused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever hadleisure to observe them. Eager voices hailed each other from house to house,all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. Half-dressed menhurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stonesteps that thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. The shouts, thelaughter, and the tuneless bray the antipodes of music, came onwards withincreasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser bodies, began toappear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards.

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

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

A mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rolling slowlytowards the church. A single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them,and close behind him came a band of fearful wind instruments, sending forth afresher discord now that no intervening buildings kept it from the ear. Then aredder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense multitude of torches shonealong the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they illuminated.The single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rodeonward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appearedlike war personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; theblackness of the other betokened the mourning that attends them. In his trainwere wild figures in the Indian dress, and many fantastic shapes without amodel, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had broken forthfrom some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnightstreets. A mass of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmedthe procession in; and several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing theconfusion of heavier sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or terror.

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

The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon thecountry youth, as the steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed his eyes fromthose fiery ones, the musicians were passing before him, and the torches wereclose at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter formed a veil which hecould not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes found itsway to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, andthen melted into the vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered acommand to halt: the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held theirpeace; the shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained onlya universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin’s eyes was anuncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shoneout like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, MajorMolineux!

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

The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither Robinturned his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood the old citizen, wrappedin a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrustback from his forehead, and his silk stockings hanging about his legs. Hesupported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, whichmanifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on atombstone. Then Robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guestsof the inn, and of all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion wasspreading among the multitude, when all at once, it seized upon Robin, and hesent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street,—every manshook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin’s shout was theloudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as thecongregated mirth went roaring up the sky! The Man in the Moon heard the farbellow. “Oho,” quoth he, “the old earth is frolicsometo-night!”

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

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

Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he hadinstinctively clung, as the living stream rolled by him. His cheek was somewhatpale, and his eye not quite as lively as in the earlier part of the evening.

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

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

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

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

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